On her first night as a cape, Taylor Hebert kills Lung and inherits more than just notoriety, she inherits his fire, his instincts, and fragments of his monstrous past.
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Heir of ash and flames
- Thread starter Kokusho
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Statistics (15 threadmarks, 47k words)
User Total Kokusho 15 Threadmarks Reader mode
Chapter 1
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
I focused my attention on a lone wasp, guiding it around Lung's back, past the ridges of scale and muscle, until it hovered behind his head. It circled once, then darted forward toward his eye.
The wasp struck home, diving straight into Lung's eye with a sickening wet pop. He howled, clutching at his face with claws wreathed in flame, staggering back a step.
"Got you". I said, fist-pumping the air.
He screamed and leapt from the sidewalk all the way to the roof. I wasn't sure just how Lung kept from falling, but I could only guess that he just buried his fingertips into the building's exterior.
He was breathing hard.
"Muh… Motherfucker!" Lung growled in his heavily accented voice.
Two more wasps found his eyes and stung him again, filling his eyes with venom.
He screamed—not in rage, but in real, raw pain.
I didn't hesitate.
I took every little bug I had gathered, no matter how useless, and poured the swarm forward like a living tide, funneling into his mouth, his nose, some even reached his pants and attacked there. Thousands of wings beat in fury as mandibles bit, stingers jabbed. I drove them down his throat. Into his lungs. Into every crevice I could reach.
I took a step back. No way to run. I had to fight, for the children.
He thrashed, fire belching from his nostrils and mouth, but even as the fire killed my bugs, the swarm remained vicious, biting and stabbing him from the inside.
A massive flame erupted from his body. He set himself ablaze, head to toe, a human bonfire standing in the ruined street.
I felt most of my bugs die in in an instant.
I eyed the fire-escape. Could I make it in time?
The flames licked higher than before, illuminating the alley like a hellish sunrise. I watched, breath held, waiting for him to burn out—literally or metaphorically.
But he didn't fall.
He hunched over, spasming.
My heart stuttered.
A meaty split formed down his back, right along the spine. Something inside pushed outward. Long metallic scales burst from the gap, bristling like a worm erupting from a man's skin. For a second, I thought he was evolving again, ascending beyond even what I'd seen on the net.
Then he stopped.
He froze mid-transformation, scales twitching like antennae. Smoke poured from his nostrils—and then he collapsed with a crash, slamming down face-first.
He didn't move.
I waited, paralyzed. Ten seconds. Thirty. A full minute.
Still nothing.
I crept closer, trying to see past the smoldering heat. I was still connected to the few bugs still alive inside him—felt them writhing, chewing, dying in the heat. No muscle tension. No air flow. No heartbeat.
Dead.
Lung was dead.
The realization hit me like a truck. I had done it. I killed him.
And then it hit again, harder—I killed someone.
The ground shifted beneath me.
Literally.
Something pulled in my chest, a pressure like my ribs were turning inside out. My legs buckled. I tried to scream but only ash came out. My skin prickled with heat. My spine felt like it was splitting, and my thoughts—
My thoughts were a mess. Unfocused.
With no warning, a massive shape crashed down onto the charred remains of Lung's body with an impact loud enough to echo down the entire street. The thing was the size of a van, something out of a fever dream — a cross between a tiger and a lizard, all raw muscle, bone, and patches of warped skin.
A monster.
No—a dog. How was that a dog? How did I know it was a dog?
I stared, barely registering the detail. The fire crackling across Lung's remains was already dying out. The creature clawed at the body as if daring it to move. It didn't.
Two more of the beasts landed heavily nearby, each carrying two figures. My eyes moved over them, heart hammering.
A tall figure in black. Helmet. Skull-shaped visor. Grue.
A girl in a bodysuit of pale blue or violet, long blonde hair trailing behind her. Tattletale.
Another girl, feral in plaid and army boots, a cheap plastic dog mask stretched across her face. Bitch.
And the last one—mock royal, white mask, silver circlet, ruffled shirt and leggings. Regent.
The names came to me instantly.
Too instantly.
I stared at them, chest rising and falling too fast. I knew who they were. Their powers. Their dynamics. Grue leads in the field. Tattletale claims to be psychic. Bitch attacks first. Regent—he's a wildcard.
But I'd never met them before. I'd never read about them. I was sure of it.
So why did I feel this tight, bitter pressure in my chest—like I'd been holding in months of rage just waiting to lash out at these children?
Children?
"Hey," Grue said, striding toward me. "You really saved us a lot of trouble."
His voice was deep, masculine, but muffled by the stupid helmet stylized like a skull that he wore. Who did he think he was, prancing around with a Halloween mask, pretending to be someone in this city? I didn't move. My hands were shaking. My fingertips were tingling. I couldn't tell if it was from shock or leftover fire.
"Lung was heading for us," he continued. "We were arguing about strategy all day. Thought we'd maybe intercept him, throw him off. Guess you beat us to it."
He reached out a hand towards me.
I flinched. Not because I was scared of the little shit, but because something inside me screamed to smash that crystal skull to pieces. I remained as calm as I could possilby be.
He paused, then lowered it. "No problem. I get it. Still wired after a fight. Adrenaline, right?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. I killed someone. And I wanted to kill these children. Children... Children?
I risked my life for these idiots.
Tattletale moved to the edge of the roof, peered over at Lung's scorched, unmoving form. "Yikes. Bees, wasps, fire ants, spiders… nasty cocktail. You didn't just beat him. You ruined him."
I looked at my hands. They didn't feel like mine anymore. The fingers were longer, sturdier. Hardened in places. I could feel something rough rising across my back. My lips still tingled with the taste of fire.
"Hey," Tattletale said to me, still staring at Lung's remains, "What's your name?"
My mouth opened, halfway there with a reply that was almost automatic. I clenched my jaw.
Tattletale turned from the ledge. "Don't have a name yet?" She looked up at me, a wide smile on her face. She blinked, and quickly stood up, startled.
She stepped forward.
Her expression shifted.
The easy grin faded.
Her eyes narrowed like she was staring into a puzzle she didn't like the answer to.
"Oh no," she whispered.
She locked eyes with me.
"Grue?" She said, never looking away from me.
"Yes?" He replied, with a sigh, there was something about the way he talked that told me he was expecting her to put her foot in her mouth and screw his life forever.
"She's Lung."
Ah. she knew.
She knew? I don't understand.
I shook my head, and as Bitch whistled sharply, I could feel my muscles shift underneath my suit.
The monstruous dogs tensed, growled, teeth bared.
"What do you mean, 'She's Lung'? Grue demanded, dashing backwards, closer to his teammates.
"I mean, Lung mastered her or she mastered him, or..." She held her head as if in pain. "Lung is like Butcher? My power is giving me weird signals."
I stepped back, something twisting inside me. Something hot. Something angry.
I didn't mean to.
I swear I didn't.
But when the dogs lunged, instinct took over.
My body erupted—bone snapping, skin stretching, scales sliding into place like a second skin. My throat burned. My eyes widened. My hands—claws now—curled tight.
And I exhaled.
A fireball, wide and wild, tore across the rooftop. Heat rippled. Dogs shrieked. Grue shouted. The Undersiders scrambled, leaping onto the dogs just in time as they bounded off the rooftop and vanished into the night.
Only smoke remained.
And me.
Alone.
My heart pounded like a war drum. My mouth still smoked. The rage that wasn't mine slowly ebbed—leaving behind grief, horror, and confusion.
I killed Lung.
I am Lung.
And now I wasn't just me anymore.
I turned—drawn by the soft electric whir of machinery.
There was a faint thwip behind me, nearly lost under the crackling embers and the roar of blood in my ears. I turned just in time to see a figure rise from the alley below, hoisted on a wire so thin it seemed impossible to hold a man's weight. It was eerily silent, like a ghost on a thread.
The silhouette landed with barely a sound at the far end of the rooftop, his halberd already humming with restrained power.
I could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Controlled. Like mine had never been.
If you'd asked me just a few hours ago how I'd feel meeting a big-name superhero, I might've said excited. Giddy, even. The reality? I was too burned out to care. Too much blood. Too much fire. Too many things that weren't mine in my head.
That was Armsmaster. The man in charge of Brockton Bay's Protectorate team. A cape with his own action figure. A hero who posed in that classic 'V' formation on magazine covers. Poster boy for law and order.
And of course it had to be him. I groaned internally. Of all the capes to show up right now, why did it have to be the one I'd both put in the hospital. Not that there were many heroes in the bay that didn't fit that description.
I paused for a second correcting my thoughts. I never put him in the hospital. My mand flashed to the body behind me. It had been him who put Armsmaster in the hospital, not me. I was Taylor. Not Lung.
Had he not noticed the dead body? I guess...he was too focused on me.
I knew this man. I knew how fast he moved, how hard he hit. I remember fighting him and his team many times. But I hadn't done that—Lung had.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to hug him or melt his armor off his bones.
And his halberd—
I knew that weapon. I shouldn't, but I did. It could cut through steel like paper—had cut through me, once, when I was someone else. When I was Lung. The model looked newer now, sleeker, modified since that fight, but the core was the same. My memories blurred, conflicted—half mine, half borrowed, all jumbled into a mess that left my stomach twisting.
"You gonna fight me?" he called out.
I blinked, startled. My mouth felt like it was full of smoke.
"I'm a good guy," I croaked.
He took half a step closer. Tilted his head slightly. "You don't look like one." His halberd hummed with power. A warning. A threat.
For an instant, I felt like a carp, halfway up the waterfall, being told by a majestic dragon already at the summit that it would never ascend.
I was the twisted thing staring up from the mud. A half-formed monster with borrowed memories and fire in her throat.
"That's... not intentional," I said, trying not to sound defensive and failing. I almost rambled explaining how I realized too late how edgy the costume was.
He didn't respond right away. His visor stayed locked on me, unreadable. I dropped my gaze, letting it fall to the silver emblem on his chest.
And, just for a second, a memory surfaced that definitely wasn't Lung's.
Me, twelve years old, unwrapping a birthday present. Laughing. Holding up novelty panties with Armsmaster's logo on the front.
I wanted to die.
"You're telling the truth," he said finally. However, there was a hint of uncertainity in his voice.
He stepped in closer. Looked me over like he was checking for injuries.
"You need a hospital?"
"No," I said. "I think..." I closed a fist and flexed my arms, testing. "I'm fully healed."
"You're a new face," he said, then paused. His visor tilted slightly as he examined me again. "And you're... fully healed? You were caught in that blast, weren't you? No burns, no bleeding, no signs of trauma."
I shrugged, like I didn't feel the weight of his suspicion tightening around me. "Like I said, I healed."
"Got a name?"
Again with that question. I was half a mind of telling him I was Lung, or complaining how it was nearly impossible to have a good heroic name that's bug-themed and doesn't sound too villanous or corny as hell.
I went with a quick shake of my head.
He chuckled. A small, warm sound. Fake. Like he had spent months in the mirror until it looked geniune. "You'll get there. I was lucky to be in early enough that I didn't have to worry about all the good names being taken."
There was a pause in the conversation. I suddenly felt awkward. I don't know why, but I admitted to him, "I klled him."
I could feel his eyes narrow behind his mask. He seemed to finally notice the mauled body still frying behind me.
"Lung?"
There was a beat. Then another.
"He's dead," I said. The words tasted like soot. "I killed him."
Another pause. The sound of distant sirens. Wind curling smoke around my ankles.
"That… changes things," Armsmaster said slowly. He stepped forward, scanning me more carefully, as if trying to reconcile the image in front of him with what his sensors told him. "I was going to take him in. I had tranquilizers ready. A cage. Backup en route."
I didn't say anything.
He paced a slow, tight circle. "This wasn't self-defense, was it? Not entirely. You overrode his regeneration. I've seen Lung come back from near-death. More than once."
I lowered my eyes. I wasn't sure if it was guilt I felt, or grief, or just something broken and loose in the pit of my stomach. I could just punch a hole in his stomach, just so he could feel like I do right now.
He paused, almost as if he had read my mind. "You control bugs."
I nodded.
"How did you kill him?" he asked, but there was no accusation. Just curiosity and caution. Like he was dealing with a bomb that hadn't finished ticking down.
"Inside out," I murmured. "with my bugs. Stingers. Venom. It happened before he was fully transformed. He stopped breathing, had a heart attack." I looked down at the dead body. "I kept biting and stingng him."
"You shouldn't have been able to do that." Armsmaster folded his arms. "An alergic reaction?"
"Maybe?" I said. Did the venom affect his regeneration? Or was it too much and it just killed him before it could heal him?
"Then the next question is what do we do with you now?"
He didn't say it like it was up for discussion.
"You killed a parahuman in a live engagement," he continued. "There may be mitigating circumstances—self-defense, protecting civilians—but it's still a kill. That puts you on a very short list."
I stiffened.
"You could join the Wards," he said, tone clipped but not entirely cold. "There are protocols. Structures in place to deal with gray areas like this. You'd be under oversight. Protected. Trained."
There was a pause. He let the weight of it sit.
"Or," he said, lowering the halberd slightly, but not powering it down, "you could try running away. But I won't let you. Not without a fight."
I felt the heat rise in my throat again, a flicker of that fire waiting to break loose. My muscles twitched. My instincts screamed at me to leap, to burn, to survive.
But no matter how I played it, I couldn't think of a way to escape Armsmaster that didn't mean using Lung's power again.
I lowered my head. Teenage drama couldn't possible be worse than getting memories from a monster, right?
The wasp struck home, diving straight into Lung's eye with a sickening wet pop. He howled, clutching at his face with claws wreathed in flame, staggering back a step.
"Got you". I said, fist-pumping the air.
He screamed and leapt from the sidewalk all the way to the roof. I wasn't sure just how Lung kept from falling, but I could only guess that he just buried his fingertips into the building's exterior.
He was breathing hard.
"Muh… Motherfucker!" Lung growled in his heavily accented voice.
Two more wasps found his eyes and stung him again, filling his eyes with venom.
He screamed—not in rage, but in real, raw pain.
I didn't hesitate.
I took every little bug I had gathered, no matter how useless, and poured the swarm forward like a living tide, funneling into his mouth, his nose, some even reached his pants and attacked there. Thousands of wings beat in fury as mandibles bit, stingers jabbed. I drove them down his throat. Into his lungs. Into every crevice I could reach.
I took a step back. No way to run. I had to fight, for the children.
He thrashed, fire belching from his nostrils and mouth, but even as the fire killed my bugs, the swarm remained vicious, biting and stabbing him from the inside.
A massive flame erupted from his body. He set himself ablaze, head to toe, a human bonfire standing in the ruined street.
I felt most of my bugs die in in an instant.
I eyed the fire-escape. Could I make it in time?
The flames licked higher than before, illuminating the alley like a hellish sunrise. I watched, breath held, waiting for him to burn out—literally or metaphorically.
But he didn't fall.
He hunched over, spasming.
My heart stuttered.
A meaty split formed down his back, right along the spine. Something inside pushed outward. Long metallic scales burst from the gap, bristling like a worm erupting from a man's skin. For a second, I thought he was evolving again, ascending beyond even what I'd seen on the net.
Then he stopped.
He froze mid-transformation, scales twitching like antennae. Smoke poured from his nostrils—and then he collapsed with a crash, slamming down face-first.
He didn't move.
I waited, paralyzed. Ten seconds. Thirty. A full minute.
Still nothing.
I crept closer, trying to see past the smoldering heat. I was still connected to the few bugs still alive inside him—felt them writhing, chewing, dying in the heat. No muscle tension. No air flow. No heartbeat.
Dead.
Lung was dead.
The realization hit me like a truck. I had done it. I killed him.
And then it hit again, harder—I killed someone.
The ground shifted beneath me.
Literally.
Something pulled in my chest, a pressure like my ribs were turning inside out. My legs buckled. I tried to scream but only ash came out. My skin prickled with heat. My spine felt like it was splitting, and my thoughts—
My thoughts were a mess. Unfocused.
With no warning, a massive shape crashed down onto the charred remains of Lung's body with an impact loud enough to echo down the entire street. The thing was the size of a van, something out of a fever dream — a cross between a tiger and a lizard, all raw muscle, bone, and patches of warped skin.
A monster.
No—a dog. How was that a dog? How did I know it was a dog?
I stared, barely registering the detail. The fire crackling across Lung's remains was already dying out. The creature clawed at the body as if daring it to move. It didn't.
Two more of the beasts landed heavily nearby, each carrying two figures. My eyes moved over them, heart hammering.
A tall figure in black. Helmet. Skull-shaped visor. Grue.
A girl in a bodysuit of pale blue or violet, long blonde hair trailing behind her. Tattletale.
Another girl, feral in plaid and army boots, a cheap plastic dog mask stretched across her face. Bitch.
And the last one—mock royal, white mask, silver circlet, ruffled shirt and leggings. Regent.
The names came to me instantly.
Too instantly.
I stared at them, chest rising and falling too fast. I knew who they were. Their powers. Their dynamics. Grue leads in the field. Tattletale claims to be psychic. Bitch attacks first. Regent—he's a wildcard.
But I'd never met them before. I'd never read about them. I was sure of it.
So why did I feel this tight, bitter pressure in my chest—like I'd been holding in months of rage just waiting to lash out at these children?
Children?
"Hey," Grue said, striding toward me. "You really saved us a lot of trouble."
His voice was deep, masculine, but muffled by the stupid helmet stylized like a skull that he wore. Who did he think he was, prancing around with a Halloween mask, pretending to be someone in this city? I didn't move. My hands were shaking. My fingertips were tingling. I couldn't tell if it was from shock or leftover fire.
"Lung was heading for us," he continued. "We were arguing about strategy all day. Thought we'd maybe intercept him, throw him off. Guess you beat us to it."
He reached out a hand towards me.
I flinched. Not because I was scared of the little shit, but because something inside me screamed to smash that crystal skull to pieces. I remained as calm as I could possilby be.
He paused, then lowered it. "No problem. I get it. Still wired after a fight. Adrenaline, right?"
I couldn't answer. Couldn't form words. I killed someone. And I wanted to kill these children. Children... Children?
I risked my life for these idiots.
Tattletale moved to the edge of the roof, peered over at Lung's scorched, unmoving form. "Yikes. Bees, wasps, fire ants, spiders… nasty cocktail. You didn't just beat him. You ruined him."
I looked at my hands. They didn't feel like mine anymore. The fingers were longer, sturdier. Hardened in places. I could feel something rough rising across my back. My lips still tingled with the taste of fire.
"Hey," Tattletale said to me, still staring at Lung's remains, "What's your name?"
My mouth opened, halfway there with a reply that was almost automatic. I clenched my jaw.
Tattletale turned from the ledge. "Don't have a name yet?" She looked up at me, a wide smile on her face. She blinked, and quickly stood up, startled.
She stepped forward.
Her expression shifted.
The easy grin faded.
Her eyes narrowed like she was staring into a puzzle she didn't like the answer to.
"Oh no," she whispered.
She locked eyes with me.
"Grue?" She said, never looking away from me.
"Yes?" He replied, with a sigh, there was something about the way he talked that told me he was expecting her to put her foot in her mouth and screw his life forever.
"She's Lung."
Ah. she knew.
She knew? I don't understand.
I shook my head, and as Bitch whistled sharply, I could feel my muscles shift underneath my suit.
The monstruous dogs tensed, growled, teeth bared.
"What do you mean, 'She's Lung'? Grue demanded, dashing backwards, closer to his teammates.
"I mean, Lung mastered her or she mastered him, or..." She held her head as if in pain. "Lung is like Butcher? My power is giving me weird signals."
I stepped back, something twisting inside me. Something hot. Something angry.
I didn't mean to.
I swear I didn't.
But when the dogs lunged, instinct took over.
My body erupted—bone snapping, skin stretching, scales sliding into place like a second skin. My throat burned. My eyes widened. My hands—claws now—curled tight.
And I exhaled.
A fireball, wide and wild, tore across the rooftop. Heat rippled. Dogs shrieked. Grue shouted. The Undersiders scrambled, leaping onto the dogs just in time as they bounded off the rooftop and vanished into the night.
Only smoke remained.
And me.
Alone.
My heart pounded like a war drum. My mouth still smoked. The rage that wasn't mine slowly ebbed—leaving behind grief, horror, and confusion.
I killed Lung.
I am Lung.
And now I wasn't just me anymore.
I turned—drawn by the soft electric whir of machinery.
There was a faint thwip behind me, nearly lost under the crackling embers and the roar of blood in my ears. I turned just in time to see a figure rise from the alley below, hoisted on a wire so thin it seemed impossible to hold a man's weight. It was eerily silent, like a ghost on a thread.
The silhouette landed with barely a sound at the far end of the rooftop, his halberd already humming with restrained power.
I could hear his heartbeat. Steady. Controlled. Like mine had never been.
If you'd asked me just a few hours ago how I'd feel meeting a big-name superhero, I might've said excited. Giddy, even. The reality? I was too burned out to care. Too much blood. Too much fire. Too many things that weren't mine in my head.
That was Armsmaster. The man in charge of Brockton Bay's Protectorate team. A cape with his own action figure. A hero who posed in that classic 'V' formation on magazine covers. Poster boy for law and order.
And of course it had to be him. I groaned internally. Of all the capes to show up right now, why did it have to be the one I'd both put in the hospital. Not that there were many heroes in the bay that didn't fit that description.
I paused for a second correcting my thoughts. I never put him in the hospital. My mand flashed to the body behind me. It had been him who put Armsmaster in the hospital, not me. I was Taylor. Not Lung.
Had he not noticed the dead body? I guess...he was too focused on me.
I knew this man. I knew how fast he moved, how hard he hit. I remember fighting him and his team many times. But I hadn't done that—Lung had.
I wasn't sure if I wanted to hug him or melt his armor off his bones.
And his halberd—
I knew that weapon. I shouldn't, but I did. It could cut through steel like paper—had cut through me, once, when I was someone else. When I was Lung. The model looked newer now, sleeker, modified since that fight, but the core was the same. My memories blurred, conflicted—half mine, half borrowed, all jumbled into a mess that left my stomach twisting.
"You gonna fight me?" he called out.
I blinked, startled. My mouth felt like it was full of smoke.
"I'm a good guy," I croaked.
He took half a step closer. Tilted his head slightly. "You don't look like one." His halberd hummed with power. A warning. A threat.
For an instant, I felt like a carp, halfway up the waterfall, being told by a majestic dragon already at the summit that it would never ascend.
I was the twisted thing staring up from the mud. A half-formed monster with borrowed memories and fire in her throat.
"That's... not intentional," I said, trying not to sound defensive and failing. I almost rambled explaining how I realized too late how edgy the costume was.
He didn't respond right away. His visor stayed locked on me, unreadable. I dropped my gaze, letting it fall to the silver emblem on his chest.
And, just for a second, a memory surfaced that definitely wasn't Lung's.
Me, twelve years old, unwrapping a birthday present. Laughing. Holding up novelty panties with Armsmaster's logo on the front.
I wanted to die.
"You're telling the truth," he said finally. However, there was a hint of uncertainity in his voice.
He stepped in closer. Looked me over like he was checking for injuries.
"You need a hospital?"
"No," I said. "I think..." I closed a fist and flexed my arms, testing. "I'm fully healed."
"You're a new face," he said, then paused. His visor tilted slightly as he examined me again. "And you're... fully healed? You were caught in that blast, weren't you? No burns, no bleeding, no signs of trauma."
I shrugged, like I didn't feel the weight of his suspicion tightening around me. "Like I said, I healed."
"Got a name?"
Again with that question. I was half a mind of telling him I was Lung, or complaining how it was nearly impossible to have a good heroic name that's bug-themed and doesn't sound too villanous or corny as hell.
I went with a quick shake of my head.
He chuckled. A small, warm sound. Fake. Like he had spent months in the mirror until it looked geniune. "You'll get there. I was lucky to be in early enough that I didn't have to worry about all the good names being taken."
There was a pause in the conversation. I suddenly felt awkward. I don't know why, but I admitted to him, "I klled him."
I could feel his eyes narrow behind his mask. He seemed to finally notice the mauled body still frying behind me.
"Lung?"
There was a beat. Then another.
"He's dead," I said. The words tasted like soot. "I killed him."
Another pause. The sound of distant sirens. Wind curling smoke around my ankles.
"That… changes things," Armsmaster said slowly. He stepped forward, scanning me more carefully, as if trying to reconcile the image in front of him with what his sensors told him. "I was going to take him in. I had tranquilizers ready. A cage. Backup en route."
I didn't say anything.
He paced a slow, tight circle. "This wasn't self-defense, was it? Not entirely. You overrode his regeneration. I've seen Lung come back from near-death. More than once."
I lowered my eyes. I wasn't sure if it was guilt I felt, or grief, or just something broken and loose in the pit of my stomach. I could just punch a hole in his stomach, just so he could feel like I do right now.
He paused, almost as if he had read my mind. "You control bugs."
I nodded.
"How did you kill him?" he asked, but there was no accusation. Just curiosity and caution. Like he was dealing with a bomb that hadn't finished ticking down.
"Inside out," I murmured. "with my bugs. Stingers. Venom. It happened before he was fully transformed. He stopped breathing, had a heart attack." I looked down at the dead body. "I kept biting and stingng him."
"You shouldn't have been able to do that." Armsmaster folded his arms. "An alergic reaction?"
"Maybe?" I said. Did the venom affect his regeneration? Or was it too much and it just killed him before it could heal him?
"Then the next question is what do we do with you now?"
He didn't say it like it was up for discussion.
"You killed a parahuman in a live engagement," he continued. "There may be mitigating circumstances—self-defense, protecting civilians—but it's still a kill. That puts you on a very short list."
I stiffened.
"You could join the Wards," he said, tone clipped but not entirely cold. "There are protocols. Structures in place to deal with gray areas like this. You'd be under oversight. Protected. Trained."
There was a pause. He let the weight of it sit.
"Or," he said, lowering the halberd slightly, but not powering it down, "you could try running away. But I won't let you. Not without a fight."
I felt the heat rise in my throat again, a flicker of that fire waiting to break loose. My muscles twitched. My instincts screamed at me to leap, to burn, to survive.
But no matter how I played it, I couldn't think of a way to escape Armsmaster that didn't mean using Lung's power again.
I lowered my head. Teenage drama couldn't possible be worse than getting memories from a monster, right?
Chapter 2
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
They didn't cuff me.
That was somehow worse.
Handcuffs would have made it simple—obvious. Would've made it easier to tell myself I was still the scared teenager, the over-my-head vigilante who'd just pushed too far. Not whatever it was I was now—something new and raw and dangerous, wearing my skin and half my thoughts.
Instead, I walked through silent, sterile corridors in the heart of the PRT building, flanked by two soldiers in matte-gray body armor. Their rifles were slung low, but I could feel their eyes on me. Watching. Braced. They were ready to act the second I gave them a reason.
Armsmaster led the way, his halberd humming faintly in one hand, the motorized sound reminding me with each pulse that it was charged and live. That if I so much as twitched wrong, he'd end this. He hadn't said a word since we left the rooftop.
I didn't ask where we were going. I didn't need to.
The walls were all off-white paneling and harsh fluorescent lights, like a hospital with fewer windows and more guns. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old coffee. I recognized nothing, but some part of me—a part that wasn't entirely mine—traced every corridor, counted exits, watched for blind spots. Tactical instincts, coiled beneath the surface, not born from experience I could call my own.
Eventually, Armsmaster stopped before a door that looked exactly like all the others. He tapped a code into a recessed panel, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. One of the guards gestured with his chin. I stepped inside without looking back.
The room was small. Featureless. Steel table, two chairs, mirrored wall. I didn't need to be told it was one-way glass. The air felt heavier here, like the walls were pressing inward. It smelled faintly of paper and sweat.
I sat down.
No one followed me in. As I stepped past the threshold, I glanced back just once. Armsmaster met my eyes. There was no judgment in his stare—no sympathy either. Just calculation, sharp and quiet. For the briefest second, I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.
Then the door sealed behind me with another hiss, quieter this time but somehow more final.
Armsmaster spoke from the other side, his voice low but clear to my senses. "Someone will be with you shortly. Just stay calm."
I stepped closer, resting my fingertips lightly against the cold surface of the door. It was solid—too solid—and heavier than it looked, like the building itself didn't want me to leave.
He didn't wait for a response. I heard his footsteps retreating—hurried, clipped. Faster than they needed to be. The sound of his boots rang in my ears like distant hammerfalls. I wondered if he was nervous. If I made him nervous.
Then it was just me, a chair, and the buzzing in my skull that wouldn't go away. I'd killed a man. I had his memories. I could still feel fire under my skin like a fever that wouldn't break. My hands itched, not from any physical sensation, but from the phantom memory of claw and flame.
I waited.
There was no clock in the room, but time stretched thin, like someone was slowly tightening a wire around my patience. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, trying to look composed. My legs bounced under the table, the motion too subtle to be read from behind the glass, I hoped. My breathing came shallow, too regular. Forced.
I made it maybe ten minutes before I stood up. The chair scraped against the floor louder than I intended, sharp in the silence. I paced the room, tracing a path from one wall to the next, counting my steps. Three long strides across. Turn. Repeat. I could hear the faint hum of ventilation and the rhythmic beat of my own pulse in my ears.
I stopped when I passed the mirror. Something about the angle—how my shape warped slightly against the darkened glass—made me pause. Just my outline, masked and hunched, the silhouette of someone halfway through becoming something else. Frayed. Distorted. I didn't look back at it for long.
I looked awful. My costume was half-melted in places, especially the sleeves. My exposed arms had somehow changed, no longer twigs. I had muscles. Real muscles, but it felt as if it was only halfway there, as if I had too little mass for all the power I had inside. It was just... wrong. As if my body had decided to change and then thought better of it halfway through. My mask hid my face, but I could still feel something was different. The way my jaw sat, the heat behind my eyes. Off-balance. Alien.
I still felt more smoke down my throat. Breathing felt like dragging air through an exhaust pipe.
------
Eventually, the door opened again.
It wasn't Armsmaster.
The man who stepped in walked with the kind of practiced calm that came from too many hours navigating red tape and high-stress decisions. The way he moved said he wasn't here to threaten or bluster. He sat across from me with a polite nod, all composed professionalism.
Something about him reminded me of my dad when he used to mediate union disputes. Trying to look neutral even when you knew he was barely holding it together inside. That parallel hit harder than I expected.
I didn't want to see my dad in this man. It made everything feel more personal, more fragile. Like I was disappointing someone who hadn't even spoken yet.
It wasn't just that he looked calm—it was the kind of calm that made me feel unsteady by comparison. Like he'd had this exact conversation a dozen times before, and I was just one more variable to be processed and filed. I couldn't decide if that made me feel safer, or more trapped.
"I'm Deputy Director Renick," he said, tone even but not unfriendly. "I'm usually responsible for the Wards program—guidance, oversight, conflict resolution. Mostly making sure the younger capes don't drown in red tape or end up on the evening news for the wrong reasons."
"I don't understand," I said, frowning behind my mask. "I thought I was signing up for the program?"
Renick adjusted his glasses, not as a nervous tic but with practiced precision. "Yes. I read Armsmaster's preliminary report. It's thorough." He tapped his tablet, then met my eyes. "It also states that you killed Lung."
I froze. Not out of guilt—I already knew what I'd done. But hearing it said aloud in a government office, like a clerk confirming a form I'd submitted, made it real in a way it hadn't been before.
"I... yes," I admitted. "I did."
"He was a dangerous man," Renick said. "But he didn't have a kill order. Are you aware of what that means?"
"I think so," I said. "But it was self-defense. He would've killed me."
Renick raised a hand to stop me. "Have you ever heard of the Boston Games?"
I stiffened. Of course I had. Everyone had. Wait. Maybe I didn't? Did Lung know about that? Or did Taylor learn about it in one of Gladly's classes? Probably Lung's memory.
I realized I should reply. "Yes."
"Then you know what happens when high-profile parahumans are killed without protocol. There are repercussions. Power vacuums. Escalation."
He didn't need to say more. Lung had been violent, yes, but he had also been predictable. Contained, in a way. He was content with his little kingdom. The ABB had lines it didn't cross often. Now those lines didn't matter anymore.
"The ABB is down to two parahumans," Renick went on. "Oni Lee and Bakuda. Familiar?"
The answer came before I could stop it. "Oni Lee. Teleporting suicide-bomber psycho with barely any personality left in him. And Bakuda is The Cornell Bomber. Likes the sound of her own voice a little too much. Tinker specialized in bombs. Although, I think her specialization is something more, but she lacks the imagination to do anything more than bombs."
Renick blinked. "You've done your research."
"I just know what I know," I said, unsure how much of it was from me and how much wasn't.
He looked uneasy, but continued. "The two of them, without Lung's control, are a volatile mix. And if they learn who killed him, they'll come for you."
That... landed.
I shifted in my chair, but didn't speak.
Just then, Armsmaster reentered, silent as ever. He handed Renick a slip of paper. Renick read it, raised an eyebrow, then turned toward the mirrored wall as if confirming something.
"Let me ask plainly," Renick said. "Did you kill Lung on your own?"
I blinked. "Yes. He died like a bitch."
Armsmaster's lips twitched. He stepped forward and tapped the mirrored wall. A projection of some sorts flickered on—grainy surveillance footage of my battle. The camera angle was bad, the image washed out by firelight and chaos. It ended right as the Undersiders appeared.
"Was Lung alive when Hellhound's dogs mauled him?" Renick asked.
I shook my head. "Dead before they got close. Like I said."
Renick's eyes flicked from me to Armsmaster. "You're not the first parahuman to kill someone in the field. But when I read Armsmaster's notes, I assumed you regretted it. That you'd had no choice."
He leaned forward slightly. "Why did you engage Lung in the first place?"
I hesitated. Then: "He said he was going to kill children. So I acted. I didn't know he was talking about the Undersiders. They'd have been a thorn in his side for more than a month. Their attack on his casino was too much for him not to act. He wanted to make an example."
Renick's expression tightened.
"Given the circumstances," he said carefully, "you have two options. You can enter the Wards program. Officially. That comes with oversight, training, and protection."
I folded my arms. "Isn't that why Armsmaster brought me here?"
"The other option," he said, "is to refuse. In which case, the PRT will proceed with formal charges. You'll be treated as a violent vigilante and investigated for murder."
I looked to Armsmaster. "You said there were mitigating circumstances."
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Was he afraid of me? Or was he ashamed that he got me in this situation?
Renick exhaled slowly. "We would assign you provisional ward status. Additional monitoring, limited deployment. Not as punishment, just as a precaution."
He tapped the tablet again, then looked up. "This doesn't have to be hostile. But understand—killing someone doesn't just disappear. There needs to be accountability. You don't walk away from that clean. The sooner you work with us, the easier this will be."
I stared at him.
"It sounds like I need a lawyer."
Renick didn't smile, but there was a flicker of something, regret, maybe. "We can get you one. But before we do anything else, you need to unmask. We can't move forward until we confirm your identity. Even legal representation requires consent from a guardian or parent, and we need to know who to contact."
I didn't answer immediately. My hand drifted halfway to my mask, then dropped.
"You're asking a lot," I said quietly. "You know what I've done. What I might be. And you still want me to give you everything?"
Renick kept his voice even. "We're offering you structure. A path. But we can't build anything on anonymity."
I looked to Armsmaster. Nothing. Just that stillness again. Waiting. Was he a robot or some sort of android?
I exhaled, slow. My fingers went to the straps of my mask. Unfastened. Peeled away.
The room felt colder without it.
"Taylor Hebert," I said as smoke left my nostrils.
Renick and Armsmaster exchanged a glance. Whatever passed between them, I couldn't read it.
Renick nodded. "We will need to contact your parents or legal guardian. "
I kept my eyes on the table. "My mom died years ago. It's just my dad now."
He didn't press for more. Just held out his tablet.
I gave him my dad's name. Our house phone number. Spelled out the street.
Then they left.
No parting words. No reassurances.
Just the door hissing shut.
And I waited.
Again.
------
Hours dragged by, each one a leaden weight pressing into my skull.
I stomped around the room, boots thudding against the sterile tile with dull, echoing impacts. I kicked the leg of the chair I'd once tried to sit in like I was some kind of legitimate guest here, someone who had rights, or even dignity. The metal groaned under the impact, but didn't budge. Just like the rest of the room. Just like everything else.
Where was Renick? Why hadn't anyone come back? I chewed on the thought, grinding it like sand between my teeth. Was it really taking them this long to contact my dad—or had they decided I wasn't worth the trouble anymore? That I was something else now. A liability. A monster to shelve in a cell and forget. That I'd forfeited personhood the second Lung dropped dead beneath me. Did they think I was a villain?
A low growl began to rise in my chest, primal and raw. I bit it back. Just barely. Letting it slip now would be giving them what they wanted—confirmation. That I was losing it. That I wasn't safe to be around.
I turned toward the mirror-wall. Opaque. Not reflective, but flat-out blank now, like a TV turned off mid-broadcast, stuck on Bitch's dogs mauling Lung's dead body.
The door hissed open again.
Not Renick. Armsmaster entered first, composed and unreadable as always, but the woman who trailed behind him radiated something very different. She didn't need to speak for me to understand that she was someone used to being obeyed. Her expression was tight, unsmiling, with the kind of steel resolve that didn't bend for anyone. The grey suit she wore was immaculate, but it didn't soften her bulk or presence—it just made her seem more like an immovable object.
She didn't hesitate. Walked straight to the table, each footstep deliberate, and dropped something onto the surface with a flat slap that echoed faintly in the still air.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
It was me. Eleven or twelve, eyes bright with a kind of naïve optimism I barely remembered. Emma was next to me, mid-laugh, arms linked with mine. We looked like sisters. We looked happy. It was some school event, we were wearing matching ribbons. I remembered the day only faintly, like a half-forgotten dream. The moment before it all started to rot. Didn't mom take the photo?
There was a pang in my heart. Bittersweet. A window into better days. Before everything related to Emma turned to poison. Before she decided I wasn't enough.
Before the betrayal that carved a hole in my soul that I hadn't managed to fill.
"What is this?" I asked, frowning. My voice came out rougher than I'd meant. "Why would you bring a photo of me and that bitch?"
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing the emotional barb of my words before choosing not to dignify it. "I'm Director Piggot," she said, her tone flat and clipped, like the cracking edge of permafrost. "And that girl in the photo is who you claim to be. Taylor Hebert."
I blinked. Wait, what?
For a second, my mind scrambled, chasing the implication. The image in my hand blurred at the edges. But it was unmistakably me. Younger. Simpler. I looked like someone who still believed in best friends and good days. Someone who didn't know yet that the world had fangs.
"Yes... this is me. I don't... I don't follow?"
Piggot gestured at the chair with a flick of her fingers. "Pick it up. Sit down."
I slammed my hands on the table hard enough to make the metal shudder, rising halfway out of my chair.
"Where is my dad?" I demanded, breathing through clenched teeth. "I want to see him. And a lawyer. Now."
The silence on the other side of room stretched on, thick and suffocating. I imagined them analyzing every word I said, every twitch of my fingers like I was some wild animal on display. And maybe I was. But I wasn't going to let them treat me like one without a fight.
The director didn't blink, didn't retreat. She didn't even had the decency to mock me. She just motioned to the chair and repeated, "Pick it up. Sit down."
I hesitated just long enough to feel the tension spool through my back like wire. Then I stooped, grabbed the chair, and lowered myself slowly into it. My muscles twitched, tight with too much energy, too little space. I sat without taking my eyes off her.
She nodded and placed a file next to the photo. It was a Wards contract. Thicker than I expected. Was it supposed to be the carrot? What was the stick, then?
Armsmaster moved to the wall and tapped a control with the same mechanical precision he'd used the entire night.
The screen flickered, casting a cold blue light across the far wall.
On the left: a series of photos. Yearbook portraits, candid school snapshots. A younger me, captured through the years, braces and bad haircuts, awkward grins and too-large glasses. The kind of images that screamed normalcy, that belonged to someone who worried about math tests and forgotten homework, not fire and blood.
On the right: a live feed.
Of me.
The realization hit like a slap. Not the bug-armored, mask-covered figure I'd seen reflected in puddles or security glass. Not the shape I tried not to think about when I bent over rooftops. This was me. Unmasked. Real-time. Exposed.
Except—
She wasn't.
She had my build, sorta. My stance. The way her arms hung at her sides like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them. But her skin was dusky, her face narrower. Eyes slightly upturned, almond-shaped. The bridge of her nose was thinner, cheekbones a touch higher. Hair the same wild, dark tangle. But everything else… was off. Just enough to make it clear: this wasn't the same girl from those yearbook photos.
She looked… Asian. Or maybe half-Asian. Not enough for certainty, but enough to kill the illusion that nothing had changed.
I really wasn't me anymore.
The chill started in my spine and crept outward. I couldn't stop staring. Couldn't reconcile the two images—the girl I had been, and the stranger I had somehow become.
Was this what I'd inherited from Kenta?
I swallowed hard and looked down, not trusting what I'd see if I kept watching. My hands were curled tightly in my lap, the tips of my fingers tingling as if they weren't entirely mine. I kept expecting to see fire erupt from them, to feel claws tear through my skin like the edge of a bad dream.
Piggot's voice cut through the silence with scalpel precision. "You bear a passing resemblance. But if you were going to fake an identity, you should've chosen someone with Asian ancestry." Her tone didn't change—no rise, no fall. Just cold truth delivered with the same detachment someone might use to comment on weather or paperwork. And that made it worse. So much worse.
I looked down at my hands, willing them to be the same—long fingers, thin wrists, ink-stained knuckles that had once clutched pencils and notebooks. But they weren't. Not anymore.
Not mine.
They trembled, just slightly. The skin shimmered like oil on water, the suggestion of something jagged lurking underneath. Scales pressed against the surface, phantom-sharp and unyielding, as if my flesh were just a thin veil waiting to be torn away.
I didn't feel real. Not in the way a person should. Not solid, not centered. I was a shadow with weight, a borrowed shell carrying something ancient and angry that didn't belong to me.
Across the room, Armsmaster stepped forward, boots whispering against tile. His movement was efficient, stripped of hesitation. Armor joints clicked into place with a sound like resetting bone. He didn't look at me, didn't speak. Just approached the wall panel, fingers gliding over the controls like he'd done it a thousand times before. No fear. No pity. Just process. The mirror shimmered to life again, the glass momentarily flashing my silhouette—tall, monstrous, inhuman—before fading into something colder. Data. Judgment. Truth without kindness.
Two glowing helixes appeared, red and blue. They twisted around each other in perfect symmetry, pulsing gently like breathing lungs. DNA strands.
One strand was labeled Subject A – Lung, and the other Subject B – Unknown Female Teen. The strands looped around each other in a hypnotic rhythm.
But then, glowing nodes lit up—dots connecting points between the two helixes in vivid red. Markers. Overlaps. A pattern of near-perfect symmetry down their length. Genetic familiarity encoded in light.
I stared, heart in my throat, unsure what it meant but already knowing. Knowing too well.
I manage, voice thin, cracking slightly despite my effort to keep it level. "DNA?" The word tasted foreign in my mouth, like saying it would change something fundamental. Part of me already knew where this was going, but I clung to the space before the answer—before everything snapped into place.
Armsmaster noddeds, his tone clinical. "Left is Lung's. Right is yours. There's a fifty percent match. Half your genome is his."
The words dropped like weights into the room, dense and irreversible.
Not a resemblance. Not a metaphor. Not some accident of powers gone awry.
Blood.
He didn't speculate. He didn't leave room for doubt or theory. Just cold, final certainty. "You're Lung's biological daughter."
The sentence carved itself into the air, clean and sharp. I felt it more than heard it, like a punch behind the ribs. There was no space left to question, no way to negotiate with that kind of finality.
Not 'we think.' Not 'it's possible.' Just a verdict delivered with the weight of absolute conviction.
I stared at the screen in stunned silence. Biologically, I was Lung's daughter? That couldn't be right. I hadn't just taken in his memories and abilities. I'd taken him. But how deep did it go? Was this more than some bizarre power interaction? If this was true, what did that mean for Dad?
Everything went red.
Denial bubbled up, hot and fast, but it was hollow. Brittle. Already cracked from within. There were too many instincts that weren't mine. Too many emotional flashes, embedded reactions that I'd never lived through but remembered all the same. Streets I'd never walked, fights I'd never fought. Fury that tasted foreign in my mouth.
Rage and despair. The kind that chewed through bone and thought alike. Emma's laughter rang in my mind, an echo of something stolen. Something small and soft and mine. I wasn't that girl anymore. I was dead. I was someone else. That bug bitch killed me.
I looked down at the picture of preteen Taylor and Emma smiling.
It was all Emma. If she hadn't betrayed me, if she hadn't decided to make my life a living hell, I would've never gotten stupid bug powers. If she hadn't decided it would be funny to pour juice on me, I wouldn't have left tonight. I would've never killed Lung. I would've remained my mom's and dad's daughter.
My muscles seized, contracted like a coiled spring yanked to its limit, then exploded outward. I could feel the seams of my costume snap one by one, fabric giving way to something stronger, something scaled and raw and furious. Pain lanced through me, but it was distant, secondary. I stood, towering, seven feet tall and rising, the room suddenly too small, too close. I looked down at Piggot with eyes I barely felt belonged to me. All I saw was another ant waiting to be torn apart.
My hands clenched against the edge of the table. My body heated from the inside out, pulse thrumming at my temples. The skin on my arms rippled again. Golden scales emerged in tiny patches—hard, iridescent. Draconic. Further proof that the change wasn't just in my head. It was real. It was happening. I was becoming.
Armsmaster moved before I could even blink. One smooth, practiced motion. His halberd spun in his grip, the head folding back to reveal a hidden compartment. A soft hiss, barely audible, and a sharp prick bloomed against the side of my neck.
I jerked, breath catching. The sting lasted only a second, but its effects spread like ice water through my veins. The fire inside me that had been burning hotter with each heartbeat flickered into nothing. The itch of scale and change peeled back, receding beneath my skin like it had never been there.
My suit was still in tatters.
My balance faltered. I reached for the table to steady myself, but my limbs had already gone heavy, slow. My thoughts blurred at the edges, dulled and swimming.
"That settles that," Piggot said, her voice tinny through the rushing in my ears. Not triumphant. Just resigned.
She leaned forward, picking up the document she'd brought in, the Wards contract, still untouched on the table. I tried to focus on her, to tell her that I was Taylor Hebert, that I would take the offer of being a probatory ward. Vague ramblings left my mouth, some Japanese, a little Chinese.
As I slumped back in the chair, weightless and sinking, I saw her silhouette rise. The last thing I heard was her voice again, low and decisive.
"I think we'll keep this to ourselves for now. Until you're ready to talk."
That was somehow worse.
Handcuffs would have made it simple—obvious. Would've made it easier to tell myself I was still the scared teenager, the over-my-head vigilante who'd just pushed too far. Not whatever it was I was now—something new and raw and dangerous, wearing my skin and half my thoughts.
Instead, I walked through silent, sterile corridors in the heart of the PRT building, flanked by two soldiers in matte-gray body armor. Their rifles were slung low, but I could feel their eyes on me. Watching. Braced. They were ready to act the second I gave them a reason.
Armsmaster led the way, his halberd humming faintly in one hand, the motorized sound reminding me with each pulse that it was charged and live. That if I so much as twitched wrong, he'd end this. He hadn't said a word since we left the rooftop.
I didn't ask where we were going. I didn't need to.
The walls were all off-white paneling and harsh fluorescent lights, like a hospital with fewer windows and more guns. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and old coffee. I recognized nothing, but some part of me—a part that wasn't entirely mine—traced every corridor, counted exits, watched for blind spots. Tactical instincts, coiled beneath the surface, not born from experience I could call my own.
Eventually, Armsmaster stopped before a door that looked exactly like all the others. He tapped a code into a recessed panel, and the door slid open with a soft hiss. One of the guards gestured with his chin. I stepped inside without looking back.
The room was small. Featureless. Steel table, two chairs, mirrored wall. I didn't need to be told it was one-way glass. The air felt heavier here, like the walls were pressing inward. It smelled faintly of paper and sweat.
I sat down.
No one followed me in. As I stepped past the threshold, I glanced back just once. Armsmaster met my eyes. There was no judgment in his stare—no sympathy either. Just calculation, sharp and quiet. For the briefest second, I wondered what he saw when he looked at me.
Then the door sealed behind me with another hiss, quieter this time but somehow more final.
Armsmaster spoke from the other side, his voice low but clear to my senses. "Someone will be with you shortly. Just stay calm."
I stepped closer, resting my fingertips lightly against the cold surface of the door. It was solid—too solid—and heavier than it looked, like the building itself didn't want me to leave.
He didn't wait for a response. I heard his footsteps retreating—hurried, clipped. Faster than they needed to be. The sound of his boots rang in my ears like distant hammerfalls. I wondered if he was nervous. If I made him nervous.
Then it was just me, a chair, and the buzzing in my skull that wouldn't go away. I'd killed a man. I had his memories. I could still feel fire under my skin like a fever that wouldn't break. My hands itched, not from any physical sensation, but from the phantom memory of claw and flame.
I waited.
There was no clock in the room, but time stretched thin, like someone was slowly tightening a wire around my patience. I sat with my hands folded in my lap, trying to look composed. My legs bounced under the table, the motion too subtle to be read from behind the glass, I hoped. My breathing came shallow, too regular. Forced.
I made it maybe ten minutes before I stood up. The chair scraped against the floor louder than I intended, sharp in the silence. I paced the room, tracing a path from one wall to the next, counting my steps. Three long strides across. Turn. Repeat. I could hear the faint hum of ventilation and the rhythmic beat of my own pulse in my ears.
I stopped when I passed the mirror. Something about the angle—how my shape warped slightly against the darkened glass—made me pause. Just my outline, masked and hunched, the silhouette of someone halfway through becoming something else. Frayed. Distorted. I didn't look back at it for long.
I looked awful. My costume was half-melted in places, especially the sleeves. My exposed arms had somehow changed, no longer twigs. I had muscles. Real muscles, but it felt as if it was only halfway there, as if I had too little mass for all the power I had inside. It was just... wrong. As if my body had decided to change and then thought better of it halfway through. My mask hid my face, but I could still feel something was different. The way my jaw sat, the heat behind my eyes. Off-balance. Alien.
I still felt more smoke down my throat. Breathing felt like dragging air through an exhaust pipe.
------
Eventually, the door opened again.
It wasn't Armsmaster.
The man who stepped in walked with the kind of practiced calm that came from too many hours navigating red tape and high-stress decisions. The way he moved said he wasn't here to threaten or bluster. He sat across from me with a polite nod, all composed professionalism.
Something about him reminded me of my dad when he used to mediate union disputes. Trying to look neutral even when you knew he was barely holding it together inside. That parallel hit harder than I expected.
I didn't want to see my dad in this man. It made everything feel more personal, more fragile. Like I was disappointing someone who hadn't even spoken yet.
It wasn't just that he looked calm—it was the kind of calm that made me feel unsteady by comparison. Like he'd had this exact conversation a dozen times before, and I was just one more variable to be processed and filed. I couldn't decide if that made me feel safer, or more trapped.
"I'm Deputy Director Renick," he said, tone even but not unfriendly. "I'm usually responsible for the Wards program—guidance, oversight, conflict resolution. Mostly making sure the younger capes don't drown in red tape or end up on the evening news for the wrong reasons."
"I don't understand," I said, frowning behind my mask. "I thought I was signing up for the program?"
Renick adjusted his glasses, not as a nervous tic but with practiced precision. "Yes. I read Armsmaster's preliminary report. It's thorough." He tapped his tablet, then met my eyes. "It also states that you killed Lung."
I froze. Not out of guilt—I already knew what I'd done. But hearing it said aloud in a government office, like a clerk confirming a form I'd submitted, made it real in a way it hadn't been before.
"I... yes," I admitted. "I did."
"He was a dangerous man," Renick said. "But he didn't have a kill order. Are you aware of what that means?"
"I think so," I said. "But it was self-defense. He would've killed me."
Renick raised a hand to stop me. "Have you ever heard of the Boston Games?"
I stiffened. Of course I had. Everyone had. Wait. Maybe I didn't? Did Lung know about that? Or did Taylor learn about it in one of Gladly's classes? Probably Lung's memory.
I realized I should reply. "Yes."
"Then you know what happens when high-profile parahumans are killed without protocol. There are repercussions. Power vacuums. Escalation."
He didn't need to say more. Lung had been violent, yes, but he had also been predictable. Contained, in a way. He was content with his little kingdom. The ABB had lines it didn't cross often. Now those lines didn't matter anymore.
"The ABB is down to two parahumans," Renick went on. "Oni Lee and Bakuda. Familiar?"
The answer came before I could stop it. "Oni Lee. Teleporting suicide-bomber psycho with barely any personality left in him. And Bakuda is The Cornell Bomber. Likes the sound of her own voice a little too much. Tinker specialized in bombs. Although, I think her specialization is something more, but she lacks the imagination to do anything more than bombs."
Renick blinked. "You've done your research."
"I just know what I know," I said, unsure how much of it was from me and how much wasn't.
He looked uneasy, but continued. "The two of them, without Lung's control, are a volatile mix. And if they learn who killed him, they'll come for you."
That... landed.
I shifted in my chair, but didn't speak.
Just then, Armsmaster reentered, silent as ever. He handed Renick a slip of paper. Renick read it, raised an eyebrow, then turned toward the mirrored wall as if confirming something.
"Let me ask plainly," Renick said. "Did you kill Lung on your own?"
I blinked. "Yes. He died like a bitch."
Armsmaster's lips twitched. He stepped forward and tapped the mirrored wall. A projection of some sorts flickered on—grainy surveillance footage of my battle. The camera angle was bad, the image washed out by firelight and chaos. It ended right as the Undersiders appeared.
"Was Lung alive when Hellhound's dogs mauled him?" Renick asked.
I shook my head. "Dead before they got close. Like I said."
Renick's eyes flicked from me to Armsmaster. "You're not the first parahuman to kill someone in the field. But when I read Armsmaster's notes, I assumed you regretted it. That you'd had no choice."
He leaned forward slightly. "Why did you engage Lung in the first place?"
I hesitated. Then: "He said he was going to kill children. So I acted. I didn't know he was talking about the Undersiders. They'd have been a thorn in his side for more than a month. Their attack on his casino was too much for him not to act. He wanted to make an example."
Renick's expression tightened.
"Given the circumstances," he said carefully, "you have two options. You can enter the Wards program. Officially. That comes with oversight, training, and protection."
I folded my arms. "Isn't that why Armsmaster brought me here?"
"The other option," he said, "is to refuse. In which case, the PRT will proceed with formal charges. You'll be treated as a violent vigilante and investigated for murder."
I looked to Armsmaster. "You said there were mitigating circumstances."
He didn't move. Didn't speak. Was he afraid of me? Or was he ashamed that he got me in this situation?
Renick exhaled slowly. "We would assign you provisional ward status. Additional monitoring, limited deployment. Not as punishment, just as a precaution."
He tapped the tablet again, then looked up. "This doesn't have to be hostile. But understand—killing someone doesn't just disappear. There needs to be accountability. You don't walk away from that clean. The sooner you work with us, the easier this will be."
I stared at him.
"It sounds like I need a lawyer."
Renick didn't smile, but there was a flicker of something, regret, maybe. "We can get you one. But before we do anything else, you need to unmask. We can't move forward until we confirm your identity. Even legal representation requires consent from a guardian or parent, and we need to know who to contact."
I didn't answer immediately. My hand drifted halfway to my mask, then dropped.
"You're asking a lot," I said quietly. "You know what I've done. What I might be. And you still want me to give you everything?"
Renick kept his voice even. "We're offering you structure. A path. But we can't build anything on anonymity."
I looked to Armsmaster. Nothing. Just that stillness again. Waiting. Was he a robot or some sort of android?
I exhaled, slow. My fingers went to the straps of my mask. Unfastened. Peeled away.
The room felt colder without it.
"Taylor Hebert," I said as smoke left my nostrils.
Renick and Armsmaster exchanged a glance. Whatever passed between them, I couldn't read it.
Renick nodded. "We will need to contact your parents or legal guardian. "
I kept my eyes on the table. "My mom died years ago. It's just my dad now."
He didn't press for more. Just held out his tablet.
I gave him my dad's name. Our house phone number. Spelled out the street.
Then they left.
No parting words. No reassurances.
Just the door hissing shut.
And I waited.
Again.
------
Hours dragged by, each one a leaden weight pressing into my skull.
I stomped around the room, boots thudding against the sterile tile with dull, echoing impacts. I kicked the leg of the chair I'd once tried to sit in like I was some kind of legitimate guest here, someone who had rights, or even dignity. The metal groaned under the impact, but didn't budge. Just like the rest of the room. Just like everything else.
Where was Renick? Why hadn't anyone come back? I chewed on the thought, grinding it like sand between my teeth. Was it really taking them this long to contact my dad—or had they decided I wasn't worth the trouble anymore? That I was something else now. A liability. A monster to shelve in a cell and forget. That I'd forfeited personhood the second Lung dropped dead beneath me. Did they think I was a villain?
A low growl began to rise in my chest, primal and raw. I bit it back. Just barely. Letting it slip now would be giving them what they wanted—confirmation. That I was losing it. That I wasn't safe to be around.
I turned toward the mirror-wall. Opaque. Not reflective, but flat-out blank now, like a TV turned off mid-broadcast, stuck on Bitch's dogs mauling Lung's dead body.
The door hissed open again.
Not Renick. Armsmaster entered first, composed and unreadable as always, but the woman who trailed behind him radiated something very different. She didn't need to speak for me to understand that she was someone used to being obeyed. Her expression was tight, unsmiling, with the kind of steel resolve that didn't bend for anyone. The grey suit she wore was immaculate, but it didn't soften her bulk or presence—it just made her seem more like an immovable object.
She didn't hesitate. Walked straight to the table, each footstep deliberate, and dropped something onto the surface with a flat slap that echoed faintly in the still air.
A photograph.
I picked it up.
It was me. Eleven or twelve, eyes bright with a kind of naïve optimism I barely remembered. Emma was next to me, mid-laugh, arms linked with mine. We looked like sisters. We looked happy. It was some school event, we were wearing matching ribbons. I remembered the day only faintly, like a half-forgotten dream. The moment before it all started to rot. Didn't mom take the photo?
There was a pang in my heart. Bittersweet. A window into better days. Before everything related to Emma turned to poison. Before she decided I wasn't enough.
Before the betrayal that carved a hole in my soul that I hadn't managed to fill.
"What is this?" I asked, frowning. My voice came out rougher than I'd meant. "Why would you bring a photo of me and that bitch?"
The woman's eyes narrowed slightly, as though weighing the emotional barb of my words before choosing not to dignify it. "I'm Director Piggot," she said, her tone flat and clipped, like the cracking edge of permafrost. "And that girl in the photo is who you claim to be. Taylor Hebert."
I blinked. Wait, what?
For a second, my mind scrambled, chasing the implication. The image in my hand blurred at the edges. But it was unmistakably me. Younger. Simpler. I looked like someone who still believed in best friends and good days. Someone who didn't know yet that the world had fangs.
"Yes... this is me. I don't... I don't follow?"
Piggot gestured at the chair with a flick of her fingers. "Pick it up. Sit down."
I slammed my hands on the table hard enough to make the metal shudder, rising halfway out of my chair.
"Where is my dad?" I demanded, breathing through clenched teeth. "I want to see him. And a lawyer. Now."
The silence on the other side of room stretched on, thick and suffocating. I imagined them analyzing every word I said, every twitch of my fingers like I was some wild animal on display. And maybe I was. But I wasn't going to let them treat me like one without a fight.
The director didn't blink, didn't retreat. She didn't even had the decency to mock me. She just motioned to the chair and repeated, "Pick it up. Sit down."
I hesitated just long enough to feel the tension spool through my back like wire. Then I stooped, grabbed the chair, and lowered myself slowly into it. My muscles twitched, tight with too much energy, too little space. I sat without taking my eyes off her.
She nodded and placed a file next to the photo. It was a Wards contract. Thicker than I expected. Was it supposed to be the carrot? What was the stick, then?
Armsmaster moved to the wall and tapped a control with the same mechanical precision he'd used the entire night.
The screen flickered, casting a cold blue light across the far wall.
On the left: a series of photos. Yearbook portraits, candid school snapshots. A younger me, captured through the years, braces and bad haircuts, awkward grins and too-large glasses. The kind of images that screamed normalcy, that belonged to someone who worried about math tests and forgotten homework, not fire and blood.
On the right: a live feed.
Of me.
The realization hit like a slap. Not the bug-armored, mask-covered figure I'd seen reflected in puddles or security glass. Not the shape I tried not to think about when I bent over rooftops. This was me. Unmasked. Real-time. Exposed.
Except—
She wasn't.
She had my build, sorta. My stance. The way her arms hung at her sides like she wasn't quite sure what to do with them. But her skin was dusky, her face narrower. Eyes slightly upturned, almond-shaped. The bridge of her nose was thinner, cheekbones a touch higher. Hair the same wild, dark tangle. But everything else… was off. Just enough to make it clear: this wasn't the same girl from those yearbook photos.
She looked… Asian. Or maybe half-Asian. Not enough for certainty, but enough to kill the illusion that nothing had changed.
I really wasn't me anymore.
The chill started in my spine and crept outward. I couldn't stop staring. Couldn't reconcile the two images—the girl I had been, and the stranger I had somehow become.
Was this what I'd inherited from Kenta?
I swallowed hard and looked down, not trusting what I'd see if I kept watching. My hands were curled tightly in my lap, the tips of my fingers tingling as if they weren't entirely mine. I kept expecting to see fire erupt from them, to feel claws tear through my skin like the edge of a bad dream.
Piggot's voice cut through the silence with scalpel precision. "You bear a passing resemblance. But if you were going to fake an identity, you should've chosen someone with Asian ancestry." Her tone didn't change—no rise, no fall. Just cold truth delivered with the same detachment someone might use to comment on weather or paperwork. And that made it worse. So much worse.
I looked down at my hands, willing them to be the same—long fingers, thin wrists, ink-stained knuckles that had once clutched pencils and notebooks. But they weren't. Not anymore.
Not mine.
They trembled, just slightly. The skin shimmered like oil on water, the suggestion of something jagged lurking underneath. Scales pressed against the surface, phantom-sharp and unyielding, as if my flesh were just a thin veil waiting to be torn away.
I didn't feel real. Not in the way a person should. Not solid, not centered. I was a shadow with weight, a borrowed shell carrying something ancient and angry that didn't belong to me.
Across the room, Armsmaster stepped forward, boots whispering against tile. His movement was efficient, stripped of hesitation. Armor joints clicked into place with a sound like resetting bone. He didn't look at me, didn't speak. Just approached the wall panel, fingers gliding over the controls like he'd done it a thousand times before. No fear. No pity. Just process. The mirror shimmered to life again, the glass momentarily flashing my silhouette—tall, monstrous, inhuman—before fading into something colder. Data. Judgment. Truth without kindness.
Two glowing helixes appeared, red and blue. They twisted around each other in perfect symmetry, pulsing gently like breathing lungs. DNA strands.
One strand was labeled Subject A – Lung, and the other Subject B – Unknown Female Teen. The strands looped around each other in a hypnotic rhythm.
But then, glowing nodes lit up—dots connecting points between the two helixes in vivid red. Markers. Overlaps. A pattern of near-perfect symmetry down their length. Genetic familiarity encoded in light.
I stared, heart in my throat, unsure what it meant but already knowing. Knowing too well.
I manage, voice thin, cracking slightly despite my effort to keep it level. "DNA?" The word tasted foreign in my mouth, like saying it would change something fundamental. Part of me already knew where this was going, but I clung to the space before the answer—before everything snapped into place.
Armsmaster noddeds, his tone clinical. "Left is Lung's. Right is yours. There's a fifty percent match. Half your genome is his."
The words dropped like weights into the room, dense and irreversible.
Not a resemblance. Not a metaphor. Not some accident of powers gone awry.
Blood.
He didn't speculate. He didn't leave room for doubt or theory. Just cold, final certainty. "You're Lung's biological daughter."
The sentence carved itself into the air, clean and sharp. I felt it more than heard it, like a punch behind the ribs. There was no space left to question, no way to negotiate with that kind of finality.
Not 'we think.' Not 'it's possible.' Just a verdict delivered with the weight of absolute conviction.
I stared at the screen in stunned silence. Biologically, I was Lung's daughter? That couldn't be right. I hadn't just taken in his memories and abilities. I'd taken him. But how deep did it go? Was this more than some bizarre power interaction? If this was true, what did that mean for Dad?
Everything went red.
Denial bubbled up, hot and fast, but it was hollow. Brittle. Already cracked from within. There were too many instincts that weren't mine. Too many emotional flashes, embedded reactions that I'd never lived through but remembered all the same. Streets I'd never walked, fights I'd never fought. Fury that tasted foreign in my mouth.
Rage and despair. The kind that chewed through bone and thought alike. Emma's laughter rang in my mind, an echo of something stolen. Something small and soft and mine. I wasn't that girl anymore. I was dead. I was someone else. That bug bitch killed me.
I looked down at the picture of preteen Taylor and Emma smiling.
It was all Emma. If she hadn't betrayed me, if she hadn't decided to make my life a living hell, I would've never gotten stupid bug powers. If she hadn't decided it would be funny to pour juice on me, I wouldn't have left tonight. I would've never killed Lung. I would've remained my mom's and dad's daughter.
My muscles seized, contracted like a coiled spring yanked to its limit, then exploded outward. I could feel the seams of my costume snap one by one, fabric giving way to something stronger, something scaled and raw and furious. Pain lanced through me, but it was distant, secondary. I stood, towering, seven feet tall and rising, the room suddenly too small, too close. I looked down at Piggot with eyes I barely felt belonged to me. All I saw was another ant waiting to be torn apart.
My hands clenched against the edge of the table. My body heated from the inside out, pulse thrumming at my temples. The skin on my arms rippled again. Golden scales emerged in tiny patches—hard, iridescent. Draconic. Further proof that the change wasn't just in my head. It was real. It was happening. I was becoming.
Armsmaster moved before I could even blink. One smooth, practiced motion. His halberd spun in his grip, the head folding back to reveal a hidden compartment. A soft hiss, barely audible, and a sharp prick bloomed against the side of my neck.
I jerked, breath catching. The sting lasted only a second, but its effects spread like ice water through my veins. The fire inside me that had been burning hotter with each heartbeat flickered into nothing. The itch of scale and change peeled back, receding beneath my skin like it had never been there.
My suit was still in tatters.
My balance faltered. I reached for the table to steady myself, but my limbs had already gone heavy, slow. My thoughts blurred at the edges, dulled and swimming.
"That settles that," Piggot said, her voice tinny through the rushing in my ears. Not triumphant. Just resigned.
She leaned forward, picking up the document she'd brought in, the Wards contract, still untouched on the table. I tried to focus on her, to tell her that I was Taylor Hebert, that I would take the offer of being a probatory ward. Vague ramblings left my mouth, some Japanese, a little Chinese.
As I slumped back in the chair, weightless and sinking, I saw her silhouette rise. The last thing I heard was her voice again, low and decisive.
"I think we'll keep this to ourselves for now. Until you're ready to talk."
Last edited:
Chapter 3
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
I don't know how long I stayed in isolation. But by the time I got back to my senses, I found myself surrounded by guards in black body armor and tinkertech-looking assault rifles. They forced me on my feet. Their movements tight and calculated, like they expected me to lunge at them at any moment.
They pushed me out of the interview room and barked orders at me. Apparently I was going to be put in a nice prison cell. They moved me like I was something dangerous. Not a person. A containment risk.
I had some sort of tinkertech collar that had all the markings of being something Armsmaster created. I moved the smallest insects I could find into it, to test what it was. Huh. It had a retracted syrenge directly pointing at my jugular. Maybe I could use my gnats to block it? I had very few bugs in my swarm, but they were small enough that the guards didn't notice a thing.
The guards didn't speak as we walked. Just kept their gloved hands close to the bulky weapons, fingers twitching every time I so much as shifted my weight. I didn't blame them. Not entirely. I wouldn't want to be the one escorting a half-dragon cape either.
Besides the collar, my restraints semed to be engineered for Brutes—thick composite shackles wrapped around my ankles and elbows, all connected by reinforced polymer lines to a weighted harness at my back. It kept me from extending my limbs too far or straightening up fully. I could walk, sort of, in short, stumbling steps that made me feel like a marionette someone else was badly puppeteering. Running was out of the question. So was fighting. The whole system was rigged with failsafes. Just the tension in the restraints scraped at my nerves like claws on glass.
And under it all, I could feel Lung's instincts rising. A heat low in my gut, muscles twitching under my skin, like coiled springs waiting to snap. He didn't speak, not the way a second mind might, but there was something—an echo of fury, the drive to fight, to burn through obstacles. The metal digging into my skin made him restless. Made me restless. But even with that dangerous pulse in my blood, we both knew better. This wasn't a place to throw a fit. Not yet.
We walked in silence. The halls here were different than the ones I'd been led through before. Narrower. Less polished. The tiles were older, scuffed in a way that suggested only the PRT and Protectorate came through here, almost never civilians. This was a place for problems. And I'd been filed under that label, apparently.
I kept my head down. Eyes straight ahead. Trying to breathe evenly, even though my lungs felt two sizes too small and my ribs were a vise. Every step echoed too loud, or maybe that was just my brain amplifying everything, desperate to predict danger. I didn't know if the noise was in the tile or in me.
I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and clear, like a war drum in my ears. And under that—so much more. Quiet power humming through the walls like a buried engine, the faint whisper of distant doors clicking shut, footsteps from around corners, softer than whispers. The tread of boots that didn't belong to my escort. I counted three sets, then four, behind different walls, angled in ways I couldn't see.
And somehow, it didn't overwhelm me. It settled into my head like second nature. Maybe it was like the swarm—how I could track every gnat, every fly, and know where they were without effort. This felt the same. I didn't have to try; I just knew. Some of it had to be mine, sure, but there was more layered underneath. An edge that felt sharper than what I'd ever had before. A sense of presence, of alertness, that I hadn't earned. A borrowed knife I didn't know I was carrying.
A woman crossed paths with us from an intersecting corridor. Long, dark hair. A tailored suit. She moved with purpose, like someone with somewhere important to be—and the power to get there unchallenged. She didn't glance at me, didn't slow her stride. But something about her presence hit me like a punch to the gut.
It was her.
My chest clenched. Heat bloomed in my stomach, not with anger like before, but something sharper. A memory that wasn't mine. A woman's foot slamming into my—no, his—chest, the smell of drugs and blood, the pressure of a hand driving my face into dirt and drugs. Disorientation, a body shutting down even as the mind started to fracture.
I staggered a step, nearly losing my balance. The memory slammed into me like a wave breaking on stone. I had no time to think, just sensation. Panic, fury, the edge of power tearing loose. A trigger, but not mine. Lung's.
The raw edge of it still scraped across my thoughts, lingering like ash in the back of my throat. I wasn't just remembering. I was carrying it. Living it. Or maybe I was haunted by it.
I turned my head, strained against the harness to look back, but the corridor was empty. The woman was gone. Like she'd never been there at all. Did I imagine her? Damn boogeyman.
A sharp nudge hit my shoulder. One of the guards grunted, impatient. "Move," he said. I hadn't realized how long I'd been standing there, frozen.
I stumbled forward, heat still coiling in my chest. Their hands stayed close to their weapons now, and I didn't miss the way one guard's grip tightened on his taser. They wanted an excuse. I clenched my jaw and gave them none.
Then I heard him.
My dad's voice. Muffled, but unmistakable. I knew that rhythm, tight, clenched vowels and clipped syllables, every word bitten off like he was afraid he'd spit something he couldn't take back. It was how he sounded when he was angry but trying not to be, when he was scared and didn't know how to say it.
It cut through the background noise like a bullet, straight into the part of me that still hoped I could fix this. That still hoped he might see me—really see me—and know.
I froze.
For one terrible heartbeat, I thought if anyone would recognize me, it would be dad. But hope could be a fragile thing, and in that hallway, surrounded by uniforms and foam and steel, if I didn't give it a try, it would shatter before I could even voice it.
Faster than I should have. Faster than I could have, a week ago, a day ago, hours ago. Something primal surged through me, like the echo of fire curling around muscle.
The guards didn't notice right away. One of them bumped into me with the side of his arm. That was enough. I twisted, shoved the nearest one hard in the chest. He stumbled.
The other reached for something at his belt, but I got to him before he could do whatever he was looking to do and swipped at his feet, knocking him to the ground
"Wait are you waiting, pump her full of tranquilizers!" Another one exclaimed, raising his weapon.
"I'm trying! Damn tinkertech is jammed!" Another one exclaimed. I guess bug powers aren't as lame as they first appeared, huh?
I jumped and kicked them both at the same time. While still being held with harnesses.
I shoved off the wall, boots skidding, and bolted down the hallway.
My feet moved before my brain caught up, and pulled me forward. I could still hear his voice. Demanding to see me, to get to me.
Some nameless suit was stammering some lame explanation that they were looking for me. Morons! I was here!
I dashed forward.
I rounded a corner, and headbutted the door to the room they were in.
My dad, along with Alan Barnes were in a middle of a shouting contest with a weirdly thin man. I caught the look in their eyes when I stomped inside, the sound of my boots hit tile too hard.
Everyone turned in unison. Like I'd set off some invisible alarm. Like I was the grenade someone had just pulled the pin on, and they were all waiting to see which direction the shrapnel would fly.
"Dad!"
He stared. Scared? Weirded out? His eyes were red, like he had been crying for hours. I hadn't seen him like that since mom died.
I skidded to a stop, nearly slipped, caught myself on the wall. My chest heaved. I could barely get the words out.
"Dad, it's me. It's me, it's Taylor."
I expected confusion. Maybe disbelief. Not the look he gave me.
Hate. Deep, dark, hate. The kind that doesn't allow any kind of light to pass through.
He stood up. His mouth opened, then closed. I saw his hands tremble, like he wanted to strangle me.
Uncle Alan moved in front of him, more controlled, but not by much. His expression was harder to read, but his voice carried all the weight of suspicion.
"You're the cape that took her?"
I blinked. "What?"
"What did you do to Taylor?"
My throat clenched. "I am Taylor!"
"We don't have time for your play-acting, I know your kind, ABB scum, tell us, where is she?"
"Mr. Barnes, I already told you, you and your client will-" the PRT suit stammered.
"Like hell we will!" He exclaimed and turned back to me. "I almost lost my daughter to your kind, I'm not going to allow you people to take my friend's."
"I AM TAYLOR!" My voice cracked like thunder. I stepped forward, and both men flinched. I realized I was already past six feet tall. I raised my hands, palms up.
"I can prove it. Ask me anything. Mom's birthday. The name of the neighbor's cat. What I got for Christmas when I was ten. You have to believe me."
Danny's eyes welled with tears. "Stop. Just stop. Tell me where she is!"
I felt it starting. Heat behind my eyes, burning under my skin. The thing inside me reacting to pain like it only knew one answer.
Flames.
I bit down on it. Hard. But my vision blurred. My balance shifted. I felt my skin twitch, scales threatening to bloom along my forearms.
No. I wasn't angry at dad, not now. The scales retracted, but I was still taller than I had ever been. I could tame this.
Then everything happened at once.
A ripple in the air to my right. Space folded like paper, and a girl stepped through. She was short, compact, wearing armor that shimmered faintly, with a helmet that left her face visible, round cheeks, tightly drawn lips, eyes too old for her age and currently wide with tension. She looked cute, maybe a middle schooler.
"Don't move. Please."
I barely had time to process her before something brushed my shoulder. Clockblocker. I turned, but he was already there. Mask unreadable.
"Sorry."
His hand tapped my skin.
Time stopped.
I don't know how long I was frozen. Long enough for the fire to gutter out. For the thing inside me to quiet. When I came back, I was foamed from head to toe. I couldn't see. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe right.
But I could still hear their heartbeats, Dad's and uncle Alan. So the timestop had not been long. Less than a minute.
Uncle Alan struggled with a couple of PRT guards that were dragging him outside the room. "Let me go, she must answer our questions. Where is she? Where is Taylor!?"
"Your daughter," I growled, voice low, shaking. "Emma made me trigger. She—she almost broke me. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this."
Then I heard Armsmaster's voice.
"How is it that you're telling the truth?" He sounded dumbfounded.
------
They put me in another interrogation room. Bigger this time, but it didn't feel more open. The walls were lined with humming lights. Tinkertech, probably. It looked almost like a set in those old Star Trek shows. Boxes with blinking lights and antennae that pointed at me like a dozen accusing fingers.
The chair was worse than the last: high-backed, molded plastic and steel that locked me into place. A restraint more than furniture, with enough clamps and webbing to make me feel like a specimen on display.
Before me sat another suit, neither imposing nor impressive, just another cog in the endless machine. He carried himself with the detached poise of someone who'd long ago stopped questioning orders, probably too low in the command chain to do anything but follow the script. The way he adjusted his notepad and avoided eye contact told me everything: this wasn't a person here to understand me. Just a box-ticker sent to make sure I fit into one of their neat little files.
"What's your name?" the man asked, for the tenth time. His voice was flat, practiced. Not cruel, but cold in a way that made it worse. Like he wasn't even curious.
"Taylor Anne Hebert," I answered, just as I had the previous times. No inflection. No emotion. Just repetition. They wanted consistency? Fine. I could give them that.
He squibbled something in his notepad. Huh, that was some weird caligraphy.
"What happened to Taylor Hebert?" he asked again, pen poised over his notepad like the question hadn't already been answered many times. The words grated more this time, like sandpaper against skin. It wasn't just a hollow question, but the way he said it almost felt as if he was trying to erode my will.
I bit down on my frustration, grinding it between my molars like glass. "I'm sitting in front of you," I said, voice low, tight. The heat was back under my skin, just below the surface. I forced it down, and weaved it into my bugs.
He didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just jotted something down like I'd said 'pass the salt' instead of clawing my way toward being understood.
"What was your relationship to Lung?"
"I killed him. Because I heard him order his goons to kill children. Because when I stood between him and them, he tried to kill me like I was nothing. Because, in that moment, I wasn't a girl or a villain or a victim. I was just someone who had to make a choice. And I did."
"Are you affiliated with the Undersiders?"
"No." My voice cracked.
Was this going to be my life from now on? And endless cycle of suffering? Not that it hadn't been that before I even put this damn suit.
In the back of the room, Armsmaster stood like a statue, watching. Not reacting. Just watching. That unreadable visor never moved, but I felt the weight of it all the same.
The man questioning me finally lowered his notepad. He looked more annoyed than anything else. Like I was a waste of his time.
The man leaned forward slightly, dropping his notepad to the table as he spoke, tone soft like he thought sympathy could be a key. "Orochi, we just want to know what happened to that girl." His hands spread open in a practiced placating gesture, elbows tight against the sides of his chair. "Even if you're Lung's daughter, you have no connection to the ABB, no criminal past. You could join the Wards if you just helped us clear this out."
His voice didn't carry conviction, only weariness, like he'd said this same kind of speech a dozen times before to other scared kids sitting in similar chairs, and it hadn't worked then either.
But it wasn't just the words that rankled my insides, it was the way he looked at me, like I was already something broken, like maybe if he stared long enough, he could find the missing piece.
"Orochi?" I echoed, the name curling in my mouth like bile.
"It's the designated cape name you were given, unless you want us to call you by another callsign?"
It felt wrong, like trying on a coat that reeked of someone else, stiff with a history I didn't choose and didn't want.
I met his eyes and said, slow and firm, "I'd like you to call me Taylor." I let out smoke out of my nostrils and shouted. "IT'S MY DAMN NAME!"
He sighed. "For the last time we don't—"
"Stop that," Armsmaster said, sharply.
The PRT suit blinked. "What?"
"She's telling the truth," Armsmaster said, his voice quieter than ever.
He stepped forward, slow, almost tentative. For a moment, just a flicker of something in his posture, I saw not the enforcer, the soldier, but a man who might have just realized he'd made a horrible mistake.
He took another step closer, the hiss of his armor faint but unmistakable. "I don't understand how, not fully," he admitted, glancing toward the PRT suit like he was trying to find the right words, to build a bridge across a chasm neither of them knew existed until now. "But she believes what she's saying. And either she's the best liar I've ever met and call fool all my systems… or she's exactly who she says she is."
He looked at me then. Not through me. Not past me. At me. Like he was finally seeing the pieces come together.
Something in my jaw tensed, then released. Not forgiveness. Not trust. But maybe the first step toward it.
And just like that, the silence in the room thickened. Like everyone had stopped breathing at once.
They pushed me out of the interview room and barked orders at me. Apparently I was going to be put in a nice prison cell. They moved me like I was something dangerous. Not a person. A containment risk.
I had some sort of tinkertech collar that had all the markings of being something Armsmaster created. I moved the smallest insects I could find into it, to test what it was. Huh. It had a retracted syrenge directly pointing at my jugular. Maybe I could use my gnats to block it? I had very few bugs in my swarm, but they were small enough that the guards didn't notice a thing.
The guards didn't speak as we walked. Just kept their gloved hands close to the bulky weapons, fingers twitching every time I so much as shifted my weight. I didn't blame them. Not entirely. I wouldn't want to be the one escorting a half-dragon cape either.
Besides the collar, my restraints semed to be engineered for Brutes—thick composite shackles wrapped around my ankles and elbows, all connected by reinforced polymer lines to a weighted harness at my back. It kept me from extending my limbs too far or straightening up fully. I could walk, sort of, in short, stumbling steps that made me feel like a marionette someone else was badly puppeteering. Running was out of the question. So was fighting. The whole system was rigged with failsafes. Just the tension in the restraints scraped at my nerves like claws on glass.
And under it all, I could feel Lung's instincts rising. A heat low in my gut, muscles twitching under my skin, like coiled springs waiting to snap. He didn't speak, not the way a second mind might, but there was something—an echo of fury, the drive to fight, to burn through obstacles. The metal digging into my skin made him restless. Made me restless. But even with that dangerous pulse in my blood, we both knew better. This wasn't a place to throw a fit. Not yet.
We walked in silence. The halls here were different than the ones I'd been led through before. Narrower. Less polished. The tiles were older, scuffed in a way that suggested only the PRT and Protectorate came through here, almost never civilians. This was a place for problems. And I'd been filed under that label, apparently.
I kept my head down. Eyes straight ahead. Trying to breathe evenly, even though my lungs felt two sizes too small and my ribs were a vise. Every step echoed too loud, or maybe that was just my brain amplifying everything, desperate to predict danger. I didn't know if the noise was in the tile or in me.
I could hear my own heartbeat, loud and clear, like a war drum in my ears. And under that—so much more. Quiet power humming through the walls like a buried engine, the faint whisper of distant doors clicking shut, footsteps from around corners, softer than whispers. The tread of boots that didn't belong to my escort. I counted three sets, then four, behind different walls, angled in ways I couldn't see.
And somehow, it didn't overwhelm me. It settled into my head like second nature. Maybe it was like the swarm—how I could track every gnat, every fly, and know where they were without effort. This felt the same. I didn't have to try; I just knew. Some of it had to be mine, sure, but there was more layered underneath. An edge that felt sharper than what I'd ever had before. A sense of presence, of alertness, that I hadn't earned. A borrowed knife I didn't know I was carrying.
A woman crossed paths with us from an intersecting corridor. Long, dark hair. A tailored suit. She moved with purpose, like someone with somewhere important to be—and the power to get there unchallenged. She didn't glance at me, didn't slow her stride. But something about her presence hit me like a punch to the gut.
It was her.
My chest clenched. Heat bloomed in my stomach, not with anger like before, but something sharper. A memory that wasn't mine. A woman's foot slamming into my—no, his—chest, the smell of drugs and blood, the pressure of a hand driving my face into dirt and drugs. Disorientation, a body shutting down even as the mind started to fracture.
I staggered a step, nearly losing my balance. The memory slammed into me like a wave breaking on stone. I had no time to think, just sensation. Panic, fury, the edge of power tearing loose. A trigger, but not mine. Lung's.
The raw edge of it still scraped across my thoughts, lingering like ash in the back of my throat. I wasn't just remembering. I was carrying it. Living it. Or maybe I was haunted by it.
I turned my head, strained against the harness to look back, but the corridor was empty. The woman was gone. Like she'd never been there at all. Did I imagine her? Damn boogeyman.
A sharp nudge hit my shoulder. One of the guards grunted, impatient. "Move," he said. I hadn't realized how long I'd been standing there, frozen.
I stumbled forward, heat still coiling in my chest. Their hands stayed close to their weapons now, and I didn't miss the way one guard's grip tightened on his taser. They wanted an excuse. I clenched my jaw and gave them none.
Then I heard him.
My dad's voice. Muffled, but unmistakable. I knew that rhythm, tight, clenched vowels and clipped syllables, every word bitten off like he was afraid he'd spit something he couldn't take back. It was how he sounded when he was angry but trying not to be, when he was scared and didn't know how to say it.
It cut through the background noise like a bullet, straight into the part of me that still hoped I could fix this. That still hoped he might see me—really see me—and know.
I froze.
For one terrible heartbeat, I thought if anyone would recognize me, it would be dad. But hope could be a fragile thing, and in that hallway, surrounded by uniforms and foam and steel, if I didn't give it a try, it would shatter before I could even voice it.
Faster than I should have. Faster than I could have, a week ago, a day ago, hours ago. Something primal surged through me, like the echo of fire curling around muscle.
The guards didn't notice right away. One of them bumped into me with the side of his arm. That was enough. I twisted, shoved the nearest one hard in the chest. He stumbled.
The other reached for something at his belt, but I got to him before he could do whatever he was looking to do and swipped at his feet, knocking him to the ground
"Wait are you waiting, pump her full of tranquilizers!" Another one exclaimed, raising his weapon.
"I'm trying! Damn tinkertech is jammed!" Another one exclaimed. I guess bug powers aren't as lame as they first appeared, huh?
I jumped and kicked them both at the same time. While still being held with harnesses.
I shoved off the wall, boots skidding, and bolted down the hallway.
My feet moved before my brain caught up, and pulled me forward. I could still hear his voice. Demanding to see me, to get to me.
Some nameless suit was stammering some lame explanation that they were looking for me. Morons! I was here!
I dashed forward.
I rounded a corner, and headbutted the door to the room they were in.
My dad, along with Alan Barnes were in a middle of a shouting contest with a weirdly thin man. I caught the look in their eyes when I stomped inside, the sound of my boots hit tile too hard.
Everyone turned in unison. Like I'd set off some invisible alarm. Like I was the grenade someone had just pulled the pin on, and they were all waiting to see which direction the shrapnel would fly.
"Dad!"
He stared. Scared? Weirded out? His eyes were red, like he had been crying for hours. I hadn't seen him like that since mom died.
I skidded to a stop, nearly slipped, caught myself on the wall. My chest heaved. I could barely get the words out.
"Dad, it's me. It's me, it's Taylor."
I expected confusion. Maybe disbelief. Not the look he gave me.
Hate. Deep, dark, hate. The kind that doesn't allow any kind of light to pass through.
He stood up. His mouth opened, then closed. I saw his hands tremble, like he wanted to strangle me.
Uncle Alan moved in front of him, more controlled, but not by much. His expression was harder to read, but his voice carried all the weight of suspicion.
"You're the cape that took her?"
I blinked. "What?"
"What did you do to Taylor?"
My throat clenched. "I am Taylor!"
"We don't have time for your play-acting, I know your kind, ABB scum, tell us, where is she?"
"Mr. Barnes, I already told you, you and your client will-" the PRT suit stammered.
"Like hell we will!" He exclaimed and turned back to me. "I almost lost my daughter to your kind, I'm not going to allow you people to take my friend's."
"I AM TAYLOR!" My voice cracked like thunder. I stepped forward, and both men flinched. I realized I was already past six feet tall. I raised my hands, palms up.
"I can prove it. Ask me anything. Mom's birthday. The name of the neighbor's cat. What I got for Christmas when I was ten. You have to believe me."
Danny's eyes welled with tears. "Stop. Just stop. Tell me where she is!"
I felt it starting. Heat behind my eyes, burning under my skin. The thing inside me reacting to pain like it only knew one answer.
Flames.
I bit down on it. Hard. But my vision blurred. My balance shifted. I felt my skin twitch, scales threatening to bloom along my forearms.
No. I wasn't angry at dad, not now. The scales retracted, but I was still taller than I had ever been. I could tame this.
Then everything happened at once.
A ripple in the air to my right. Space folded like paper, and a girl stepped through. She was short, compact, wearing armor that shimmered faintly, with a helmet that left her face visible, round cheeks, tightly drawn lips, eyes too old for her age and currently wide with tension. She looked cute, maybe a middle schooler.
"Don't move. Please."
I barely had time to process her before something brushed my shoulder. Clockblocker. I turned, but he was already there. Mask unreadable.
"Sorry."
His hand tapped my skin.
Time stopped.
I don't know how long I was frozen. Long enough for the fire to gutter out. For the thing inside me to quiet. When I came back, I was foamed from head to toe. I couldn't see. Couldn't move. Couldn't breathe right.
But I could still hear their heartbeats, Dad's and uncle Alan. So the timestop had not been long. Less than a minute.
Uncle Alan struggled with a couple of PRT guards that were dragging him outside the room. "Let me go, she must answer our questions. Where is she? Where is Taylor!?"
"Your daughter," I growled, voice low, shaking. "Emma made me trigger. She—she almost broke me. I didn't ask for this. I didn't want this."
Then I heard Armsmaster's voice.
"How is it that you're telling the truth?" He sounded dumbfounded.
------
They put me in another interrogation room. Bigger this time, but it didn't feel more open. The walls were lined with humming lights. Tinkertech, probably. It looked almost like a set in those old Star Trek shows. Boxes with blinking lights and antennae that pointed at me like a dozen accusing fingers.
The chair was worse than the last: high-backed, molded plastic and steel that locked me into place. A restraint more than furniture, with enough clamps and webbing to make me feel like a specimen on display.
Before me sat another suit, neither imposing nor impressive, just another cog in the endless machine. He carried himself with the detached poise of someone who'd long ago stopped questioning orders, probably too low in the command chain to do anything but follow the script. The way he adjusted his notepad and avoided eye contact told me everything: this wasn't a person here to understand me. Just a box-ticker sent to make sure I fit into one of their neat little files.
"What's your name?" the man asked, for the tenth time. His voice was flat, practiced. Not cruel, but cold in a way that made it worse. Like he wasn't even curious.
"Taylor Anne Hebert," I answered, just as I had the previous times. No inflection. No emotion. Just repetition. They wanted consistency? Fine. I could give them that.
He squibbled something in his notepad. Huh, that was some weird caligraphy.
"What happened to Taylor Hebert?" he asked again, pen poised over his notepad like the question hadn't already been answered many times. The words grated more this time, like sandpaper against skin. It wasn't just a hollow question, but the way he said it almost felt as if he was trying to erode my will.
I bit down on my frustration, grinding it between my molars like glass. "I'm sitting in front of you," I said, voice low, tight. The heat was back under my skin, just below the surface. I forced it down, and weaved it into my bugs.
He didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just jotted something down like I'd said 'pass the salt' instead of clawing my way toward being understood.
"What was your relationship to Lung?"
"I killed him. Because I heard him order his goons to kill children. Because when I stood between him and them, he tried to kill me like I was nothing. Because, in that moment, I wasn't a girl or a villain or a victim. I was just someone who had to make a choice. And I did."
"Are you affiliated with the Undersiders?"
"No." My voice cracked.
Was this going to be my life from now on? And endless cycle of suffering? Not that it hadn't been that before I even put this damn suit.
In the back of the room, Armsmaster stood like a statue, watching. Not reacting. Just watching. That unreadable visor never moved, but I felt the weight of it all the same.
The man questioning me finally lowered his notepad. He looked more annoyed than anything else. Like I was a waste of his time.
The man leaned forward slightly, dropping his notepad to the table as he spoke, tone soft like he thought sympathy could be a key. "Orochi, we just want to know what happened to that girl." His hands spread open in a practiced placating gesture, elbows tight against the sides of his chair. "Even if you're Lung's daughter, you have no connection to the ABB, no criminal past. You could join the Wards if you just helped us clear this out."
His voice didn't carry conviction, only weariness, like he'd said this same kind of speech a dozen times before to other scared kids sitting in similar chairs, and it hadn't worked then either.
But it wasn't just the words that rankled my insides, it was the way he looked at me, like I was already something broken, like maybe if he stared long enough, he could find the missing piece.
"Orochi?" I echoed, the name curling in my mouth like bile.
"It's the designated cape name you were given, unless you want us to call you by another callsign?"
It felt wrong, like trying on a coat that reeked of someone else, stiff with a history I didn't choose and didn't want.
I met his eyes and said, slow and firm, "I'd like you to call me Taylor." I let out smoke out of my nostrils and shouted. "IT'S MY DAMN NAME!"
He sighed. "For the last time we don't—"
"Stop that," Armsmaster said, sharply.
The PRT suit blinked. "What?"
"She's telling the truth," Armsmaster said, his voice quieter than ever.
He stepped forward, slow, almost tentative. For a moment, just a flicker of something in his posture, I saw not the enforcer, the soldier, but a man who might have just realized he'd made a horrible mistake.
He took another step closer, the hiss of his armor faint but unmistakable. "I don't understand how, not fully," he admitted, glancing toward the PRT suit like he was trying to find the right words, to build a bridge across a chasm neither of them knew existed until now. "But she believes what she's saying. And either she's the best liar I've ever met and call fool all my systems… or she's exactly who she says she is."
He looked at me then. Not through me. Not past me. At me. Like he was finally seeing the pieces come together.
Something in my jaw tensed, then released. Not forgiveness. Not trust. But maybe the first step toward it.
And just like that, the silence in the room thickened. Like everyone had stopped breathing at once.
Chapter 4
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
PRT Meeting Room 06:30 AM
Armsmaster stood near the projection wall of the standard PRT meeting room, visor glinting faint blue as it flickered through frames of data: DNA strands, brain scans, thermal maps, grainy video captures, and a slow-motion video of Orochi's lips moving as she told them she was Taylor Hebert.
The hum of the projector filled the otherwise quiet space. Director Emily Piggot leaned back in her seat across the long table, arms crossed over her chest, expression carved from stone. Miss Militia, Velocity, and Assault were spaced along the sides of the room, standing rather than sitting, their attention riveted to the changing data onscreen.
"Let's go over this again," Piggot said, voice flat but authoritative. "You're telling me the girl in containment has a full set of powers reminiscent of Lung's, DNA confirming she's his daughter, but you somehow believe she's actually Taylor Hebert?"
Armsmaster's tone was measured, professional, but there was a taut edge beneath the calm. "We've confirmed that she's Lung's biological daughter through two independent labs. But that's not all we should consider."
"Couldn't she just be lying through her teeth?"
"My lie detection software picked up nothing when she claimed to be Taylor Hebert. She believes it, every word." He pressed a button and another DNA strand appeared. "There's also this to consider."
"What am I looking at now?" Piggot asked.
"Danny Hebert's DNA. 25% correlation between him and Orochi."
"Meaning…"
"We don't have Annete Hebert's DNA in file, but we believe that we'll find that Orochi's DNA is also 25% hers."
"Stranger effect?"
Armsmaster pursed his lips. "We considered it. But discarded the notion."
"Who's this 'we' you keep talking about?"
"I consulted with Dragon to get a second opinion. We discarded that Orochi is a stranger. Here…" He said as he handed everyone a thick file.
Miss Militia perused it and frowned. "Studies regarding the Gemma and Corona Polletia?"
"Hers is far too different from what we know Strangers usually look like."
She flipped through the pages. "Wouldn't a strong stranger effect cause you to see her Corona in a different shape?"
Armsmaster grimaced. "We were very through."
Before Millitia could reply, he tapped a control, focusing the projection to the series of vibrant, color-layered brain scans. "There's also the matter of her brain, in general. As you can plainly see, there's an abnormal layering."
Assault rolled his eyes. "Yes, as everyone can plainly see!" He muttered, and was quickly shushed by Battery.
If Armsmaster heard him, he pretended not to care, as he continued. "It's as if her mind has been overwritten or her brain is overlapping with a different brain in a transdimensional sense. Her neurological patterns shift in microbursts."
Miss Militia's voice wavered, barely above a whisper. "You're suggesting some sort of Trump power," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Something that activates on kill? Like the Fairy Queen?"
The room seemed to collectively recoil. Velocity shifted uncomfortably, his arms tightening across his chest. Assault exhaled slowly, jaw clenched. Even he was smart enough not to joke about one of the world's most dangerous capes.
Piggot leaned forward, the chair giving the faintest creak under her shifting weight. Her arms unfolded from across her chest with mechanical precision, fingers interlacing loosely atop the table. Her expression didn't change much, but she seemed somehow more intrigued.
"It is a possibility, yes," Armsmaster admited. "But if Orochi's original power was truly just bug control, it doesn't really fit with something akin to Fairy Queen."
He looked slightly annoyed at how everyone seemed to accept, at least for a second, the first thing that came to Miss Millitia's mind. "So, if the cause of this anomaly is not Orochi, then the other explanation resides in Lung. His power was based on escalation, on keeping him alive. It's not out of the left field if his power had an undiscovered secondary effect."
"Freaky friday effect?" Velocity pondered.
Armsmaster shifted his face, as if trying to think what the other hero meant. After a moment, and probably an internet search, he gave them a short nod. "Akin to that, but not quite what I was thinking."
"Out with it." Piggot barked.
"His power gave him regeneration, strength, invulnerability. But it also escalated to whatever foe he faced. So if he faced someone that could kill him, what would be his power's response to that? How would it escalate?"
Assault folded his arms, shaking his head. "This is starting to sound like a conspiracy theory. Have you been on PHO too much lately?"
"I'm aware of how this sounds," Armsmaster replied.
Battery dropped to one of the seats and took a deep breath. "So, not like the Fairy Queen, more like Butcher."
That didn't do wonders to everyone in the room.
"Does she hear voices?" Miss Militia asked as she flipped through the file.
Armsmaster shook his head. "I asked her, she said no. Her brain patterns also don't really-"
"Why do you have to go to the most riddicoulus of explanations?" Piggot interrupted him. "A third party could've taken Lung's daughter hostage, convinced her she's Taylor Hebert and had her kill her father. A Tinker could have switched the girls' brains." She shifted her gaze to everyone around the room, and sighed. "I'm not saying that any of that happened. I'm saying that if you keep theorizing possible explanations without any proof, anything could be true."
"She's not lying," Armsmaster insisted, quiet but resolute. "Even if she's not Taylor Hebert, she believes it, and she knows everything there is to know about Taylor in a way that only the real one could. And half her DNA is Taylor's"
Piggot massaged her temples. "What a mess." Her eyes shifted to the live feed projected in the corner, the girl curled up on the floor, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "How could she possibly trust us after this?"
-----
PRT Cafeteria 07:00 AM
Danny stared at the plate of lukewarm meatloaf in front of him. It was the kind of meal that suggested despair more than nourishment. Across from him, Alan was dissecting a sad piece of chicken, eyes distant.
"She never told me how bad it got," Danny said, voice low. "The bullying, I mean. She refused to tell me who put her in that damn locker. I only found out after the hospital. Thought it'd stop."
Alan nodded, not looking up. "It's not your fault Danny, it's the ABB, they're worse than scum."
Danny ran a hand through his hair. "I should've pulled her out. Transferred her. Homeschooled her."
"You did what you could," Alan said. "We all try. Sometimes it's not enough."
They were silent for a long moment, the low murmur of the cafeteria washing over them like white noise.
Danny looked up. "You said that they tried to take Emma?"
Alan curled at the memory. "A few years ago, just before the girls started at Winslow."
Danny nodded, motioning him to continue.
"It was some sort of initiation thing, they were going to take her to enslave her in one of Lung's prostitution rings." Alan quivered. "I never felt so minuscule, Danny. If it hadn't been for Shadow Stalker, I don't know how I could've-"
Then, a blur of motion. Velocity skidded to a stop at their table, breath short.
"Mr Hebert, sir?"
Danny's head snapped up. "What do you want?"
"Would you come with me?" Velocity said. "We need your cooperation. We.... err, found your daughter. Could you help us identify if it's really her?"
Danny's eyes widened, and his stomach clenched with a sick twist of fear. "Identify her?" he asked, his voice unsteady, brittle. The phrasing was too clinical and it painted a vivid picture in his mind, one that ended with him staring down at a cold body in a morgue drawer.
Velocity hesitated, opening his mouth like he might clarify, then seemed to think better of it.
Alan glared at the hero. "Well?"
"It's complicated, it would be better if you just follow me."
Danny and Alan exchanged a look.
-----
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♦Topic: LUNG DEAD!
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Brockton Bay
Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Posted on April 11th, 2011:
The rumors are true. Lung is dead. I have it on good authority, and no, I can't reveal my sources.
It appears that there was an altercation between Lung and the Undersiders along with a new cape who may or may not be part of that team. Frankly, from what I've been told it was a brutal death, like, biblical.
He's gone. For real. This isn't speculation, folks. That cape that killed him? He filled Lung's lungs with wasps, and spiders, and I don't know how many bugs. Preleminary reports state that Lung died from a heart attack, but maybe he just chocked.
There is no information regarding the cape who did him. I don't recall any hero or villain with that particular set of powers, but I can think of a few who could fake them.
I've got a few theories you'll see those in a second post.
Edit: Grainy footage here. You can see one of Hellhound's dogs attack Lung while he was down. Maybe there's more? I'll look around.
Edit 2: more angles here and here. Yup, there was more. And no, she's not friends with the Undersiders. Hero maybe? Or just a rival gang? Hopefully she's not Empire.
(Showing page 41 of 41)
► Mr. Fabuu
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
I really doubt that anyone will truly miss Lung.
►CarnivalCrier
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
Lmao I thought Lung was unkillable. Who's the new cape? Mothra?
►DynaShotgun
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
That's not a moth. Too fast, too brutal. Looks like she had her bugs eat him. Hearing rumors it's a new member of the Undersiders. Not sure if this was turf war or what.
► Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
Well, funny you mention that, @DynaShotgun because I just got my grubby little hands on some more footage. Links here and here. Will add them to the OP. She's definetively not friendly with the Undersiders. Also, she is aparently also a pyrokinetic.
► RealABB4Life (Banned)
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
When we find out who she is, we're gonna burn down the whole fucking city. Don't care if she's a cape. She's dead.
BANNED for violating PHO guidelines
► PRTEmployee88 (NEW ACCOUNT)
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
You didn't hear this from me, but she's not actually new. She's Lung's daughter. Code name "Orochi." Lung has been preparing her to take over once he's gone.
Word on the street is that she didn't want to wait for Lung to pass on the torch, so she decided to off him.
Here you can see her half-way transform into a dragon before she got time-stopped by Clockblocker.
► AllThatBuzz
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
WTF. Since when did Lung have a daughter?
► XxVoid CowboyxX
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
Hah! She got clockblocked!
THREAD LOCKED FOR REVIEW
♦ Private Messages from Alathea:
Alathea: I'm half a mind of banning you but you probably have multiple sock puppets, don't you?
PRTEmployee88: Why would you ban me?
Alathea: Are you playing dumb now? Even if you can't see her face, that video came from within the PRT's security cameras. You can't post that. You should know how this works. Especially with underage capes.
PRTEmployee88: They're trying to make Lung's daughter into a ward. They're treating her like a princess. Do you think that's fair? She's a murderer, a drug dealer, and managed Lung's forced prostitution program.
Alathea: I think you're playing dumb, and probably have your own motives to tell people this side of the story. Enjoy your lifetime ban. I'm removing your posts from the thread. Don't try creating a new account, we'll find out. And we'll ban your other accounts as well.
-----
He smiled underneath his mask. It wasn't like he expected the moderators to keep the video up for long, but it didn't matter. He had other means of leaking it. People watched it, and they would talk. Soon everyone would believe it, and the best part is that he had more 'evidence'.
And when Piggot announces her fancy new ward, the media was going to bury her. She wouldn't even get peace in her own home.
He sighed and disconnected the tinkertech VPN that routed his computer to Catain Everett. Guy had more than a few motives to hate the ABB, after all, they took his niece a couple of years ago and she hasn't been seen since. Of course he was the deranged agent who leaked security videos.
Now... if he could only contact his Tattletale to get a more through report on the Hebert kid's mental state, maybe he could get to her. Having an agent in the wards could be useful, especially one that would constantly make Piggot look like an incompetent fool.
Armsmaster stood near the projection wall of the standard PRT meeting room, visor glinting faint blue as it flickered through frames of data: DNA strands, brain scans, thermal maps, grainy video captures, and a slow-motion video of Orochi's lips moving as she told them she was Taylor Hebert.
The hum of the projector filled the otherwise quiet space. Director Emily Piggot leaned back in her seat across the long table, arms crossed over her chest, expression carved from stone. Miss Militia, Velocity, and Assault were spaced along the sides of the room, standing rather than sitting, their attention riveted to the changing data onscreen.
"Let's go over this again," Piggot said, voice flat but authoritative. "You're telling me the girl in containment has a full set of powers reminiscent of Lung's, DNA confirming she's his daughter, but you somehow believe she's actually Taylor Hebert?"
Armsmaster's tone was measured, professional, but there was a taut edge beneath the calm. "We've confirmed that she's Lung's biological daughter through two independent labs. But that's not all we should consider."
"Couldn't she just be lying through her teeth?"
"My lie detection software picked up nothing when she claimed to be Taylor Hebert. She believes it, every word." He pressed a button and another DNA strand appeared. "There's also this to consider."
"What am I looking at now?" Piggot asked.
"Danny Hebert's DNA. 25% correlation between him and Orochi."
"Meaning…"
"We don't have Annete Hebert's DNA in file, but we believe that we'll find that Orochi's DNA is also 25% hers."
"Stranger effect?"
Armsmaster pursed his lips. "We considered it. But discarded the notion."
"Who's this 'we' you keep talking about?"
"I consulted with Dragon to get a second opinion. We discarded that Orochi is a stranger. Here…" He said as he handed everyone a thick file.
Miss Militia perused it and frowned. "Studies regarding the Gemma and Corona Polletia?"
"Hers is far too different from what we know Strangers usually look like."
She flipped through the pages. "Wouldn't a strong stranger effect cause you to see her Corona in a different shape?"
Armsmaster grimaced. "We were very through."
Before Millitia could reply, he tapped a control, focusing the projection to the series of vibrant, color-layered brain scans. "There's also the matter of her brain, in general. As you can plainly see, there's an abnormal layering."
Assault rolled his eyes. "Yes, as everyone can plainly see!" He muttered, and was quickly shushed by Battery.
If Armsmaster heard him, he pretended not to care, as he continued. "It's as if her mind has been overwritten or her brain is overlapping with a different brain in a transdimensional sense. Her neurological patterns shift in microbursts."
Miss Militia's voice wavered, barely above a whisper. "You're suggesting some sort of Trump power," she said, her eyes narrowing. "Something that activates on kill? Like the Fairy Queen?"
The room seemed to collectively recoil. Velocity shifted uncomfortably, his arms tightening across his chest. Assault exhaled slowly, jaw clenched. Even he was smart enough not to joke about one of the world's most dangerous capes.
Piggot leaned forward, the chair giving the faintest creak under her shifting weight. Her arms unfolded from across her chest with mechanical precision, fingers interlacing loosely atop the table. Her expression didn't change much, but she seemed somehow more intrigued.
"It is a possibility, yes," Armsmaster admited. "But if Orochi's original power was truly just bug control, it doesn't really fit with something akin to Fairy Queen."
He looked slightly annoyed at how everyone seemed to accept, at least for a second, the first thing that came to Miss Millitia's mind. "So, if the cause of this anomaly is not Orochi, then the other explanation resides in Lung. His power was based on escalation, on keeping him alive. It's not out of the left field if his power had an undiscovered secondary effect."
"Freaky friday effect?" Velocity pondered.
Armsmaster shifted his face, as if trying to think what the other hero meant. After a moment, and probably an internet search, he gave them a short nod. "Akin to that, but not quite what I was thinking."
"Out with it." Piggot barked.
"His power gave him regeneration, strength, invulnerability. But it also escalated to whatever foe he faced. So if he faced someone that could kill him, what would be his power's response to that? How would it escalate?"
Assault folded his arms, shaking his head. "This is starting to sound like a conspiracy theory. Have you been on PHO too much lately?"
"I'm aware of how this sounds," Armsmaster replied.
Battery dropped to one of the seats and took a deep breath. "So, not like the Fairy Queen, more like Butcher."
That didn't do wonders to everyone in the room.
"Does she hear voices?" Miss Militia asked as she flipped through the file.
Armsmaster shook his head. "I asked her, she said no. Her brain patterns also don't really-"
"Why do you have to go to the most riddicoulus of explanations?" Piggot interrupted him. "A third party could've taken Lung's daughter hostage, convinced her she's Taylor Hebert and had her kill her father. A Tinker could have switched the girls' brains." She shifted her gaze to everyone around the room, and sighed. "I'm not saying that any of that happened. I'm saying that if you keep theorizing possible explanations without any proof, anything could be true."
"She's not lying," Armsmaster insisted, quiet but resolute. "Even if she's not Taylor Hebert, she believes it, and she knows everything there is to know about Taylor in a way that only the real one could. And half her DNA is Taylor's"
Piggot massaged her temples. "What a mess." Her eyes shifted to the live feed projected in the corner, the girl curled up on the floor, eyes glowing faintly in the dark. "How could she possibly trust us after this?"
-----
PRT Cafeteria 07:00 AM
Danny stared at the plate of lukewarm meatloaf in front of him. It was the kind of meal that suggested despair more than nourishment. Across from him, Alan was dissecting a sad piece of chicken, eyes distant.
"She never told me how bad it got," Danny said, voice low. "The bullying, I mean. She refused to tell me who put her in that damn locker. I only found out after the hospital. Thought it'd stop."
Alan nodded, not looking up. "It's not your fault Danny, it's the ABB, they're worse than scum."
Danny ran a hand through his hair. "I should've pulled her out. Transferred her. Homeschooled her."
"You did what you could," Alan said. "We all try. Sometimes it's not enough."
They were silent for a long moment, the low murmur of the cafeteria washing over them like white noise.
Danny looked up. "You said that they tried to take Emma?"
Alan curled at the memory. "A few years ago, just before the girls started at Winslow."
Danny nodded, motioning him to continue.
"It was some sort of initiation thing, they were going to take her to enslave her in one of Lung's prostitution rings." Alan quivered. "I never felt so minuscule, Danny. If it hadn't been for Shadow Stalker, I don't know how I could've-"
Then, a blur of motion. Velocity skidded to a stop at their table, breath short.
"Mr Hebert, sir?"
Danny's head snapped up. "What do you want?"
"Would you come with me?" Velocity said. "We need your cooperation. We.... err, found your daughter. Could you help us identify if it's really her?"
Danny's eyes widened, and his stomach clenched with a sick twist of fear. "Identify her?" he asked, his voice unsteady, brittle. The phrasing was too clinical and it painted a vivid picture in his mind, one that ended with him staring down at a cold body in a morgue drawer.
Velocity hesitated, opening his mouth like he might clarify, then seemed to think better of it.
Alan glared at the hero. "Well?"
"It's complicated, it would be better if you just follow me."
Danny and Alan exchanged a look.
-----
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♦Topic: LUNG DEAD!
In: Boards ► News ► Events ► America ► Brockton Bay
Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Posted on April 11th, 2011:
The rumors are true. Lung is dead. I have it on good authority, and no, I can't reveal my sources.
It appears that there was an altercation between Lung and the Undersiders along with a new cape who may or may not be part of that team. Frankly, from what I've been told it was a brutal death, like, biblical.
He's gone. For real. This isn't speculation, folks. That cape that killed him? He filled Lung's lungs with wasps, and spiders, and I don't know how many bugs. Preleminary reports state that Lung died from a heart attack, but maybe he just chocked.
There is no information regarding the cape who did him. I don't recall any hero or villain with that particular set of powers, but I can think of a few who could fake them.
I've got a few theories you'll see those in a second post.
Edit: Grainy footage here. You can see one of Hellhound's dogs attack Lung while he was down. Maybe there's more? I'll look around.
Edit 2: more angles here and here. Yup, there was more. And no, she's not friends with the Undersiders. Hero maybe? Or just a rival gang? Hopefully she's not Empire.
(Showing page 41 of 41)
► Mr. Fabuu
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
I really doubt that anyone will truly miss Lung.
►CarnivalCrier
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
Lmao I thought Lung was unkillable. Who's the new cape? Mothra?
►DynaShotgun
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
That's not a moth. Too fast, too brutal. Looks like she had her bugs eat him. Hearing rumors it's a new member of the Undersiders. Not sure if this was turf war or what.
► Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
Well, funny you mention that, @DynaShotgun because I just got my grubby little hands on some more footage. Links here and here. Will add them to the OP. She's definetively not friendly with the Undersiders. Also, she is aparently also a pyrokinetic.
► RealABB4Life (Banned)
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
When we find out who she is, we're gonna burn down the whole fucking city. Don't care if she's a cape. She's dead.
BANNED for violating PHO guidelines
► PRTEmployee88 (NEW ACCOUNT)
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
You didn't hear this from me, but she's not actually new. She's Lung's daughter. Code name "Orochi." Lung has been preparing her to take over once he's gone.
Word on the street is that she didn't want to wait for Lung to pass on the torch, so she decided to off him.
Here you can see her half-way transform into a dragon before she got time-stopped by Clockblocker.
► AllThatBuzz
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
WTF. Since when did Lung have a daughter?
► XxVoid CowboyxX
Replied on April 11th, 2011:
Hah! She got clockblocked!
THREAD LOCKED FOR REVIEW
♦ Private Messages from Alathea:
Alathea: I'm half a mind of banning you but you probably have multiple sock puppets, don't you?
PRTEmployee88: Why would you ban me?
Alathea: Are you playing dumb now? Even if you can't see her face, that video came from within the PRT's security cameras. You can't post that. You should know how this works. Especially with underage capes.
PRTEmployee88: They're trying to make Lung's daughter into a ward. They're treating her like a princess. Do you think that's fair? She's a murderer, a drug dealer, and managed Lung's forced prostitution program.
Alathea: I think you're playing dumb, and probably have your own motives to tell people this side of the story. Enjoy your lifetime ban. I'm removing your posts from the thread. Don't try creating a new account, we'll find out. And we'll ban your other accounts as well.
-----
He smiled underneath his mask. It wasn't like he expected the moderators to keep the video up for long, but it didn't matter. He had other means of leaking it. People watched it, and they would talk. Soon everyone would believe it, and the best part is that he had more 'evidence'.
And when Piggot announces her fancy new ward, the media was going to bury her. She wouldn't even get peace in her own home.
He sighed and disconnected the tinkertech VPN that routed his computer to Catain Everett. Guy had more than a few motives to hate the ABB, after all, they took his niece a couple of years ago and she hasn't been seen since. Of course he was the deranged agent who leaked security videos.
Now... if he could only contact his Tattletale to get a more through report on the Hebert kid's mental state, maybe he could get to her. Having an agent in the wards could be useful, especially one that would constantly make Piggot look like an incompetent fool.
Last edited:
Chapter 5
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
The room looked like it belonged in someone else. Somewhere safe. Normal. A deep brown sofa, plush enough to swallow a person whole, sat in front of a flat-screen TV that wasn't turned on. The walls were pale blue, and the windows let in warm afternoon light that painted gold lines across the carpet. It was too clean, too curated. Like a waiting room designed to keep someone docile.
I paced.
My arms ached. Not from strain, they removed my restraints as soon as Armsmaster came to my rescue. Instead, I felt tense. I counted the steps it took to go from the far wall to the TV stand. Twelve. Turn. Twelve back. I could feel the heat get reduced to a spark. I tested taking a long breath, expecting smoke curling from my lips, but got nothing.
I could control this. I could be better. I had dreamt of amazing powers that would've allowed me to be on par with Alexandria. Well, now I got them. And there were some weird interactions with my original power package.
Which meant, I could control the draconic powers in a way that my predecesor could only dream of. His enhanced senses affected his brain. And they did to me at first, but now? Now I can just manage everything I feel, everything I hear, everything I see.
I accelerated my pacing, and closed my fist. What to say? What to do? They were here.
No more time to ponder. The door opened.
Dad stepped through, followed by uncle Alan and two capes: Miss Militia and Velocity. He looked pale, older. His coat was wrinkled, buttoned askew, and one of his shoelaces was still untied, the aglet dragging soundlessly against the tile. The hem of his shirt stuck out from beneath the coat, creased like it had been on the floor not long ago.
His coat hung heavy on his shoulders and I wondered if it was the weight of the fabric or just a kind of guilt. I was betting on guilt.
He looked at me, but didn't say anything right away.
I stopped walking. I didn't run to him.
I turned to Miss Militia instead, pointedly avoiding eye contact with my father.
"Where's Armsmaster?"
Miss Militia's nod was tight, and her shoulders were just a little too rigid to be at ease. "He's sleeping," she said, voice carefully modulated. "He stayed up all night verifying your story. Every angle, every report, every test he could get his hands on. He wouldn't rest until he had proof."
I snorted. "Good for him, only person in this whole clown show who has working synapses."
The heroine didn't take the bait, instead she pressed her lips underneath the silly american flag that she used as a mask. "Your father wanted to see you."
I kept my eyes locked on hers. "You mean Lung?"
"You know what I mean."
Dad took a tentative step forward. His voice was too soft. "Are you... are you really Taylor?"
I kept my eyes trained on Miss Militia's for several seconds before I turned to him. Not at his eyes. At the slope of his shoulders, the way he clutched his hands together to stop them from shaking.
I scoffed, and turned my back. "You were supposed to know. You were the one person who would see me no matter what."
Uncle Alan winced. "Taylor, we weren't told anything. Only that a parahuman was claiming to be you. Your father thought you safe at home when he got the call from the PRT. We barely had time to get out of our pajamas when we came here to demand answers. "
My head snapped around, glare cutting through him. Alan fell silent.
Dad stepped closer, voice cracking. "You said it was Emma. That she was the reason you triggered."
I stared at the floor. Then nodded. "Emma. Along with her brute of a new best friend, Sophia Hess. Oh, and their idiot flunky, Madison Clements." I turned back to the heroes. "I want those three to get what they deserve."
Velocity shifted, unconfortable about something I said. Miss Militia lifted a hand to stop him from speaking. Huh. I took a mental note about that.
"You have no idea what that locker did to me," I whispered. "What it meant. It wasn't just the bugs, the filth. It was knowing I could scream and cry and no one would come. That I could die in there, and the world would move on." I closed a fist. "And you acted just like everyone else, never looking at me, always past me."
Dad's knees gave slightly. He forced himself to stay up. "So it was Emma? Your best friend?"
Alan reached for him. "Danny—"
We Heberts have a thing with anger. We let it bubble up for too long and then it explodes, ruininng friendships and loved ones. I could smell dad's was about to explode like a roaring volcano.
I could've stopped him. Easy.
But I wanted fire. I wanted to see him burn his friendship with Uncle Alan.
Uncle Alan, I still think of him like that. What an idiot girl I am. Was?
"She put her in the locker!?" Dad exclaimed, his face red.
I could see Miss Militia's weapon shift, first into a baton, then into some sort of taser. I sent her a single warning look, and the hand that was about to lift the weapon stopped in its tracks.
Alan rose his hands in an attempt to placate dad. Nope, that wouldn't work. It only makes us Heberts angrier when they want us to think we're being unreasonable. "I'm sure there's an explanation to all of this, Dan, Emma may have played a prank or something on Taylor, but I'm sure she didn't push her into the locker. You know her, she's a sweet girl, not a sociopath."
I snorted, again. "Sure, sure. But yes, she didn't push me."
"See?"
"I'm fairly certain she had Sophia do the deed. She's the brains of the operation." I paused. "Not that she ever had much brains to begin with. I could've gone to a better school instead of following your daughter to Winslow. I would have avoided all of this."
"How long?" Dad asked, his teeth rattling. He was close. Very close.
"A year and a half. Next time you come, you could bring with you my journal. Kept a log on all the 'pranks' they played on me."
Alane shook his head. "A journal? That's not admisible in a-" whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a fierce punch to the face. Huh. It drew blood. "Danny, what the hell?"
"Not admisible!?" He screamed.
Velocity made a gesture to take a step forward, another dark look kept him in place.
Alan clutched his jaw, his face contorted in pain. "Shit," he muttered, voice muffled and slurred. "I think you broke it, Danny. My jaw. Damn it."
Dad stared down at his clenched fist, like he couldn't quite believe it was his own. His knuckles were red, the skin tight across bone, and the tremble in his arm didn't go away even as he lowered it. He inhaled, deep and ragged, closing his eyes for a long moment before speaking with quiet resolve. "Alan," he said, his voice flat and final, "I think it's time we find a different lawyer."
"Yeah, fuck you too, Danny," Alan muttered, voice low and brittle, fingers gingerly probing the growing bruise on his jaw. He cast one last glare toward the heroes, his gaze catching on Miss Militia's shifting weapon and Velocity's uneasy stance, before turning stiffly and walking away. The sound of his uneven footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"Mr Hebert, he could probably have you arrested for assault." Miss Militia mentioned.
"Does he even have any witness?" I asked.
She looked at me like I was insane, then caught on. "I guess he doesn't"
I nodded, satisfied with her answer.
"As a ward, can I live here?" I asked, looking around the place as if I didn't already know every nook and cranny in it. "It's nice and cozy."
Dad looked hurt. "But, I thought-"
"That I would go back home? Didn't you hear, I'm a maniac who kidnapped your daughter and sold her to a prostitution ring or something like that." I snapped my fingers and turned my attention back to Miss Militia. "That reminds me, I got a ton of shit on the ABB's operations, maybe you'd be interested in that?"
"We would, yes."
"Oh, and you may want to increase Bakuda's threat level," I said, as I shuddered at the memory of the trip back to Brockton Bay with that lunatic. Her ideas on my... Lung's subjects were inhumane at best, batshit crazy at worst. "Without me, she's going to go full terrorist on the city."
Her stance stiffened more, if that could be possible. I noticed how her weapon shifted into a Walther PPK. Was she a James Bond fan or something?
"I will inform my superiors of this."
Dad reached out to me, touched my shoulder. I recoiled.
"I could forgive you for not believing me, but you didn't even attempt to see me, you didn't... you're never there." I stomped away from him, to the window. "Please leave."
"But... Taylor."
I sighed. "You may visit me, but... I don't want to see you right now. Please, leave." Smoke pulsed through my mouth, along with a bit of sparks. "And bring those journals. I want Emma, Sophia, and Madison crucified."
He nodded and left the room, followed by Velocity.
Miss Militia stayed behind a moment longer. "There will be someone coming to take you to talk to the Director soon."
"Yeah. I get it."
-----
The waiting room outside Director Piggot's office was too quiet. I could hear the ticking of a clock on the wall behind me and the occasional footsteps of someone walking by in the hallway. They'd given me clean clothes to replace my broken suit. Damn, I spent so long with that thing and it gets totalled on my first night out. Just my luck.
Still, another nice spot to pace around.
The furniture was nice in a cold, bureaucratic sort of way. A loveseat with sharp angles, two chairs positioned like they expected parents to sit in one while their disappointing kid took the other. An end table, a pot with a plant too green to be real along. There were magazines and books, turned dog-eared from a thousand restless hands, probably just like mine.
I dropped myself onto the loveseat and grabbed the nearest book. A large tome about the original Wards and their heroic sacrifices as they tried to fend off Behemoth when he first appeared. I began skimming through it just to pass the time.
The elevator at the end of the hall dinged softly, and its doors slid open. A woman stepped out, short and round, older than my dad by at least a decade, with her dark hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun. She wore a plain sweater, sturdy boots built for walking rather than show, and a clipboard tucked securely under one arm. Her eyes swept the room, landing on me, and she offered a small smile that somehow didn't feel fake.
"You must be Taylor," she said. "I'm Sharon. I'll be your Youth Guard case worker."
I blinked. "You don't look like someone who works for the PRT."
She chuckled, the sound soft and a little worn, like someone who hadn't laughed enough lately. "That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
She crossed the room and eased into one of the chairs with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. She pulled out a small bag of chips and offered me one before popping one into her mouth. "You're not wrong. I don't answer to Piggot. I'm here for you. Your safety, your rights, making sure no one pushes you around just because you're a minor with powers. Even if your case is... let's say, a tiny bit more complicated than most."
"Complicated," I echoed, arms crossed.
Her eyes softened, and she offered a gentle smile. "Would you mind putting the book down for a minute? They'll call you in soon, and I thought we could have a chat over what will be your goals in there."
I didn't want to talk. But she seemed far too motherly to tell her to fuck off.
-----
Inside the office, Piggot sat at her desk like she owned the world. Probably felt like she did. A screen to one side showed my vitals in green. Another showed headlines from PHO and major news networks. Some were already speculating about 'Orochi,' the girl who killed Lung. Others talked about the vacuum that Lung left behind. None of them knew the truth.
I took a seat without waiting for permission. Sharon sat beside me. I could feel her presence like a shield. Piggot's eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything.
Piggot cleared her throat, eyes fixed on me like she was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. "First, let me say this: the PRT regrets the mishandling of your situation. You'll be compensated. We can't undo what happened, but we can make sure the path forward is clearer."
I didn't bother to answer her.
She folded her hands on the desk. "You're being offered full Ward status."
"Not probational?" I asked.
She nodded. "Your actions… were violent. Uncontrolled. But given the situation and your cooperation since, Armsmaster has argued your case. I've decided to listen."
I didn't thank her. She wasn't doing me a favor.
I leaned back. "What are the terms?"
Piggot arched an eyebrow. "You will follow orders, attend training sessions, avoid unsanctioned combat engagements, and obey curfew. Standard expectations."
Sharon leaned forward slightly. "You also have the right to refuse public appearances. The right to privacy. The right to legal counsel."
I crossed my arms. "And school?"
Piggot made a sound like a cough. "We could arrange you to move to Arcadia. The fact that your face has changed completely could complicate some things, but it's not something that can't be done."
Sharon shook her head. "Taylor wishes to finish online. She will need private tutors to help her along."
Piggot raised an eyebrow and looked at me, as if asking if the Youth Guard representitve was insane or something.
I shruggred my shoulders. "I don't need more teenage drama. I had enough for a lifetime."
Piggot raised an eyebrow. Sharon nodded beside me.
Piggot gave out a defeated sigh. "That will be costly, but it's within reason. We can arrange tutors approved through the Board of Education."
I didn't stop there. "I want the school held accountable. Winslow allowed what happened. They ignored it. They hid it. I want them investigated."
Piggot's face tightened. Not quite a scowl. More like something sour caught behind her teeth.
"That," she said slowly, "is... outside the PRT's purview."
Sharon looked at me, then back at Piggot. "Director, I'd advise we at least open dialogue with the school. What happened to Taylor is gross negligence at least, perhaps even criminal."
My voice was cold. "Oh, it was criminal all right."
There was a long pause.
Piggot exhaled, looked down at the paperwork on her desk. "Fine. We'll draft terms. You'll be inducted as a full Ward, homeschooled, and your legal status will reflect your situation. Winslow will be investigated. As long as you agree to play by the rules."
"And I want my bullies handled," I added. "I want them to pay."
Piggot's lips thinned to a line. "Justice isn't as clean as that."
"It better be," I said, quietly, forcing a volcano of rage down. "Or I'll find a way to make it so."
"We don't answer to threats here."
"Oh, she probably meant that she'll come to the Youth Guard, director." Sharon didn't miss a beat. "We are prepared to make a full report of how the system failed her and everyone that should be held accountable."
Piggot's frown deepened, but she gave a curt nod. "Very well, you do you."
"Oh, I will." I said. Was I grinning? Probably not.
That earned me a long stare. Then, slowly, Piggot nodded. "We'll review their cases. If there's legal recourse, we'll pursue it."
I looked out the window. The city shimmered, uncertain in the haze. Somewhere out there were the bitches who put me in that wretched locker.
Sooner or later, I'd make sure they regret their actions.
I paced.
My arms ached. Not from strain, they removed my restraints as soon as Armsmaster came to my rescue. Instead, I felt tense. I counted the steps it took to go from the far wall to the TV stand. Twelve. Turn. Twelve back. I could feel the heat get reduced to a spark. I tested taking a long breath, expecting smoke curling from my lips, but got nothing.
I could control this. I could be better. I had dreamt of amazing powers that would've allowed me to be on par with Alexandria. Well, now I got them. And there were some weird interactions with my original power package.
Which meant, I could control the draconic powers in a way that my predecesor could only dream of. His enhanced senses affected his brain. And they did to me at first, but now? Now I can just manage everything I feel, everything I hear, everything I see.
I accelerated my pacing, and closed my fist. What to say? What to do? They were here.
No more time to ponder. The door opened.
Dad stepped through, followed by uncle Alan and two capes: Miss Militia and Velocity. He looked pale, older. His coat was wrinkled, buttoned askew, and one of his shoelaces was still untied, the aglet dragging soundlessly against the tile. The hem of his shirt stuck out from beneath the coat, creased like it had been on the floor not long ago.
His coat hung heavy on his shoulders and I wondered if it was the weight of the fabric or just a kind of guilt. I was betting on guilt.
He looked at me, but didn't say anything right away.
I stopped walking. I didn't run to him.
I turned to Miss Militia instead, pointedly avoiding eye contact with my father.
"Where's Armsmaster?"
Miss Militia's nod was tight, and her shoulders were just a little too rigid to be at ease. "He's sleeping," she said, voice carefully modulated. "He stayed up all night verifying your story. Every angle, every report, every test he could get his hands on. He wouldn't rest until he had proof."
I snorted. "Good for him, only person in this whole clown show who has working synapses."
The heroine didn't take the bait, instead she pressed her lips underneath the silly american flag that she used as a mask. "Your father wanted to see you."
I kept my eyes locked on hers. "You mean Lung?"
"You know what I mean."
Dad took a tentative step forward. His voice was too soft. "Are you... are you really Taylor?"
I kept my eyes trained on Miss Militia's for several seconds before I turned to him. Not at his eyes. At the slope of his shoulders, the way he clutched his hands together to stop them from shaking.
I scoffed, and turned my back. "You were supposed to know. You were the one person who would see me no matter what."
Uncle Alan winced. "Taylor, we weren't told anything. Only that a parahuman was claiming to be you. Your father thought you safe at home when he got the call from the PRT. We barely had time to get out of our pajamas when we came here to demand answers. "
My head snapped around, glare cutting through him. Alan fell silent.
Dad stepped closer, voice cracking. "You said it was Emma. That she was the reason you triggered."
I stared at the floor. Then nodded. "Emma. Along with her brute of a new best friend, Sophia Hess. Oh, and their idiot flunky, Madison Clements." I turned back to the heroes. "I want those three to get what they deserve."
Velocity shifted, unconfortable about something I said. Miss Militia lifted a hand to stop him from speaking. Huh. I took a mental note about that.
"You have no idea what that locker did to me," I whispered. "What it meant. It wasn't just the bugs, the filth. It was knowing I could scream and cry and no one would come. That I could die in there, and the world would move on." I closed a fist. "And you acted just like everyone else, never looking at me, always past me."
Dad's knees gave slightly. He forced himself to stay up. "So it was Emma? Your best friend?"
Alan reached for him. "Danny—"
We Heberts have a thing with anger. We let it bubble up for too long and then it explodes, ruininng friendships and loved ones. I could smell dad's was about to explode like a roaring volcano.
I could've stopped him. Easy.
But I wanted fire. I wanted to see him burn his friendship with Uncle Alan.
Uncle Alan, I still think of him like that. What an idiot girl I am. Was?
"She put her in the locker!?" Dad exclaimed, his face red.
I could see Miss Militia's weapon shift, first into a baton, then into some sort of taser. I sent her a single warning look, and the hand that was about to lift the weapon stopped in its tracks.
Alan rose his hands in an attempt to placate dad. Nope, that wouldn't work. It only makes us Heberts angrier when they want us to think we're being unreasonable. "I'm sure there's an explanation to all of this, Dan, Emma may have played a prank or something on Taylor, but I'm sure she didn't push her into the locker. You know her, she's a sweet girl, not a sociopath."
I snorted, again. "Sure, sure. But yes, she didn't push me."
"See?"
"I'm fairly certain she had Sophia do the deed. She's the brains of the operation." I paused. "Not that she ever had much brains to begin with. I could've gone to a better school instead of following your daughter to Winslow. I would have avoided all of this."
"How long?" Dad asked, his teeth rattling. He was close. Very close.
"A year and a half. Next time you come, you could bring with you my journal. Kept a log on all the 'pranks' they played on me."
Alane shook his head. "A journal? That's not admisible in a-" whatever he was about to say was interrupted by a fierce punch to the face. Huh. It drew blood. "Danny, what the hell?"
"Not admisible!?" He screamed.
Velocity made a gesture to take a step forward, another dark look kept him in place.
Alan clutched his jaw, his face contorted in pain. "Shit," he muttered, voice muffled and slurred. "I think you broke it, Danny. My jaw. Damn it."
Dad stared down at his clenched fist, like he couldn't quite believe it was his own. His knuckles were red, the skin tight across bone, and the tremble in his arm didn't go away even as he lowered it. He inhaled, deep and ragged, closing his eyes for a long moment before speaking with quiet resolve. "Alan," he said, his voice flat and final, "I think it's time we find a different lawyer."
"Yeah, fuck you too, Danny," Alan muttered, voice low and brittle, fingers gingerly probing the growing bruise on his jaw. He cast one last glare toward the heroes, his gaze catching on Miss Militia's shifting weapon and Velocity's uneasy stance, before turning stiffly and walking away. The sound of his uneven footsteps echoed down the hallway.
"Mr Hebert, he could probably have you arrested for assault." Miss Militia mentioned.
"Does he even have any witness?" I asked.
She looked at me like I was insane, then caught on. "I guess he doesn't"
I nodded, satisfied with her answer.
"As a ward, can I live here?" I asked, looking around the place as if I didn't already know every nook and cranny in it. "It's nice and cozy."
Dad looked hurt. "But, I thought-"
"That I would go back home? Didn't you hear, I'm a maniac who kidnapped your daughter and sold her to a prostitution ring or something like that." I snapped my fingers and turned my attention back to Miss Militia. "That reminds me, I got a ton of shit on the ABB's operations, maybe you'd be interested in that?"
"We would, yes."
"Oh, and you may want to increase Bakuda's threat level," I said, as I shuddered at the memory of the trip back to Brockton Bay with that lunatic. Her ideas on my... Lung's subjects were inhumane at best, batshit crazy at worst. "Without me, she's going to go full terrorist on the city."
Her stance stiffened more, if that could be possible. I noticed how her weapon shifted into a Walther PPK. Was she a James Bond fan or something?
"I will inform my superiors of this."
Dad reached out to me, touched my shoulder. I recoiled.
"I could forgive you for not believing me, but you didn't even attempt to see me, you didn't... you're never there." I stomped away from him, to the window. "Please leave."
"But... Taylor."
I sighed. "You may visit me, but... I don't want to see you right now. Please, leave." Smoke pulsed through my mouth, along with a bit of sparks. "And bring those journals. I want Emma, Sophia, and Madison crucified."
He nodded and left the room, followed by Velocity.
Miss Militia stayed behind a moment longer. "There will be someone coming to take you to talk to the Director soon."
"Yeah. I get it."
-----
The waiting room outside Director Piggot's office was too quiet. I could hear the ticking of a clock on the wall behind me and the occasional footsteps of someone walking by in the hallway. They'd given me clean clothes to replace my broken suit. Damn, I spent so long with that thing and it gets totalled on my first night out. Just my luck.
Still, another nice spot to pace around.
The furniture was nice in a cold, bureaucratic sort of way. A loveseat with sharp angles, two chairs positioned like they expected parents to sit in one while their disappointing kid took the other. An end table, a pot with a plant too green to be real along. There were magazines and books, turned dog-eared from a thousand restless hands, probably just like mine.
I dropped myself onto the loveseat and grabbed the nearest book. A large tome about the original Wards and their heroic sacrifices as they tried to fend off Behemoth when he first appeared. I began skimming through it just to pass the time.
The elevator at the end of the hall dinged softly, and its doors slid open. A woman stepped out, short and round, older than my dad by at least a decade, with her dark hair pinned back in a no-nonsense bun. She wore a plain sweater, sturdy boots built for walking rather than show, and a clipboard tucked securely under one arm. Her eyes swept the room, landing on me, and she offered a small smile that somehow didn't feel fake.
"You must be Taylor," she said. "I'm Sharon. I'll be your Youth Guard case worker."
I blinked. "You don't look like someone who works for the PRT."
She chuckled, the sound soft and a little worn, like someone who hadn't laughed enough lately. "That's probably the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."
She crossed the room and eased into one of the chairs with the ease of someone who'd done this a hundred times before. She pulled out a small bag of chips and offered me one before popping one into her mouth. "You're not wrong. I don't answer to Piggot. I'm here for you. Your safety, your rights, making sure no one pushes you around just because you're a minor with powers. Even if your case is... let's say, a tiny bit more complicated than most."
"Complicated," I echoed, arms crossed.
Her eyes softened, and she offered a gentle smile. "Would you mind putting the book down for a minute? They'll call you in soon, and I thought we could have a chat over what will be your goals in there."
I didn't want to talk. But she seemed far too motherly to tell her to fuck off.
-----
Inside the office, Piggot sat at her desk like she owned the world. Probably felt like she did. A screen to one side showed my vitals in green. Another showed headlines from PHO and major news networks. Some were already speculating about 'Orochi,' the girl who killed Lung. Others talked about the vacuum that Lung left behind. None of them knew the truth.
I took a seat without waiting for permission. Sharon sat beside me. I could feel her presence like a shield. Piggot's eyes narrowed, but she didn't say anything.
Piggot cleared her throat, eyes fixed on me like she was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. "First, let me say this: the PRT regrets the mishandling of your situation. You'll be compensated. We can't undo what happened, but we can make sure the path forward is clearer."
I didn't bother to answer her.
She folded her hands on the desk. "You're being offered full Ward status."
"Not probational?" I asked.
She nodded. "Your actions… were violent. Uncontrolled. But given the situation and your cooperation since, Armsmaster has argued your case. I've decided to listen."
I didn't thank her. She wasn't doing me a favor.
I leaned back. "What are the terms?"
Piggot arched an eyebrow. "You will follow orders, attend training sessions, avoid unsanctioned combat engagements, and obey curfew. Standard expectations."
Sharon leaned forward slightly. "You also have the right to refuse public appearances. The right to privacy. The right to legal counsel."
I crossed my arms. "And school?"
Piggot made a sound like a cough. "We could arrange you to move to Arcadia. The fact that your face has changed completely could complicate some things, but it's not something that can't be done."
Sharon shook her head. "Taylor wishes to finish online. She will need private tutors to help her along."
Piggot raised an eyebrow and looked at me, as if asking if the Youth Guard representitve was insane or something.
I shruggred my shoulders. "I don't need more teenage drama. I had enough for a lifetime."
Piggot raised an eyebrow. Sharon nodded beside me.
Piggot gave out a defeated sigh. "That will be costly, but it's within reason. We can arrange tutors approved through the Board of Education."
I didn't stop there. "I want the school held accountable. Winslow allowed what happened. They ignored it. They hid it. I want them investigated."
Piggot's face tightened. Not quite a scowl. More like something sour caught behind her teeth.
"That," she said slowly, "is... outside the PRT's purview."
Sharon looked at me, then back at Piggot. "Director, I'd advise we at least open dialogue with the school. What happened to Taylor is gross negligence at least, perhaps even criminal."
My voice was cold. "Oh, it was criminal all right."
There was a long pause.
Piggot exhaled, looked down at the paperwork on her desk. "Fine. We'll draft terms. You'll be inducted as a full Ward, homeschooled, and your legal status will reflect your situation. Winslow will be investigated. As long as you agree to play by the rules."
"And I want my bullies handled," I added. "I want them to pay."
Piggot's lips thinned to a line. "Justice isn't as clean as that."
"It better be," I said, quietly, forcing a volcano of rage down. "Or I'll find a way to make it so."
"We don't answer to threats here."
"Oh, she probably meant that she'll come to the Youth Guard, director." Sharon didn't miss a beat. "We are prepared to make a full report of how the system failed her and everyone that should be held accountable."
Piggot's frown deepened, but she gave a curt nod. "Very well, you do you."
"Oh, I will." I said. Was I grinning? Probably not.
That earned me a long stare. Then, slowly, Piggot nodded. "We'll review their cases. If there's legal recourse, we'll pursue it."
I looked out the window. The city shimmered, uncertain in the haze. Somewhere out there were the bitches who put me in that wretched locker.
Sooner or later, I'd make sure they regret their actions.
Last edited:
Chapter 6
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
The room was too clean. Too white. The scent of lemon-sanitizer still clung to the walls like a threat. It felt more like a hotel room than anything remotely resembling home. A place meant for temporary comfort, not permanence. The bed was tucked tight with hospital precision, the furniture unused, unloved. Nothing in it was really mine.
I stepped out of the shower and into my Ward-issued slippers, steam curling around me as I padded over the tile. Everything was pristine. Grimeless. Sterile.
I wrapped the towel tighter around me, the warmth already fading. I hated how little of me there was in this place.
There was a knock at the door. Not brisk. Measured. Familiar. Armsmaster.
I quickly tugged on the first outfit I could find from the dresser, black cargo pants and a grey PRT tee, then padded over to the door, still towel-damp and combing fingers through my hair.
My hair was the only thing about me that still remained. It was still mom's hair. At least that was mine.
I opened the door, letting it swing inward. He stood just outside, helmet on, posture unreadable. I almost smiled. Almost. "Come in."
"Good morning," he said, stepping inside with military precision. His tone softened ever so slightly as he added, "You're looking better."
"Thanks?" I said, still trying to dry my hair. Could I use some of my heat to do it instantly? Maybe I should test that later.
He shifted a little, like he wasn't quite sure where to stand, then handed me a sleek 12-inch tablet. "Dragon, uh, thought you might enjoy these," he said. At my questioning look, he explained, "It is loaded with books. Sci-fi, Fantasy, speculative fiction, a couple of translated philosophy texts, half a dozen Aleph thrillers, and some modern cape memoirs. I believe you enjoy reading?"
His voice held that awkward note, the one adults used when they were talking to a teenager and didn't quite know how to actually reach them. I took the tablet and nodded, letting my fingers brush its edge.
"Dragon?" I asked.
"Canadian tinker, you probably heard of her, she's quite famous," he said. "She helped me clear your case. Without her, it might've taken me a few days to gather everything I needed to convince the higher-ups." I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like admitting anything less than absolute competence cost him a lot.
I guess we're both quite full of pride.
I gave a sidelong glance at the tablet, it should do for now, even if I prefer the smell of old paper. "Tell her that I owe her a favor."
He nodded once, as if ticking off a checklist. His visor scanned the room, lingering on the empty desk, the bed, the way the walls were still plain. "You should decorate. Make it yours. It'll help."
I gave a noncommittal shrug. I couldn't help but wonder if he had cameras in the room. Or was telepathy one of his tinkertech creations? He probably just used some algorithm to guess.
"Today you'll be seeing a therapist. Standard protocol." I made a face, and he actually sighed. "Everyone does it, Taylor. Miss Militia, the other wards even me."
"You don't seem the type to unpack your feelings to a shrink."
"I'm not. But I go anyway. Because not going would be worse." He said in a tone that made me think he had tried once, and it cost him his tinkertech budget for the month.
He moved to my empty desk, eyes still unreadable behind the visor. "After that, if you're up to it, I'd like to run some power tests in the training yard. Normally Miss Militia handles Ward orientation, but... I think I need to be more hands-on this time."
I tilted my head. "This time?"
"From now on." He amended. "You're not the only new Ward joining us. The other is arriving later today for training. You'll meet him soon."
Great, another teenager. Hope his issues are manageable.
-----
Dr. Tobias Fünke was... a presence.
He had the kind of energy that makes you question if the person in front of you is just odd or playing 4D chess with social cues. His sweater was aggressively beige, his glasses fogged up at the corners, and he smiled like he hadn't been allowed to in a while.
"Tay! May I call you Tay?" he asked as I sat across from him in a room too full of cushions. "Calling you Lung would probably spark a whole can of worms that we don't want to touch on our first session!"
"I prefer Taylor," I muttered.
He tilted his head and studied me. "Very well, Taylor it is!"
"Can we get this over with?"
"I'd like to begin with a metaphor, if I may."
Of course he would.
"Imagine you are a phoenix, and you've just crawled out of your own ashes. But here's the twist!" He leaned forward. "You didn't light the fire. Or maybe you did, a little bit, with your matches of self-doubt and twigs of repressed trauma. My point is: You can't sculpt your future from ashes until you know which parts of the fire you lit yourself."
I blinked. "That is... a lot?" I... what were this guy's credentials?
He chuckled. "It is, isn't it?"
I dwindled my thumbs. Should I be angry I got this weirdo? Or relieved that it's not a mastermind that could read me like an open book?
He nodded to himself, fingers twitching with a sudden nervous energy, and finally opened the file that had my picture in it. He frowned. "Oh, no!" he murmured under his breath, voice low like he didn't mean to say it aloud. "That's no good."
His eyes darted across the page, then flicked back to me with a look of exaggerated concern, his version of serious, I guessed. "Did you know...?" He began to ask, and shook his head.
He turned the page and groaned. "No, of course you didn't, you have more than just his powers. Half a mind that's not yours?" He chuckled nervously.
I froze in place. "My mind is my own." Suddenly I wondered how hard I could punch his face without killing him. Or did I want to kill him? Decisions, decisions.
"I was told you'd inherited Lung's powers. I didn't pay attention when good old Armsie said something about brains merging! Fascinating! Terrifying!" He looked down at the file and back to me. "But mostly fascinating. This should be studied!"
"I'm glad you find my misery inspiring." I said in a warning tone as smoke and embers left my nose.
He shook his head, like he was trying to rattle the worry loose. "Well, I suppose we'll unpack that gently. Just not all at once. No need to go full mind-blend therapy this early. That would be... premature."
"No one likes their mind getting blended." I said, except I already had my mind blended. With Lung's.
"Oh, but that's what happened to you!" He said, snorting as if thinking I had just made a joke.
"So... this whole thing will be you studying me? Making sure I'm not insane?" I asked, crossing my arms. "I thought it was supposed to help me cope, or something."
"Oh, don't worry, all parahumans are kinda insane." He chuckled, and stopped deep in thought. "At least a little bit. Even the most, eh, sane, for lake of a better term, are most curious in a psychological sense."
"What?"
He shrugged. "Nevermind that. But you don't have to worry about me writing a paper about your condition, or any other therapist you get assigned to you for that matter."
"Why is that?"
"Oh, you weren't told?" He had one eyebrow raised behind his glasses, expression caught somewhere between glee and concern. "We kinda do this rotating therapists thing. Think of it like, oh, I don't know, a carousel of psychotherapy. One day you're with me, the next you're with Dr. Hoskins or Dr. Chang. Each one brings their own sprinkle of flavor."
"You guys rotate?" What? Why?
He sat back, nodding to himself with satisfaction. "A veritable tasting menu of emotional excavation. It's part of the PRT guidelines, multiple perspectives for a well-rounded psyche! Just FYI." He paused, frowning. "It's FYI, right? That's what kids say these days I think?"
"But isn't that..." I shook my head. "Why?"
"Why indeed!" He said shaking his hands as if he finally found someone who agreed with him. He hummed. "Perhaps they don't want us, scheming therapists convincing heroes that not every problem can be solved by punching a hole through a wall?"
I wanted to dismiss him. Write him off as weird. But there was something under all of it. Was he... competent?
He smiled. "So... back to our metaphor, what parts of the fire that engulfed you you did you lit yourself?"
And... he was back to being just a weirdo.
-----
I dragged my feet as I wandered the facility after the session, eyes flicking between the glowing lines of the building's map on the tablet and the hallway stretching in front of me.
Every door and every corner looked the same. Gleaming steel, cold LED lighting, polished corridors that felt like they looped in on themselves. I wasn't really seeing where I was going, too focused on trying to make heads or tails of the layout, when I turned a corner and bumped with someone.
He was tall, broad, with wild curly hair and thick hands that looked too big for his sleeves. He took a half-step back, eyes avoiding mine. He had a full mask covering his face.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Richard. Richard Garcia. Browbeat."
I squinted. "Are you supposed to say your secret identity to any random person you bump into?"
He opened and closed his mouth. "I... huh... please don't tell anyone?"
I noticed he wasn't really looking in my general direction. I turned, but saw no one.
"You're new." The boy said, and I stared back at him. "I guess I won't be the only newbie on the team?"
I tilted my head. He kept looking at something just over my shoulder. Power related maybe? "It seems so, I'm Taylor." I said, extending my hand.
He looked down almost as if wondering what to do, when he nodded to himself and shook my hand. "Pleasure to meet you. I haven't heard anything about you."
"Armsmaster mentioned that I would be meeting a new ward, I guess that's you?"
He kept shaking my hand. "Think so? I had an appointment with him at..." He realized he hadn't let go of my hand and quickly sent it into his pockets. "Sorry about that."
"That's fine."
He nodded, then paused too long before continuing. "I... huh, I should get going to the training ground."
I nodded. "Okay, I guess I was lucky to bump onto you, lead the way for me."
He smiled, and it didn't feel fake. Just a little bent at the edges.
-----
The training yard was quiet, the padded flooring muffling every footstep like fresh snow. Simulated buildings loomed around the perimeter, some squat, some tall, all sterile. Observation windows stared down from above, dark and impassive. I wondered for a moment how a room could be so large, it was as large as the entry building. Tinkertech, maybe?
Armsmaster stood near us, framed in soft overhead lighting. He wore gym clothes, blue tank top and exercise pants, but his helmet remained stubbornly in place, a silent sentinel refusing to yield. The image was uncanny. So much bare skin, yet still untouchable. His stance, though relaxed, spoke of controlled violence. The bo staff rested in his grip like it had always belonged there.
My eyes wandered. The tank top revealed chiseled muscle, sculpted through repetition and function. Triceps tight like steel cables. Forearms dotted with tiny scars. I blushed, blinking quickly, heart thudding once too hard. Not because he was attractive! He was way too old for me. But... because the contrast was jarring. It was weird to imagine the cold, mechanical Armsmaster, in a tank top, being... well human.
"Taylor. Browbeat. Glad you found your way." He smiled at us, then motioned Richard toward the mat. "Browbeat, let's start with you. Step into the ring."
I was about to ask what ring he meant, when some sort of hard light surrounded Armsmaster. It looked more like one of those mixed martial arts cages than a boxing ring.
Richard glanced my way, nervous energy written all over his posture, then trudged forward. Armsmaster adjusted the grip on his bo staff, shifting his stance as Richard came to a stop opposite him. "This will be a light sparring match," he said. "Controlled. I want to see how you adapt under pressure."
I sat cross-legged on the mat while Richard stepped into the center.
"I don't want to fight you," he said to Armsmaster. "Without your gear, you're just... a squishy normal."
Armsmaster shifted his weight, lowered his stance, and in a sudden, fluid blur of motion, twisted his hips and let the staff glide in a sweeping arc. It connected just behind Richard's ankles with a sharp crack against the mat, sending the large boy crashing backward with a surprised yelp. Before he could recover, Armsmaster was already there, pinning his chest with the staff in a stance so smooth it could've been choreographed, expression unreadable behind the helmet.
"Lesson one," he said, calm as ever, as he withdrew the staff from Richard's chest and extended a hand to help him up. Richard hesitated, then accepted the gesture, letting Armsmaster haul him back to his feet with surprising gentleness. "No cape survives long relying solely on their powers. Not even changers. Not even Brutes."
Richard groaned and breathed hard. "I guess I shouldn't underestimate you."
"You shouldn't underestimate anyone." Armsmaster replied as he walked to the opposite side of the cage. "So... let's see what you actually got when you're serious."
I studied Richard's body as it shifted and expanded, muscle upon muscle swelling like a time-lapse video of a bodybuilder on fast-forward. What started as a slightly fit teenager my age rapidly turned into something exaggerated, almost grotesque, arms like steel beams, shoulders that looked like they could barely fit through a doorway. Even his calfs had muscles within muscles. Two seconds later, his proportions dwarfed Armsmaster's, and I found myself blinking, unsure if I was impressed or just overwhelmed. I liked muscle, sure, but this felt like too much, too showy, too loud, too eager to impress without asking if it should.
Armsmaster tsked, then tapped the staff once against the mat. "Come at me," he said, voice calm, almost bored. Richard hesitated, uncertain, but then charged with a yell, his heavy frame barreling forward.
Armsmaster moved like water, sidestepping with practiced ease and spinning his staff in a tight arc. It caught Richard in the ribs, forcing a grunt from the larger boy. Richard tried again, swinging a massive arm, but the blow found only air as Armsmaster dipped under and behind, the staff slapping across the back of his knees.
Another lunge, and this time Armsmaster let Richard get close. Just close enough to think he had a shot. Then, in a blur, the tinker twisted, planted his heel, and used Richard's own momentum against him, redirecting the charge and sending him sprawling to the mat.
Richard groaned, pushing up on one elbow, just in time to see the tip of the staff hover an inch from his face. Armsmaster arched an eyebrow, well, I assumed he did beneath the helmet, and pulled the staff away.
Then he reached out and offered his hand. "You've got power, Browbeat, I'll give you that. But raw strength without control is just wasted motion."
Richard took the offered hand, getting to his feet, I could imagine his cheeks flushing behind his mask. "You move too fast."
Armsmaster hummed, complentative. "How much can you control your body?"
"Huh?"
"Your current muscle mass is... impractical." He stated. "It gives you strength on par with a brute, but you lose mobility. That makes you predictable. Can you diversify your alterations? More than just 'go big, hit hard.'"
Richard nodded, a little dazed. His body shifted, from comically large muscles, to just Adonis-level ones. "Better?"
"It's an improvement." Armsmaster nodded. "Let's go another round."
-----
I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Armsmaster had been sparring with Browbeat for what felt like the better part of an hour. From my spot on the sidelines, cross-legged and tablet balanced on my knee, I'd cycled through three different books and half a dozen idle thoughts. The training yard was starting to feel more like a waiting room than a battlefield.
Then he turned.
"Taylor," Armsmaster called out, his voice flat, but something akin to anticipation behind it. "Your turn."
I sighed, set the tablet down, and rose to my feet. A few steps carried me to the edge of the circle where the simulation ring still shimmered. Richard was catching his breath, muscles twitching as he stepped back.
I took a breath and expanded. Not to full size, but enough to match Armsmaster in height and weight. I focused on my anger, my bottled rage. Golden scales began to appear around my body, but I quickly refocused them so only my vital organs had them.
As I walked towards the cage, I noticed a rack of weapons, and grabbed a pair of tonfa from there. Something old flickered in the back of my mind. Lung used to fight with weapons very similar back in the day, when he was a teenager not much older than me. Not that he ever learned how to properly use them like a martial artist would. He was a thug, after all. But I could do better, I could be a smart thug.
I spun them once, testing the grip. Then stepped into the circle.
I smiled at Richard as he walked to where I had waited. He seemed to be muttering to himself, not really noticing me. When he dropped himself to the mat, his muscles deflated like some sort of balloon.
I turned my attention back to Armsmaster.
"Should we begin?"
"Give me your best shot."
I moved first. My tonfa struck out in a feint, fast and low. He didn't bite, instead countered with a sweep of the staff. I twisted beneath it, my body lighter than it should be at this size, turning momentum into another attack. He blocked with a flick of his wrist, staff meeting metal with a crack.
"Are all tinkers this crazy prepared?" I purred. Wait. What? Where did that come from?
"Only the good ones." He said in a neutral tone. "You're restraining your transformation."
"I can focus better like this." I said, as we circled each other.
"Good, cunning can win you a though battle, but raw might rarely will."
My legs shifted, my balance tilting forward, ready to launch again. Each move was met, countered, answered with something elegant and simple. Armsmaster flowed like water, his grip confident, never wavering. It was frustrating. It was exhilarating.
"And your bugs?" He asked when both dashed backwards.
"Do you want your lungs filled with bees? I could get all the bees." That got a snort from him.
He went for a wide arc and I rose both tonfas to block. Either he put too much power on the strike, I was a bit sloppy, or mybe both, and the tip of the staff broke. The rest striking me on my shoulder.
I groaned in pain, rerouting some scales to my shoulders, and jumped back, but he followed spinning his staff in anticipation.
I sprang off the ground, twisting my body in midair and launching myself toward him like a wrecking ball with purpose. He met the charge with the broken end of his staff, guiding my momentum aside with uncanny precision. In the same breath, he dropped low, sweeping his leg out and knocking mine clean from under me.
My palm slammed into the mat as I twisted again, refusing to fall flat. I rebounded, knees coiled, driving forward. My tonfa struck high, then low, then high again, but each blow met empty air or the crack of wood on metal.
Give. Take. Hit. React. It wasn't just sparring anymore. It was a dance. One where the rhythm was dictated not by music, but by breath and will. And in that moment, I didn't care who I had been. I only cared about the next move, the next strike, the next heartbeat.
Suddenly he dropped his broken staff.
"That will be all," he said. His voice sounded rougher than usual. Was he angry? Or tired?
From the sideline, Richard clapped. "Damn girl!" he exclaimed. "How long have you been a cape?"
I stared at him, breath steady despite the strain. "Either a couple of days," I said, voice low, "or several years. Take your pick."
I stepped out of the shower and into my Ward-issued slippers, steam curling around me as I padded over the tile. Everything was pristine. Grimeless. Sterile.
I wrapped the towel tighter around me, the warmth already fading. I hated how little of me there was in this place.
There was a knock at the door. Not brisk. Measured. Familiar. Armsmaster.
I quickly tugged on the first outfit I could find from the dresser, black cargo pants and a grey PRT tee, then padded over to the door, still towel-damp and combing fingers through my hair.
My hair was the only thing about me that still remained. It was still mom's hair. At least that was mine.
I opened the door, letting it swing inward. He stood just outside, helmet on, posture unreadable. I almost smiled. Almost. "Come in."
"Good morning," he said, stepping inside with military precision. His tone softened ever so slightly as he added, "You're looking better."
"Thanks?" I said, still trying to dry my hair. Could I use some of my heat to do it instantly? Maybe I should test that later.
He shifted a little, like he wasn't quite sure where to stand, then handed me a sleek 12-inch tablet. "Dragon, uh, thought you might enjoy these," he said. At my questioning look, he explained, "It is loaded with books. Sci-fi, Fantasy, speculative fiction, a couple of translated philosophy texts, half a dozen Aleph thrillers, and some modern cape memoirs. I believe you enjoy reading?"
His voice held that awkward note, the one adults used when they were talking to a teenager and didn't quite know how to actually reach them. I took the tablet and nodded, letting my fingers brush its edge.
"Dragon?" I asked.
"Canadian tinker, you probably heard of her, she's quite famous," he said. "She helped me clear your case. Without her, it might've taken me a few days to gather everything I needed to convince the higher-ups." I caught the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like admitting anything less than absolute competence cost him a lot.
I guess we're both quite full of pride.
I gave a sidelong glance at the tablet, it should do for now, even if I prefer the smell of old paper. "Tell her that I owe her a favor."
He nodded once, as if ticking off a checklist. His visor scanned the room, lingering on the empty desk, the bed, the way the walls were still plain. "You should decorate. Make it yours. It'll help."
I gave a noncommittal shrug. I couldn't help but wonder if he had cameras in the room. Or was telepathy one of his tinkertech creations? He probably just used some algorithm to guess.
"Today you'll be seeing a therapist. Standard protocol." I made a face, and he actually sighed. "Everyone does it, Taylor. Miss Militia, the other wards even me."
"You don't seem the type to unpack your feelings to a shrink."
"I'm not. But I go anyway. Because not going would be worse." He said in a tone that made me think he had tried once, and it cost him his tinkertech budget for the month.
He moved to my empty desk, eyes still unreadable behind the visor. "After that, if you're up to it, I'd like to run some power tests in the training yard. Normally Miss Militia handles Ward orientation, but... I think I need to be more hands-on this time."
I tilted my head. "This time?"
"From now on." He amended. "You're not the only new Ward joining us. The other is arriving later today for training. You'll meet him soon."
Great, another teenager. Hope his issues are manageable.
-----
Dr. Tobias Fünke was... a presence.
He had the kind of energy that makes you question if the person in front of you is just odd or playing 4D chess with social cues. His sweater was aggressively beige, his glasses fogged up at the corners, and he smiled like he hadn't been allowed to in a while.
"Tay! May I call you Tay?" he asked as I sat across from him in a room too full of cushions. "Calling you Lung would probably spark a whole can of worms that we don't want to touch on our first session!"
"I prefer Taylor," I muttered.
He tilted his head and studied me. "Very well, Taylor it is!"
"Can we get this over with?"
"I'd like to begin with a metaphor, if I may."
Of course he would.
"Imagine you are a phoenix, and you've just crawled out of your own ashes. But here's the twist!" He leaned forward. "You didn't light the fire. Or maybe you did, a little bit, with your matches of self-doubt and twigs of repressed trauma. My point is: You can't sculpt your future from ashes until you know which parts of the fire you lit yourself."
I blinked. "That is... a lot?" I... what were this guy's credentials?
He chuckled. "It is, isn't it?"
I dwindled my thumbs. Should I be angry I got this weirdo? Or relieved that it's not a mastermind that could read me like an open book?
He nodded to himself, fingers twitching with a sudden nervous energy, and finally opened the file that had my picture in it. He frowned. "Oh, no!" he murmured under his breath, voice low like he didn't mean to say it aloud. "That's no good."
His eyes darted across the page, then flicked back to me with a look of exaggerated concern, his version of serious, I guessed. "Did you know...?" He began to ask, and shook his head.
He turned the page and groaned. "No, of course you didn't, you have more than just his powers. Half a mind that's not yours?" He chuckled nervously.
I froze in place. "My mind is my own." Suddenly I wondered how hard I could punch his face without killing him. Or did I want to kill him? Decisions, decisions.
"I was told you'd inherited Lung's powers. I didn't pay attention when good old Armsie said something about brains merging! Fascinating! Terrifying!" He looked down at the file and back to me. "But mostly fascinating. This should be studied!"
"I'm glad you find my misery inspiring." I said in a warning tone as smoke and embers left my nose.
He shook his head, like he was trying to rattle the worry loose. "Well, I suppose we'll unpack that gently. Just not all at once. No need to go full mind-blend therapy this early. That would be... premature."
"No one likes their mind getting blended." I said, except I already had my mind blended. With Lung's.
"Oh, but that's what happened to you!" He said, snorting as if thinking I had just made a joke.
"So... this whole thing will be you studying me? Making sure I'm not insane?" I asked, crossing my arms. "I thought it was supposed to help me cope, or something."
"Oh, don't worry, all parahumans are kinda insane." He chuckled, and stopped deep in thought. "At least a little bit. Even the most, eh, sane, for lake of a better term, are most curious in a psychological sense."
"What?"
He shrugged. "Nevermind that. But you don't have to worry about me writing a paper about your condition, or any other therapist you get assigned to you for that matter."
"Why is that?"
"Oh, you weren't told?" He had one eyebrow raised behind his glasses, expression caught somewhere between glee and concern. "We kinda do this rotating therapists thing. Think of it like, oh, I don't know, a carousel of psychotherapy. One day you're with me, the next you're with Dr. Hoskins or Dr. Chang. Each one brings their own sprinkle of flavor."
"You guys rotate?" What? Why?
He sat back, nodding to himself with satisfaction. "A veritable tasting menu of emotional excavation. It's part of the PRT guidelines, multiple perspectives for a well-rounded psyche! Just FYI." He paused, frowning. "It's FYI, right? That's what kids say these days I think?"
"But isn't that..." I shook my head. "Why?"
"Why indeed!" He said shaking his hands as if he finally found someone who agreed with him. He hummed. "Perhaps they don't want us, scheming therapists convincing heroes that not every problem can be solved by punching a hole through a wall?"
I wanted to dismiss him. Write him off as weird. But there was something under all of it. Was he... competent?
He smiled. "So... back to our metaphor, what parts of the fire that engulfed you you did you lit yourself?"
And... he was back to being just a weirdo.
-----
I dragged my feet as I wandered the facility after the session, eyes flicking between the glowing lines of the building's map on the tablet and the hallway stretching in front of me.
Every door and every corner looked the same. Gleaming steel, cold LED lighting, polished corridors that felt like they looped in on themselves. I wasn't really seeing where I was going, too focused on trying to make heads or tails of the layout, when I turned a corner and bumped with someone.
He was tall, broad, with wild curly hair and thick hands that looked too big for his sleeves. He took a half-step back, eyes avoiding mine. He had a full mask covering his face.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "Didn't mean to startle you. I'm Richard. Richard Garcia. Browbeat."
I squinted. "Are you supposed to say your secret identity to any random person you bump into?"
He opened and closed his mouth. "I... huh... please don't tell anyone?"
I noticed he wasn't really looking in my general direction. I turned, but saw no one.
"You're new." The boy said, and I stared back at him. "I guess I won't be the only newbie on the team?"
I tilted my head. He kept looking at something just over my shoulder. Power related maybe? "It seems so, I'm Taylor." I said, extending my hand.
He looked down almost as if wondering what to do, when he nodded to himself and shook my hand. "Pleasure to meet you. I haven't heard anything about you."
"Armsmaster mentioned that I would be meeting a new ward, I guess that's you?"
He kept shaking my hand. "Think so? I had an appointment with him at..." He realized he hadn't let go of my hand and quickly sent it into his pockets. "Sorry about that."
"That's fine."
He nodded, then paused too long before continuing. "I... huh, I should get going to the training ground."
I nodded. "Okay, I guess I was lucky to bump onto you, lead the way for me."
He smiled, and it didn't feel fake. Just a little bent at the edges.
-----
The training yard was quiet, the padded flooring muffling every footstep like fresh snow. Simulated buildings loomed around the perimeter, some squat, some tall, all sterile. Observation windows stared down from above, dark and impassive. I wondered for a moment how a room could be so large, it was as large as the entry building. Tinkertech, maybe?
Armsmaster stood near us, framed in soft overhead lighting. He wore gym clothes, blue tank top and exercise pants, but his helmet remained stubbornly in place, a silent sentinel refusing to yield. The image was uncanny. So much bare skin, yet still untouchable. His stance, though relaxed, spoke of controlled violence. The bo staff rested in his grip like it had always belonged there.
My eyes wandered. The tank top revealed chiseled muscle, sculpted through repetition and function. Triceps tight like steel cables. Forearms dotted with tiny scars. I blushed, blinking quickly, heart thudding once too hard. Not because he was attractive! He was way too old for me. But... because the contrast was jarring. It was weird to imagine the cold, mechanical Armsmaster, in a tank top, being... well human.
"Taylor. Browbeat. Glad you found your way." He smiled at us, then motioned Richard toward the mat. "Browbeat, let's start with you. Step into the ring."
I was about to ask what ring he meant, when some sort of hard light surrounded Armsmaster. It looked more like one of those mixed martial arts cages than a boxing ring.
Richard glanced my way, nervous energy written all over his posture, then trudged forward. Armsmaster adjusted the grip on his bo staff, shifting his stance as Richard came to a stop opposite him. "This will be a light sparring match," he said. "Controlled. I want to see how you adapt under pressure."
I sat cross-legged on the mat while Richard stepped into the center.
"I don't want to fight you," he said to Armsmaster. "Without your gear, you're just... a squishy normal."
Armsmaster shifted his weight, lowered his stance, and in a sudden, fluid blur of motion, twisted his hips and let the staff glide in a sweeping arc. It connected just behind Richard's ankles with a sharp crack against the mat, sending the large boy crashing backward with a surprised yelp. Before he could recover, Armsmaster was already there, pinning his chest with the staff in a stance so smooth it could've been choreographed, expression unreadable behind the helmet.
"Lesson one," he said, calm as ever, as he withdrew the staff from Richard's chest and extended a hand to help him up. Richard hesitated, then accepted the gesture, letting Armsmaster haul him back to his feet with surprising gentleness. "No cape survives long relying solely on their powers. Not even changers. Not even Brutes."
Richard groaned and breathed hard. "I guess I shouldn't underestimate you."
"You shouldn't underestimate anyone." Armsmaster replied as he walked to the opposite side of the cage. "So... let's see what you actually got when you're serious."
I studied Richard's body as it shifted and expanded, muscle upon muscle swelling like a time-lapse video of a bodybuilder on fast-forward. What started as a slightly fit teenager my age rapidly turned into something exaggerated, almost grotesque, arms like steel beams, shoulders that looked like they could barely fit through a doorway. Even his calfs had muscles within muscles. Two seconds later, his proportions dwarfed Armsmaster's, and I found myself blinking, unsure if I was impressed or just overwhelmed. I liked muscle, sure, but this felt like too much, too showy, too loud, too eager to impress without asking if it should.
Armsmaster tsked, then tapped the staff once against the mat. "Come at me," he said, voice calm, almost bored. Richard hesitated, uncertain, but then charged with a yell, his heavy frame barreling forward.
Armsmaster moved like water, sidestepping with practiced ease and spinning his staff in a tight arc. It caught Richard in the ribs, forcing a grunt from the larger boy. Richard tried again, swinging a massive arm, but the blow found only air as Armsmaster dipped under and behind, the staff slapping across the back of his knees.
Another lunge, and this time Armsmaster let Richard get close. Just close enough to think he had a shot. Then, in a blur, the tinker twisted, planted his heel, and used Richard's own momentum against him, redirecting the charge and sending him sprawling to the mat.
Richard groaned, pushing up on one elbow, just in time to see the tip of the staff hover an inch from his face. Armsmaster arched an eyebrow, well, I assumed he did beneath the helmet, and pulled the staff away.
Then he reached out and offered his hand. "You've got power, Browbeat, I'll give you that. But raw strength without control is just wasted motion."
Richard took the offered hand, getting to his feet, I could imagine his cheeks flushing behind his mask. "You move too fast."
Armsmaster hummed, complentative. "How much can you control your body?"
"Huh?"
"Your current muscle mass is... impractical." He stated. "It gives you strength on par with a brute, but you lose mobility. That makes you predictable. Can you diversify your alterations? More than just 'go big, hit hard.'"
Richard nodded, a little dazed. His body shifted, from comically large muscles, to just Adonis-level ones. "Better?"
"It's an improvement." Armsmaster nodded. "Let's go another round."
-----
I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
Armsmaster had been sparring with Browbeat for what felt like the better part of an hour. From my spot on the sidelines, cross-legged and tablet balanced on my knee, I'd cycled through three different books and half a dozen idle thoughts. The training yard was starting to feel more like a waiting room than a battlefield.
Then he turned.
"Taylor," Armsmaster called out, his voice flat, but something akin to anticipation behind it. "Your turn."
I sighed, set the tablet down, and rose to my feet. A few steps carried me to the edge of the circle where the simulation ring still shimmered. Richard was catching his breath, muscles twitching as he stepped back.
I took a breath and expanded. Not to full size, but enough to match Armsmaster in height and weight. I focused on my anger, my bottled rage. Golden scales began to appear around my body, but I quickly refocused them so only my vital organs had them.
As I walked towards the cage, I noticed a rack of weapons, and grabbed a pair of tonfa from there. Something old flickered in the back of my mind. Lung used to fight with weapons very similar back in the day, when he was a teenager not much older than me. Not that he ever learned how to properly use them like a martial artist would. He was a thug, after all. But I could do better, I could be a smart thug.
I spun them once, testing the grip. Then stepped into the circle.
I smiled at Richard as he walked to where I had waited. He seemed to be muttering to himself, not really noticing me. When he dropped himself to the mat, his muscles deflated like some sort of balloon.
I turned my attention back to Armsmaster.
"Should we begin?"
"Give me your best shot."
I moved first. My tonfa struck out in a feint, fast and low. He didn't bite, instead countered with a sweep of the staff. I twisted beneath it, my body lighter than it should be at this size, turning momentum into another attack. He blocked with a flick of his wrist, staff meeting metal with a crack.
"Are all tinkers this crazy prepared?" I purred. Wait. What? Where did that come from?
"Only the good ones." He said in a neutral tone. "You're restraining your transformation."
"I can focus better like this." I said, as we circled each other.
"Good, cunning can win you a though battle, but raw might rarely will."
My legs shifted, my balance tilting forward, ready to launch again. Each move was met, countered, answered with something elegant and simple. Armsmaster flowed like water, his grip confident, never wavering. It was frustrating. It was exhilarating.
"And your bugs?" He asked when both dashed backwards.
"Do you want your lungs filled with bees? I could get all the bees." That got a snort from him.
He went for a wide arc and I rose both tonfas to block. Either he put too much power on the strike, I was a bit sloppy, or mybe both, and the tip of the staff broke. The rest striking me on my shoulder.
I groaned in pain, rerouting some scales to my shoulders, and jumped back, but he followed spinning his staff in anticipation.
I sprang off the ground, twisting my body in midair and launching myself toward him like a wrecking ball with purpose. He met the charge with the broken end of his staff, guiding my momentum aside with uncanny precision. In the same breath, he dropped low, sweeping his leg out and knocking mine clean from under me.
My palm slammed into the mat as I twisted again, refusing to fall flat. I rebounded, knees coiled, driving forward. My tonfa struck high, then low, then high again, but each blow met empty air or the crack of wood on metal.
Give. Take. Hit. React. It wasn't just sparring anymore. It was a dance. One where the rhythm was dictated not by music, but by breath and will. And in that moment, I didn't care who I had been. I only cared about the next move, the next strike, the next heartbeat.
Suddenly he dropped his broken staff.
"That will be all," he said. His voice sounded rougher than usual. Was he angry? Or tired?
From the sideline, Richard clapped. "Damn girl!" he exclaimed. "How long have you been a cape?"
I stared at him, breath steady despite the strain. "Either a couple of days," I said, voice low, "or several years. Take your pick."
Chapter 7
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
The conference room was too quiet, too sterile, like a staged scene waiting for the actors to stumble onto the wrong line. The air carried that faint chemical tang I was starting to associate with the PRT, disinfectant and stale coffee, scrubbed floors and institutional pressure, all the ingredients of a place pretending not to be complicit in something dark.
Dad paced beside me in awkward half-circles. He hadn't sat yet, didn't know if he should. He was holding my journal like it was a treasure. It's a shame, he really tried to bring everything he could to help in the case against Emma and her lackeys, but it seems a bigger issue blocks my main objective.
"What's taking them so long?" He asked.
"Probably fact checking whatever lie they're about to tell us." I replied.
He stopped pacing. "What?"
I threw up my hands. "I don't know, Danny, if it was me, I'd be doing that as a power play, to show the stupid teenage cape that she's just dirt waiting to be stomped by my feet."
He raised an eyebrow.
"What?" I asked, suddenly feeling his eyes on me.
"Nothing," He said in a small voice. "Where did that come from?"
"Lung? Or maybe one of my old revenge fantasies." I replied. "Doesn't matter, they're here."
He turned towards the door, "where?"
"Three, two... one" I said, raising a finger as I counted down.
The door opened and Director Piggot power-walked to the head of the table, not bothering to say hello. Armsmaster followed after her, and nodded toward us. He sat opposite to me.
Dad dropped the journal on the table. "Here it is."
Piggot looked at the journal like it was some sort of disgusting trash. "What is that?"
I scratched my ear, focusing my senses on the woman's face. What was with this woman? "Dates and notes about every single bullying instance I suffered under Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements."
Ah, there was the twitch I had noticed on Miss Militia the other day.
"Thank you." She said in a tone that didn't really imply she did. "Armsmaster, please take this and verify what we could do about sending those upstanding citizens to juvie."
Armsmaster gave Piggot a long stare before taking the journal and began reading it silently.
Piggot made a face. "Unfortunately we're not here for that." Of course we weren't. "It falls on me to inform you of some bad news regarding your current situation."
Dad took a seat next to me and glared at the woman. "What kind of bad news?"
"Someone leaked footage of Taylor using Lung's powers. Internal security footage, which narrowed the list of suspects considerably." She seemed to bite down a curse. "Unfortunately, the public at large believes you're some sort of deranged ABB Dragon Princess."
I sat rigid, fists pressed against my thighs, trying to bleed the fury through my swarm instead of through my face. Each breath was tight, a slow count that barely stopped the heat spitting from my gut. Piggot sat, unmoving, composed like a statue that had never known how to smile, waiting to see how I would answer.
Dad blinked and dragged his fingers down his face. Worried anger dominated his demeanor, but it was quiet next to what was building inside me. Fury, pressure, the itching certainty that if I let go even a little, fire might crawl under my skin again and kill everyone in this room.
Fortunately for dad, his fire is not quite as literal as mine. Unfortunately for him, he can't off-load his emotions to a nearly infinite amount of insects.
"You mean someone inside the PRT did this?" Dad roared, insults and raging threats left unvoiced.
Piggot didn't flinch, nor look away. "Yes, we already found the culprit." Her nose wrinkled like she was smelling something disgusting. "Captain Everet, he lost his niece to the ABB, and Armsmaster had him admit to being a mole for the Empire 88."
"Of course he is!" Dad threw up my hands. "Do you have anyone trustworthy on your payroll?"
Armaster looked up from my journal. "Actually, that's the only thing that Everet admitted to doing, he insisted that he didn't leak the-"
Piggot shut him down with a look. "Your lie detector is not perfect, yes?"
"It isn't" he said, clearly annoyed that someone would say so.
"So it might get confusing signals regarding that. It matters not, he was a mole for the nazis. How many more moles do we have?"
I snapped my fingers. "Oh, the ABB has at least four." I blinked, trying to remember clearly. "Or was it five? I think it was five as of last month."
Piggot looked at me like she wanted my head to explode. Well, maybe it will, bitch, maybe it will.
"Would you please inform us of these facts as soon as you remember them?" She asked, gritting her teeth.
I shrugged my shoulders, and unlocked my tablet. "I can email you the list"
"Nevermind that!" Dad said, and slapped the table. "What does this mean for Taylor?"
I breathed in slowly. The taste of ozone clung to the back of my throat. "It means nothing, they can believe whatever they want."
"People thinking that one of our wards is a deranged murderer that might deflect at any moment to rule the ABB is not exactly ideal." Piggot said.
"So, tell them that she's not his daughter, tell the public the truth and that's that."
"No matter what we say, they'll still believe what they want to believe. Even some within our own ranks do as well."
Danny turned to me, his voice quiet and furious. "You told them the truth. You passed their tests. How the hell is this still happening?"
Armsmaster resumed reading the journal, but said without looking up, "only low level people in the PRT would believe that, everyone that has clearance knows of her situation."
Piggot sighed, long and low, like someone drowning in inevitability. "Because sometimes the truth doesn't matter, Mr. Hebert. The public sees what it wants to see. An Asian girl with powers that scream dragon, no birth records anyone can trace, surveillance footage of her unleashing hellfire just like Lung, and everyone knows by now that she actually DID kill Lung. it's a story they were already halfway through telling. All this did was give them their ending."
"So what now?" I asked, exhaling orange smoke with every word.
"We have two options," Piggot said. "We relocate you to another city. Somewhere fresh. New identity, new team. Or we attempt a rebranding here, you'd have to change the way you use your powers, no biblical plague, no fire or winged nightmares."
"I'm not leaving," I said, sharper than I meant to.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. I forced myself not to recoil. "I'll go with you. Wherever you choose."
I stared at him, incredulous.
He kept going. "I can sell the house. Quit the job."
"You never even took a vacation day for me before." I leaned back, tired of his shit. "Besides, I want to stay. I know this city. It's my city, I will never surrender, that's not how I roll."
Piggot gave a curt nod. "Then we proceed with care. You'll need a new cape name. It needs to be something that distances you from Lung, and the idea of being Lung's daughter."
I snorted. "That, or I roll with the punches and use this identity as Lung's daughter to my benefit."
She breathed hard. "You'll have to go to a PR Specialist so we can determine the best course of action regarding your cape identity."
Well, that couldn't possibly be too bad.
-----
The PR specialist assigned to me was worse than I could've imagined.
Sandra Griffin reminded me of an adult version of Emma. More the old Emma than the current one, but still. She rambled about fashion, popularity, and gossip.
Apparently there was an official popularity ranking for all heroes in the city. Armsmaster was number one, but his votes had dwindled as of late. Dauntless being often called a 'future member of the Triumvirate' didn't help him much. Or Triumph's unheard good manners even among his fellow heroes.
"He's let himself go." She began, measuring my waist. "If only he'd change his costume to something that's not so... so... blue!" She said, "I mean, hello, blue was stale last season?"
"Can you move faster?" I asked her, gritting my teeth
"I can, like, do it good, or do it fast." She replied, as she took a look at her meassuring type. "What kind of message do you want to send to the world?"
"Message? Make criminals cower in fear, maybe?"
She pinched me with a needle, and resumed measuring me. "Nah, you need to speak to the public, not the bad guys." She said, in a vain attempt at sounding wise. "Only weirdos like Shadow Stalker or Challenger who totally don't get what a good image could do to their careers try to 'inspire fear', I mean, that's so 90's, it hurts."
"Are you aware that I can change my size depending on how much I ramp up?" I asked her, watching her continue measuring me.
"Of course," She said, rolling her eyes. "So, message?"
"I... huh..." I sighed. "Maybe I want to be a warrior?"
She tilted her head. "What kind of warrior?"
I remembered stories from my grandmother. Or rather, Lung's grandmother, of honorable sword masters that fought invading forces to the last breath, even when they were deemed unworthy, they still persisted in their quests.
"Ronin." I said quietly.
She pulled out her phone and began typing on it. "Like, the bird?"
"Ronin, not Robin. like... a Samurai?" I said, as my height went well past six feet. "I believe I will demand another PR agent."
She somehow managed to look unimpressed. Maybe she was just too dumb.
"Nah," She said finally, and persisted in taking my measurements.
"Nah?"
"I'm all you get." She said, pinching me again with one of her needles. "And you can't use an Asian name. It evokes too much 'ABB' for the public."
I gritted my teeth. "How about Smaug?"
She tilted her head, not understanding.
"Like the dragon in the Hobbit?" I said, losing my patience.
"Nope, anything dragon related is a big, no."
"What do you propose?"
"Diana." She said, as she took notes.
"Diana?"
"Roman goddess of dance, we could have you wear this cute ballerina outfit and..." I tuned her out. If I didn't, I knew I would bash her head in the wall. Repeatedly.
-----
Later that day, I stood just outside the Wards common room. The door was slightly ajar, enough for me to hear voices and laughter. I waited for the cue, my stomach twisting with something between dread and nausea.
Miss Militia opened the door. "They're ready for you."
The room was brightly lit, decorated like some attempt at a cool college lounge. Posters, beanbags, oversized screens. Costumes, colors, masks hanging from hooks. Several game consoles were attached to one of the largest TVs I had ever seen.
The wards were all over the place.
"Everyone, this is Smaug, name pending review," Miss Militia called out. "Our newest member."
I stepped in. I could feel the eyes on me. I didn't have any costume on, only a simple domino mask covered my face.
Someone whispered. "Is that her? Lung's- urk!"
I smiled at the little girl in a green dress and useless plastic armor. She had spunk.
My eyes tracked the rest of the boys. I nodded at Browbeat, and he waved.
Lung never really cared much about the wards, but he had been kept informed about their general disposition. I didn't find Triumph among the wards, or Shadow Stalker for that matter.
The boy in a rust-red costume took a step forward. "Hello, it's good to have you here. I'm Aegis, leader of the Wards." Ah, that explained why Triumph wasn't around. I guess he got promoted out of the kid's table.
I shook his hand, testing his strength. I didn't see any pain behind his eyes. I let go and nodded at him.
Vista beamed at me. "It's nice to meet you," she said.
"We've already met, remember?" I said, crossing my arms. "You helped this guy get me... how was it? Clockblocked."
I heard a soft giggle coming from the guy with the armor filled with all sorts of clocks. "Guilty as charged." He paused, aware of my gaze. "No hard feelings?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "You were just doing your job." I frowned. "Or perhaps you weren't? I understand that Wards aren't supposed to go looking for trouble."
"They got their salary docked for that stunt." Miss Militia mentioned.
The short girl frowned, and looked like she was about to complain, but stopped herself.
I smiled at Vista, "Well, at least there's one other girl on the team."
She blinked. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking!"
I scanned the room, pretending to look for the missing ward, knowing that she wasn't here. "Ah, there was one other girl, Shadow Lurker?"
"Stalker" The boy in red tinkertech armor said. "Pain in the ass, I'm not sure she counts as a girl."
I raised an eyebrow. "Noted."
Miss Militia's heart thumped a bit faster than normal.
Dad paced beside me in awkward half-circles. He hadn't sat yet, didn't know if he should. He was holding my journal like it was a treasure. It's a shame, he really tried to bring everything he could to help in the case against Emma and her lackeys, but it seems a bigger issue blocks my main objective.
"What's taking them so long?" He asked.
"Probably fact checking whatever lie they're about to tell us." I replied.
He stopped pacing. "What?"
I threw up my hands. "I don't know, Danny, if it was me, I'd be doing that as a power play, to show the stupid teenage cape that she's just dirt waiting to be stomped by my feet."
He raised an eyebrow.
"What?" I asked, suddenly feeling his eyes on me.
"Nothing," He said in a small voice. "Where did that come from?"
"Lung? Or maybe one of my old revenge fantasies." I replied. "Doesn't matter, they're here."
He turned towards the door, "where?"
"Three, two... one" I said, raising a finger as I counted down.
The door opened and Director Piggot power-walked to the head of the table, not bothering to say hello. Armsmaster followed after her, and nodded toward us. He sat opposite to me.
Dad dropped the journal on the table. "Here it is."
Piggot looked at the journal like it was some sort of disgusting trash. "What is that?"
I scratched my ear, focusing my senses on the woman's face. What was with this woman? "Dates and notes about every single bullying instance I suffered under Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements."
Ah, there was the twitch I had noticed on Miss Militia the other day.
"Thank you." She said in a tone that didn't really imply she did. "Armsmaster, please take this and verify what we could do about sending those upstanding citizens to juvie."
Armsmaster gave Piggot a long stare before taking the journal and began reading it silently.
Piggot made a face. "Unfortunately we're not here for that." Of course we weren't. "It falls on me to inform you of some bad news regarding your current situation."
Dad took a seat next to me and glared at the woman. "What kind of bad news?"
"Someone leaked footage of Taylor using Lung's powers. Internal security footage, which narrowed the list of suspects considerably." She seemed to bite down a curse. "Unfortunately, the public at large believes you're some sort of deranged ABB Dragon Princess."
I sat rigid, fists pressed against my thighs, trying to bleed the fury through my swarm instead of through my face. Each breath was tight, a slow count that barely stopped the heat spitting from my gut. Piggot sat, unmoving, composed like a statue that had never known how to smile, waiting to see how I would answer.
Dad blinked and dragged his fingers down his face. Worried anger dominated his demeanor, but it was quiet next to what was building inside me. Fury, pressure, the itching certainty that if I let go even a little, fire might crawl under my skin again and kill everyone in this room.
Fortunately for dad, his fire is not quite as literal as mine. Unfortunately for him, he can't off-load his emotions to a nearly infinite amount of insects.
"You mean someone inside the PRT did this?" Dad roared, insults and raging threats left unvoiced.
Piggot didn't flinch, nor look away. "Yes, we already found the culprit." Her nose wrinkled like she was smelling something disgusting. "Captain Everet, he lost his niece to the ABB, and Armsmaster had him admit to being a mole for the Empire 88."
"Of course he is!" Dad threw up my hands. "Do you have anyone trustworthy on your payroll?"
Armaster looked up from my journal. "Actually, that's the only thing that Everet admitted to doing, he insisted that he didn't leak the-"
Piggot shut him down with a look. "Your lie detector is not perfect, yes?"
"It isn't" he said, clearly annoyed that someone would say so.
"So it might get confusing signals regarding that. It matters not, he was a mole for the nazis. How many more moles do we have?"
I snapped my fingers. "Oh, the ABB has at least four." I blinked, trying to remember clearly. "Or was it five? I think it was five as of last month."
Piggot looked at me like she wanted my head to explode. Well, maybe it will, bitch, maybe it will.
"Would you please inform us of these facts as soon as you remember them?" She asked, gritting her teeth.
I shrugged my shoulders, and unlocked my tablet. "I can email you the list"
"Nevermind that!" Dad said, and slapped the table. "What does this mean for Taylor?"
I breathed in slowly. The taste of ozone clung to the back of my throat. "It means nothing, they can believe whatever they want."
"People thinking that one of our wards is a deranged murderer that might deflect at any moment to rule the ABB is not exactly ideal." Piggot said.
"So, tell them that she's not his daughter, tell the public the truth and that's that."
"No matter what we say, they'll still believe what they want to believe. Even some within our own ranks do as well."
Danny turned to me, his voice quiet and furious. "You told them the truth. You passed their tests. How the hell is this still happening?"
Armsmaster resumed reading the journal, but said without looking up, "only low level people in the PRT would believe that, everyone that has clearance knows of her situation."
Piggot sighed, long and low, like someone drowning in inevitability. "Because sometimes the truth doesn't matter, Mr. Hebert. The public sees what it wants to see. An Asian girl with powers that scream dragon, no birth records anyone can trace, surveillance footage of her unleashing hellfire just like Lung, and everyone knows by now that she actually DID kill Lung. it's a story they were already halfway through telling. All this did was give them their ending."
"So what now?" I asked, exhaling orange smoke with every word.
"We have two options," Piggot said. "We relocate you to another city. Somewhere fresh. New identity, new team. Or we attempt a rebranding here, you'd have to change the way you use your powers, no biblical plague, no fire or winged nightmares."
"I'm not leaving," I said, sharper than I meant to.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. I forced myself not to recoil. "I'll go with you. Wherever you choose."
I stared at him, incredulous.
He kept going. "I can sell the house. Quit the job."
"You never even took a vacation day for me before." I leaned back, tired of his shit. "Besides, I want to stay. I know this city. It's my city, I will never surrender, that's not how I roll."
Piggot gave a curt nod. "Then we proceed with care. You'll need a new cape name. It needs to be something that distances you from Lung, and the idea of being Lung's daughter."
I snorted. "That, or I roll with the punches and use this identity as Lung's daughter to my benefit."
She breathed hard. "You'll have to go to a PR Specialist so we can determine the best course of action regarding your cape identity."
Well, that couldn't possibly be too bad.
-----
The PR specialist assigned to me was worse than I could've imagined.
Sandra Griffin reminded me of an adult version of Emma. More the old Emma than the current one, but still. She rambled about fashion, popularity, and gossip.
Apparently there was an official popularity ranking for all heroes in the city. Armsmaster was number one, but his votes had dwindled as of late. Dauntless being often called a 'future member of the Triumvirate' didn't help him much. Or Triumph's unheard good manners even among his fellow heroes.
"He's let himself go." She began, measuring my waist. "If only he'd change his costume to something that's not so... so... blue!" She said, "I mean, hello, blue was stale last season?"
"Can you move faster?" I asked her, gritting my teeth
"I can, like, do it good, or do it fast." She replied, as she took a look at her meassuring type. "What kind of message do you want to send to the world?"
"Message? Make criminals cower in fear, maybe?"
She pinched me with a needle, and resumed measuring me. "Nah, you need to speak to the public, not the bad guys." She said, in a vain attempt at sounding wise. "Only weirdos like Shadow Stalker or Challenger who totally don't get what a good image could do to their careers try to 'inspire fear', I mean, that's so 90's, it hurts."
"Are you aware that I can change my size depending on how much I ramp up?" I asked her, watching her continue measuring me.
"Of course," She said, rolling her eyes. "So, message?"
"I... huh..." I sighed. "Maybe I want to be a warrior?"
She tilted her head. "What kind of warrior?"
I remembered stories from my grandmother. Or rather, Lung's grandmother, of honorable sword masters that fought invading forces to the last breath, even when they were deemed unworthy, they still persisted in their quests.
"Ronin." I said quietly.
She pulled out her phone and began typing on it. "Like, the bird?"
"Ronin, not Robin. like... a Samurai?" I said, as my height went well past six feet. "I believe I will demand another PR agent."
She somehow managed to look unimpressed. Maybe she was just too dumb.
"Nah," She said finally, and persisted in taking my measurements.
"Nah?"
"I'm all you get." She said, pinching me again with one of her needles. "And you can't use an Asian name. It evokes too much 'ABB' for the public."
I gritted my teeth. "How about Smaug?"
She tilted her head, not understanding.
"Like the dragon in the Hobbit?" I said, losing my patience.
"Nope, anything dragon related is a big, no."
"What do you propose?"
"Diana." She said, as she took notes.
"Diana?"
"Roman goddess of dance, we could have you wear this cute ballerina outfit and..." I tuned her out. If I didn't, I knew I would bash her head in the wall. Repeatedly.
-----
Later that day, I stood just outside the Wards common room. The door was slightly ajar, enough for me to hear voices and laughter. I waited for the cue, my stomach twisting with something between dread and nausea.
Miss Militia opened the door. "They're ready for you."
The room was brightly lit, decorated like some attempt at a cool college lounge. Posters, beanbags, oversized screens. Costumes, colors, masks hanging from hooks. Several game consoles were attached to one of the largest TVs I had ever seen.
The wards were all over the place.
"Everyone, this is Smaug, name pending review," Miss Militia called out. "Our newest member."
I stepped in. I could feel the eyes on me. I didn't have any costume on, only a simple domino mask covered my face.
Someone whispered. "Is that her? Lung's- urk!"
I smiled at the little girl in a green dress and useless plastic armor. She had spunk.
My eyes tracked the rest of the boys. I nodded at Browbeat, and he waved.
Lung never really cared much about the wards, but he had been kept informed about their general disposition. I didn't find Triumph among the wards, or Shadow Stalker for that matter.
The boy in a rust-red costume took a step forward. "Hello, it's good to have you here. I'm Aegis, leader of the Wards." Ah, that explained why Triumph wasn't around. I guess he got promoted out of the kid's table.
I shook his hand, testing his strength. I didn't see any pain behind his eyes. I let go and nodded at him.
Vista beamed at me. "It's nice to meet you," she said.
"We've already met, remember?" I said, crossing my arms. "You helped this guy get me... how was it? Clockblocked."
I heard a soft giggle coming from the guy with the armor filled with all sorts of clocks. "Guilty as charged." He paused, aware of my gaze. "No hard feelings?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "You were just doing your job." I frowned. "Or perhaps you weren't? I understand that Wards aren't supposed to go looking for trouble."
"They got their salary docked for that stunt." Miss Militia mentioned.
The short girl frowned, and looked like she was about to complain, but stopped herself.
I smiled at Vista, "Well, at least there's one other girl on the team."
She blinked. "Yeah, that's exactly what I was thinking!"
I scanned the room, pretending to look for the missing ward, knowing that she wasn't here. "Ah, there was one other girl, Shadow Lurker?"
"Stalker" The boy in red tinkertech armor said. "Pain in the ass, I'm not sure she counts as a girl."
I raised an eyebrow. "Noted."
Miss Militia's heart thumped a bit faster than normal.
Last edited:
Chapter 8
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
The testing chamber felt colder than the training yard. Not by much, maybe a degree or two, but enough to sink into my bones and set my nerves on edge. It smelled like scorched metal and burned plastic. Like the aftermath of something trying very hard not to die.
Reinforced panels lined the walls. Everything here was too smooth, too sealed. No seams or weak points that I could find. Not that I was looking. Not really. A few melted dummies slumped in a row against the far wall, frozen in poses that suggested surprise or panic, their blackened foam bubbling up like blistered skin.
I kept my arms at my sides as I stepped toward the punching bag. It hung from some kind of articulated rig, thick with cables and blinking lights. Like a gym tool someone had overengineered out of paranoia. Three PRT scientists stood nearby, two men and a woman, and they all hate this kind of tight, practiced expressions that said they'd seen enough powers go wrong to never fully relax around them.
"So... Do I just hit this thing?"
"Just a clean strike," one of them said without looking up as he typed something on his keyboard. "As hard as you can, in your current state, no ramping up."
I nodded once and stepped in. No buildup. No theatrics. Just wound my arm back and drove it forward.
My fist connected with a deep, satisfying thud. The bag shuddered on impact, but stayed up. The sensor lights flickered, recalibrated, and spat out a string of numbers I didn't try to read.
One of the scientists hummed, a low noise of mild interest. "Slightly above peak human. That's… notable. Brute 1?" They all nodded in agreement.
Brute 1? That's no good.
I pulled back, inhaled slow and deep, and let the change come. Not full fire, not yet. Just enough to thicken the bones, stretch the muscle, raise me up until I was six feet tall and wearing a new skin of gold-and-ember. Everything got heavier and easier at the same time. Like slipping into a suit I hadn't known was mine.
I hit the bag again.
This time, the rig groaned. Metal shrieked under strain. One of the upper joints bent sideways with a dry snap and a puff of smoke rose from a fried circuit near the base.
"Jesus Christ," someone muttered.
Another one, shorter, nervous hands, typed furiously into his computer. "Mark that. Brute classification… provisional seven."
I exhaled through my nose. Smoke didn't curl out, not unless I wanted it to, but I felt the heat stir anyway.
"You ramp up fast," the twitchy one said. "Faster than Lung. According to records, he required actual combat, preferably high-risk, high-stakes, to escalate."
I frowned. I hadn't really thought about that. Lung had always needed a fight. A big one. Something primal.
I closed my eyes, stretched my senses, and listened. Not with ears but with the bugs within my range.
The bugs were always there, like a million other limbs that I could move independently. Always moving. Always afraid. Not truly aware, but close enough for it to bleed into me. A constant buzz of threat and reaction. A thousand tiny lives in a perpetual state of alarm.
"My swarm," I said slowly, "they're always on edge. I can feel it. Fight or flight, all the time. I guess… I guess that kind of tension is easy to tap into."
"Hmm… that's an interesting power interaction. "The woman glanced up from her computer. "You said your range was… what?"
"Three blocks. Radius. It varies, but that's the baseline."
She tapped a few keys, and hummed, moved her mouse and nodded to herself. "There's a pharmacy on Elm Street, two blocks west. What color is the car parked in front?"
I was about to say I couldn't see well through my bugs. But then I pushed the swarm that way, urged a few to crawl over the thing.
Hot metal. Curved surface. Dust patterns. Paint flakes. Some residual waxy residue that felt… off. If I adjusted my senses a bit I could... Ah, there it is, color.
"Tacky purple," I said. "an old muscle car."
All three scientists paused. One looked up. Another just tapped faster.
"And you can feel all the bugs in that radius?"
"All of them."
The woman stopped typing for a moment, and searched my eyes. "Can you control them individually?"
"Yes. At first it felt weird, like dividing my mind to control each and every bug. I don't need to focus really, because it's always on." I blinked at their expressions. They seemed to be more scared of my original powers than Lung's.
"Let's go to the next test," the twitchy man said, already walking. "We'll review her pyrokinetics. Bring the log sheets. I want reinforced sensors, and full suppression gear ready in case she escalates more than intended."
I sighed. Not from exhaustion, more like exasperation. Every step forward just meant another wall to punch through.
"Great," I muttered. "Time to play with fire."
No one laughed. Though a crowd I guess.
-----
I wandered down the corridor, eyes focused on a lurid trashy novel that I'm not sure Dragon knew exactly what it was about when she downloaded it to my tablet. The protagonist was a female detective chasing a serial killer cape who only appeared in reflections, a reverse vampire or some nonsense like that. Not exactly Hugo Award material, but it was fast paced, indulgent, and just smart enough to keep me hooked. My cheeks flushed at the steamier paragraphs, but I didn't stop reading, or bother looking up as I walked.
I had several bugs pathing my way. Every time I sensed a person, I tagged them with a gnat or a mosquito. My tiny sentries let me build a living map of my surroundings. I could hear more than I used to through them: the buzz of fluorescent lights, the whisper of air vents, even the brush of fabric as someone rounded a corner. The sound wasn't perfect, distorted like a recording muffled under layers of static, but I was getting better at filtering it.
Seeing through my swarm was hard. Compound eyes didn't translate neatly to a human brain, but I could pick out shapes. Movement. Texture. When I focused, really focused, I could track someone's path by the trail of heat they left behind, the dust kicked up under their feet, the scent of their sweat left in the air. It wasn't true sight, not really, but it was enough.
It was enough to know when someone was coming my way. Enough to move without ever looking up from the tablet. I saw no need to use my human eyes when I had a thousand more watching for me.
I just let my feet take me, practically on autopilot. I couldn't wait for my next training exercise to test how I could apply this aspect of my power in a fight.
I got to my door when I heard an alarm. I looked around and found a random PRT trooper running in the hallway. I stopped, grabbing him by the back of his collar.
"Hey, what's that about?" I asked.
He tried to slip past me, but I held on. "Let me go, I need to get to my post!"
"What's this alarm about?" I asked again. "It's annoying."
"Some idiots are robbing a bank, and the entire Protectorate is out of town!" He exclaimed. "The PRT is mobilizing right now!"
I blinked, and released him. "Huh, bank robbery?" I muttered as I saw his retreating form.
I turned to my door and sighed. A part of me told me to get some rest, to stretch out on the too-clean sheets and take it easy for once. I'd earned that much, right?
But another part, the louder one, reminded me how boring and annoying power testing had been. Like running through obstacle courses designed by lawyers, not tacticians. I wasn't done figuring out what I could do, what limits I had to work around or break. I had a myriad of hypotheses regarding how my powers interacted with each other, and I wanted to test them before someone else did.
Besides, the Protectorate was out of town. With them gone, the PRT wouldn't be doing much without cape support. So instead of wasting daylight moping in a room that didn't yet feel like mine, I decided to make myself useful. I decided to head to the Ward's common room.
-----
Big mistake.
The rest of the wards had been called to the bank from their cozy schools, Arcadia the boys and some middle school, for Vista. Rennick got me stuck with console duty. Apparently, I was not ready to engage in a live situation with hostages. What did they know of ready? I remembered fighting Leviathan one on one.
I stared at the terminal with dozens of screens that showed different sights. One had a birds-eye view of the bank, probably from a drone or a helicopter. Glory Girl passed through at one point and landed on the roof. A few feeds were on the ground level, mainly pointing at all the exits the idiot villains could escape from. The rest were body cams for the wards.
"Wards console here," I said, reading from the manual. "Can you put me up to speed? What's Glory Girl doing there?"
"Smaug?" Aegis said, somewhat surprised. "We're getting there. It's the Undersiders, they have multiple hostages, including Panacea so Gallant decided to tell her to come with us."
"What about Shadow Stalker, I don't see her body cam."
"AWOL, won't answer my calls." He replied, sounding more than a bit annoyed. "Do you have eyes inside the bank?"
"If I was there, I would." I replied, annoyed, as I typed, and at the same time read through pages of documentation on how to handle the console. "We only have cameras on the outside for now." I typed a command that should've given me access to the bank, but only got several feeds of Rick Astley singing 'Never Give You Up'. "They hacked the bank security network, I will try to access them."
"Copy that," replied the Wards leader. By the tone of his voice, he didn't think I'd be able to help them much.
I wanted to smash the computer and get to the bank myself, if only for the opportunity to break the Undersiders' bones. I sighed, reminding myself that I was Taylor, and not Lung, and the Undersiders had proven to be somewhat harmless so far.
Power testing had been annoying, but not a complete waste of time. It made one thing clear to me, I had the secondary power of multitasking, something that people's brains are not really equipped to deal with. However, while I could focus on multiple things at the same time, and thanks to Lung's increased senses that also applied to eyesight and the like, I was still limited to having just two human eyes. So... I decided to test how far did my ability to sense through my bugs got me. I filled the screens with miniscule insects and began processing information pixel by pixel.
Huh. I guess I was smarter than the average dragon.
It should've been taxing, but really, it felt like I could break up my mind into infinite copies of myself each focusing on a different task. Half a minute later, I knew everything there had to be known about how someone might hack this particular bank's security system.
Another drone, with thermal cameras, got into position. I saw a cluster of people gathered to one side, the civilians. So, I turned to the dots that moved. I frowned at one that looked particularly... hot.
"Five hostiles in the bank" I informed as I typed commands to get into the Bank's systems.
"Five?" Aegis muttered. "The Undersiders got a new member. Okay, this should still be fine. Got any idea who's their new guy?"
"Looking into it" I said, as I got that Jurassic Park guy that called out, "Ah, ah, ah, you didn't say the magic word."
Excuse me, sudo, let me inside, you asshole. No such luck.
I groaned and swore I would find out who the Undersiders' hacker was, and I would be particularly nasty to them. Maybe roast their fingers one by one as they begged for mercy?
I shook my head, noticing an incoming call. Dragon. I picked up, while still furiously typing on the keyboard.
"Hello there Taylor," the voice of a woman with a melodious voice said. "I believe I can be of assistance."
"Can you, huh, un-hack the hacked network?" I asked.
"I can give you access to the cameras, yes" She said. "Since you're already connected, it will be faster if I tell you the commands to type, sorry, can't give you more tips right now, I have a... situation with the Dragonslayers."
I nodded as a chat window opened, giving me a long list of commands. Half I didn't know what they even did, but I didn't really have time to check, so I just copy-pasted the whole thing to the terminal.
No funny videos mocking me this time around.
"I'm inside, I guess I owe you two favors."
"Heroes don't owe favors to each other, we just help whenever we can. Hope this gives you the upper hand. If you want, we can chat when I deal with this."
"Sure, I'd like to talk about your book choi-" I frowned, realizing she had cut the line.
No time to waste. I accessed the camera feeds, and saw a blonde girl in a tight suit talking with Panacea and Glory Girl. Besides them, stood a girl with a red bodysuit stood, making sure that Glory Girl didn't do anything reckless.
"Aegis, I got eyes on Tattletale, she's with Panacea and Glory Girl. An unknown cape is with them, I guess they're using Panacea as a hostage to keep Glory Girl from smashing their skulls? I got no sound so it's not easy to tell for sure."
"Can you describe this unknown cape?"
I squinted my eyes, it was a quite low definition video feed. "Red suit, female, probably a teenager. Wears some sort of gas mask. She has a higher heat signature than normal."
"Spitfire" He said. "I thought she was with Faultline's crew. Ok, we can deal with her, too."
I brought up her file. It was a one-note power, but if the report about it being able to melt concrete was right, she could be dangerous. "Would her napalm be able to hurt Glory Girl?"
"I don't think so, but Panacea is another matter."
I looked at the rest of the feeds. "Something is happening." I said seeing Grue's darkness pore through him around the civilians. "They might want to use the hostages as meat shields, be careful. I can't see anything in the main lobby, Grue is blocking all the cameras there. Hellhound's dogs are moving."
"Thank you Smaug, we got a plan that might throw them off," he said in a confident tone. "Will be extra-careful with the civilians."
I leaned back on my chair, wondering what sort of brilliant plan he had. He should probably be quite smart, I mean, he's not the leader for nothing.
Reinforced panels lined the walls. Everything here was too smooth, too sealed. No seams or weak points that I could find. Not that I was looking. Not really. A few melted dummies slumped in a row against the far wall, frozen in poses that suggested surprise or panic, their blackened foam bubbling up like blistered skin.
I kept my arms at my sides as I stepped toward the punching bag. It hung from some kind of articulated rig, thick with cables and blinking lights. Like a gym tool someone had overengineered out of paranoia. Three PRT scientists stood nearby, two men and a woman, and they all hate this kind of tight, practiced expressions that said they'd seen enough powers go wrong to never fully relax around them.
"So... Do I just hit this thing?"
"Just a clean strike," one of them said without looking up as he typed something on his keyboard. "As hard as you can, in your current state, no ramping up."
I nodded once and stepped in. No buildup. No theatrics. Just wound my arm back and drove it forward.
My fist connected with a deep, satisfying thud. The bag shuddered on impact, but stayed up. The sensor lights flickered, recalibrated, and spat out a string of numbers I didn't try to read.
One of the scientists hummed, a low noise of mild interest. "Slightly above peak human. That's… notable. Brute 1?" They all nodded in agreement.
Brute 1? That's no good.
I pulled back, inhaled slow and deep, and let the change come. Not full fire, not yet. Just enough to thicken the bones, stretch the muscle, raise me up until I was six feet tall and wearing a new skin of gold-and-ember. Everything got heavier and easier at the same time. Like slipping into a suit I hadn't known was mine.
I hit the bag again.
This time, the rig groaned. Metal shrieked under strain. One of the upper joints bent sideways with a dry snap and a puff of smoke rose from a fried circuit near the base.
"Jesus Christ," someone muttered.
Another one, shorter, nervous hands, typed furiously into his computer. "Mark that. Brute classification… provisional seven."
I exhaled through my nose. Smoke didn't curl out, not unless I wanted it to, but I felt the heat stir anyway.
"You ramp up fast," the twitchy one said. "Faster than Lung. According to records, he required actual combat, preferably high-risk, high-stakes, to escalate."
I frowned. I hadn't really thought about that. Lung had always needed a fight. A big one. Something primal.
I closed my eyes, stretched my senses, and listened. Not with ears but with the bugs within my range.
The bugs were always there, like a million other limbs that I could move independently. Always moving. Always afraid. Not truly aware, but close enough for it to bleed into me. A constant buzz of threat and reaction. A thousand tiny lives in a perpetual state of alarm.
"My swarm," I said slowly, "they're always on edge. I can feel it. Fight or flight, all the time. I guess… I guess that kind of tension is easy to tap into."
"Hmm… that's an interesting power interaction. "The woman glanced up from her computer. "You said your range was… what?"
"Three blocks. Radius. It varies, but that's the baseline."
She tapped a few keys, and hummed, moved her mouse and nodded to herself. "There's a pharmacy on Elm Street, two blocks west. What color is the car parked in front?"
I was about to say I couldn't see well through my bugs. But then I pushed the swarm that way, urged a few to crawl over the thing.
Hot metal. Curved surface. Dust patterns. Paint flakes. Some residual waxy residue that felt… off. If I adjusted my senses a bit I could... Ah, there it is, color.
"Tacky purple," I said. "an old muscle car."
All three scientists paused. One looked up. Another just tapped faster.
"And you can feel all the bugs in that radius?"
"All of them."
The woman stopped typing for a moment, and searched my eyes. "Can you control them individually?"
"Yes. At first it felt weird, like dividing my mind to control each and every bug. I don't need to focus really, because it's always on." I blinked at their expressions. They seemed to be more scared of my original powers than Lung's.
"Let's go to the next test," the twitchy man said, already walking. "We'll review her pyrokinetics. Bring the log sheets. I want reinforced sensors, and full suppression gear ready in case she escalates more than intended."
I sighed. Not from exhaustion, more like exasperation. Every step forward just meant another wall to punch through.
"Great," I muttered. "Time to play with fire."
No one laughed. Though a crowd I guess.
-----
I wandered down the corridor, eyes focused on a lurid trashy novel that I'm not sure Dragon knew exactly what it was about when she downloaded it to my tablet. The protagonist was a female detective chasing a serial killer cape who only appeared in reflections, a reverse vampire or some nonsense like that. Not exactly Hugo Award material, but it was fast paced, indulgent, and just smart enough to keep me hooked. My cheeks flushed at the steamier paragraphs, but I didn't stop reading, or bother looking up as I walked.
I had several bugs pathing my way. Every time I sensed a person, I tagged them with a gnat or a mosquito. My tiny sentries let me build a living map of my surroundings. I could hear more than I used to through them: the buzz of fluorescent lights, the whisper of air vents, even the brush of fabric as someone rounded a corner. The sound wasn't perfect, distorted like a recording muffled under layers of static, but I was getting better at filtering it.
Seeing through my swarm was hard. Compound eyes didn't translate neatly to a human brain, but I could pick out shapes. Movement. Texture. When I focused, really focused, I could track someone's path by the trail of heat they left behind, the dust kicked up under their feet, the scent of their sweat left in the air. It wasn't true sight, not really, but it was enough.
It was enough to know when someone was coming my way. Enough to move without ever looking up from the tablet. I saw no need to use my human eyes when I had a thousand more watching for me.
I just let my feet take me, practically on autopilot. I couldn't wait for my next training exercise to test how I could apply this aspect of my power in a fight.
I got to my door when I heard an alarm. I looked around and found a random PRT trooper running in the hallway. I stopped, grabbing him by the back of his collar.
"Hey, what's that about?" I asked.
He tried to slip past me, but I held on. "Let me go, I need to get to my post!"
"What's this alarm about?" I asked again. "It's annoying."
"Some idiots are robbing a bank, and the entire Protectorate is out of town!" He exclaimed. "The PRT is mobilizing right now!"
I blinked, and released him. "Huh, bank robbery?" I muttered as I saw his retreating form.
I turned to my door and sighed. A part of me told me to get some rest, to stretch out on the too-clean sheets and take it easy for once. I'd earned that much, right?
But another part, the louder one, reminded me how boring and annoying power testing had been. Like running through obstacle courses designed by lawyers, not tacticians. I wasn't done figuring out what I could do, what limits I had to work around or break. I had a myriad of hypotheses regarding how my powers interacted with each other, and I wanted to test them before someone else did.
Besides, the Protectorate was out of town. With them gone, the PRT wouldn't be doing much without cape support. So instead of wasting daylight moping in a room that didn't yet feel like mine, I decided to make myself useful. I decided to head to the Ward's common room.
-----
Big mistake.
The rest of the wards had been called to the bank from their cozy schools, Arcadia the boys and some middle school, for Vista. Rennick got me stuck with console duty. Apparently, I was not ready to engage in a live situation with hostages. What did they know of ready? I remembered fighting Leviathan one on one.
I stared at the terminal with dozens of screens that showed different sights. One had a birds-eye view of the bank, probably from a drone or a helicopter. Glory Girl passed through at one point and landed on the roof. A few feeds were on the ground level, mainly pointing at all the exits the idiot villains could escape from. The rest were body cams for the wards.
"Wards console here," I said, reading from the manual. "Can you put me up to speed? What's Glory Girl doing there?"
"Smaug?" Aegis said, somewhat surprised. "We're getting there. It's the Undersiders, they have multiple hostages, including Panacea so Gallant decided to tell her to come with us."
"What about Shadow Stalker, I don't see her body cam."
"AWOL, won't answer my calls." He replied, sounding more than a bit annoyed. "Do you have eyes inside the bank?"
"If I was there, I would." I replied, annoyed, as I typed, and at the same time read through pages of documentation on how to handle the console. "We only have cameras on the outside for now." I typed a command that should've given me access to the bank, but only got several feeds of Rick Astley singing 'Never Give You Up'. "They hacked the bank security network, I will try to access them."
"Copy that," replied the Wards leader. By the tone of his voice, he didn't think I'd be able to help them much.
I wanted to smash the computer and get to the bank myself, if only for the opportunity to break the Undersiders' bones. I sighed, reminding myself that I was Taylor, and not Lung, and the Undersiders had proven to be somewhat harmless so far.
Power testing had been annoying, but not a complete waste of time. It made one thing clear to me, I had the secondary power of multitasking, something that people's brains are not really equipped to deal with. However, while I could focus on multiple things at the same time, and thanks to Lung's increased senses that also applied to eyesight and the like, I was still limited to having just two human eyes. So... I decided to test how far did my ability to sense through my bugs got me. I filled the screens with miniscule insects and began processing information pixel by pixel.
Huh. I guess I was smarter than the average dragon.
It should've been taxing, but really, it felt like I could break up my mind into infinite copies of myself each focusing on a different task. Half a minute later, I knew everything there had to be known about how someone might hack this particular bank's security system.
Another drone, with thermal cameras, got into position. I saw a cluster of people gathered to one side, the civilians. So, I turned to the dots that moved. I frowned at one that looked particularly... hot.
"Five hostiles in the bank" I informed as I typed commands to get into the Bank's systems.
"Five?" Aegis muttered. "The Undersiders got a new member. Okay, this should still be fine. Got any idea who's their new guy?"
"Looking into it" I said, as I got that Jurassic Park guy that called out, "Ah, ah, ah, you didn't say the magic word."
Excuse me, sudo, let me inside, you asshole. No such luck.
I groaned and swore I would find out who the Undersiders' hacker was, and I would be particularly nasty to them. Maybe roast their fingers one by one as they begged for mercy?
I shook my head, noticing an incoming call. Dragon. I picked up, while still furiously typing on the keyboard.
"Hello there Taylor," the voice of a woman with a melodious voice said. "I believe I can be of assistance."
"Can you, huh, un-hack the hacked network?" I asked.
"I can give you access to the cameras, yes" She said. "Since you're already connected, it will be faster if I tell you the commands to type, sorry, can't give you more tips right now, I have a... situation with the Dragonslayers."
I nodded as a chat window opened, giving me a long list of commands. Half I didn't know what they even did, but I didn't really have time to check, so I just copy-pasted the whole thing to the terminal.
No funny videos mocking me this time around.
"I'm inside, I guess I owe you two favors."
"Heroes don't owe favors to each other, we just help whenever we can. Hope this gives you the upper hand. If you want, we can chat when I deal with this."
"Sure, I'd like to talk about your book choi-" I frowned, realizing she had cut the line.
No time to waste. I accessed the camera feeds, and saw a blonde girl in a tight suit talking with Panacea and Glory Girl. Besides them, stood a girl with a red bodysuit stood, making sure that Glory Girl didn't do anything reckless.
"Aegis, I got eyes on Tattletale, she's with Panacea and Glory Girl. An unknown cape is with them, I guess they're using Panacea as a hostage to keep Glory Girl from smashing their skulls? I got no sound so it's not easy to tell for sure."
"Can you describe this unknown cape?"
I squinted my eyes, it was a quite low definition video feed. "Red suit, female, probably a teenager. Wears some sort of gas mask. She has a higher heat signature than normal."
"Spitfire" He said. "I thought she was with Faultline's crew. Ok, we can deal with her, too."
I brought up her file. It was a one-note power, but if the report about it being able to melt concrete was right, she could be dangerous. "Would her napalm be able to hurt Glory Girl?"
"I don't think so, but Panacea is another matter."
I looked at the rest of the feeds. "Something is happening." I said seeing Grue's darkness pore through him around the civilians. "They might want to use the hostages as meat shields, be careful. I can't see anything in the main lobby, Grue is blocking all the cameras there. Hellhound's dogs are moving."
"Thank you Smaug, we got a plan that might throw them off," he said in a confident tone. "Will be extra-careful with the civilians."
I leaned back on my chair, wondering what sort of brilliant plan he had. He should probably be quite smart, I mean, he's not the leader for nothing.
Gibberish306
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jul 15, 2023
- Messages
- 21
And here lay the bodies of Clockblocker and Aegis, who had much less wrinkles on their brain than they thought they did.
Chapter 9
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
I was seated at the far end of the table, arms crossed, posture rigid. No one had exactly asked me to come closer. Not that I blamed them. Even if I hadn't walked in looking like a fireproof monster-in-training, they'd all seen the footage. Or heard the rumors. Or decided to stay quiet, because what do you say to the girl who killed a city-level threat and inherited his mind?
The rest of the wards were battered. Aegis had several holes in his body, Clockblocker and Gallant didn't look much better. Browbeat's costume was in tatters, although he seemed unharmed. Guess having self-biokinesis makes you practically immortal.
Vista looked like someone had kicked her puppy.
"Since when does Spitfire run around with the Undersiders?" Kid Win complained. "Thought she was with Faultline?"
My fingers tightened against my arms as I glared at Aegis. "You said that her powers would not affect Glory Girl." Whatever respect I had for the leader of the wards dropped to close to zero after this fiasco.
He looked at me for half a second and shook his head. He didn't really have any excuses.
Piggot watches us like a hawk. "Why was she there in the first place?"
"I invited her," Gallant said, "I... I didn't think she'd be..."
Piggot raised a finger. "Of course you didn't think so" She turned to all of us, and her gaze stopped on Aegis. "Not only did she cause horrific amounts of property damage, she also almost got herself killed." She glared at Gallant. "You're lucky her sister is Panacea."
"I didn't think she'd be hurt, it was her sister in the bank!"
The bobbed haired woman narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps the only way you'll learn is if I dock your pay to all of you" She eyed all the wards, as if daring them to complain.
"All of us?" I asked, tilting my head.
"Except you," She said in a tone that seemed to add you moron. "Good work getting intel for the team on the field, not that they used it wisely."
"I... huh, read the manual." I said, feeling his eyes on me. "And Dragon did most of the work."
"Good for you." She said, and turned to Kid Win. "And you... I'm very interested to hear about this weapon you deployed on the battlefield."
"My Alternator Cannon?" Kid Win squawked. He looked like an ant about to be stomped by an African Elephant.
"You'll have to forgive me," Piggot said with the most fake predatory smile I had ever seen, "I was on the impression that this… Alternator Cannon was not ready for deployment."
"I..." Kid Win began, "I had a meeting later today with Armsmaster to get it cleared."
She looked exasperated. "Kid Win, you're coming with us for a disciplinary review. Everyone else is dismissed." She eyed us like we were gnats. "The tour group is going to be coming by your quarters in an hour, and there's likely to be more than a few reporters peering in the window. Try to clean yourselves up for the pictures that are undoubtedly going to appear in tomorrow's papers. Please."
The two men in suits that accompanied Piggot marched a miserable Kid Win out the door after her. Kid Win shot a worried look at us before he was taken out of sight.
"We debrief," Aegis grunted, "Gallant or Clockblocker handles it. You two decide."
I hit the table hard enough to crack the wood. "What? You're the leader, you handle it."
He sighed. "Let's... let's talk inside, Okay?"
I stood up and walked in silence, the rest of the team was a good few steps behind me. When I reached the security terminal, I leaned forward and allowed it to scan my eye. Steel doors clicked, then whisked open with a barely audible whirr, giving us access to the main area of the headquarters.
When the door closed behind us, I lifted Aegis by his neck, everyone else started shouting, I tuned them out. "What the hell kind of plan was that!?" I asked him as I slammed him to the steel door.
"I- urk, punctured lung." He said, motioning to the hole in his chest.
"Lung!?" I asked, and smashed him to the wall one more time.
"He means he's got a punctured lung!" Vista said in a cry. "Please, put him down."
I let him go, and he fell on his knees.
I crouched so I was level to him, "you said Glory Girl would not be affected by Spitfire's power."
His eyes looked weird, like they could go out of the sockets at any moment. But still, even in that state it was clear he felt regret.
"It wasn't his fault!" Gallant said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "Like I said, I invited her to come over."
I turned to him. "What the hell were you thinking getting her there without knowing anything about the enemy?"
Gallant took a step back. "She... I thought."
"Piggot is right, you didn't think." I said, and walked towards a sofa, bumping my shoulder with him. "You should thank whatever god you pray to that her sister is Panacea."
Gallant took off his helmet, clearly shaken. "What's up with Shadow Stalker?"
"Like I said, she didn't answer her phone," Aegis said, stumbling as he stood up. "But it's probably for the better that she wasn't there."
I arched an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"She has some sort of huge hate-on for Grue" Clockblocker said. "He's her nemesis or something."
I frowned, remembering some random trivia from Lung's memory. "They're part of a cluster? More Kill than Kiss?"
"Huh? Not that I know of." He replied, and seemed to consider that for a moment. "I think she just hates that his power messes with hers."
"Yeah," Aegis grunted. "I'm going to shower. Patch myself up. You guys debrief."
I stared at his back as he retreated. When he was out of the room I snapped back to the other wards. "What was that?"
Clockblocker sighed. "I could ask you the same thing."
Gallant sighed, and turned to Vista. "Can you go grab the whiteboard? Make that two."
The girl eyed me like I would eat someone's head off. Nodded, and dashed to follow the order.
"What's going to happen to Kid?" Browbeat said, clearly oblivious of the tension in the room, "I don't know how all this goes. Is it serious?"
Gallant looked at Browbeat for a moment, as if considering if he was being facetious. "Could be, but my gut tells me Piggy just wants to scare him." He sighed. "He needs to stop testing the limits with the people in charge, or he's going to get in real trouble at some point."
"Armsmaster said the cannon was good to go, but Kid Win needed to fill in some papers." I mentioned. "It shouldn't have gotten him in any kind of problem, but It's like he's afraid of paperwork."
"He did?" Gallant seemed surprised. "He usually takes a long while to get around to test Kid's equipment."
I grimaced. "Nevermind that, what happened?"
Gallant nodded. "Yes, let's debrief." He turned to Clockblocker. "Do you mind if I take point?"
Vista returned, dragging a pair of whiteboards on wheeled frames behind her.
Clockblocker looked at me, almost as if I was going to demand to take point myself. He dropped to a chair and nodded. "Go ahead, I'm going to procrastinate as long as I can on the leadership thing"
"Wait, what do you mean by that? Why would you be the leader?" I asked. Clockblocker was the jokester of the team, not exactly leader material.
"Huh, right, you're too new." He said, and turned to Gallant. "Since you're taking point, mind if you explain?"
Gallant looked like he would've rather been somewhere else, but nodded. "Right... Ward leadership is defined by age. Aegis is the oldest, so he's the leader." He pointed at Clockblocker. "Then goes, Clock, and once he turns eighteen..."
"By the end of the summer!" Clockblocker added, making jazz hands.
"Yes, he gets promoted to the Protectorate, and I get to be leader."
"That sounds like a stupid system." I muttered.
Gallant ran his fingers through his sweat-damp blond hair. "It... yes, probably."
"Probably?"
"Definitely, Ok." He paused and peered at me. "Unless you go first? How old are you?"
The smile I managed to get over winning our little argument fell. "Fifteen." I replied, looking at him as weirdly as he was looking at me.
"You look like you're in your twenties." He said, and shook his head. "Anyway..." He walked to the whiteboards and smiled at Missy.
Twenty? I looked twenty? What?
-----
We filled the whiteboards with all sorts of trivia about the Undersiders. Not a whole lot I didn't already know, but apparently since the white hats had not encountered them much, they knew next to nothing about them.
When we were about to discuss Tattletale's power, and her role in maiming Glory Girl. Every monitor in the room began flashing yellow and a high-pitched alarm made my ears hurt.
Gallant and Clockblocker put on their helmets when the entrance whirred open. Armsmaster strode inside, followed by Miss Militia, who had a somber look about her face.
"Armsmaster," Gallant stood up, "Good to see you, Sir. Miss Militia, always a pleasure."
Miss Militia had this look, almost a smile with her eyes, but she shook her head, clearly distressed over something. "We just came from the hospital."
"How's Victoria?" Gallant asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
Armsmaster grimaced. "Bits of Spitfire's power are still burning inside of her. She had to be put into a coma until it recedes."
"What? But..." Gallant's heartbeat rose. "Panacea was with her!"
"She's still with her, trying to get Spitfire's... napalm off of her." Miss Militia said, and turned to Armsmaster. "Napalm doesn't work like that."
"It also doesn't melt concrete. I never said her power was napalm, someone from PRT did that." Armasmaster replied.
I arched an eyebrow. "Doesn't Panacea's power allow her to regrow people's lost limbs? I'm pretty sure she did just that for that cop that lost his arm a few months back." I left unvoiced that the cop had gotten on Oni Lee's bad side, on my orders.
Armsmaster looked at me for a moment, and replied. "Her power needs mass to heal, so it'll take a while for her to regrow a whole leg and an arm, and that's not taking into account Spitfire's power."
I frowned. "Maybe I could give her a hand?"
"A hand?" Miss Militia asked.
"I can regenerate," I said, thinking about that for a minute. "I could cut my arm and Panacea could use it to..." I paused at how green the faces of the other wards were. "Not a good idea?"
Armsmster hummed deep in thought. "You'll have to run that by the Youth Guard."
Miss Militia stared at me for a moment before she turned her attention to the whiteboard. "I see you have already started." She eyed the columns, and stopped by Tattletale's "Why is this empty?"
Gallant shifted his weight, he still seemed rattled by the whole Glory Girl situation.
"We were just about to go over her." I said.
"We don't know much about her," Aegis said as he returned from the shower, wearing sweatpants and a simple domino mask covering his face. "I think that only Panacea and Glory Girl got close enough to tell you anything."
Armsmaster grimaced. "Neither is up to the task at the moment."
"Tattletale figured out Glory Girl's weakness," I said quietly. "She had Spitfire throw her not-napalm at her, and then shot her with a gun. In an instant, her shield was down, and she was screaming in pain. That was enough to allow the Undersiders to get away."
Armasmaster frowned at that, and turned back to the board. "Precognition?"
I shook my head. "If it was that, she wouldn't have gotten her arm nearly broken by Glory Girl." I leaned back on my chair. "I think she figured out on the fly that Glory Girl needs a second or two before her invulnerability re-activates."
"And how do you know that?" Gallant asked, sounding a bit less... well, gallant, than usual.
"Lung fought her a while ago, messed her up." I replied. "She was reckless then, same as she was today."
I stood up, and circled the whiteboard. "She also knew Aegis and Clockblocker had switched costumes," I added. "She had to know the moment she saw you guys."
Armsmaster stared at the Aegis and Clockblocker. "You switched costumes." He said, not believing the words that came from his mouth.
Aegis sighed. "It was my idea... not my best."
Clockblocker shifted in place. "I could've ended the fight in a second if they hadn't realized the switch!"
----
My Youth Guard handler was not exactly pleased to learn that I was planning on 'giving a hand' to Glory Girl. Only the fact that I could regenerate and that Panacea would be there allowed her to entertain the idea enough to have dad sign some forms to let me do this.
It was stupid. But at least it didn't take all morning.
Armsmaster got me to the hospital in record time, slicing through traffic on his bike like the laws of physics barely applied to him. The city went past us in a blur of concrete, glass, and startled civilians. The seat was cramped, not really designed for passengers, and I had to clutch his waist tight to avoid getting flung off with every sharp turn.
The entire trip took maybe three minutes. It was... fun, and for a moment, I imagined myself riding a bike of my own, just me, the machine, and the wind. But then I remembered who I was now. What I looked like. They'd never let me. Liability risk, probably. It couldn't hurt if I asked.
Still, it left an itch in the back of my head. Maybe someday.
I swung one leg off the bike and landed with more force than necessary, the pavement cracking faintly beneath my boot. As we entered the hospital, I felt the familiar pull in my bones, my muscles expanding, posture rising. I got up to six feet tall, with golden scales surrounding my face, and tiny antlers began to preclude from the top of my head. The default now. The staff in the ER parted around us, eyes wide and mouths slightly open as they watched a dragon-girl stalk through sterile halls.
Some patients looked horrified. Others were curious. No one got in my way.
I followed Armsmaster closely behind. His helm tilted slightly as if to broadcast authority and reassurance in equal measure, but I could feel how stiff he was from the way his boots struck tile.
We reached the private hospital room, a nurse sliding the door open without a word. I stepped inside, expecting the sight to turn my stomach. Instead, I felt... distant. Glory Girl lay on the hospital bed, pale and still, with a respirator covering her mouth and nose. Her right arm and most of her right leg were gone, cauterized stumps peeking through medical wraps. I should have been horrified. But there was only a cold sense of familiarity. I'd seen worse in Lung's memories.
Armsmaster stepped beside me and addressed Panacea, who stood like a statue at her sister's side, hand resting gently on Victoria's brow. "This is our newest ward, she's a regenerator."
Panacea looked at me with an arched eyebrow. "The ABB Princess?"
"She wants to donate biological matter to assist in regrowth," he said.
Panacea turned slightly, her eyes flicking over me with a complicated expression I couldn't pin down. Was it suspicion, fatigue, or disdain? Her lip curled slightly, and she took a half-step between me and her sister, as if I might do something reckless. Her voice was sharp and cutting as she asked, "Why would someone like you help us? What's your angle?"
"Someone like me?" I asked, and swallowed the urge to growl. I had to keep my voice steady. Did my antlers just grow? "Because I can. Because no one else can give her what I can. And maybe… maybe I need to do something that matters."
I straightened my back, trying not to let her glare get to me. "Dragon told me that heroes help each other," I said, voice even. "I regenerate. That means I can give her an arm and a leg, you can patch her up, and I lose nothing, because my limbs will regrow."
Panacea crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. "So that's it? Just a noble gesture from the girl with dragon scales and murder rumors?"
My fists clenched, but I kept still. "You don't have to like me. Just use what I can give. She's your sister. I'm offering a way to help."
Panacea scoffed, glancing at Armsmaster for a beat before turning her attention back to me. "You're serious?" she asked, but the disbelief had shifted, if only a little, into something that could've been curiosity, or wariness.
Panacea's expression didn't soften. Her arms were folded tightly, and she looked at me like I was something scraped off the bottom of her boot.
"I read what they're saying online," she muttered, like it was a diagnosis she didn't want to give. "You expect me to trust Lung's daughter with my sister's life?"
She didn't have to say anything else. I heard it in her tone, saw it in the way she placed herself between me and the hospital bed. Villain. Monster.
I turned to Armsmaster, voice low and edged with frustration. "What's her problem?"
He looked between us, visor reflecting the dim light of the hospital room. There was a pause, like he was running diagnostics before responding. "She's rattled, projecting."
I exhaled sharply through my nose, trying to keep the anger from curling out of me like smoke. That didn't give her the right to look at me like I was a monster waiting to pounce.
Armsmaster stepped forward, arms behind his back in that stiff, military way of his. His voice was calm, mechanical almost, but beneath it I sensed something steadier. "She's not Lung's daughter," he said, glancing between Panacea and myself. "Her current state is the result of Lung's power acting up in a previously unknown manner."
Panacea didn't look convinced. Her gaze slid back to me, searching for some tell, some crack in my expression that would betray a lie. I didn't flinch. Let her look. Let her see I wasn't hiding anything.
Armsmaster added, almost reluctantly, "She wasn't even Asian a few days ago."
That got Panacea to blink. Not to soften her expression. Just… blink.
Panacea took her time examining me, her gaze slow and clinical. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes traced the curve of my waist, the gleam of my scales, the slight heat that shimmered off my skin like a heatwave on asphalt. When her eyes finally met mine, they narrowed with something that hovered between contempt and wariness.
She took a half-step back, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You're not fooling anyone," she said, each word deliberate, flat. "No matter what kind of rebranding the PRT is trying to pull, you're still Lung's spawn, I don't want you anywhere near my sister."
My upper lip curled, exposing sharp teeth in a silent snarl I couldn't quite suppress. Her spine went rigid, shoulders stiffening as if my growl had been a gun cocking. Her feet shuffled half a step back, weight shifting like she was ready to dodge or run, expecting claws or flame to follow.
I flexed my left arm once, then reached across and gripped it with my right hand. The bone cracked under my fingers like dry wood, muscles parting cleanly along invisible seams as I wrenched it free. Pain lanced up through my shoulder, but I barely acknowledged it.
Panacea flinched.
I held the severed arm up, the stump already starting to clot, and lobbed it underhand to her. She scrambled to catch it, eyes widening in alarm as she snatched it from the air with both hands, barely managing to cradle the steaming limb without dropping it. A hiss of heat met her, and she stumbled a half-step backward, clutching the severed arm to her chest like she wasn't sure whether to examine it or throw it across the room.
"I think with my current size that should be enough mass for her arm and leg. " I said, voice low and flat. "Or do you need the other one too?"
Panacea opened her mouth, hesitated, then exhaled sharply and rushed towards her sister. Glory Girl stirred faintly on the bed as the severed limb I'd offered began to melt, its tissue unraveling and snaking along her body like ivy.
Panacea's hand hovered at her sister's shoulder like a conductor mid-symphony, terrified a single note out of place would unravel the composition. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration.
We watched in silence as the darker skin tone clashed with Victoria's paler complexion, like oil and cream. Fingers stretched and curled, flexed, and twitched. The raw mass of muscle and bone split and shifted downward, reconfiguring into a leg. It was uncanny how perfect it looked, the way it aligned and meshed with her body like it had always been there.
I barely noticed the sting in my shoulder. My gaze was locked on the slow miracle unfolding in front of me, as the remnants of my arm knit themselves into something new, something whole, on Victoria's battered frame. Flesh warped and twisted into place with eerie grace, sinew and skin spiraling together like dancers mid-embrace, guided by a power that operated with precision and strange artistry.
Then, a strange tug, like the ghost of a hook beneath my skin, and I turned slightly to see my shoulder shimmering. The raw, exposed stump was no longer just clotting, it was rebuilding. Veins branched like lightning under the skin, and bone pushed outward, guided by an instinct I didn't fully understand. Within seconds, cartilage snapped into place, new muscle coiling tight, skin stretching over fresh tissue. My arm was back. Whole. Perfect.
Faster than I expected.
I gave the Dallon sisters one last look before turning. I was so hungry I could eat a Challenger. Or Maybe two.
The rest of the wards were battered. Aegis had several holes in his body, Clockblocker and Gallant didn't look much better. Browbeat's costume was in tatters, although he seemed unharmed. Guess having self-biokinesis makes you practically immortal.
Vista looked like someone had kicked her puppy.
"Since when does Spitfire run around with the Undersiders?" Kid Win complained. "Thought she was with Faultline?"
My fingers tightened against my arms as I glared at Aegis. "You said that her powers would not affect Glory Girl." Whatever respect I had for the leader of the wards dropped to close to zero after this fiasco.
He looked at me for half a second and shook his head. He didn't really have any excuses.
Piggot watches us like a hawk. "Why was she there in the first place?"
"I invited her," Gallant said, "I... I didn't think she'd be..."
Piggot raised a finger. "Of course you didn't think so" She turned to all of us, and her gaze stopped on Aegis. "Not only did she cause horrific amounts of property damage, she also almost got herself killed." She glared at Gallant. "You're lucky her sister is Panacea."
"I didn't think she'd be hurt, it was her sister in the bank!"
The bobbed haired woman narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps the only way you'll learn is if I dock your pay to all of you" She eyed all the wards, as if daring them to complain.
"All of us?" I asked, tilting my head.
"Except you," She said in a tone that seemed to add you moron. "Good work getting intel for the team on the field, not that they used it wisely."
"I... huh, read the manual." I said, feeling his eyes on me. "And Dragon did most of the work."
"Good for you." She said, and turned to Kid Win. "And you... I'm very interested to hear about this weapon you deployed on the battlefield."
"My Alternator Cannon?" Kid Win squawked. He looked like an ant about to be stomped by an African Elephant.
"You'll have to forgive me," Piggot said with the most fake predatory smile I had ever seen, "I was on the impression that this… Alternator Cannon was not ready for deployment."
"I..." Kid Win began, "I had a meeting later today with Armsmaster to get it cleared."
She looked exasperated. "Kid Win, you're coming with us for a disciplinary review. Everyone else is dismissed." She eyed us like we were gnats. "The tour group is going to be coming by your quarters in an hour, and there's likely to be more than a few reporters peering in the window. Try to clean yourselves up for the pictures that are undoubtedly going to appear in tomorrow's papers. Please."
The two men in suits that accompanied Piggot marched a miserable Kid Win out the door after her. Kid Win shot a worried look at us before he was taken out of sight.
"We debrief," Aegis grunted, "Gallant or Clockblocker handles it. You two decide."
I hit the table hard enough to crack the wood. "What? You're the leader, you handle it."
He sighed. "Let's... let's talk inside, Okay?"
I stood up and walked in silence, the rest of the team was a good few steps behind me. When I reached the security terminal, I leaned forward and allowed it to scan my eye. Steel doors clicked, then whisked open with a barely audible whirr, giving us access to the main area of the headquarters.
When the door closed behind us, I lifted Aegis by his neck, everyone else started shouting, I tuned them out. "What the hell kind of plan was that!?" I asked him as I slammed him to the steel door.
"I- urk, punctured lung." He said, motioning to the hole in his chest.
"Lung!?" I asked, and smashed him to the wall one more time.
"He means he's got a punctured lung!" Vista said in a cry. "Please, put him down."
I let him go, and he fell on his knees.
I crouched so I was level to him, "you said Glory Girl would not be affected by Spitfire's power."
His eyes looked weird, like they could go out of the sockets at any moment. But still, even in that state it was clear he felt regret.
"It wasn't his fault!" Gallant said, putting his hand on my shoulder. "Like I said, I invited her to come over."
I turned to him. "What the hell were you thinking getting her there without knowing anything about the enemy?"
Gallant took a step back. "She... I thought."
"Piggot is right, you didn't think." I said, and walked towards a sofa, bumping my shoulder with him. "You should thank whatever god you pray to that her sister is Panacea."
Gallant took off his helmet, clearly shaken. "What's up with Shadow Stalker?"
"Like I said, she didn't answer her phone," Aegis said, stumbling as he stood up. "But it's probably for the better that she wasn't there."
I arched an eyebrow. "And why is that?"
"She has some sort of huge hate-on for Grue" Clockblocker said. "He's her nemesis or something."
I frowned, remembering some random trivia from Lung's memory. "They're part of a cluster? More Kill than Kiss?"
"Huh? Not that I know of." He replied, and seemed to consider that for a moment. "I think she just hates that his power messes with hers."
"Yeah," Aegis grunted. "I'm going to shower. Patch myself up. You guys debrief."
I stared at his back as he retreated. When he was out of the room I snapped back to the other wards. "What was that?"
Clockblocker sighed. "I could ask you the same thing."
Gallant sighed, and turned to Vista. "Can you go grab the whiteboard? Make that two."
The girl eyed me like I would eat someone's head off. Nodded, and dashed to follow the order.
"What's going to happen to Kid?" Browbeat said, clearly oblivious of the tension in the room, "I don't know how all this goes. Is it serious?"
Gallant looked at Browbeat for a moment, as if considering if he was being facetious. "Could be, but my gut tells me Piggy just wants to scare him." He sighed. "He needs to stop testing the limits with the people in charge, or he's going to get in real trouble at some point."
"Armsmaster said the cannon was good to go, but Kid Win needed to fill in some papers." I mentioned. "It shouldn't have gotten him in any kind of problem, but It's like he's afraid of paperwork."
"He did?" Gallant seemed surprised. "He usually takes a long while to get around to test Kid's equipment."
I grimaced. "Nevermind that, what happened?"
Gallant nodded. "Yes, let's debrief." He turned to Clockblocker. "Do you mind if I take point?"
Vista returned, dragging a pair of whiteboards on wheeled frames behind her.
Clockblocker looked at me, almost as if I was going to demand to take point myself. He dropped to a chair and nodded. "Go ahead, I'm going to procrastinate as long as I can on the leadership thing"
"Wait, what do you mean by that? Why would you be the leader?" I asked. Clockblocker was the jokester of the team, not exactly leader material.
"Huh, right, you're too new." He said, and turned to Gallant. "Since you're taking point, mind if you explain?"
Gallant looked like he would've rather been somewhere else, but nodded. "Right... Ward leadership is defined by age. Aegis is the oldest, so he's the leader." He pointed at Clockblocker. "Then goes, Clock, and once he turns eighteen..."
"By the end of the summer!" Clockblocker added, making jazz hands.
"Yes, he gets promoted to the Protectorate, and I get to be leader."
"That sounds like a stupid system." I muttered.
Gallant ran his fingers through his sweat-damp blond hair. "It... yes, probably."
"Probably?"
"Definitely, Ok." He paused and peered at me. "Unless you go first? How old are you?"
The smile I managed to get over winning our little argument fell. "Fifteen." I replied, looking at him as weirdly as he was looking at me.
"You look like you're in your twenties." He said, and shook his head. "Anyway..." He walked to the whiteboards and smiled at Missy.
Twenty? I looked twenty? What?
-----
We filled the whiteboards with all sorts of trivia about the Undersiders. Not a whole lot I didn't already know, but apparently since the white hats had not encountered them much, they knew next to nothing about them.
When we were about to discuss Tattletale's power, and her role in maiming Glory Girl. Every monitor in the room began flashing yellow and a high-pitched alarm made my ears hurt.
Gallant and Clockblocker put on their helmets when the entrance whirred open. Armsmaster strode inside, followed by Miss Militia, who had a somber look about her face.
"Armsmaster," Gallant stood up, "Good to see you, Sir. Miss Militia, always a pleasure."
Miss Militia had this look, almost a smile with her eyes, but she shook her head, clearly distressed over something. "We just came from the hospital."
"How's Victoria?" Gallant asked, a hint of worry in his voice.
Armsmaster grimaced. "Bits of Spitfire's power are still burning inside of her. She had to be put into a coma until it recedes."
"What? But..." Gallant's heartbeat rose. "Panacea was with her!"
"She's still with her, trying to get Spitfire's... napalm off of her." Miss Militia said, and turned to Armsmaster. "Napalm doesn't work like that."
"It also doesn't melt concrete. I never said her power was napalm, someone from PRT did that." Armasmaster replied.
I arched an eyebrow. "Doesn't Panacea's power allow her to regrow people's lost limbs? I'm pretty sure she did just that for that cop that lost his arm a few months back." I left unvoiced that the cop had gotten on Oni Lee's bad side, on my orders.
Armsmaster looked at me for a moment, and replied. "Her power needs mass to heal, so it'll take a while for her to regrow a whole leg and an arm, and that's not taking into account Spitfire's power."
I frowned. "Maybe I could give her a hand?"
"A hand?" Miss Militia asked.
"I can regenerate," I said, thinking about that for a minute. "I could cut my arm and Panacea could use it to..." I paused at how green the faces of the other wards were. "Not a good idea?"
Armsmster hummed deep in thought. "You'll have to run that by the Youth Guard."
Miss Militia stared at me for a moment before she turned her attention to the whiteboard. "I see you have already started." She eyed the columns, and stopped by Tattletale's "Why is this empty?"
Gallant shifted his weight, he still seemed rattled by the whole Glory Girl situation.
"We were just about to go over her." I said.
"We don't know much about her," Aegis said as he returned from the shower, wearing sweatpants and a simple domino mask covering his face. "I think that only Panacea and Glory Girl got close enough to tell you anything."
Armsmaster grimaced. "Neither is up to the task at the moment."
"Tattletale figured out Glory Girl's weakness," I said quietly. "She had Spitfire throw her not-napalm at her, and then shot her with a gun. In an instant, her shield was down, and she was screaming in pain. That was enough to allow the Undersiders to get away."
Armasmaster frowned at that, and turned back to the board. "Precognition?"
I shook my head. "If it was that, she wouldn't have gotten her arm nearly broken by Glory Girl." I leaned back on my chair. "I think she figured out on the fly that Glory Girl needs a second or two before her invulnerability re-activates."
"And how do you know that?" Gallant asked, sounding a bit less... well, gallant, than usual.
"Lung fought her a while ago, messed her up." I replied. "She was reckless then, same as she was today."
I stood up, and circled the whiteboard. "She also knew Aegis and Clockblocker had switched costumes," I added. "She had to know the moment she saw you guys."
Armsmaster stared at the Aegis and Clockblocker. "You switched costumes." He said, not believing the words that came from his mouth.
Aegis sighed. "It was my idea... not my best."
Clockblocker shifted in place. "I could've ended the fight in a second if they hadn't realized the switch!"
----
My Youth Guard handler was not exactly pleased to learn that I was planning on 'giving a hand' to Glory Girl. Only the fact that I could regenerate and that Panacea would be there allowed her to entertain the idea enough to have dad sign some forms to let me do this.
It was stupid. But at least it didn't take all morning.
Armsmaster got me to the hospital in record time, slicing through traffic on his bike like the laws of physics barely applied to him. The city went past us in a blur of concrete, glass, and startled civilians. The seat was cramped, not really designed for passengers, and I had to clutch his waist tight to avoid getting flung off with every sharp turn.
The entire trip took maybe three minutes. It was... fun, and for a moment, I imagined myself riding a bike of my own, just me, the machine, and the wind. But then I remembered who I was now. What I looked like. They'd never let me. Liability risk, probably. It couldn't hurt if I asked.
Still, it left an itch in the back of my head. Maybe someday.
I swung one leg off the bike and landed with more force than necessary, the pavement cracking faintly beneath my boot. As we entered the hospital, I felt the familiar pull in my bones, my muscles expanding, posture rising. I got up to six feet tall, with golden scales surrounding my face, and tiny antlers began to preclude from the top of my head. The default now. The staff in the ER parted around us, eyes wide and mouths slightly open as they watched a dragon-girl stalk through sterile halls.
Some patients looked horrified. Others were curious. No one got in my way.
I followed Armsmaster closely behind. His helm tilted slightly as if to broadcast authority and reassurance in equal measure, but I could feel how stiff he was from the way his boots struck tile.
We reached the private hospital room, a nurse sliding the door open without a word. I stepped inside, expecting the sight to turn my stomach. Instead, I felt... distant. Glory Girl lay on the hospital bed, pale and still, with a respirator covering her mouth and nose. Her right arm and most of her right leg were gone, cauterized stumps peeking through medical wraps. I should have been horrified. But there was only a cold sense of familiarity. I'd seen worse in Lung's memories.
Armsmaster stepped beside me and addressed Panacea, who stood like a statue at her sister's side, hand resting gently on Victoria's brow. "This is our newest ward, she's a regenerator."
Panacea looked at me with an arched eyebrow. "The ABB Princess?"
"She wants to donate biological matter to assist in regrowth," he said.
Panacea turned slightly, her eyes flicking over me with a complicated expression I couldn't pin down. Was it suspicion, fatigue, or disdain? Her lip curled slightly, and she took a half-step between me and her sister, as if I might do something reckless. Her voice was sharp and cutting as she asked, "Why would someone like you help us? What's your angle?"
"Someone like me?" I asked, and swallowed the urge to growl. I had to keep my voice steady. Did my antlers just grow? "Because I can. Because no one else can give her what I can. And maybe… maybe I need to do something that matters."
I straightened my back, trying not to let her glare get to me. "Dragon told me that heroes help each other," I said, voice even. "I regenerate. That means I can give her an arm and a leg, you can patch her up, and I lose nothing, because my limbs will regrow."
Panacea crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes. "So that's it? Just a noble gesture from the girl with dragon scales and murder rumors?"
My fists clenched, but I kept still. "You don't have to like me. Just use what I can give. She's your sister. I'm offering a way to help."
Panacea scoffed, glancing at Armsmaster for a beat before turning her attention back to me. "You're serious?" she asked, but the disbelief had shifted, if only a little, into something that could've been curiosity, or wariness.
Panacea's expression didn't soften. Her arms were folded tightly, and she looked at me like I was something scraped off the bottom of her boot.
"I read what they're saying online," she muttered, like it was a diagnosis she didn't want to give. "You expect me to trust Lung's daughter with my sister's life?"
She didn't have to say anything else. I heard it in her tone, saw it in the way she placed herself between me and the hospital bed. Villain. Monster.
I turned to Armsmaster, voice low and edged with frustration. "What's her problem?"
He looked between us, visor reflecting the dim light of the hospital room. There was a pause, like he was running diagnostics before responding. "She's rattled, projecting."
I exhaled sharply through my nose, trying to keep the anger from curling out of me like smoke. That didn't give her the right to look at me like I was a monster waiting to pounce.
Armsmaster stepped forward, arms behind his back in that stiff, military way of his. His voice was calm, mechanical almost, but beneath it I sensed something steadier. "She's not Lung's daughter," he said, glancing between Panacea and myself. "Her current state is the result of Lung's power acting up in a previously unknown manner."
Panacea didn't look convinced. Her gaze slid back to me, searching for some tell, some crack in my expression that would betray a lie. I didn't flinch. Let her look. Let her see I wasn't hiding anything.
Armsmaster added, almost reluctantly, "She wasn't even Asian a few days ago."
That got Panacea to blink. Not to soften her expression. Just… blink.
Panacea took her time examining me, her gaze slow and clinical. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes traced the curve of my waist, the gleam of my scales, the slight heat that shimmered off my skin like a heatwave on asphalt. When her eyes finally met mine, they narrowed with something that hovered between contempt and wariness.
She took a half-step back, arms crossed tightly over her chest. "You're not fooling anyone," she said, each word deliberate, flat. "No matter what kind of rebranding the PRT is trying to pull, you're still Lung's spawn, I don't want you anywhere near my sister."
My upper lip curled, exposing sharp teeth in a silent snarl I couldn't quite suppress. Her spine went rigid, shoulders stiffening as if my growl had been a gun cocking. Her feet shuffled half a step back, weight shifting like she was ready to dodge or run, expecting claws or flame to follow.
I flexed my left arm once, then reached across and gripped it with my right hand. The bone cracked under my fingers like dry wood, muscles parting cleanly along invisible seams as I wrenched it free. Pain lanced up through my shoulder, but I barely acknowledged it.
Panacea flinched.
I held the severed arm up, the stump already starting to clot, and lobbed it underhand to her. She scrambled to catch it, eyes widening in alarm as she snatched it from the air with both hands, barely managing to cradle the steaming limb without dropping it. A hiss of heat met her, and she stumbled a half-step backward, clutching the severed arm to her chest like she wasn't sure whether to examine it or throw it across the room.
"I think with my current size that should be enough mass for her arm and leg. " I said, voice low and flat. "Or do you need the other one too?"
Panacea opened her mouth, hesitated, then exhaled sharply and rushed towards her sister. Glory Girl stirred faintly on the bed as the severed limb I'd offered began to melt, its tissue unraveling and snaking along her body like ivy.
Panacea's hand hovered at her sister's shoulder like a conductor mid-symphony, terrified a single note out of place would unravel the composition. Her brow was furrowed in deep concentration.
We watched in silence as the darker skin tone clashed with Victoria's paler complexion, like oil and cream. Fingers stretched and curled, flexed, and twitched. The raw mass of muscle and bone split and shifted downward, reconfiguring into a leg. It was uncanny how perfect it looked, the way it aligned and meshed with her body like it had always been there.
I barely noticed the sting in my shoulder. My gaze was locked on the slow miracle unfolding in front of me, as the remnants of my arm knit themselves into something new, something whole, on Victoria's battered frame. Flesh warped and twisted into place with eerie grace, sinew and skin spiraling together like dancers mid-embrace, guided by a power that operated with precision and strange artistry.
Then, a strange tug, like the ghost of a hook beneath my skin, and I turned slightly to see my shoulder shimmering. The raw, exposed stump was no longer just clotting, it was rebuilding. Veins branched like lightning under the skin, and bone pushed outward, guided by an instinct I didn't fully understand. Within seconds, cartilage snapped into place, new muscle coiling tight, skin stretching over fresh tissue. My arm was back. Whole. Perfect.
Faster than I expected.
I gave the Dallon sisters one last look before turning. I was so hungry I could eat a Challenger. Or Maybe two.
Gibberish306
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jul 15, 2023
- Messages
- 21
Y'know, the way Amy was acting about Taylor being Lung's 'daughter' is going to make it very interesting when it's revealed that Amy is the daughter of Marquis.
Megatherium
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Feb 21, 2025
- Messages
- 82
damn amy is being a bit of a bitch just believing rumours. I usually like her (way more than her sister) but fuck if she isn't exhausting to deal with.
Chapter 10
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
Some combinations just don't work. Like vinegar on cereal. Like a nest of hornets and a quiet afternoon.
Dragons and talk shows.
The studio lights were a special kind of hell. Far too bright, unrelenting, and positioned with sadistic precision to catch every glint off the polished set and every imperfection in my skin. I gave Vista a sidelong glance, wanting to ask her if it always was like this.
She just shrugged her left shoulder and made a serious face. It looked far too silly on a twelve year old girl.
The cameras blinked to life one by one, tiny red eyes fixing themselves on the stage. The theme song blared, some hyperactive jingle with too much brass and too little soul, and the crowd launched into a chant like they'd been rehearsing it all week.
"Vah-AL, Vah-AL, Vah-AL"
Val's show was primarily aimed at pre-teens, although apparently it had recently shifted to an older audience (So, fourteen year old girls). I don't know whose great idea it was to get me on this stage. I got the feeling that, if I refused, I'd probably get sent to Saturday Night Live or something.
Val (no last name, just... Val), had been one of the original Wards, but early enough in her career she decided that hero-work wasn't for her. Her parahuman power lends itself more to show business, apparently.
She popped out of nowhere, flashing a porcelain smile, and landing on the center of the stage in a classic Superhero pose.
"Hello Brockton Bay!" She exclaimed, voice amplified by a secondary power. It made everyone pay attention to her. "Welcome back to Val's Pals in the Bay!"
She waved at the public, and popped out of existence again, leaving a trail of harmless sparks behind.
She appeared right next to Vista, and the girl forced a smile on her face. "Look who's with us tonight!" She said, winking at the public. "The youngest Ward loves her adoring fans! Give an applause to Vista, the most adorable of all heroes!"
Vista had made several appearances on this particular show. Her presence here was mainly aimed at 'showing me the ropes'. Apparently, I owed her a huge favor over this.
She waved at the crowd, not daring to speak to Val a single word.
Val popped out of existence and appeared on the other end of the stage, where a sixteen year old boy was sitting. "And look at this, if it isn't the biggest rising Pop Idol, Powerline!"
The boy stood up, made a few dancing moves and pointed at the ceiling, trying to look cool. The audience whistled and cheered as he did. I didn't see the appeal.
Vista was happily clapping at my side.
The boy wasn't as wise as Vista, however, as he started talking with Val, talking like some sort of used car salesman about how his latest single was going to rock the world. That got Val rambling about her own music career, silencing whatever attempt the boy had of hyping himself up.
It took at least five minutes for her to pop out of existence and show up in front of me.
"And lookie, lookie!" She said, leaning at me like she was examining some sort of horse. "We got another ward! The infamous Princess of the Azn Bad Boys!"
"I'm not..." I began, and shut my mouth quickly when I noticed Vista shaking her head.
"Yes dear?" Her voice modulated by her power. It made her both sound cute and terrible at the same time. Like a weird, pink, and egotistical 'good cop'. She had this vain aura about her, like she was desperately wanting to be the center of attention.
I flinched. Feeling completely out of place. My suit felt itchy, and both too big, and too small in several places. That damn PR Specialist probably screwed up.
Or maybe I grew several inches without realizing.
I realized that Val was waiting for me to reply.
I sighed.
"I'm not some sort of ABB Princess." I said, knowing that I was already off script.
I was supposed to wait for my turn, answer a few questions that we had prepared, and that would've been it. It would've cemented my position on Brockton Bay and combat the mess that that PRT agent did on PHO.
Having Val talk to me before our actual interview meant that she could throw me some odd questions that I hadn't prepared for. And considering that she started with the whole 'Being Lung's daughter', I could see where this was going to go.
"Oh!?" She said and gave the audience a wink. As if telling them that they were on her team and that they would 'play along' with whatever bullshit I spewed, but only for a little while. "That's not what I read on PHO!"
I massaged my eyes. "I... I don't control what people say about me. I'm not Lung's daughter."
Yes. We're going way off script. I was supposed to imply that I might be Lung's daughter, but that I may not be, and that I never wanted to replace him as the leader of the ABB.
Vista facepalmed.
"Ah, right, right..." Val said slowly, looked back at the audience and made a face. "Can you believe the gall of this gal!?" She popped out of existence and re-appeared by the audience.
She pushed her microphone to some girl that couldn't be older than eight. "What's your name, dear?"
"Mary!" The girl said with far too much enthusiasm.
"Mary, what a beautiful name, you're so cute!" She said, and the crowd was filled with agreement. "Tell me, dear Mary, what's your opinion on dearest Vista?"
Mary blinked, probably not expecting the question. "She's cute! I hope I get powers soon so I can be her teammate!"
Val grinned. "Ah, and what about her teammate?"
The girl frowned. "She's a ward?"
"Why, yes, why do you ask?"
"She looks... old?"
Val looked back at me, then at the little girl, and made a thinking face. She disappeared and reappeared next to me. "That's an interesting point our dear Marianne made!"
"Her name is Mary!" Someone in the audience shouted, but Val pretended she didn't hear them.
She leaned next to me. "Come on girl, you can tell your dear friend Val the truth, you told them you are underage so you wouldn't be tried as an adult, right? That's why you got forced into the wards!"
"I..." I didn't expect that. "I'm f-" I felt space ripple around me, and then I got slapped on the back of my head. I turned to Vista, and glared at her.
"You're what?"
I was about to tell her my age, when I realized I probably didn't want to tell the whole world information that would lead them to my secret identity, not that I had much of one at the moment.
"I'm underage." I said. "I will be with the wards for a while."
"Well, then, she sure is jailbait!" Val said to the audience. I hadn't expected that either, or the snickering laughter. Probably not a PG-13 comment! I felt small, my swarm buzzing in the background, ready to sting everyone in the vicinity.
I closed my eyes and reined in my embarrassment.
"Well, then, Ti, may I call you Ti?"
"Tiamat, please." I said, barely opening my mouth, afraid I would growl and roar at her.
"Tiamat!" She turned to the audience and shook her head. "Kids these days, they choose the edgiest names. Wards used to be more sensible. We had this understanding about what our identity meant to the public. There was this humor about us, we were funny people that flew over everyone's heads, and made them look up."
She popped back in front of me, her face only a few inches away from mine. "Why Tiamat? You say you're not Lung's daughter, but you choose the name of the mother of all evil dragons as your cape name!"
I bit down the answer I was going to give her, and thought better of it. "Smaug was taken by a Canadian tinker that specializes in gold."
She winked at me. "Oh, Smaug." She waited a few seconds, probably listening to some intern telling her who Smaug was. "Right! Another evil dragon! Why, you sound more and more like your good old pa'!"
"The good names were taken," I paused and smiled. "I couldn't really use Bahamut as a name, considering how people above our pay grades decided to name the Hero Killer." Well, that got her to shut up. "Tiamat tells people who I am. I'm a dragon, and maybe I could grow multiple heads."
She stared at me for a long minute. "Well, that's a lot to unpack! But I got more guests to announce!" She popped out of existence, re-appearing as far away from me as she could manage.
"I told you to smile and wave, what was that?" Vista muttered.
"I don't know. I just put my foot in my mouth, and proceeded to eat my whole leg."
Vista snickered. "Now, that's a mental image."
I massaged my eyes. "How do you do this?"
"Just smile and wave." She insisted.
Well, isn't that the best advice ever? I rolled my eyes, fingers drumming on my knee.
Half an hour later. The actual interview began.
"So, Tiamat," the host said, all teeth and perfect hair. Her voice's tone changed to something that belonged on cereal commercials and a smile you could hang coats on. "Mind if I ask, what's it like to be the daughter of the guy who fought the entire protectorate on his own and ruled part of the city with an iron fist?"
My jaw tightened. I forced a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace. "I never met him before our very public encounter."
"When you killed him." She said, her voice taking a tint of venom.
"I always dreamed of being a hero as a child," I began with one of the speeches we had practiced. I saw the faces of the public, ugly frowns, and heads shaking, and knew that I had to improvise a bit. "I was much like Mary, really."
"Mary?" Val asked, head tilting. Someone probably told her who I was talking about, because she soon teleported back to Mary's spot in the audience. "Of course, Mary!" She said in a happy-go-lucky tone as she planted the microphone in front of the child. "Do you think you'll be the kind of hero Tiamat is?"
Mary shook her head. "I would rather wear a dress, like Vista and Glory Girl. Oh, yes, I'd like a tiara, could I have a tiara?"
The audience gave a few awkward claps and humorless chuckles.
Val teleported back to her seat in the middle of the scenario. She leaned forward, elbows on her glossy desk. "Right, right, you used to be like dearest Mary, with dreams of skirts and tiaras. And then you took down Lung." She shook her head in a 'I don't believe you' kind of way. "But I gotta say, you've got a bit of his... flair. Is it tough trying to prove you're not the next supervillain in the making?"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. "I think the whole saving lives thing should speak for itself."
"Well, you haven't done much of that, now, have you?"
"She actually was very instrumental in the battle of the bank with the Undersiders." Vista said in her attempt to be helpful. "Without her help, some of us might have gotten hurt."
Val raised an eyebrow. "What, she was hidden away under her bed, coordinating you guys like some sort of 'woman on the chair' kind of thing?"
"No...?" Vista said. Suddenly I realized she wasn't quite as wise as she pretended to be. "Or yes...?" She wasn't sure!?
"Of course, of course," Val said quickly, backpedaling with the grace of a woman who'd accidentally insulted a grenade. "Truly she's going to do some amazing work, not that that bank battle made the wards look like amateurs or anything. Truly. Everyone loves a good redemption story."
I didn't answer that. Let the silence say what it wanted.
She shifted gears, easing into lighter fare. Favorite color, weekend habits, what sort of thing I did in my free time.
"Reading," I said, trying not to sound bored.
That caught her attention. She leaned in just a bit, a smile sharpening at the edges. "Ah, I love reading... magazines." She winked at the public. "That's a good segue to let you all know that the latest issue of Val, as in... me, is out! You should ask your parents to get it, because we only released it in limited quantities, you don't want to miss out!"
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience, too practiced to be natural, like someone behind the cameras had flipped a switch. I felt their eyes, hungry for something outrageous. My lips parted, then stalled.
"Actually, I would rather read books."
"Books!" She scoffed. "That's unexpected, coming from our resident dragon!"
"All dragons hoard stuff, I hoard books." I forced a smile on my face. "Remember kids, reading is fun, entire worlds and adventures await you on the pages at your local library." I said in a probably far too monotone voice.
Val arched an eyebrow at the clearly prepared attempt at making me seem like some sort of PR friendly hero.
We were both surprised at the small amounts of laughter I got out of the audience.
Vista took over then, and she began talking about inane stuff. What sort of activities wards did when they weren't on active duty, how we all related to each other, what we learned from the adult heroes. Val barely managed to get anything remotely interesting out of her.
By the time the show had ended. She said some words to the public, popped out of existence, re-appearing by the rear of the studio. We crossed glances, and she glared at me, before popping back out of sight.
Afterwards, I stepped off the stage, pulse still hammering. The applause faded behind me like a wave receding into the distance. I didn't breathe until we were back in the van, dreading whatever Piggot would say to us about our performance.
At least I got to say my piece. That was progress. Maybe.
----
Piggot didn't seem happy with me, or with Vista for that matter.
She fixed her gaze on me, eyes narrowing as she tapped the clipboard against her thigh. "Next time, follow the script, Hebert. We don't give you talking points to improvise."
Then her attention shifted to Vista, who shrank under the weight of it. "And you. I expected better. You're supposed to be the most experienced Ward on the team. That should mean something. Instead, you acted like any random thirteen-year-old girl, and got steamrolled by a third-rate has-been showboat."
Vista flushed red, looking down at her shoes. She didn't offer a defense. There probably wasn't one that Piggot would accept.
Armsmaster stood near the front, silent as ever, his posture unreadable even without the helmet. Piggot walked beside him, radiating that special kind of irritation that didn't need words to be understood. Her eyes weren't on any of us, but hovered somewhere above our heads, like she was trying to will her thoughts onto a whiteboard that wasn't there.
"On another note," Piggot began, her voice like a file against rusted metal, "Shadow Stalker has been reassigned."
That got a few reactions. Clockblocker's brow furrowed. Gallant stiffened. Vista blinked once, but didn't look surprised. I didn't react. I'd never seen her in person, not even in passing. Which, I will admit, looked like there was something they were trying to hide.
I kept close attention to Piggot and Armsmaster's heartbeats. While they seemed composed, the topic seemed to rattle them for some reason.
Piggot went on. "She's being transferred to the Ellisburg Containment Site."
Aegis spoke then, his voice flat. "Isn't that excessive? What did she do?"
Piggot's lip twitched upward in something that might've been amusing in a darker, colder universe. "She's out of your hair for the time being, be glad that I tell you as much."
There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of the statement to settle. Armsmaster stepped forward.
"Third order of business. Two weeks ago, the ABB"
"Which one? Aren't there like five right now?" Clockblocker said under his breath. Piggot's eyes snapped to him, and he shut up instantly.
Armsmaster continued, "—suffered a leadership decapitation with the death of Lung. Since then, the gang has not collapsed as was previously reported."
"That's not ominous at all," I muttered. "What, did the information about their operations not allow you guys to tear them apart?"
Armsmaster ignored me. "Bakuda, known as the Cornell Bomber, is now confirmed to be in charge. She's been quiet. Too quiet. We have had no confirmed sightings in over a week."
"So, she's building something," Aegis said.
Armsmaster nodded. "That's the working assumption."
I sighed. "I told you she was insane, why didn't you prioritize bagging her or something?"
"The location you provided for her lab was deserted by the time the Protectorate got there" Armsmaster explained. "I believe someone tipped her off."
"Are you sure there aren't any other ABB moles?" Piggot growled.
I shook my head. "It's got to be someone else." I paused, thinking. "I don't see Kaiser caring if you capture Bakuda, so it's got to be a minor player, or someone new."
Piggot raised her clipboard, flipping to the next page with a flick of her wrist. "You are all to be reminded that no engagements are to happen without oversight. You do not pursue, initiate contact, or retaliate. If one of you screws this up, it won't just get your pay docked."
Gallant raised a hand. "What if civilians are in danger?"
"Call it in," Piggot said. "Then defend as necessary until backup arrives. But we'll be watching."
My skin prickled. There was something in her tone that felt too pointed, like a hook disguised as a word.
Piggot tapped her clipboard against the table. "Dismissed. Clean up. Media reps are doing another round in the observation gallery. We don't need another headline disaster."
I stood, slow, measured. And for once, no one looked at me like I was about to breathe fire.
----
The fire hissed out with a reluctant snarl as I lowered my hand. The target dummy lay moldered, cracked and blackened across the chest where I'd landed the last shot. A gust of air filtered in through the exhaust vents overhead.
I flexed my fingers, letting several bugs crawl across my arms and into the air, spreading like tiny scouts. Each attaching itself to a different dummy.
I didn't look up as I walked across the training yard to reset the sensor array. My focus was split between calibrating my aim, refining my coordination through the bugs, and measuring how fine I could thread a line of flame without overcharging. My thoughts drifted, half-formed, to the next set of tests I had set for myself, the inevitable paperwork I'd have to fill, and whether I should just skip the rest of the day and pretend I was sick. Then again, there were things I needed to understand about myself, about this body I'd become.
That damn Val still lived rent free in my mind. I imagined that the dummies all had her ugly face.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the locations of each of the bugs. I raised my hand, and a condensed flash of fire flew directly at the first dummy, charring it into nothingness.
I turned and allowed my whole body to get engulfed in flames, then I directed my control of said flames. Seven blasts left my aura of fire, hitting the targets exactly where the bugs had been.
Armsmaster sat on a bench near the perimeter of the training yard, helmet resting beside him. He had been much less robotic lately, like he trusted me. He was silently taking notes on an actual notepad with a regular non-tinker-tech pen.
The lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting elongated shadows across the scuffed concrete and scorched target dummies.
I stared at the shiny helmet, and my reflection stared back, barely visible, scales rippling faintly along my cheekbones before fading beneath my skin again.
"Tiamat," I whispered, testing the name. It felt... fine.
Outside, the city rolled on. Somewhere out there, people still believed I was Lung's daughter. Maybe they always would.
I would let them.
I was going to show them what kind of dragon I really was.
Dragons and talk shows.
The studio lights were a special kind of hell. Far too bright, unrelenting, and positioned with sadistic precision to catch every glint off the polished set and every imperfection in my skin. I gave Vista a sidelong glance, wanting to ask her if it always was like this.
She just shrugged her left shoulder and made a serious face. It looked far too silly on a twelve year old girl.
The cameras blinked to life one by one, tiny red eyes fixing themselves on the stage. The theme song blared, some hyperactive jingle with too much brass and too little soul, and the crowd launched into a chant like they'd been rehearsing it all week.
"Vah-AL, Vah-AL, Vah-AL"
Val's show was primarily aimed at pre-teens, although apparently it had recently shifted to an older audience (So, fourteen year old girls). I don't know whose great idea it was to get me on this stage. I got the feeling that, if I refused, I'd probably get sent to Saturday Night Live or something.
Val (no last name, just... Val), had been one of the original Wards, but early enough in her career she decided that hero-work wasn't for her. Her parahuman power lends itself more to show business, apparently.
She popped out of nowhere, flashing a porcelain smile, and landing on the center of the stage in a classic Superhero pose.
"Hello Brockton Bay!" She exclaimed, voice amplified by a secondary power. It made everyone pay attention to her. "Welcome back to Val's Pals in the Bay!"
She waved at the public, and popped out of existence again, leaving a trail of harmless sparks behind.
She appeared right next to Vista, and the girl forced a smile on her face. "Look who's with us tonight!" She said, winking at the public. "The youngest Ward loves her adoring fans! Give an applause to Vista, the most adorable of all heroes!"
Vista had made several appearances on this particular show. Her presence here was mainly aimed at 'showing me the ropes'. Apparently, I owed her a huge favor over this.
She waved at the crowd, not daring to speak to Val a single word.
Val popped out of existence and appeared on the other end of the stage, where a sixteen year old boy was sitting. "And look at this, if it isn't the biggest rising Pop Idol, Powerline!"
The boy stood up, made a few dancing moves and pointed at the ceiling, trying to look cool. The audience whistled and cheered as he did. I didn't see the appeal.
Vista was happily clapping at my side.
The boy wasn't as wise as Vista, however, as he started talking with Val, talking like some sort of used car salesman about how his latest single was going to rock the world. That got Val rambling about her own music career, silencing whatever attempt the boy had of hyping himself up.
It took at least five minutes for her to pop out of existence and show up in front of me.
"And lookie, lookie!" She said, leaning at me like she was examining some sort of horse. "We got another ward! The infamous Princess of the Azn Bad Boys!"
"I'm not..." I began, and shut my mouth quickly when I noticed Vista shaking her head.
"Yes dear?" Her voice modulated by her power. It made her both sound cute and terrible at the same time. Like a weird, pink, and egotistical 'good cop'. She had this vain aura about her, like she was desperately wanting to be the center of attention.
I flinched. Feeling completely out of place. My suit felt itchy, and both too big, and too small in several places. That damn PR Specialist probably screwed up.
Or maybe I grew several inches without realizing.
I realized that Val was waiting for me to reply.
I sighed.
"I'm not some sort of ABB Princess." I said, knowing that I was already off script.
I was supposed to wait for my turn, answer a few questions that we had prepared, and that would've been it. It would've cemented my position on Brockton Bay and combat the mess that that PRT agent did on PHO.
Having Val talk to me before our actual interview meant that she could throw me some odd questions that I hadn't prepared for. And considering that she started with the whole 'Being Lung's daughter', I could see where this was going to go.
"Oh!?" She said and gave the audience a wink. As if telling them that they were on her team and that they would 'play along' with whatever bullshit I spewed, but only for a little while. "That's not what I read on PHO!"
I massaged my eyes. "I... I don't control what people say about me. I'm not Lung's daughter."
Yes. We're going way off script. I was supposed to imply that I might be Lung's daughter, but that I may not be, and that I never wanted to replace him as the leader of the ABB.
Vista facepalmed.
"Ah, right, right..." Val said slowly, looked back at the audience and made a face. "Can you believe the gall of this gal!?" She popped out of existence and re-appeared by the audience.
She pushed her microphone to some girl that couldn't be older than eight. "What's your name, dear?"
"Mary!" The girl said with far too much enthusiasm.
"Mary, what a beautiful name, you're so cute!" She said, and the crowd was filled with agreement. "Tell me, dear Mary, what's your opinion on dearest Vista?"
Mary blinked, probably not expecting the question. "She's cute! I hope I get powers soon so I can be her teammate!"
Val grinned. "Ah, and what about her teammate?"
The girl frowned. "She's a ward?"
"Why, yes, why do you ask?"
"She looks... old?"
Val looked back at me, then at the little girl, and made a thinking face. She disappeared and reappeared next to me. "That's an interesting point our dear Marianne made!"
"Her name is Mary!" Someone in the audience shouted, but Val pretended she didn't hear them.
She leaned next to me. "Come on girl, you can tell your dear friend Val the truth, you told them you are underage so you wouldn't be tried as an adult, right? That's why you got forced into the wards!"
"I..." I didn't expect that. "I'm f-" I felt space ripple around me, and then I got slapped on the back of my head. I turned to Vista, and glared at her.
"You're what?"
I was about to tell her my age, when I realized I probably didn't want to tell the whole world information that would lead them to my secret identity, not that I had much of one at the moment.
"I'm underage." I said. "I will be with the wards for a while."
"Well, then, she sure is jailbait!" Val said to the audience. I hadn't expected that either, or the snickering laughter. Probably not a PG-13 comment! I felt small, my swarm buzzing in the background, ready to sting everyone in the vicinity.
I closed my eyes and reined in my embarrassment.
"Well, then, Ti, may I call you Ti?"
"Tiamat, please." I said, barely opening my mouth, afraid I would growl and roar at her.
"Tiamat!" She turned to the audience and shook her head. "Kids these days, they choose the edgiest names. Wards used to be more sensible. We had this understanding about what our identity meant to the public. There was this humor about us, we were funny people that flew over everyone's heads, and made them look up."
She popped back in front of me, her face only a few inches away from mine. "Why Tiamat? You say you're not Lung's daughter, but you choose the name of the mother of all evil dragons as your cape name!"
I bit down the answer I was going to give her, and thought better of it. "Smaug was taken by a Canadian tinker that specializes in gold."
She winked at me. "Oh, Smaug." She waited a few seconds, probably listening to some intern telling her who Smaug was. "Right! Another evil dragon! Why, you sound more and more like your good old pa'!"
"The good names were taken," I paused and smiled. "I couldn't really use Bahamut as a name, considering how people above our pay grades decided to name the Hero Killer." Well, that got her to shut up. "Tiamat tells people who I am. I'm a dragon, and maybe I could grow multiple heads."
She stared at me for a long minute. "Well, that's a lot to unpack! But I got more guests to announce!" She popped out of existence, re-appearing as far away from me as she could manage.
"I told you to smile and wave, what was that?" Vista muttered.
"I don't know. I just put my foot in my mouth, and proceeded to eat my whole leg."
Vista snickered. "Now, that's a mental image."
I massaged my eyes. "How do you do this?"
"Just smile and wave." She insisted.
Well, isn't that the best advice ever? I rolled my eyes, fingers drumming on my knee.
Half an hour later. The actual interview began.
"So, Tiamat," the host said, all teeth and perfect hair. Her voice's tone changed to something that belonged on cereal commercials and a smile you could hang coats on. "Mind if I ask, what's it like to be the daughter of the guy who fought the entire protectorate on his own and ruled part of the city with an iron fist?"
My jaw tightened. I forced a smile. It probably looked more like a grimace. "I never met him before our very public encounter."
"When you killed him." She said, her voice taking a tint of venom.
"I always dreamed of being a hero as a child," I began with one of the speeches we had practiced. I saw the faces of the public, ugly frowns, and heads shaking, and knew that I had to improvise a bit. "I was much like Mary, really."
"Mary?" Val asked, head tilting. Someone probably told her who I was talking about, because she soon teleported back to Mary's spot in the audience. "Of course, Mary!" She said in a happy-go-lucky tone as she planted the microphone in front of the child. "Do you think you'll be the kind of hero Tiamat is?"
Mary shook her head. "I would rather wear a dress, like Vista and Glory Girl. Oh, yes, I'd like a tiara, could I have a tiara?"
The audience gave a few awkward claps and humorless chuckles.
Val teleported back to her seat in the middle of the scenario. She leaned forward, elbows on her glossy desk. "Right, right, you used to be like dearest Mary, with dreams of skirts and tiaras. And then you took down Lung." She shook her head in a 'I don't believe you' kind of way. "But I gotta say, you've got a bit of his... flair. Is it tough trying to prove you're not the next supervillain in the making?"
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Barely. "I think the whole saving lives thing should speak for itself."
"Well, you haven't done much of that, now, have you?"
"She actually was very instrumental in the battle of the bank with the Undersiders." Vista said in her attempt to be helpful. "Without her help, some of us might have gotten hurt."
Val raised an eyebrow. "What, she was hidden away under her bed, coordinating you guys like some sort of 'woman on the chair' kind of thing?"
"No...?" Vista said. Suddenly I realized she wasn't quite as wise as she pretended to be. "Or yes...?" She wasn't sure!?
"Of course, of course," Val said quickly, backpedaling with the grace of a woman who'd accidentally insulted a grenade. "Truly she's going to do some amazing work, not that that bank battle made the wards look like amateurs or anything. Truly. Everyone loves a good redemption story."
I didn't answer that. Let the silence say what it wanted.
She shifted gears, easing into lighter fare. Favorite color, weekend habits, what sort of thing I did in my free time.
"Reading," I said, trying not to sound bored.
That caught her attention. She leaned in just a bit, a smile sharpening at the edges. "Ah, I love reading... magazines." She winked at the public. "That's a good segue to let you all know that the latest issue of Val, as in... me, is out! You should ask your parents to get it, because we only released it in limited quantities, you don't want to miss out!"
A ripple of laughter moved through the audience, too practiced to be natural, like someone behind the cameras had flipped a switch. I felt their eyes, hungry for something outrageous. My lips parted, then stalled.
"Actually, I would rather read books."
"Books!" She scoffed. "That's unexpected, coming from our resident dragon!"
"All dragons hoard stuff, I hoard books." I forced a smile on my face. "Remember kids, reading is fun, entire worlds and adventures await you on the pages at your local library." I said in a probably far too monotone voice.
Val arched an eyebrow at the clearly prepared attempt at making me seem like some sort of PR friendly hero.
We were both surprised at the small amounts of laughter I got out of the audience.
Vista took over then, and she began talking about inane stuff. What sort of activities wards did when they weren't on active duty, how we all related to each other, what we learned from the adult heroes. Val barely managed to get anything remotely interesting out of her.
By the time the show had ended. She said some words to the public, popped out of existence, re-appearing by the rear of the studio. We crossed glances, and she glared at me, before popping back out of sight.
Afterwards, I stepped off the stage, pulse still hammering. The applause faded behind me like a wave receding into the distance. I didn't breathe until we were back in the van, dreading whatever Piggot would say to us about our performance.
At least I got to say my piece. That was progress. Maybe.
----
Piggot didn't seem happy with me, or with Vista for that matter.
She fixed her gaze on me, eyes narrowing as she tapped the clipboard against her thigh. "Next time, follow the script, Hebert. We don't give you talking points to improvise."
Then her attention shifted to Vista, who shrank under the weight of it. "And you. I expected better. You're supposed to be the most experienced Ward on the team. That should mean something. Instead, you acted like any random thirteen-year-old girl, and got steamrolled by a third-rate has-been showboat."
Vista flushed red, looking down at her shoes. She didn't offer a defense. There probably wasn't one that Piggot would accept.
Armsmaster stood near the front, silent as ever, his posture unreadable even without the helmet. Piggot walked beside him, radiating that special kind of irritation that didn't need words to be understood. Her eyes weren't on any of us, but hovered somewhere above our heads, like she was trying to will her thoughts onto a whiteboard that wasn't there.
"On another note," Piggot began, her voice like a file against rusted metal, "Shadow Stalker has been reassigned."
That got a few reactions. Clockblocker's brow furrowed. Gallant stiffened. Vista blinked once, but didn't look surprised. I didn't react. I'd never seen her in person, not even in passing. Which, I will admit, looked like there was something they were trying to hide.
I kept close attention to Piggot and Armsmaster's heartbeats. While they seemed composed, the topic seemed to rattle them for some reason.
Piggot went on. "She's being transferred to the Ellisburg Containment Site."
Aegis spoke then, his voice flat. "Isn't that excessive? What did she do?"
Piggot's lip twitched upward in something that might've been amusing in a darker, colder universe. "She's out of your hair for the time being, be glad that I tell you as much."
There was a pause, just long enough for the weight of the statement to settle. Armsmaster stepped forward.
"Third order of business. Two weeks ago, the ABB"
"Which one? Aren't there like five right now?" Clockblocker said under his breath. Piggot's eyes snapped to him, and he shut up instantly.
Armsmaster continued, "—suffered a leadership decapitation with the death of Lung. Since then, the gang has not collapsed as was previously reported."
"That's not ominous at all," I muttered. "What, did the information about their operations not allow you guys to tear them apart?"
Armsmaster ignored me. "Bakuda, known as the Cornell Bomber, is now confirmed to be in charge. She's been quiet. Too quiet. We have had no confirmed sightings in over a week."
"So, she's building something," Aegis said.
Armsmaster nodded. "That's the working assumption."
I sighed. "I told you she was insane, why didn't you prioritize bagging her or something?"
"The location you provided for her lab was deserted by the time the Protectorate got there" Armsmaster explained. "I believe someone tipped her off."
"Are you sure there aren't any other ABB moles?" Piggot growled.
I shook my head. "It's got to be someone else." I paused, thinking. "I don't see Kaiser caring if you capture Bakuda, so it's got to be a minor player, or someone new."
Piggot raised her clipboard, flipping to the next page with a flick of her wrist. "You are all to be reminded that no engagements are to happen without oversight. You do not pursue, initiate contact, or retaliate. If one of you screws this up, it won't just get your pay docked."
Gallant raised a hand. "What if civilians are in danger?"
"Call it in," Piggot said. "Then defend as necessary until backup arrives. But we'll be watching."
My skin prickled. There was something in her tone that felt too pointed, like a hook disguised as a word.
Piggot tapped her clipboard against the table. "Dismissed. Clean up. Media reps are doing another round in the observation gallery. We don't need another headline disaster."
I stood, slow, measured. And for once, no one looked at me like I was about to breathe fire.
----
The fire hissed out with a reluctant snarl as I lowered my hand. The target dummy lay moldered, cracked and blackened across the chest where I'd landed the last shot. A gust of air filtered in through the exhaust vents overhead.
I flexed my fingers, letting several bugs crawl across my arms and into the air, spreading like tiny scouts. Each attaching itself to a different dummy.
I didn't look up as I walked across the training yard to reset the sensor array. My focus was split between calibrating my aim, refining my coordination through the bugs, and measuring how fine I could thread a line of flame without overcharging. My thoughts drifted, half-formed, to the next set of tests I had set for myself, the inevitable paperwork I'd have to fill, and whether I should just skip the rest of the day and pretend I was sick. Then again, there were things I needed to understand about myself, about this body I'd become.
That damn Val still lived rent free in my mind. I imagined that the dummies all had her ugly face.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the locations of each of the bugs. I raised my hand, and a condensed flash of fire flew directly at the first dummy, charring it into nothingness.
I turned and allowed my whole body to get engulfed in flames, then I directed my control of said flames. Seven blasts left my aura of fire, hitting the targets exactly where the bugs had been.
Armsmaster sat on a bench near the perimeter of the training yard, helmet resting beside him. He had been much less robotic lately, like he trusted me. He was silently taking notes on an actual notepad with a regular non-tinker-tech pen.
The lights overhead buzzed faintly, casting elongated shadows across the scuffed concrete and scorched target dummies.
I stared at the shiny helmet, and my reflection stared back, barely visible, scales rippling faintly along my cheekbones before fading beneath my skin again.
"Tiamat," I whispered, testing the name. It felt... fine.
Outside, the city rolled on. Somewhere out there, people still believed I was Lung's daughter. Maybe they always would.
I would let them.
I was going to show them what kind of dragon I really was.
Megatherium
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Feb 21, 2025
- Messages
- 82
what a terrible show to send your ward to especially for the first time.
Chapter 11
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
Patrolling wasn't what I thought it would be.
This was my third time making the rounds as a ward, and I hadn't so much as seen a purse-snatcher, let alone an actual villain. Most of our time was spent walking down the boardwalk or hovering near food stalls, smiling like we were part of some bizarre superhero fashion shoot.
"You know," Clockblocker said, striking a heroic pose with his hands on his hips, "I think you should lose the chip on your shoulder, enjoy being admired."
He smiled at the small group of people watching us from across the boardwalk, some waving, others with their phones up.
Vista rolled her eyes. "Guess you have some adoring fans." She said, eying a group of girls from Immaculata that approached.
"Only because I've earned it," he said, mock indignation in his voice. "Villains tremble at the name Clockblocker. Children cheer. I'm a local legend."
"You're a dork," Vista muttered.
I kept walking, arms folded across my chest. "This is stupid," I said. "We could be doing something to make the city a better place and instead we're just playing dress-up."
Clockblocker jogged a step to catch up. "Come on, Tiamat. It's good for visibility. Helps people feel safe."
I gave him a sidelong glance. "It's a theater. People clapping for us while someone probably gets mugged two blocks away."
"That's what patrol routes are for," he replied. "It's the system. There's not much we can do about it."
I didn't answer. Not because I agreed. But because I didn't want to say how little I trusted any system right now.
Every time we stopped to wave or pose for photos, it felt like I was stepping further away from what I came here to do. My armor gleamed, the custom fit practically shouted 'hero,' but I didn't feel like one. I felt like a mannequin on display, all presence and no purpose. The boardwalk wasn't a battlefield, just a glossy PR stage. It was getting on my nerves.
A group of school kids spotted us and came over, buzzing with excitement. Vista crouched down immediately, pen in hand, and was soon surrounded by a knot of grinning kids shoving notebooks at her. Clockblocker was next, hamming it up with exaggerated poses and bad jokes that somehow still made them laugh.
I stood off to the side, awkward, arms crossed. As the girls scattered away, giggling like... well, schoolgirls.
Then I noticed one boy separate from the group. He hesitated before stepping forward, clutching a frayed spiral notebook to his chest. His eyes flicked up toward me, then down again.
I blinked. He was walking toward me.
Me?
He stopped a few feet away. "Are you... Tiamat?" His voice held a thick accent, Korean maybe, but it was hard to place through the nerves.
The boy was small, barely coming up to my waist. His shirt was too big for him and had a faded Legend print. He held out a notebook with both hands, the spiral edge frayed.
His heart was pounding so hard I could feel it as if it was a literal drum in my ears. I didn't even need to touch him to know something was wrong. The rhythm was too fast, too wild. Not excitement. Fear.
I nodded slowly, crouching to his level. "Yeah. That's me."
He swallowed hard and held out the notebook with both hands. "Can I... have your autograph?"
My mouth went dry. Was he afraid of me? Or... "Sure," I said, reaching for the pen he offered.
He was shaking. And not the good kind of nervous. There was something wrong in the way his hands trembled, too tight, too fast.
There was something odd about this. I had several ants brushing across his skin. Under his clothes, there was blood, sweat and...
He was shaking. My bugs felt the shape. Wrong. Smooth metal. Dense. Inside him.
"Clockblocker!" I screamed.
He blinked, confused. I didn't wait. I shoved him into Vista and lunged at the boy. "Protect Vista!"
His hand snapped out, brushing Vista's shoulder and then his own, just as the boy exploded.
No fire. No heat. Just erasure. Half my chest, part of my arm were gone in an instant. My nerves lit up like someone had flayed me with a razor of antimatter. The world cracked apart into silence and white.
Then the sound came back all at once. Roaring. Screaming. Sirens. Buildings on fire. A woman sobbing somewhere close. I lay in a crater, the edges of my body already knitting together with molten bone.
The bugs closest to me were dead, incinerated. I had to call forth more insects from blocks away to get a better feel of the situation.
I got up. I wasn't sure how long it took. I wasn't sure when I stopped shaking.
Vista and Clockblocker stood frozen, caught in his power's embrace. Pristine, undamaged.
It could take up to ten minutes before they could be of any help.
Fire was spreading all to the closest apartment building. Windows had blown out. My swarm spread thin, guiding me to where people were screaming.
If Piggot wouldn't deal with Bakuda, I'd do it myself. But for now, I had to focus on the problem at hand, saving people.
I had already risen to fifteen feet tall, almost completely changed into a dragon body. The tallest I had been since Lung and Taylor merged into one person. My antlers were shining like giant solar lamps.
I had my bugs all over the burning building, finding people, listening for screams of help.
One floor at a time. I hurled myself into the chaos, flames licking at my scaled limbs. I drew the fire in, reshaped it, then flung it away from the trapped civilians, redirecting it to already-burned-out rooms and shattering windows. It obeyed me like it knew I was worse.
I sent my bugs ahead through the smoke, mapping the structure as it groaned and shifted above us. As fast as my bugs died, I replaced them drawing from as far as six blocks away. People cried out from behind locked doors and splintered drywall. I led them toward intact stairwells and safe hallways, nudging them with moths and biting flies, tracing instructions across their skin in movement. Most listened.
Some screamed when they saw me.
"Monster," one woman whispered, clutching her child, eyes wide with fear. But she stepped over the burning threshold anyway, away from the collapsing wall I held aloft with my claws. She chose the dragon over death.
A dozen more followed, eyes full of terror, limbs covered in soot and cuts. I kept going, carving a path downward. A final group reached the emergency stairwell, but the last ten feet of the fire escape had been blown off in the blast. No ladder. Nowhere to go.
I dropped to all fours and curled my tail around, bracing it like a ramp. One by one, they hesitated, then climbed down my back and along the glowing heat of my tail to the street below. Trembling hands brushed my scales as they descended. No thanks. No words. Just survival.
------
There was a flicker overhead. I looked up and frowned.
A hologram was projected into the sky. Bakuda stood like a poor imitation of Darth Vader. Dressed in black and green, flickering with the shimmer of hard-light projection. Her mask looked different from what I remembered. More polished. Less amateurish.
"People of Brockton Bay," she said, her voice bouncing off concrete and glass. "This is your reckoning. The heroes can't protect you. Your city belongs to me." She cocked her head, as if someone was telling her something. "Today is just a mere example of my ability to crumble your lives as I please."
I ignored her. I already knew how her mind worked. Right now, I couldn't afford to focus on her.
Almost everyone was safe. I guided the fire away from the building, drawing it into my mouth. But there were people underground, in a sublevel parking garage. The whole building was crumbling into itself.
I crept to the parking garage. There were people dead beneath the debris. Many more were dying.
I had my bugs find everyone alive. Twelve people. I had to act fast, or this whole place would become a mass grave in a few minutes.
I felt a heartbeat. Faint. Rapid.
There was a wrecked sedan, nose crushed beneath fallen concrete. A woman in the front seat, neck at an unnatural angle. Dead.
In the back: a child. Younger than the boy on the boardwalk. Maybe six years old. He was crying. Trapped in the back seat.
I had my bugs slip in between the cracks above the car, checking how much time I had before it would get crushed.
"Hey," I attempted to say, my voice as gentle as I could get it. "I'm going to get you out, okay?" It came more like a growl, or some sort of weird alien language.
The child looked up. Saw me, burning eyes, golden antlers, scales and smoke. His scream didn't even sound human.
And then I felt it. That snap in the air. That psychic quake.
It was the third... fourth? Time I had felt it.
Twin entities intertwined and danced around an infinite number of earths. Pulsing with psychedelic flashes. Communicating with each other. Looking at the people who inhabited the infinite earths as if we were ants.
They were testing us. Like we were some sort of test subject. What were they looking to achieve?
It was a cycle. Something they'd done before, for an untold amount of millennials. Studying civilizations, whispering in the back of their minds, leading them to ruin, to war, to death.
A pulse of power blasted out from the little boy, sending me flying.
Darkness overcame me. Concrete fell over my body like rain.
And then, nothing.
This was my third time making the rounds as a ward, and I hadn't so much as seen a purse-snatcher, let alone an actual villain. Most of our time was spent walking down the boardwalk or hovering near food stalls, smiling like we were part of some bizarre superhero fashion shoot.
"You know," Clockblocker said, striking a heroic pose with his hands on his hips, "I think you should lose the chip on your shoulder, enjoy being admired."
He smiled at the small group of people watching us from across the boardwalk, some waving, others with their phones up.
Vista rolled her eyes. "Guess you have some adoring fans." She said, eying a group of girls from Immaculata that approached.
"Only because I've earned it," he said, mock indignation in his voice. "Villains tremble at the name Clockblocker. Children cheer. I'm a local legend."
"You're a dork," Vista muttered.
I kept walking, arms folded across my chest. "This is stupid," I said. "We could be doing something to make the city a better place and instead we're just playing dress-up."
Clockblocker jogged a step to catch up. "Come on, Tiamat. It's good for visibility. Helps people feel safe."
I gave him a sidelong glance. "It's a theater. People clapping for us while someone probably gets mugged two blocks away."
"That's what patrol routes are for," he replied. "It's the system. There's not much we can do about it."
I didn't answer. Not because I agreed. But because I didn't want to say how little I trusted any system right now.
Every time we stopped to wave or pose for photos, it felt like I was stepping further away from what I came here to do. My armor gleamed, the custom fit practically shouted 'hero,' but I didn't feel like one. I felt like a mannequin on display, all presence and no purpose. The boardwalk wasn't a battlefield, just a glossy PR stage. It was getting on my nerves.
A group of school kids spotted us and came over, buzzing with excitement. Vista crouched down immediately, pen in hand, and was soon surrounded by a knot of grinning kids shoving notebooks at her. Clockblocker was next, hamming it up with exaggerated poses and bad jokes that somehow still made them laugh.
I stood off to the side, awkward, arms crossed. As the girls scattered away, giggling like... well, schoolgirls.
Then I noticed one boy separate from the group. He hesitated before stepping forward, clutching a frayed spiral notebook to his chest. His eyes flicked up toward me, then down again.
I blinked. He was walking toward me.
Me?
He stopped a few feet away. "Are you... Tiamat?" His voice held a thick accent, Korean maybe, but it was hard to place through the nerves.
The boy was small, barely coming up to my waist. His shirt was too big for him and had a faded Legend print. He held out a notebook with both hands, the spiral edge frayed.
His heart was pounding so hard I could feel it as if it was a literal drum in my ears. I didn't even need to touch him to know something was wrong. The rhythm was too fast, too wild. Not excitement. Fear.
I nodded slowly, crouching to his level. "Yeah. That's me."
He swallowed hard and held out the notebook with both hands. "Can I... have your autograph?"
My mouth went dry. Was he afraid of me? Or... "Sure," I said, reaching for the pen he offered.
He was shaking. And not the good kind of nervous. There was something wrong in the way his hands trembled, too tight, too fast.
There was something odd about this. I had several ants brushing across his skin. Under his clothes, there was blood, sweat and...
He was shaking. My bugs felt the shape. Wrong. Smooth metal. Dense. Inside him.
"Clockblocker!" I screamed.
He blinked, confused. I didn't wait. I shoved him into Vista and lunged at the boy. "Protect Vista!"
His hand snapped out, brushing Vista's shoulder and then his own, just as the boy exploded.
No fire. No heat. Just erasure. Half my chest, part of my arm were gone in an instant. My nerves lit up like someone had flayed me with a razor of antimatter. The world cracked apart into silence and white.
Then the sound came back all at once. Roaring. Screaming. Sirens. Buildings on fire. A woman sobbing somewhere close. I lay in a crater, the edges of my body already knitting together with molten bone.
The bugs closest to me were dead, incinerated. I had to call forth more insects from blocks away to get a better feel of the situation.
I got up. I wasn't sure how long it took. I wasn't sure when I stopped shaking.
Vista and Clockblocker stood frozen, caught in his power's embrace. Pristine, undamaged.
It could take up to ten minutes before they could be of any help.
Fire was spreading all to the closest apartment building. Windows had blown out. My swarm spread thin, guiding me to where people were screaming.
If Piggot wouldn't deal with Bakuda, I'd do it myself. But for now, I had to focus on the problem at hand, saving people.
I had already risen to fifteen feet tall, almost completely changed into a dragon body. The tallest I had been since Lung and Taylor merged into one person. My antlers were shining like giant solar lamps.
I had my bugs all over the burning building, finding people, listening for screams of help.
One floor at a time. I hurled myself into the chaos, flames licking at my scaled limbs. I drew the fire in, reshaped it, then flung it away from the trapped civilians, redirecting it to already-burned-out rooms and shattering windows. It obeyed me like it knew I was worse.
I sent my bugs ahead through the smoke, mapping the structure as it groaned and shifted above us. As fast as my bugs died, I replaced them drawing from as far as six blocks away. People cried out from behind locked doors and splintered drywall. I led them toward intact stairwells and safe hallways, nudging them with moths and biting flies, tracing instructions across their skin in movement. Most listened.
Some screamed when they saw me.
"Monster," one woman whispered, clutching her child, eyes wide with fear. But she stepped over the burning threshold anyway, away from the collapsing wall I held aloft with my claws. She chose the dragon over death.
A dozen more followed, eyes full of terror, limbs covered in soot and cuts. I kept going, carving a path downward. A final group reached the emergency stairwell, but the last ten feet of the fire escape had been blown off in the blast. No ladder. Nowhere to go.
I dropped to all fours and curled my tail around, bracing it like a ramp. One by one, they hesitated, then climbed down my back and along the glowing heat of my tail to the street below. Trembling hands brushed my scales as they descended. No thanks. No words. Just survival.
------
There was a flicker overhead. I looked up and frowned.
A hologram was projected into the sky. Bakuda stood like a poor imitation of Darth Vader. Dressed in black and green, flickering with the shimmer of hard-light projection. Her mask looked different from what I remembered. More polished. Less amateurish.
"People of Brockton Bay," she said, her voice bouncing off concrete and glass. "This is your reckoning. The heroes can't protect you. Your city belongs to me." She cocked her head, as if someone was telling her something. "Today is just a mere example of my ability to crumble your lives as I please."
I ignored her. I already knew how her mind worked. Right now, I couldn't afford to focus on her.
Almost everyone was safe. I guided the fire away from the building, drawing it into my mouth. But there were people underground, in a sublevel parking garage. The whole building was crumbling into itself.
I crept to the parking garage. There were people dead beneath the debris. Many more were dying.
I had my bugs find everyone alive. Twelve people. I had to act fast, or this whole place would become a mass grave in a few minutes.
I felt a heartbeat. Faint. Rapid.
There was a wrecked sedan, nose crushed beneath fallen concrete. A woman in the front seat, neck at an unnatural angle. Dead.
In the back: a child. Younger than the boy on the boardwalk. Maybe six years old. He was crying. Trapped in the back seat.
I had my bugs slip in between the cracks above the car, checking how much time I had before it would get crushed.
"Hey," I attempted to say, my voice as gentle as I could get it. "I'm going to get you out, okay?" It came more like a growl, or some sort of weird alien language.
The child looked up. Saw me, burning eyes, golden antlers, scales and smoke. His scream didn't even sound human.
And then I felt it. That snap in the air. That psychic quake.
It was the third... fourth? Time I had felt it.
Twin entities intertwined and danced around an infinite number of earths. Pulsing with psychedelic flashes. Communicating with each other. Looking at the people who inhabited the infinite earths as if we were ants.
They were testing us. Like we were some sort of test subject. What were they looking to achieve?
It was a cycle. Something they'd done before, for an untold amount of millennials. Studying civilizations, whispering in the back of their minds, leading them to ruin, to war, to death.
A pulse of power blasted out from the little boy, sending me flying.
Darkness overcame me. Concrete fell over my body like rain.
And then, nothing.
Last edited:
Nicohals J Westerberg
(Local Lurker)
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2022
- Messages
- 177
Poor boy
Chapter 12
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
The Boardwalk, 4PM.
Smoke clung to the street like a second skin as Vista stepped over a twisted railing. Her uniform was in pristine condition despite the ruin around. Heavy clouds overhead and the soot-stained sky painted everything in twilight gray. Rain had started to fall in slow, cold drops, tamping down the worst of the dust but not the acrid stink of chemical discharge.
Beside her, Clockblocker dusted his shoulders, spotless thanks to his time-stop power that had protected them both. He blinked at the crater ahead like it didn't belong in the world he'd left when Tiamat asked him to protect Vista. The explosion had come and gone in a blink for them, but the aftermath was all too real. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Vista swallowed, looking over the shattered concrete and flame-laced debris.
"She was right there," she murmured.
She stumbled over broken glass and twisted steel, boots crunching through what had once been a flower kiosk. The world around her was chaos, smoke thick and smothering. She pushed debris aside, her power instinctively stretching space around her, warping the path forward like she was twisting the city itself to look for a friend.
"Ta- Tiamat?" she called out, then louder, hoarse. "Tiamat!"
There was no answer, just the groan of unstable metal, the whisper of fire dying out.
People were running for cover. A few news helicopters circled above them.
Clockblocker followed after her moments later, his boots tapping lightly against the scorched pavement. "You good?" he asked, voice low but steady. She nodded numbly, barely registering how untouched out of place they both looked. No one around was 'good', why did they get to be protected.
Why did Taylor ask Dennis to protect her like she was some sort of delicate doll that would break at the first sign of trouble?
"She was right there," he said, gesturing to the crater where the explosion had torn through the street. "She was right next to us."
They both stared into the wreckage.
They stared at the half collapsed building in front of them. Vista folded the space between it and them and they got to the survivors in a second.
Clockblocker dropped to one knee beside a bloodied woman, gently brushing soot from her arm as he touched her skin and froze her in time. The sheen of his power spread over her like glass, sealing her wounds in a momentary stasis.
He moved quickly, methodically, stepping over shattered glass and burning debris to reach another man groaning by a twisted railing. His usual quips were gone, replaced with a calm, precise tone as he barked instructions to bystanders. "If you know anyone that's unconscious or not breathing right, call out. I'll get to them next, I can time-stop them until medical help arrives!."
Vista lingered nearby, watching as Dennis worked through the crowd like a seasoned responder, his power pulsing out with each efficient touch. She barely noticed the falling concrete until her instincts kicked in. She twisted the space above them, folding the trajectory of the rubble so it veered away from the crowd and scattered harmlessly to the side. The building continued to groan, threatening to fully collapse, and she glanced toward it with dread.
A woman stumbled forward from the wreckage, leaning heavily against a scorched section of wall, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Her face was covered in tears streaked down her cheeks. She tried to speak, then pointed shakily toward the half-collapsed building.
"She went in there," the woman finally said, voice hoarse. "Your friend. She saved us. Got us out of that inferno. Held the fire back."
Vista stepped forward, her gaze sharp. "You need medical help. We're freezing people to buy us time. Can you walk?"
The woman shook her head, swaying.
Without a word, Vista stepped closer and twisted the space between them, drawing the woman forward without moving her feet. The woman blinked, startled, as the distance between them and Clockblocker vanished.
"Here!" Vista called. Clockblocker turned immediately and caught the woman by the elbow, easing her down and placing a hand on her shoulder, freezing her in protective stasis.
"That's one more safe," he murmured, already scanning for the next.
A man in his forties elbowed his way to the front, a sour look twisting his face. His jacket was torn, and a smear of soot ran from temple to chin. He pointed a shaking, accusatory finger toward the wreckage.
"You all saw it," he barked. "That dragon girl did this! Freak like that shows up and everything goes to hell. Wouldn't surprise me if she lit the fire herself just to look good saving people after."
Vista's eyes narrowed. "She saved lives."
"Or made the mess so she could play hero," he snapped, voice rising. "It's all one big show with capes like her. Monsters in pretty costumes."
The people nearby turned on him, murmurs swelling into shouts. "She went into the fire!" someone yelled. "She pulled my kid out!"
"You take that back," another snapped. "She's the only reason any of us are still breathing."
More angry voices rose around the man, drowning him out. Several people pointed upward, toward the gray sky where faint wisps of smoke still trailed the path of a projection recently broadcast across the clouds.
"You didn't see it?" someone shouted. "She made an announcement! A hologram, right up there."
The crowd murmured in agreement, their collective anger shifting away from the man trying to blame their saviour, and toward the masked threat that had loomed above them.
The man's bravado faltered as more people glared, the anger palpable. He muttered something and backed away, dragged his feet away from the crowd.
Vista and Clockblocker exchanged a look, brows furrowed in silent understanding. Vista stepped forward, her voice steadier than she felt. "What do you mean, what hologram?"
"It was the Cornell Bomber," an asian man muttered, eyes wide. "She said Brockton Bay was hers now. Said this was just the beginning."
A girl wiped her cheek with a trembling hand. "That woman," she said, "she said the heroes can't stop her."
Clockblocker turned, his mouth a grim line. "And Tiamat was caught in the middle of it," he said, more to himself than anyone. "She was there?" He asked, pointing at the crumbling building.
The woman nodded slowly, eyes glassy. "I don't see how anyone could survive that. Not even a dragon."
Then Vista moved again, "Clock, stay here, you need to re-apply your power," she said as she directed her power downward, trying to stretch the building's bones apart. "I'll have to find her."
Clockblocked grimaced under his mask. "You..." He shook his head. "If there's trouble, come back."
------
Special News Report
The screen flickered, revealing grainy footage from a helicopter's camera as it zoomed in on the shattered remnants of the Boardwalk. The voice of a seasoned newscaster cut in, calm but tense.
"We're bringing you live coverage from Brockton Bay, where what authorities are calling a coordinated terrorist attack has devastated a portion of the Boardwalk. What you're seeing now is footage taken minutes ago. That's Tiamat, the newest member of the Wards, moving into the burning structure. She appears to be directing civilians to safety, using what some experts believe to be a hybrid power set combining fire manipulation and insect control."
The screen cut to a studio, where a panel of analysts sat grim-faced. The lead anchor turned to a balding man with glasses and a PRT lapel pin.
"Dr. Hersch, what can you tell us about this display? What's your professional opinion about the girl that has been rumored to be Lung's daughter for the better part of the month?"
"It's remarkable," the man said. "We're looking at a cape using what seems to be extremely advanced pyrokinesis, diverting flames without adding heat to the environment. That's difficult under any condition, but doing it while evacuating people from a collapsing building? That's beyond rare."
Another analyst chimed in, her expression deeply concerned. "This wasn't just a conventional bomb. The first explosion, it's an all-or-nothing effect. It didn't just burn or blast, it disintegrated everything within a six-foot radius. We're talking molecular dissolution comparable with what Antimatter could do. If Tiamat had been a tad slower, she would've died right there."
She turned to the anchor, brow furrowed. "If Bakuda has more of those bombs, if she can scale them up, she could become a credible threat to national security. We're talking about a Triumvirate-level emergency on par with an Endbringer."
The anchor nodded along. "Even if she wasn't, I don't see the Triumvirate sitting idly after an assasination attempt at three of their wards."
A third analyst, a grizzled man in a worn blazer, and a Watchdog pin shook his head. "And what then? We call in Alexandria, Legend, Eidolon? You think escalation will scare off that lunatic? If Bakuda has those all-or-nothing bombs, she could kill Alexandria just like Siberian nearly did years ago. We can't treat this like any other cape conflict, the PRT and Protectorate need to act with caution, not with brute force."
The anchor's didn't look all too happy to hear those words. He turned to the camera, adjusting the papers in his hands. "We got more footage of the event, thanks to everyone who was brave enough to record this."
The screen cut again, this time to shaky phone footage of the same scene from street level. In the frame, a golden monstrous draconic figure emerged from the smoke, wings outstretched, guiding two sobbing children to safety.
"There's still debate," the anchor noted, "on whether this ward is truly the daughter of Lung. But her performance today raises a much better question: Why would that even matter?"
Before anyone could answer, the studio lights flickered. Then the screen snapped to black. A harsh beep rang out before the image returned, this time to footage of explosions erupting across various points in the city. The map of Brockton Bay lit up like a pin-cushion, each flare a fresh catastrophe.
"This just came in! Multiple new bombings have been reported all over the city, Medhall, Fortress Construction, the Docks, Trainyard South, and the Old Ferry Terminal have all been hit with bombs at the same time."
The anchor's voice wavered as he pressed a finger to his earpiece. "We are receiving word now that another explosion has struck the city's fire department headquarters. Repeat, Brockton Bay Fire Station has been hit. Citizens are advised to remain indoors. Emergency services are being dispatched to priority zones."
The screen filled with smoke and chaos once again as the signal jumped between frantic news feeds.
Val watched the news in silence. Her eyes scanned the footage with an impassive stare, but her hand trembled slightly as it gripped the remote. The moment the broadcast shifted to scenes of more explosions, she clicked the power button. The screen blinked to black.
In the quiet that followed, she rose from the couch and turned to the wall behind her desk.
A framed photo hung there, one taken years ago, back when the world still made sense to her. She stood between Mouse Protector and Miss Militia, a lopsided grin on her face as she pulled both women into the frame. Mouse Protector's hand was raised in a peace sign, Miss Militia was half-laughing, mid-protest. Val's fingers brushed the edge of the frame. Her expression didn't soften.
"What emergency services?" Val wondered aloud. "If that bitch blew up the fire department, she'll target hospitals next."
She took the framed photograph from the wall. The glass cracked as she ripped it apart. She looked down at it, holding it for one more breath, then flung it across the room. It shattered with a hollow, pitiful sound.
"Idiots," she muttered. "Every last one of you. Throwing yourselves into hell for people who'll never give a damn. For what? A parade? A thank you?" She glared at the photo on the floor, glared at her younger self. "Not even that.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, then stared once more at the now-blank television. "Heroes die. And the world watches from the couch, it's all a joke, we're all has-beens."
------
PRT Headquarters, 5:00 PM
Piggot stood rigid at the head of the PRT command room, her voice hard and unrelenting. "Full lockdown. No traffic in or out without express clearance. Any cape assets not already deployed are to be on standby within five minutes."
Operators scrambled. Red warning lights painted the walls in pulses. Piggot's jaw was clenched tight as she turned toward Armsmaster, who was already tapping away at a console. "Get Dragon on the line. Priority one."
He didn't look up. "Already done. She's uploading tactical support drones to sweep hot zones. ETA is two minutes."
Piggot pivoted, leveling her stare at the analysts seated across from her. "I want Watchdog to compile a list of every exotic effect Bakuda's bombs have demonstrated along with all the kinds of bombs she might create in the coming week. Include disintegration, concussive, teleportation, temporal anomalies, or anything else."
The analyst began typing with trembling fingers. Another flipped pages on a notepad filled with sketches and detonation patterns.
"We're elevating her classification," Piggot snapped. "Effective immediately, Bakuda is to be considered Tinker 10. She's no longer a local threat. She's a national one."
No one argued.
"Now, get me in line with Chief Director Costa Brown, I need a kill order signed, ASAP!" She barked, and one of her assistants nodded and typed away.
Armsmaster grimaced. "What about Tiamat, Clockblocker, and Vista?"
She glared at him. "Do they need a babysitter?"
He looked at her, his visor almost piercing her eyes. "They haven't reported back, if Tiamat's dragon form is similar in durability to Lung's, then she should've survived. But we have no way to know how well she can breathe down there."
Piggot allowed her body to fall on her chair. "Send Velocity and Challenger. The other wards are not to be engaged. I've got enough angry calls from the Youth Guard for one day."
-------
Coil jolted upright in his seat, a strangled gasp escaping him as something in his mind shattered. The alternate timeline he'd been maintaining collapsed like a house of cards under a hurricane. He staggered, gripping the edge of his desk, breath ragged. The pain was sharp and alien, like losing a limb he hadn't known he had. He reached for another split, tried to force his power to comply. Nothing. Just the cold, singular truth of one world.
"Pet!" he snapped, spinning on his heel.
Dinah Alcott sat on a padded bench in the corner of the room, hugging her knees, her face pale. "It hurts," she mumbled, eyes glassy. "My head hurts."
"You'll get your candy," he said, voice tight. "But first, I need answers. Now."
She sniffled. "How much candy?"
"Three. It'll take the pain away. Answer me. What's the probability that one of Bakuda's bombs blocked my power, and could do it again?"
She closed her eyes, swaying slightly. "Twelve percent," she whispered.
Coil scowled and turned toward the muted television, where a dragon-shaped silhouette dragged survivors from burning wreckage. Tiamat. His fingers dug into the armrest.
"What's the probability that my power failed because of something the Ward did? Tiamat." The girl had not been a blind spot so far but you never knew with capes with chaotic powers like hers.
Dinah rocked forward, clutching her temples. "Candy first."
"Answer. Then candy."
Her breathing quickened. "Ninety-five percent," she croaked. "It's her. Something she did. It... it messed with me too. The numbers, they changed, keep changing. Fast. Everything changed."
Coil's blood ran cold. He approached her, slow and deliberate. She flinched but didn't retreat.
"What changed?" He asked, shaking her by her shoulders.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The future. For a second... I saw a different number. One I haven't seen since I got here."
He knelt, gaze level with hers. "Which number?"
She swallowed hard, then met his eyes. "Eighty-six percent chance that I get rescued in the next couple of days."
For the first time since the attack began, Dinah Alcott smiled. It was faint, fragile. But it was hope.
Coil wanted to rage and beat that smile from her face, but he couldn't risk it until his power went back online.
Smoke clung to the street like a second skin as Vista stepped over a twisted railing. Her uniform was in pristine condition despite the ruin around. Heavy clouds overhead and the soot-stained sky painted everything in twilight gray. Rain had started to fall in slow, cold drops, tamping down the worst of the dust but not the acrid stink of chemical discharge.
Beside her, Clockblocker dusted his shoulders, spotless thanks to his time-stop power that had protected them both. He blinked at the crater ahead like it didn't belong in the world he'd left when Tiamat asked him to protect Vista. The explosion had come and gone in a blink for them, but the aftermath was all too real. Neither of them spoke for a moment. Then Vista swallowed, looking over the shattered concrete and flame-laced debris.
"She was right there," she murmured.
She stumbled over broken glass and twisted steel, boots crunching through what had once been a flower kiosk. The world around her was chaos, smoke thick and smothering. She pushed debris aside, her power instinctively stretching space around her, warping the path forward like she was twisting the city itself to look for a friend.
"Ta- Tiamat?" she called out, then louder, hoarse. "Tiamat!"
There was no answer, just the groan of unstable metal, the whisper of fire dying out.
People were running for cover. A few news helicopters circled above them.
Clockblocker followed after her moments later, his boots tapping lightly against the scorched pavement. "You good?" he asked, voice low but steady. She nodded numbly, barely registering how untouched out of place they both looked. No one around was 'good', why did they get to be protected.
Why did Taylor ask Dennis to protect her like she was some sort of delicate doll that would break at the first sign of trouble?
"She was right there," he said, gesturing to the crater where the explosion had torn through the street. "She was right next to us."
They both stared into the wreckage.
They stared at the half collapsed building in front of them. Vista folded the space between it and them and they got to the survivors in a second.
Clockblocker dropped to one knee beside a bloodied woman, gently brushing soot from her arm as he touched her skin and froze her in time. The sheen of his power spread over her like glass, sealing her wounds in a momentary stasis.
He moved quickly, methodically, stepping over shattered glass and burning debris to reach another man groaning by a twisted railing. His usual quips were gone, replaced with a calm, precise tone as he barked instructions to bystanders. "If you know anyone that's unconscious or not breathing right, call out. I'll get to them next, I can time-stop them until medical help arrives!."
Vista lingered nearby, watching as Dennis worked through the crowd like a seasoned responder, his power pulsing out with each efficient touch. She barely noticed the falling concrete until her instincts kicked in. She twisted the space above them, folding the trajectory of the rubble so it veered away from the crowd and scattered harmlessly to the side. The building continued to groan, threatening to fully collapse, and she glanced toward it with dread.
A woman stumbled forward from the wreckage, leaning heavily against a scorched section of wall, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Her face was covered in tears streaked down her cheeks. She tried to speak, then pointed shakily toward the half-collapsed building.
"She went in there," the woman finally said, voice hoarse. "Your friend. She saved us. Got us out of that inferno. Held the fire back."
Vista stepped forward, her gaze sharp. "You need medical help. We're freezing people to buy us time. Can you walk?"
The woman shook her head, swaying.
Without a word, Vista stepped closer and twisted the space between them, drawing the woman forward without moving her feet. The woman blinked, startled, as the distance between them and Clockblocker vanished.
"Here!" Vista called. Clockblocker turned immediately and caught the woman by the elbow, easing her down and placing a hand on her shoulder, freezing her in protective stasis.
"That's one more safe," he murmured, already scanning for the next.
A man in his forties elbowed his way to the front, a sour look twisting his face. His jacket was torn, and a smear of soot ran from temple to chin. He pointed a shaking, accusatory finger toward the wreckage.
"You all saw it," he barked. "That dragon girl did this! Freak like that shows up and everything goes to hell. Wouldn't surprise me if she lit the fire herself just to look good saving people after."
Vista's eyes narrowed. "She saved lives."
"Or made the mess so she could play hero," he snapped, voice rising. "It's all one big show with capes like her. Monsters in pretty costumes."
The people nearby turned on him, murmurs swelling into shouts. "She went into the fire!" someone yelled. "She pulled my kid out!"
"You take that back," another snapped. "She's the only reason any of us are still breathing."
More angry voices rose around the man, drowning him out. Several people pointed upward, toward the gray sky where faint wisps of smoke still trailed the path of a projection recently broadcast across the clouds.
"You didn't see it?" someone shouted. "She made an announcement! A hologram, right up there."
The crowd murmured in agreement, their collective anger shifting away from the man trying to blame their saviour, and toward the masked threat that had loomed above them.
The man's bravado faltered as more people glared, the anger palpable. He muttered something and backed away, dragged his feet away from the crowd.
Vista and Clockblocker exchanged a look, brows furrowed in silent understanding. Vista stepped forward, her voice steadier than she felt. "What do you mean, what hologram?"
"It was the Cornell Bomber," an asian man muttered, eyes wide. "She said Brockton Bay was hers now. Said this was just the beginning."
A girl wiped her cheek with a trembling hand. "That woman," she said, "she said the heroes can't stop her."
Clockblocker turned, his mouth a grim line. "And Tiamat was caught in the middle of it," he said, more to himself than anyone. "She was there?" He asked, pointing at the crumbling building.
The woman nodded slowly, eyes glassy. "I don't see how anyone could survive that. Not even a dragon."
Then Vista moved again, "Clock, stay here, you need to re-apply your power," she said as she directed her power downward, trying to stretch the building's bones apart. "I'll have to find her."
Clockblocked grimaced under his mask. "You..." He shook his head. "If there's trouble, come back."
------
Special News Report
The screen flickered, revealing grainy footage from a helicopter's camera as it zoomed in on the shattered remnants of the Boardwalk. The voice of a seasoned newscaster cut in, calm but tense.
"We're bringing you live coverage from Brockton Bay, where what authorities are calling a coordinated terrorist attack has devastated a portion of the Boardwalk. What you're seeing now is footage taken minutes ago. That's Tiamat, the newest member of the Wards, moving into the burning structure. She appears to be directing civilians to safety, using what some experts believe to be a hybrid power set combining fire manipulation and insect control."
The screen cut to a studio, where a panel of analysts sat grim-faced. The lead anchor turned to a balding man with glasses and a PRT lapel pin.
"Dr. Hersch, what can you tell us about this display? What's your professional opinion about the girl that has been rumored to be Lung's daughter for the better part of the month?"
"It's remarkable," the man said. "We're looking at a cape using what seems to be extremely advanced pyrokinesis, diverting flames without adding heat to the environment. That's difficult under any condition, but doing it while evacuating people from a collapsing building? That's beyond rare."
Another analyst chimed in, her expression deeply concerned. "This wasn't just a conventional bomb. The first explosion, it's an all-or-nothing effect. It didn't just burn or blast, it disintegrated everything within a six-foot radius. We're talking molecular dissolution comparable with what Antimatter could do. If Tiamat had been a tad slower, she would've died right there."
She turned to the anchor, brow furrowed. "If Bakuda has more of those bombs, if she can scale them up, she could become a credible threat to national security. We're talking about a Triumvirate-level emergency on par with an Endbringer."
The anchor nodded along. "Even if she wasn't, I don't see the Triumvirate sitting idly after an assasination attempt at three of their wards."
A third analyst, a grizzled man in a worn blazer, and a Watchdog pin shook his head. "And what then? We call in Alexandria, Legend, Eidolon? You think escalation will scare off that lunatic? If Bakuda has those all-or-nothing bombs, she could kill Alexandria just like Siberian nearly did years ago. We can't treat this like any other cape conflict, the PRT and Protectorate need to act with caution, not with brute force."
The anchor's didn't look all too happy to hear those words. He turned to the camera, adjusting the papers in his hands. "We got more footage of the event, thanks to everyone who was brave enough to record this."
The screen cut again, this time to shaky phone footage of the same scene from street level. In the frame, a golden monstrous draconic figure emerged from the smoke, wings outstretched, guiding two sobbing children to safety.
"There's still debate," the anchor noted, "on whether this ward is truly the daughter of Lung. But her performance today raises a much better question: Why would that even matter?"
Before anyone could answer, the studio lights flickered. Then the screen snapped to black. A harsh beep rang out before the image returned, this time to footage of explosions erupting across various points in the city. The map of Brockton Bay lit up like a pin-cushion, each flare a fresh catastrophe.
"This just came in! Multiple new bombings have been reported all over the city, Medhall, Fortress Construction, the Docks, Trainyard South, and the Old Ferry Terminal have all been hit with bombs at the same time."
The anchor's voice wavered as he pressed a finger to his earpiece. "We are receiving word now that another explosion has struck the city's fire department headquarters. Repeat, Brockton Bay Fire Station has been hit. Citizens are advised to remain indoors. Emergency services are being dispatched to priority zones."
The screen filled with smoke and chaos once again as the signal jumped between frantic news feeds.
Val watched the news in silence. Her eyes scanned the footage with an impassive stare, but her hand trembled slightly as it gripped the remote. The moment the broadcast shifted to scenes of more explosions, she clicked the power button. The screen blinked to black.
In the quiet that followed, she rose from the couch and turned to the wall behind her desk.
A framed photo hung there, one taken years ago, back when the world still made sense to her. She stood between Mouse Protector and Miss Militia, a lopsided grin on her face as she pulled both women into the frame. Mouse Protector's hand was raised in a peace sign, Miss Militia was half-laughing, mid-protest. Val's fingers brushed the edge of the frame. Her expression didn't soften.
"What emergency services?" Val wondered aloud. "If that bitch blew up the fire department, she'll target hospitals next."
She took the framed photograph from the wall. The glass cracked as she ripped it apart. She looked down at it, holding it for one more breath, then flung it across the room. It shattered with a hollow, pitiful sound.
"Idiots," she muttered. "Every last one of you. Throwing yourselves into hell for people who'll never give a damn. For what? A parade? A thank you?" She glared at the photo on the floor, glared at her younger self. "Not even that.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, then stared once more at the now-blank television. "Heroes die. And the world watches from the couch, it's all a joke, we're all has-beens."
------
PRT Headquarters, 5:00 PM
Piggot stood rigid at the head of the PRT command room, her voice hard and unrelenting. "Full lockdown. No traffic in or out without express clearance. Any cape assets not already deployed are to be on standby within five minutes."
Operators scrambled. Red warning lights painted the walls in pulses. Piggot's jaw was clenched tight as she turned toward Armsmaster, who was already tapping away at a console. "Get Dragon on the line. Priority one."
He didn't look up. "Already done. She's uploading tactical support drones to sweep hot zones. ETA is two minutes."
Piggot pivoted, leveling her stare at the analysts seated across from her. "I want Watchdog to compile a list of every exotic effect Bakuda's bombs have demonstrated along with all the kinds of bombs she might create in the coming week. Include disintegration, concussive, teleportation, temporal anomalies, or anything else."
The analyst began typing with trembling fingers. Another flipped pages on a notepad filled with sketches and detonation patterns.
"We're elevating her classification," Piggot snapped. "Effective immediately, Bakuda is to be considered Tinker 10. She's no longer a local threat. She's a national one."
No one argued.
"Now, get me in line with Chief Director Costa Brown, I need a kill order signed, ASAP!" She barked, and one of her assistants nodded and typed away.
Armsmaster grimaced. "What about Tiamat, Clockblocker, and Vista?"
She glared at him. "Do they need a babysitter?"
He looked at her, his visor almost piercing her eyes. "They haven't reported back, if Tiamat's dragon form is similar in durability to Lung's, then she should've survived. But we have no way to know how well she can breathe down there."
Piggot allowed her body to fall on her chair. "Send Velocity and Challenger. The other wards are not to be engaged. I've got enough angry calls from the Youth Guard for one day."
-------
Coil jolted upright in his seat, a strangled gasp escaping him as something in his mind shattered. The alternate timeline he'd been maintaining collapsed like a house of cards under a hurricane. He staggered, gripping the edge of his desk, breath ragged. The pain was sharp and alien, like losing a limb he hadn't known he had. He reached for another split, tried to force his power to comply. Nothing. Just the cold, singular truth of one world.
"Pet!" he snapped, spinning on his heel.
Dinah Alcott sat on a padded bench in the corner of the room, hugging her knees, her face pale. "It hurts," she mumbled, eyes glassy. "My head hurts."
"You'll get your candy," he said, voice tight. "But first, I need answers. Now."
She sniffled. "How much candy?"
"Three. It'll take the pain away. Answer me. What's the probability that one of Bakuda's bombs blocked my power, and could do it again?"
She closed her eyes, swaying slightly. "Twelve percent," she whispered.
Coil scowled and turned toward the muted television, where a dragon-shaped silhouette dragged survivors from burning wreckage. Tiamat. His fingers dug into the armrest.
"What's the probability that my power failed because of something the Ward did? Tiamat." The girl had not been a blind spot so far but you never knew with capes with chaotic powers like hers.
Dinah rocked forward, clutching her temples. "Candy first."
"Answer. Then candy."
Her breathing quickened. "Ninety-five percent," she croaked. "It's her. Something she did. It... it messed with me too. The numbers, they changed, keep changing. Fast. Everything changed."
Coil's blood ran cold. He approached her, slow and deliberate. She flinched but didn't retreat.
"What changed?" He asked, shaking her by her shoulders.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "The future. For a second... I saw a different number. One I haven't seen since I got here."
He knelt, gaze level with hers. "Which number?"
She swallowed hard, then met his eyes. "Eighty-six percent chance that I get rescued in the next couple of days."
For the first time since the attack began, Dinah Alcott smiled. It was faint, fragile. But it was hope.
Coil wanted to rage and beat that smile from her face, but he couldn't risk it until his power went back online.
Nicohals J Westerberg
(Local Lurker)
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2022
- Messages
- 177
So will that mean the kid trigger will have some sort of effect on whatever going on with the lung/butcher effect thing, or the new trigger will be some sort of thinker to lead to Dinah, or something else entirely
Chapter 13
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
I came to under a crushing blanket of concrete and twisted metal, every breath tasting of rust and ozone, and for a heartbeat, I felt absolute despair. The remnants of a vision slipped through my fingers like smoke, too faint to hold onto. A dream, a nightmare, maybe both. Gone.
What had that been?
The building had collapsed inward, the levels above pancaked. The weight above pressed against my ribs and limbs, but it was nothing compared to the pressure coiling in my chest.
My swarm was disoriented. I could feel insects panicking, suffocating in enclosed pockets of air or crawling blindly through debris-choked airways. A few clung to the ceiling far above me.
I reached out with my mind, willing my bugs to do my bidding. Most were dead or stunned, buried in dust-choked crevices. Those still alive twitched in confusion, their signals weak and panicked. My senses painted a grim picture: the underground parking lot was flattened.
From my swarm senses I pieced together a fractured sense of what was left of the garage. Eleven of the twelve heartbeats I'd tracked before gone, dead. The bug I'd marked on the boy was just... not there.
I had ants scramble around, looking for the car where the child had been.
Five minutes later, I found the wrecked sedan, obliterated under the debris, and grimaced thinking about that child. My ants found the mother, and dragged their feet to what was left of the back seat.
The boy wasn't there.
I clenched my jaw, confusion and rage mixed in. When I got my hands on Bakuda, I would make sure to make her regret this horror. This wasn't over. I refused to let it be.
Once I had a somewhat clear picture of the situation, my body responded. Crushed bones warped and stretched, flesh reforming around the gnarled mess of damage. The healing came in waves, but my mind stayed sluggish, my thoughts scattered like my bugs in a windstorm. A high-pitched whine filled my ears, constant and maddening. Everything was wrong.
I shifted, trying to push upward, to move the twisted rebar and caved-in concrete that pinned me down. My arms strained, bones creaked, muscles bulged, but the weight was too much. It didn't budge. My breath came ragged, and I nearly choked on dust.
Then my bugs felt something strange above me. Some on the outer edge of the debris started moving in sync, not toward me, but circling, rhythmic, deliberate. I paused, narrowing my focus.
The rubble above was moving. Not much, not a lot of shifting or creaking, but space itself shifted, angles and distances, in ways that shouldn't be possible. A ripple of warped geometry flowed through the debris.
"Vista?" I whispered, more prayer than statement. "Vista, is that you?"
No response came, but the distortions intensified.
The air above me warped again, subtle tremors flowing through the ruined ceiling. I tensed, every nerve on edge, my senses straining past the dull pressure of pain.
"Tiamat!" Vista's voice cracked through the rubble, distant but unmistakable. "Hang on, I'm coming!"
A second later, a scream tore through the concrete, sharp and raw, the kind that made your blood go cold.
Then came a crash, followed by the grinding clash of metal on metal, sounds of a struggle of some sort. My heart hammered in my chest as I shifted, trying again to move the weight crushing down on me. Dust choked the air as I fought for every inch.
I felt a second wind surge through me as the pressure shifted. Whatever Vista had done above, it was working, some of the crushing weight lifted just enough for me to draw a full breath. I didn't wait for permission or clarity. I scrambled, pushing against the fractured concrete, digging with my claws, straining against the rebar pressing into my back.
"Vista!" I called out, coughing on dust, my voice hoarse.
There was movement again, the subtle spatial ripples I'd felt earlier intensifying. My bugs scrambled upward through narrow crevices, offering fragmented images of twisting geometry, stretching walls, and something moving above. Through the broken light, I caught the faint shimmer of space distorting in a familiar pattern.
"Come on," I whispered to myself, shoving harder, dragging one leg out from under the mess.
Vista's voice rang out again, closer this time. "Tiamat! If you're out there, I could use a hand!"
Desperate, I shifted, got an elbow under me, then a shoulder, inch by painful inch. Then I was free, tired, panting, but free. I dragged myself upward, my swarm scouting the way ahead, leading me toward the girl who'd saved me.
I clawed my way up another level, the structure groaning beneath my weight. Vista came into view in a haze of warped space, staggering backward, her shoulder a mangled mess of blood and burned flesh. Her face was twisted in pain, but space around her was a vortex of impossible motions, pulling and twisting the air itself in strange geometries to hold her ground.
Across from her loomed something out of a nightmare, a knight, or the parody of one, cobbled together from dented car panels, concrete plates, and scavenged razor sharp metal. A makeshift helm concealed the face beneath, and a jagged lance dripped with Vista's blood. The weapon thrummed with an unnatural hum.
"Vista!" I shouted, but she didn't take her eyes off the knight. Her power spiraled the space between them, stretching and folding the distance so that each of the knight's steps took it nowhere.
"He came out of nowhere," Vista called out, her voice tight with pain. "I was trying to dig you out. Then he—"
The knight lunged, but the distance elongated. He swung wide, spear missing by yards, despite having only been a foot away. He snarled, an actual, guttural sound, and advanced again.
Vista kept moving space around herself, side-stepping across impossible paths, her body flickering to new positions as she folded distance. But I could see she was struggling. She couldn't retaliate, mostly because she had no weapon of her own. She had to settle with staying out of reach, but every escape was a little slower than the last.
"Get away from her!" I screamed, thrusting my clawed hand forward as a jet of fire erupted from my palm, arcing through the dust-choked air.
The blast struck the Knight's outstretched arm, metal bubbling and sloughing off like wax. But before I could press the advantage, the scattered debris around us trembled, shards of rebar, license plates, chunks of iron and steel. They whipped through the air toward him, spiraling into place, forming a circular shield that absorbed the rest of the flame.
Smoke curled from the edges as he stepped back, and I watched in disbelief as the ruined hand regenerated, not as it had been, but restructured, sleeker, sharper, more dangerous.
Vista shifted the space between us and hopped on my shoulder. "Team-up?"
"Sure" I said eyeing the knight with caution. While I didn't think he could harm me, he had already hurt Vista.
The knight's helmet turned to me, eyes not visible behind the makeshift visor. The lance hissed and twisted into a spiraled drill.
I didn't want to wait and see what he'd do with that thing. I had all the bugs I had in the tunnel have a go at him, getting inside the armor from every posible crack or orifice. I wasn't about to cause this guy a heart attack like I had done with Lung, but I needed him to pull back.
I blinked, realizing the bugs that had touched the armor became inert. Or rather, I could not sense them anymore. He had absorbed them into his body, like he had done with the metal and stone from all around.
Sparks got thrown everywhere as his whole body aligned itself around the spear, becoming less knightly armor and more... drill. There was roar of concrete breaking into sand and metal grinding into more metal, and he launched himself at the ground, burrowing down and vanishing with an ear-splitting screech.
I didn't waste a second. Whatever bugs I still could control, I had them follow where he had disappeared. They spread out in waves, searching for any sign of motion or heat, anything that resembled the makeshift armor or the dense hum of his weapon.
But as the swarm crawled into cracks and sifted through rubble, they picked up the faintest vibrations. Something moved beneath the ground, fast and erratic. My bugs scrambled to follow, clinging to surfaces, weaving threads to track airflow. The pattern was unmistakable. He wasn't just digging; he was twisting through the underground like a living screw, and every second he was getting farther away. I clenched my teeth, frustration bubbling in my chest. He was escaping, I had to-.
Vista groaned and her body slumped from my shoulder. I reacted just in time, shifting to catch her in a princess carry before she hit the ground. Her skin was pale, slick with sweat, and I could feel the heat of her blood through my scales. It soaked quickly into my arms, more than I had expected, more than she could afford to lose.
I staggered, not sure how to proceed. I lowered myself to one knee, scanning her wound with frantic eyes. Her shoulder was a mangled ruin, flesh torn and charred, the blood pulsing in rhythmic waves. I pressed a clawed hand gently to the worst of it, trying to slow the bleeding without making things worse. She was breathing, shallow and ragged, but unconscious, her head lolling against my chest, her small frame unnervingly still.
The ground trembled with a violent, guttural groan as the knight's escape sent shockwaves through the structure. A cloud of dust erupted from the tunnel he'd left behind, billowing outward in thick plumes, swallowing everything in its wake. Concrete groaned ominously above as smaller debris rained down, pelting my back and shoulders in bursts. I didn't flinch, couldn't afford to.
I moved without thinking, driven by instinct and desperation. My claws dug into loose rubble, tail curling protectively around Vista's unconscious form. With every ounce of strength I could muster, I surged forward, carving a path upward, the collapsing tunnel behind us threatening to swallow the both of us whole. My limbs ached, fire pulsing through every joint, but I didn't stop.
Each foot of progress felt like a battle, but I kept going. I could hear the stone above shifting unnaturally, the remnants of Vista's spatial warping still echoing through the structure. It was the only thing that kept the ceiling from collapsing entirely. I pressed on, dragging us out from the choking dark, toward the hope of open air.
I emerged into a city that barely resembled the one I'd left behind. The boardwalk was battered. Smoke still curled from craters where storefronts had once stood. It was short of a miracle that the place wasn't completely obliterated. In every other direction, though, Brockton Bay was ablaze. Fires raged unchecked, their glow painting the stormy sky orange and red, while plumes of smoke coiled upward like grasping fingers. The scent of burning asphalt and plastic was thick in the air.
The skyline was broken in places I didn't recognize, silhouettes warped by destruction. Whole neighborhoods flickered in and out of view through walls of smoke. Sirens howled in the distance, a hundred cries overlapping without rhythm or relief.
Bakuda was far more insane than I had predicted.
Clockblocker rushed toward us, skidding to a stop on the fractured pavement. His helmet tilted downward, taking in Vista's limp form in my arms. "What happened?" he asked, voice tight, the usual edge of sarcasm gone.
He crouched beside us, his hands hovering in the air like he didn't know where to start. "Is she breathing? Is she—" he stopped himself, his fingers already moving to check her pulse. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as they brushed her neck.
I nodded, too shaken to speak at first. "She's alive, but she lost a lot of blood. You need to freeze her."
He hesitated for half a breath, then pressed a hand to her shoulder. Vista froze in place, the blood pooling around her stilled in an instant, like a paused video. Clockblocker let out a breath that shook more than I thought it would. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay, that buys us some time."
I looked around at the street, the chaos held in a single, silent moment. Dozens of civilians frozen in place. Time-stopped by Clockblocker, each one preserved like a snapshot in a war-torn museum.
Clockblocker stood next to me, staring at them, his earlier tension bleeding into something colder, more resolute. He muttered, "I had to stop everyone I could. We'll lose them otherwise." He sighed when a woman started breathing heavily, clearly in pain. "Got to keep them in check" He said, as he time-stopped her again.
He scanned the street, looking for more injured as I stared at Vista's frozen body. His voice was tighter now, almost clinical. "If we don't get emergency support in five, we're going to need to triage right here."
I shrank down, my body folding in on itself with practiced ease until I stood at a more manageable seven feet tall. Still part-draconic, with antlers glinting dully in the haze, claws tapering into something closer to fingers, golden scales hard and gleaming over my limbs, but more humanoid than beast. A compromise between power and approachability, though I wasn't sure how well it worked.
Clockblocker glanced me over. I caught the flicker of unease in his stance before he masked it. Couldn't blame him. I looked like a monster trying to play hero.
"What the hell happened down there?" Clockblocker asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.
I stared at the building's broken skeleton, the smoke still curling from its crumbling frame. My jaw clenched. "I don't know," I muttered. "Some kind of nightmare knight. He came out of nowhere. Attacked Vista while she was trying to get me out."
Clockblocker flickered his gaze to Vista's frozen form. "You think you were the target?"
I hesitated. The thought hadn't occurred to me. I replayed the fight, the silence, the precision of the knight's attacks. He hadn't said a word. Just tore through concrete and steel like he was born from it. "I don't know. Maybe? He didn't say anything. Didn't act like an assassin, more like... like a berserker."
Clockblocker nodded grimly. "If he meant to kill her, he could've gone for the gut. That shoulder wound seems... impractical."
I tapped my foot, the pavement cracking faintly under the pressure. We were wasting time. "Where are the ambulances?"
He growled under his breath. "Something's jamming comms. Fried every phone and radio around."
I glanced up, watching a news chopper circling overhead, their flood lights flickering through the smoke. "Then why are those still flying? If this was an EMP—"
"Tinkertech is bullshit," he cut in with a shrug. "That's my guess."
I didn't argue. Instead, I crouched low and launched myself upward in a burst of flame, wobbling mid-air before finding balance. My legs flared with heat, mimicking a crude jetpack. I rose, heading toward the nearest helicopter, waving and shouting for them to land.
The injured couldn't wait. We'd make do with whatever help we could get.
Why were the news crew screaming at me like they were about to face an Endbringer?
-------
After the news helicopter whisked away the injured civilians that would survive the flight to the hospital without being time-stopped again, Clockblocker remained on high alert, pausing the more critical people as soon as they were moving.
He glanced at Vista's frozen form, the blood still pooled beneath her suspended in time.
"Removing a few people does help matters," he said, voice low but firm. "But I don't know how long we can keep them time-stopped before some other lunatic shows up looking for a fight."
I looked around at the street, several people laid still in panicked gestures, faces twisted with pain, the moment suspended like a photograph.
Clockblocker kept moving methodically, touching one person after another with focused intent. Each one stilled, held at the brink of collapse, frozen in time's mercy.
He turned to me, eyes behind the visor sharp with urgency. "Your bugs..." He seemed to realize something useful. "Can you have them check if any civilians unpause?" When I nodded he sighed in relief. "Okay, if any of them move, even for a second, I want you to let me know. I don't care if it's a twitch. Just tell me."
I nodded, already sending out my bugs to watch over the suspended victims, tiny sentinels monitoring the stillness.
Clockblocker resumed his work, pausing only to catch a heavy breath. As he moved past a woman who laid carefully in the shadow of a burnt-out car, I called out to him.
"Wait," I said, catching his arm. "That woman... she's breathing."
He stared at me for a beat, then nodded.
He crouched beside her, whispering, "You're not dying today," before gently pressing his hand to her shoulder, freezing her mid-gasp. Her body stilled, the panic in her eyes frozen like the rest of her.
"Thanks," he added quietly, more to the moment than to me. I just nodded and turned my focus back to the others still in need.
The air felt heavy with smoke and silence. But beneath it all, there was purpose. We weren't fighting a battle with supervillains right at that moment, sure, but at least we were buying time for the ones who couldn't.
Our moment was lost when the roar of a motorcycle tore through the air. It was grating against the tension that hung over the wreckage-strewn street. The rider weaved through the chaos with reckless abandon, narrowly avoiding twisted streetlights, broken glass, and overturned cars. My claws curled slightly into my palms as the bike skidded in a showy arc, tires screaming against the pavement.
The rider came to a sudden stop half an inch from where I stood, the front wheel nearly brushing my leg. My heart leapt into my throat, not from fear, but from the jarring shift from triage to theatrical stunt. My hackles rose as I narrowed my eyes at the rider, irritation simmering just below the surface.
It was a woman, and she didn't even have a helmet on!
The woman arched a sculpted eyebrow, her lips curling into a crooked grin. "You've got guts," she said with a low chuckle, voice rough like sandpaper and cigarette smoke. Her tone danced on the edge of challenge and amusement, and something in her stance, a tilt of the head, a loose way she let her arms hang, told me she wasn't used to people being unimpressed with her.
I eyed the woman carefully, noting the way her damp, curling hair framed a face drawn in hard lines. No mask. She wore a crimson bodysuit adorned with decorative chains and epaulettes that jangled faintly with each motion. I wondered for a moment what kind of PR agent she got, because I couldn't really see a theme about her suit, it was all over the place. Basically, she just looked like some sort of 'badass woman warrior, and that was it.
Her green eyes were intense beneath black, angular brows, and there was something theatrical in the way she stood astride the motorcycle, like a gladiator posing before a battle.
I turned to Clockblocker, nodding toward the woman still straddling the motorcycle. "Do you know who this is?"
He followed my gaze, and his shoulders loosened a fraction. "That's Challenger," he said, voice quieter than usual. "She's a Protectorate Hero."
I frowned, shifting my weight as I took another look at her. "Where's everyone else?"
She flicked her thumb over her shoulder just as Velocity skidded to a halt beside us. Challenger said, "PRT van's on its way. Gonna get you kids somewhere safer than this mess."
"What about the civilians?" I asked sharply, turning to Velocity. "You can't carry them with you, right?"
Velocity shook his head, looking grim. "No, power doesn't work like that."
Challenger took a drag from a cigarette, exhaling smoke that coiled like a lazy threat. She didn't even glance at the downed people around us.
I felt a pulse of righteous fury ripple through me. My body shifted, growing until I stood eight feet tall, golden scales gleaming as my antlers scraped the air like a shining crown. "We need ambulances for these people. Now."
Challenger let out a low whistle and grinned. A giant axe, larger than her in fact, blinked into existence, and she held it like it was light as a feather. "Heh. Fought Lung back in the day. I was wondering if I could get my round two with his heir." She flickered the cigarette to the floor and grinned.
I glared at her, then turned to Velocity, my tone sharp. "Can you contact the Director?"
Without a word, he handed me something that looked more like a laminated business card than a phone. Definitely Armsmaster's design.
I called. The line clicked.
"Hello? Am I talking with Director Piggot?"
"Tiamat, good to hear your voice," came Renick's voice, weary, but focused. "Unfortunately Director Piggot is in a meeting with Chief Director Costa Brown," he breathed in. "What's going on out there? Why haven't you reported in?"
"Communications were fried. I guess it was one of Bakuda's Tinkertech bombs," I said. "We've got injured civilians. Clockblocker is maxing to keep them alive. We need help right now."
"I'm sorry Tiamat, we're running thin right now and—" There was a pause on the other end. I imagined people moving, screens lighting up, decisions made in split seconds.
Then Renick came back on. "We can't spare any ambulances, but you've got something better."
I blinked. "What does that mean—"
A gust of wind slammed into the ground beside us. A girl in white and gold landed, cradling another in priest-like robes.
"Did somebody call for a miracle? Guts and Glory, at your service!" Glory Girl beamed. "I'm the chauffeur, she's the healer."
"She's guts?" I asked, and snorted. Feeling the imaginary pressure being lifted from my shoulders.
Panacea rolled her eyes and stepped forward, eyes already scanning the damage.
She shook her head slowly, the weariness in her eyes belying the sharpness of her stride. "Why do I have to deal with this shit?" she muttered under her breath, brushing past me without a glance.
Her hands were already in motion as she approached Vista, jaw clenched and expression unreadable. She knelt beside the time-frozen girl, fingers hovering just above the mangled wound, patiently waiting for Clockblocker's power to run out so she could assess the damage with clinical precision.
What had that been?
The building had collapsed inward, the levels above pancaked. The weight above pressed against my ribs and limbs, but it was nothing compared to the pressure coiling in my chest.
My swarm was disoriented. I could feel insects panicking, suffocating in enclosed pockets of air or crawling blindly through debris-choked airways. A few clung to the ceiling far above me.
I reached out with my mind, willing my bugs to do my bidding. Most were dead or stunned, buried in dust-choked crevices. Those still alive twitched in confusion, their signals weak and panicked. My senses painted a grim picture: the underground parking lot was flattened.
From my swarm senses I pieced together a fractured sense of what was left of the garage. Eleven of the twelve heartbeats I'd tracked before gone, dead. The bug I'd marked on the boy was just... not there.
I had ants scramble around, looking for the car where the child had been.
Five minutes later, I found the wrecked sedan, obliterated under the debris, and grimaced thinking about that child. My ants found the mother, and dragged their feet to what was left of the back seat.
The boy wasn't there.
I clenched my jaw, confusion and rage mixed in. When I got my hands on Bakuda, I would make sure to make her regret this horror. This wasn't over. I refused to let it be.
Once I had a somewhat clear picture of the situation, my body responded. Crushed bones warped and stretched, flesh reforming around the gnarled mess of damage. The healing came in waves, but my mind stayed sluggish, my thoughts scattered like my bugs in a windstorm. A high-pitched whine filled my ears, constant and maddening. Everything was wrong.
I shifted, trying to push upward, to move the twisted rebar and caved-in concrete that pinned me down. My arms strained, bones creaked, muscles bulged, but the weight was too much. It didn't budge. My breath came ragged, and I nearly choked on dust.
Then my bugs felt something strange above me. Some on the outer edge of the debris started moving in sync, not toward me, but circling, rhythmic, deliberate. I paused, narrowing my focus.
The rubble above was moving. Not much, not a lot of shifting or creaking, but space itself shifted, angles and distances, in ways that shouldn't be possible. A ripple of warped geometry flowed through the debris.
"Vista?" I whispered, more prayer than statement. "Vista, is that you?"
No response came, but the distortions intensified.
The air above me warped again, subtle tremors flowing through the ruined ceiling. I tensed, every nerve on edge, my senses straining past the dull pressure of pain.
"Tiamat!" Vista's voice cracked through the rubble, distant but unmistakable. "Hang on, I'm coming!"
A second later, a scream tore through the concrete, sharp and raw, the kind that made your blood go cold.
Then came a crash, followed by the grinding clash of metal on metal, sounds of a struggle of some sort. My heart hammered in my chest as I shifted, trying again to move the weight crushing down on me. Dust choked the air as I fought for every inch.
I felt a second wind surge through me as the pressure shifted. Whatever Vista had done above, it was working, some of the crushing weight lifted just enough for me to draw a full breath. I didn't wait for permission or clarity. I scrambled, pushing against the fractured concrete, digging with my claws, straining against the rebar pressing into my back.
"Vista!" I called out, coughing on dust, my voice hoarse.
There was movement again, the subtle spatial ripples I'd felt earlier intensifying. My bugs scrambled upward through narrow crevices, offering fragmented images of twisting geometry, stretching walls, and something moving above. Through the broken light, I caught the faint shimmer of space distorting in a familiar pattern.
"Come on," I whispered to myself, shoving harder, dragging one leg out from under the mess.
Vista's voice rang out again, closer this time. "Tiamat! If you're out there, I could use a hand!"
Desperate, I shifted, got an elbow under me, then a shoulder, inch by painful inch. Then I was free, tired, panting, but free. I dragged myself upward, my swarm scouting the way ahead, leading me toward the girl who'd saved me.
I clawed my way up another level, the structure groaning beneath my weight. Vista came into view in a haze of warped space, staggering backward, her shoulder a mangled mess of blood and burned flesh. Her face was twisted in pain, but space around her was a vortex of impossible motions, pulling and twisting the air itself in strange geometries to hold her ground.
Across from her loomed something out of a nightmare, a knight, or the parody of one, cobbled together from dented car panels, concrete plates, and scavenged razor sharp metal. A makeshift helm concealed the face beneath, and a jagged lance dripped with Vista's blood. The weapon thrummed with an unnatural hum.
"Vista!" I shouted, but she didn't take her eyes off the knight. Her power spiraled the space between them, stretching and folding the distance so that each of the knight's steps took it nowhere.
"He came out of nowhere," Vista called out, her voice tight with pain. "I was trying to dig you out. Then he—"
The knight lunged, but the distance elongated. He swung wide, spear missing by yards, despite having only been a foot away. He snarled, an actual, guttural sound, and advanced again.
Vista kept moving space around herself, side-stepping across impossible paths, her body flickering to new positions as she folded distance. But I could see she was struggling. She couldn't retaliate, mostly because she had no weapon of her own. She had to settle with staying out of reach, but every escape was a little slower than the last.
"Get away from her!" I screamed, thrusting my clawed hand forward as a jet of fire erupted from my palm, arcing through the dust-choked air.
The blast struck the Knight's outstretched arm, metal bubbling and sloughing off like wax. But before I could press the advantage, the scattered debris around us trembled, shards of rebar, license plates, chunks of iron and steel. They whipped through the air toward him, spiraling into place, forming a circular shield that absorbed the rest of the flame.
Smoke curled from the edges as he stepped back, and I watched in disbelief as the ruined hand regenerated, not as it had been, but restructured, sleeker, sharper, more dangerous.
Vista shifted the space between us and hopped on my shoulder. "Team-up?"
"Sure" I said eyeing the knight with caution. While I didn't think he could harm me, he had already hurt Vista.
The knight's helmet turned to me, eyes not visible behind the makeshift visor. The lance hissed and twisted into a spiraled drill.
I didn't want to wait and see what he'd do with that thing. I had all the bugs I had in the tunnel have a go at him, getting inside the armor from every posible crack or orifice. I wasn't about to cause this guy a heart attack like I had done with Lung, but I needed him to pull back.
I blinked, realizing the bugs that had touched the armor became inert. Or rather, I could not sense them anymore. He had absorbed them into his body, like he had done with the metal and stone from all around.
Sparks got thrown everywhere as his whole body aligned itself around the spear, becoming less knightly armor and more... drill. There was roar of concrete breaking into sand and metal grinding into more metal, and he launched himself at the ground, burrowing down and vanishing with an ear-splitting screech.
I didn't waste a second. Whatever bugs I still could control, I had them follow where he had disappeared. They spread out in waves, searching for any sign of motion or heat, anything that resembled the makeshift armor or the dense hum of his weapon.
But as the swarm crawled into cracks and sifted through rubble, they picked up the faintest vibrations. Something moved beneath the ground, fast and erratic. My bugs scrambled to follow, clinging to surfaces, weaving threads to track airflow. The pattern was unmistakable. He wasn't just digging; he was twisting through the underground like a living screw, and every second he was getting farther away. I clenched my teeth, frustration bubbling in my chest. He was escaping, I had to-.
Vista groaned and her body slumped from my shoulder. I reacted just in time, shifting to catch her in a princess carry before she hit the ground. Her skin was pale, slick with sweat, and I could feel the heat of her blood through my scales. It soaked quickly into my arms, more than I had expected, more than she could afford to lose.
I staggered, not sure how to proceed. I lowered myself to one knee, scanning her wound with frantic eyes. Her shoulder was a mangled ruin, flesh torn and charred, the blood pulsing in rhythmic waves. I pressed a clawed hand gently to the worst of it, trying to slow the bleeding without making things worse. She was breathing, shallow and ragged, but unconscious, her head lolling against my chest, her small frame unnervingly still.
The ground trembled with a violent, guttural groan as the knight's escape sent shockwaves through the structure. A cloud of dust erupted from the tunnel he'd left behind, billowing outward in thick plumes, swallowing everything in its wake. Concrete groaned ominously above as smaller debris rained down, pelting my back and shoulders in bursts. I didn't flinch, couldn't afford to.
I moved without thinking, driven by instinct and desperation. My claws dug into loose rubble, tail curling protectively around Vista's unconscious form. With every ounce of strength I could muster, I surged forward, carving a path upward, the collapsing tunnel behind us threatening to swallow the both of us whole. My limbs ached, fire pulsing through every joint, but I didn't stop.
Each foot of progress felt like a battle, but I kept going. I could hear the stone above shifting unnaturally, the remnants of Vista's spatial warping still echoing through the structure. It was the only thing that kept the ceiling from collapsing entirely. I pressed on, dragging us out from the choking dark, toward the hope of open air.
I emerged into a city that barely resembled the one I'd left behind. The boardwalk was battered. Smoke still curled from craters where storefronts had once stood. It was short of a miracle that the place wasn't completely obliterated. In every other direction, though, Brockton Bay was ablaze. Fires raged unchecked, their glow painting the stormy sky orange and red, while plumes of smoke coiled upward like grasping fingers. The scent of burning asphalt and plastic was thick in the air.
The skyline was broken in places I didn't recognize, silhouettes warped by destruction. Whole neighborhoods flickered in and out of view through walls of smoke. Sirens howled in the distance, a hundred cries overlapping without rhythm or relief.
Bakuda was far more insane than I had predicted.
Clockblocker rushed toward us, skidding to a stop on the fractured pavement. His helmet tilted downward, taking in Vista's limp form in my arms. "What happened?" he asked, voice tight, the usual edge of sarcasm gone.
He crouched beside us, his hands hovering in the air like he didn't know where to start. "Is she breathing? Is she—" he stopped himself, his fingers already moving to check her pulse. I could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as they brushed her neck.
I nodded, too shaken to speak at first. "She's alive, but she lost a lot of blood. You need to freeze her."
He hesitated for half a breath, then pressed a hand to her shoulder. Vista froze in place, the blood pooling around her stilled in an instant, like a paused video. Clockblocker let out a breath that shook more than I thought it would. "Okay," he muttered. "Okay, that buys us some time."
I looked around at the street, the chaos held in a single, silent moment. Dozens of civilians frozen in place. Time-stopped by Clockblocker, each one preserved like a snapshot in a war-torn museum.
Clockblocker stood next to me, staring at them, his earlier tension bleeding into something colder, more resolute. He muttered, "I had to stop everyone I could. We'll lose them otherwise." He sighed when a woman started breathing heavily, clearly in pain. "Got to keep them in check" He said, as he time-stopped her again.
He scanned the street, looking for more injured as I stared at Vista's frozen body. His voice was tighter now, almost clinical. "If we don't get emergency support in five, we're going to need to triage right here."
I shrank down, my body folding in on itself with practiced ease until I stood at a more manageable seven feet tall. Still part-draconic, with antlers glinting dully in the haze, claws tapering into something closer to fingers, golden scales hard and gleaming over my limbs, but more humanoid than beast. A compromise between power and approachability, though I wasn't sure how well it worked.
Clockblocker glanced me over. I caught the flicker of unease in his stance before he masked it. Couldn't blame him. I looked like a monster trying to play hero.
"What the hell happened down there?" Clockblocker asked, his voice low, almost hesitant.
I stared at the building's broken skeleton, the smoke still curling from its crumbling frame. My jaw clenched. "I don't know," I muttered. "Some kind of nightmare knight. He came out of nowhere. Attacked Vista while she was trying to get me out."
Clockblocker flickered his gaze to Vista's frozen form. "You think you were the target?"
I hesitated. The thought hadn't occurred to me. I replayed the fight, the silence, the precision of the knight's attacks. He hadn't said a word. Just tore through concrete and steel like he was born from it. "I don't know. Maybe? He didn't say anything. Didn't act like an assassin, more like... like a berserker."
Clockblocker nodded grimly. "If he meant to kill her, he could've gone for the gut. That shoulder wound seems... impractical."
I tapped my foot, the pavement cracking faintly under the pressure. We were wasting time. "Where are the ambulances?"
He growled under his breath. "Something's jamming comms. Fried every phone and radio around."
I glanced up, watching a news chopper circling overhead, their flood lights flickering through the smoke. "Then why are those still flying? If this was an EMP—"
"Tinkertech is bullshit," he cut in with a shrug. "That's my guess."
I didn't argue. Instead, I crouched low and launched myself upward in a burst of flame, wobbling mid-air before finding balance. My legs flared with heat, mimicking a crude jetpack. I rose, heading toward the nearest helicopter, waving and shouting for them to land.
The injured couldn't wait. We'd make do with whatever help we could get.
Why were the news crew screaming at me like they were about to face an Endbringer?
-------
After the news helicopter whisked away the injured civilians that would survive the flight to the hospital without being time-stopped again, Clockblocker remained on high alert, pausing the more critical people as soon as they were moving.
He glanced at Vista's frozen form, the blood still pooled beneath her suspended in time.
"Removing a few people does help matters," he said, voice low but firm. "But I don't know how long we can keep them time-stopped before some other lunatic shows up looking for a fight."
I looked around at the street, several people laid still in panicked gestures, faces twisted with pain, the moment suspended like a photograph.
Clockblocker kept moving methodically, touching one person after another with focused intent. Each one stilled, held at the brink of collapse, frozen in time's mercy.
He turned to me, eyes behind the visor sharp with urgency. "Your bugs..." He seemed to realize something useful. "Can you have them check if any civilians unpause?" When I nodded he sighed in relief. "Okay, if any of them move, even for a second, I want you to let me know. I don't care if it's a twitch. Just tell me."
I nodded, already sending out my bugs to watch over the suspended victims, tiny sentinels monitoring the stillness.
Clockblocker resumed his work, pausing only to catch a heavy breath. As he moved past a woman who laid carefully in the shadow of a burnt-out car, I called out to him.
"Wait," I said, catching his arm. "That woman... she's breathing."
He stared at me for a beat, then nodded.
He crouched beside her, whispering, "You're not dying today," before gently pressing his hand to her shoulder, freezing her mid-gasp. Her body stilled, the panic in her eyes frozen like the rest of her.
"Thanks," he added quietly, more to the moment than to me. I just nodded and turned my focus back to the others still in need.
The air felt heavy with smoke and silence. But beneath it all, there was purpose. We weren't fighting a battle with supervillains right at that moment, sure, but at least we were buying time for the ones who couldn't.
Our moment was lost when the roar of a motorcycle tore through the air. It was grating against the tension that hung over the wreckage-strewn street. The rider weaved through the chaos with reckless abandon, narrowly avoiding twisted streetlights, broken glass, and overturned cars. My claws curled slightly into my palms as the bike skidded in a showy arc, tires screaming against the pavement.
The rider came to a sudden stop half an inch from where I stood, the front wheel nearly brushing my leg. My heart leapt into my throat, not from fear, but from the jarring shift from triage to theatrical stunt. My hackles rose as I narrowed my eyes at the rider, irritation simmering just below the surface.
It was a woman, and she didn't even have a helmet on!
The woman arched a sculpted eyebrow, her lips curling into a crooked grin. "You've got guts," she said with a low chuckle, voice rough like sandpaper and cigarette smoke. Her tone danced on the edge of challenge and amusement, and something in her stance, a tilt of the head, a loose way she let her arms hang, told me she wasn't used to people being unimpressed with her.
I eyed the woman carefully, noting the way her damp, curling hair framed a face drawn in hard lines. No mask. She wore a crimson bodysuit adorned with decorative chains and epaulettes that jangled faintly with each motion. I wondered for a moment what kind of PR agent she got, because I couldn't really see a theme about her suit, it was all over the place. Basically, she just looked like some sort of 'badass woman warrior, and that was it.
Her green eyes were intense beneath black, angular brows, and there was something theatrical in the way she stood astride the motorcycle, like a gladiator posing before a battle.
I turned to Clockblocker, nodding toward the woman still straddling the motorcycle. "Do you know who this is?"
He followed my gaze, and his shoulders loosened a fraction. "That's Challenger," he said, voice quieter than usual. "She's a Protectorate Hero."
I frowned, shifting my weight as I took another look at her. "Where's everyone else?"
She flicked her thumb over her shoulder just as Velocity skidded to a halt beside us. Challenger said, "PRT van's on its way. Gonna get you kids somewhere safer than this mess."
"What about the civilians?" I asked sharply, turning to Velocity. "You can't carry them with you, right?"
Velocity shook his head, looking grim. "No, power doesn't work like that."
Challenger took a drag from a cigarette, exhaling smoke that coiled like a lazy threat. She didn't even glance at the downed people around us.
I felt a pulse of righteous fury ripple through me. My body shifted, growing until I stood eight feet tall, golden scales gleaming as my antlers scraped the air like a shining crown. "We need ambulances for these people. Now."
Challenger let out a low whistle and grinned. A giant axe, larger than her in fact, blinked into existence, and she held it like it was light as a feather. "Heh. Fought Lung back in the day. I was wondering if I could get my round two with his heir." She flickered the cigarette to the floor and grinned.
I glared at her, then turned to Velocity, my tone sharp. "Can you contact the Director?"
Without a word, he handed me something that looked more like a laminated business card than a phone. Definitely Armsmaster's design.
I called. The line clicked.
"Hello? Am I talking with Director Piggot?"
"Tiamat, good to hear your voice," came Renick's voice, weary, but focused. "Unfortunately Director Piggot is in a meeting with Chief Director Costa Brown," he breathed in. "What's going on out there? Why haven't you reported in?"
"Communications were fried. I guess it was one of Bakuda's Tinkertech bombs," I said. "We've got injured civilians. Clockblocker is maxing to keep them alive. We need help right now."
"I'm sorry Tiamat, we're running thin right now and—" There was a pause on the other end. I imagined people moving, screens lighting up, decisions made in split seconds.
Then Renick came back on. "We can't spare any ambulances, but you've got something better."
I blinked. "What does that mean—"
A gust of wind slammed into the ground beside us. A girl in white and gold landed, cradling another in priest-like robes.
"Did somebody call for a miracle? Guts and Glory, at your service!" Glory Girl beamed. "I'm the chauffeur, she's the healer."
"She's guts?" I asked, and snorted. Feeling the imaginary pressure being lifted from my shoulders.
Panacea rolled her eyes and stepped forward, eyes already scanning the damage.
She shook her head slowly, the weariness in her eyes belying the sharpness of her stride. "Why do I have to deal with this shit?" she muttered under her breath, brushing past me without a glance.
Her hands were already in motion as she approached Vista, jaw clenched and expression unreadable. She knelt beside the time-frozen girl, fingers hovering just above the mangled wound, patiently waiting for Clockblocker's power to run out so she could assess the damage with clinical precision.
Last edited:
Nicohals J Westerberg
(Local Lurker)
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2022
- Messages
- 177
Makes sense for a kid scared of a dragon to trigger as a knight
Chapter 14
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
Smoke still lingered in the sky, curling lazily like it hadn't realized the fighting was over. I sat on a battered concrete ledge that overlooked the half-destroyed boardwalk. My costume clung to me in torn fragments, scales dulled to a weary bronze that reflected none of the fire I'd absorbed earlier. The city looked broken. I felt the same way.
My gaze wandered to Panacea, kneeling beside another injured civilian, her hands barely touching with that quiet, impossible movement of muscle and sinew.
I couldn't deny the gratitude threading through my thoughts at her being here. She had been given the most heroic power a parahuman could ever hope to get. In a world where everything felt like it was falling apart, she had the ability to put it back together piece by piece.
So why did I dislike her? Besides her judgemental attitude, I mean.
I turned my head when I noticed movement above. Glory Girl was floating nearby, just a few feet off the ground, her cape fluttering slightly in the updraft from a still-smoldering fire across the street. I blinked at her, cocked my head, trying to read her expression.
She gave me an awkward little wave. Not smug, not performative. Genuine, maybe? I wasn't sure what to do with that.
Slowly, she descended and landed beside me, her posture stiff. "Hey," she said, voice quieter than the loud flying brick with no brakes some people on PHO portrayed her to be. "Amy told me what you did. Donating biomass like that..."
I opened my mouth to deflect, to brush it off. "Just doing what anyone in my place would've done," I said. Except it didn't sound right once I heard it out loud.
She gave a tight smile. "Well, no one else offered to do anything like that." She paused for a beat and gave me a thoughtful look. "Not that there are many regenerators like you around."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded, and for a moment, we both looked out over the ruined street in silence.
Glory Girl sat down on the edge of the ledge beside me, her tone shifting to something lighter, more casual. "So, power theory question," she said, almost like she was trying to distract both of us. "Where does all that mass come from when you regrow limbs? I mean, you gave Amy a whole chunk of your body and you're still walking around."
I blinked, thrown by the sudden pivot. "I... don't really know," I admitted. "I think my power pulls it from somewhere else? Maybe ambient biomass? Or maybe it just makes more. It doesn't exactly come with a manual."
I breathed hard, remembering the trembling face of the child that Bakuda used as a suicide bomber. I hoped he didn't feel any pain when that bomb exploded. I shook my head, and added, "one of Bakuda's bombs almost got me, and I regenerated pretty much instantly, I think half of my brain was gone, it's automatic, like I said."
"Gone?" She whistled. "But you remember everything from before?"
"Yes...?"
She bit her lip, thinking. "But if you got half of your brain destroyed, how do you not have any neurological issues? Does your power give you some sort of backup?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Like I said, I don't really have a clue."
That didn't seem to please her inner cape nerd. "Dude, that's wild," she blinked, as if realizing something. "I was sure that dumb lecturer was wrong!"
"Who? And what was he wrong about?"
She made a motion with her hand, as if trying to tell me it wasn't important. "Just a professor in my AP Class, claimed that telepathy is impossible because the human brain doesn't have the processing power." She grinned. "But if you retain yourself when you regenerate, it shows that powers don't care about physics, so that's definitely not the reason that there aren't any known telepaths around."
I looked at Panacea, healing the last few patients. "Well, unless your power is to mold existing biology as you please."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Amy's pissed about that stunt you pulled, by the way. Not at you. Just... She's been twitchy as of late, she has this thing about villains, and nature vs nurture that..." She shook her head, and made a face, perhaps realizing that she was sharing too much, instead she shifted to a conspiratorial tone. "Laserdream told me that Amy was seriously thinking about getting a body from the morgue before you walked in like some grim reaper-slash-heroine with a slightly less gross solution."
I snuck a glance at her new arm. The skin tone was off, not quite matching the rest of her body. Subtle, but noticeable. "Doesn't quite match," I said.
Glory Girl looked at it, then grinned, and flexed her muscles. "Yeah. Kinda gives me an edgier look, don't you think? Like I lost my arm in a duel and earned my stripes."
I gave her a look. "You did lose it in a duel."
She laughed, and to my surprise, it wasn't forced. She... was kind of cool, unlike her wet cat of a sister.
-----
Back in the PRT HQ, all the Wards were gathered in the common room, the tension so thick you could've chiseled it into bricks and built a bunker with it. The overhead fluorescents flickered with a faint, sickly buzz, like even the lighting was holding its breath. I took a seat along the edge of the table, near enough to listen, far enough that I wouldn't have to pretend I belonged.
There was this low, residual hum in the air, leftover adrenaline, maybe. The kind that rides shotgun with disaster and doesn't know when to leave. My scales had retracted, mostly, and my limbs ached in that distant, afterburn kind of way that told me I'd pushed past a limit I hadn't known I had.
The others were chatting in hushed voices, glancing my way when they thought I wasn't looking. It felt like walking into the aftermath of my own legend, unsure whether they were whispering praise or the prelude to another rumor. I could've listened in, really, but I forced myself not to. I would rather keep Schrödinger's cat both alive and dead, rather than find out it died.
Piggot entered with Armsmaster at her side, her expression unreadable. Challenger followed just behind, her red bodysuit still immaculate despite the chaos of the day. I braced myself, expecting some backhanded comment or tight-lipped scolding. Piggot's eyes scanned the room, pausing just a moment too long on me. I thought I saw disdain in her eyes, or maybe just exhaustion, until they shifted briefly toward Challenger, and her mouth pressed into a thinner line.
I tried not to scowl, but it tugged at the corner of my mouth anyway. Challenger stood just across the room, polished and composed, her body language a cocktail of pride and disinterest. She'd rather square off with me than haul a single civilian to safety. And yet she had the badge, the name, the press coverage. A Protectorate hero, in title if not in truth.
Me? I'd dragged bodies out of a burning building, felt almost half-deaf from the screams and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. I'd tasted smoke and blood in equal measure. But somehow, I was still the question mark. The uneasy outsider. The dragon in the room no one quite trusted, even after I'd bled for the city.
If heroism was a brand, Challenger had the better marketing team. She belonged in the set of a bad copy of Mad Max.
She caught me staring, and grinned with the smug satisfaction of someone who'd just stirred a hornet's nest on purpose. "Hey, you up for a fight? I'm still itching for round two against a dragon person."
My jaw tensed as I bared my teeth. I felt the bone shift. My teeth twisted, taking a shark-like aspect to them. "You'd lose," I said, voice low and guttural.
She chuckled, tossed a lock of damp hair back over her shoulder like we were flirting. "That sounds like a challenge, and I love challenges!"
Piggot's glare could've melted paint off steel. "Challenger," she snapped. "Not now."
The smug smirk wilted just a bit, and Challenger stepped back, her arms crossed.
Piggot turned her focus to me, Vista, and Clockblocker. She exhaled through her nose, and for a moment I thought she might say something cutting. But instead she said, with all the warmth of a freezer door opening, "I'm glad you're alive. All of you."
Coming from her, it might as well have been a standing ovation.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Piggot's gaze cut across the room like a razor, finally landing on me with the same warmth you might reserve for a gas leak you couldn't quite fix. Her lips pressed into a hard line before she spoke. Her voice, when it came, was drier than scorched gravel and carried all the enthusiasm of a funeral bell.
"Congratulations, Tiamat. Your actions today have shifted the public narrative."
It wasn't praise, the tone of her voice made it sound more like a weather report. Impersonal, inevitable, and just as likely to be followed by disaster.
I braced for the caveat, the knife wrapped in a compliment.
"People still think you're Lung's daughter," she said, and that was the knife, all right. But she didn't twist it. "But they don't care anymore. Everything you did today has made you the most popular Brockton Bay hero. Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame."
My heart stuttered. I waited for the catch, the correction. For someone to laugh. But no one did. The room held its breath around me, like I'd grown a second head, or maybe, for once, like they finally saw me as someone with only one.
Before I could react, Browbeat stepped forward, the movement a little stiff, like he'd rehearsed it a few times in his head before committing. He didn't quite meet my eyes, instead focusing somewhere around my shoulder.
"You saved people," he said, each word deliberate, like he was measuring them out in his head before handing them over. "You did it when no one else could. That was... brave. And cool."
There was a pause, and he added with a small, nervous smile, "everyone now knows you're for real."
Vista gave me a thumbs up from her seat, her expression soft with something like admiration. Clockblocker, for once, didn't make a joke. He just nodded, he was still a little exhausted after keeping all those people alive. He did just as much for them as I had.
I looked at Piggot again. She seemed... less thrilled. Relieved, maybe, but far from happy. Like my survival had been useful, not welcome. Like I was a PR solution that saved her a bigger problem.
Armsmaster, on the other hand, stood a little taller beside her. I caught the briefest flicker of something like pride in the way his mouth curled upwards.
Armsmaster stepped forward, clearing his throat. The room stilled instantly.
"Situation report," he said, voice flat but tight. "As you know, one of Bakuda's targets was the Medhall building. Several staff have been confirmed dead, more are missing. Damage was total."
A low murmur ran through the room. I tensed. Medhall wasn't just another company, it was an institution in Brockton Bay. The biggest company that still hires more and more people every single year.
Armsmaster continued. "Max Anders, CEO of Medhall, has publicly issued a bounty for the capture of Bakuda and any member of the ABB. He did this against direct recommendations from the PRT."
Piggot looked like she had eaten a rotten apple. "This will not end well. We're expecting waves of trouble, mercenaries, thrill-seekers, parahuman bounty hunters with questionable loyalties. Worse, the public may begin pointing fingers without evidence. Anyone of Asian descent might be harassed, accused, or worse."
I clenched my hands under the table. I'd seen how fast a scared city could turn ugly. This wasn't just a powder keg. It was a lit fuse dangling over one.
I glanced down at the glass tabletop, my warped reflection staring back at me, the same face that seemed like a stranger, more like Lung's daughter than Taylor Hebert. I wondered if I'd get harassed for looking asian. "Then we deal with Bakuda," I said, voice quiet but steady. "Before someone else burns the whole city trying."
Piggot didn't respond immediately. Her fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled.
She straightened, clasping her hands behind her back like she was preparing to deliver a military strike order. "As of this afternoon, Chief Director Costa-Brown has issued a formal kill order for Bakuda. The Triumvirate is being mobilized."
The words hit like ice water poured down the spine. Silence stretched across the room. That seemed like using a nuclear bomb to deal with a hostage situation.
Browbeat's brow furrowed, and he looked up from the spot on the floor he'd been studying with laser focus. "The Triumvirate? Here? That's... serious."
Piggot nodded once. "Bakuda's threat level has been elevated to an A-Class. I pushed for S, but the rest of the directors seemed to think their own situations were just as dire." She shifted on her feet, clearly annoyed at the threat assessment of her fellow directors. "However, since her technology is unstable, unpredictable, and lethal on a scale we haven't seen outside of Endbringer conflicts, Alexandria and Eidolon are going to get started hunting our resident manic Bomber. Legend is occupied with the Teeth in Boston."
There was a pause, then Gallant raised a hand, his expression thoughtful. He was usually calm, but carried the kind of quiet intensity that made people listen.
"If she's escalating," he said, glancing around the room, "and we're the ones out there, doesn't that make us... targets too?" His eyes quickly focused on me, before darting back to Piggot. "They already tried to kill Tiamat, they almost killed three of us."
It wasn't a complaint, not really. More like someone pointing out the missing step in a stairwell right before you fall face-first onto the landing. The kind of question that left the room a little too quiet in its wake.
Piggot had this look on her face, like she was tired of dealing with idiots who stated the obvious. "Which is why all Wards are to stay off the streets until further notice. No patrols. No public appearances. You keep your heads down and stay out of the way."
I opened my mouth, fury coiling in my chest, but before I could speak, Piggot pivoted and locked eyes with me. Her look said enough. This wasn't a negotiation.
I bit my tongue. For now.
Piggot folded her arms. "Tell us about that knight that almost got Vista killed."
Vista shifted in her seat, still pale from blood loss but lucid. "He was fast. Not just physically. Smart fast. Used space like he could see the battlefield in layers. Every time I tried to trap him with spatial distortions, he twisted around them like they were suggestions, not obstacles."
I leaned back on my chair, closing my eyes as I pictured the hellish knight's helmet. "He soaked a full blast of fire straight to the chest. Not just soaked, redirected it. The armor around him melted, pulled away, then reformed in layers. The metal responded before he did. It was like... the armor had a mind of its own."
Armsmaster made a low noise in his throat, eyes narrowing. "That sounds like Kaiser's shaping ability crossed with Hookwolf's combat responsiveness. Perhaps faster. Cleaner."
Vista frowned. "It was like the environment fed him. Street signs, rebar, vehicle frames. Anything ferrous, even semi-ferrous, snapped to him like iron filings to a magnet."
I shook my head. "Nope. He also had concrete attached to him. Also, When I tried to swarm him with my bugs, he just... absorbed them. I lost connection to those bugs as soon as they touched him."
"So he's a grab-bag?" Kid Win asked.
Armsmaster shook his head slowly. "Or he's something more complex. It could all be one single power. A localized field control with some sort of limited precog or threat detection. Combined with dynamic armor reconfiguration. A thinker-brute hybrid, maybe."
I felt my jaw tighten, the muscles aching with the effort not to grind my teeth. The memory wasn't just vivid, it was seared into the inside of my skull. That knight, that monster in armor, weaving through Vista's traps like they were chalk lines on pavement. Barely a breath behind her every time.
"He didn't hesitate," Vista said, voice low. "He moved like he knew exactly what we could do. Like he'd trained for this. Trained for us."
Next to me, Browbeat shifted. His hands were clenched into awkward fists, not in anger, but like he needed to hold something or maybe keep from stimming. "That kind of preparedness… it means surveillance. Observational data. Maybe predictive modeling." He blinked slowly, avoiding eye contact but focused in the way only he could be. "Whoever he is, he's done his homework."
I tapped my foot, the heel clicking against the tile with a soft, steady rhythm that barely disguised my unease. "I'm not sure he was calculating anything at all," I muttered, more to myself than the room. "He didn't move like someone working a plan, more like a berserker, tearing through everything in his path. That kind of rage doesn't look for targets. It just finds motion and crushes it. Reactive, not proactive."
My voice tightened. "Maybe we weren't the target. Maybe he just saw us as another obstacle in his way. Wrong place, wrong time, and we looked like the enemy. Or... maybe he didn't care."
I looked around, daring someone to disagree. "Sometimes monsters don't need reasons. They just want something to kill."
Challenger leaned back in her seat and stretched like the conversation bored her. "Honestly? Those powers scream Empire Eighty-Eight to me. The way he shapes the battlefield, the control over metal and debris... Like Armsie here said, it's Kaiser and Hookwolf's lovechild, wrapped in a steel fever dream."
Armsmaster froze mid-keystroke on his armor's forearm console and looked up, his mouth a thin line. "Because his abilities echo theirs? That's not enough. The Empire Eighty-Eight wouldn't be caught dead working with ABB. It's mutually assured annihilation."
Challenger shrugged, and scratched between her teeth, like looking for some leftover food. "Doesn't have to be a collaboration. Maybe they both had the same idea, but Bakuda got there first. Both had motives. Bakuda sees Tiamat as a threat to her authority. The Empire might see her as Lung's heir. Too dangerous to let her keep climbing. Easier to clip her wings before she learns the ropes."
Her tone was flippant, but her eyes were sharp. She wasn't throwing theories out for fun. She was drawing blood with them.
"So what, a two-pronged assassination attempt?" I asked, brow furrowed. "Bakuda goes big with the bombs, and the Knight cleans up in person? That's a hell of a coincidence."
Challenger gave a lazy smile. "Or maybe not a coincidence at all. Just two apex predators smelling weakness and going for the throat."
Armsmaster didn't look satisfied, but he didn't argue either. Which, from him, was practically admitting she had a point. He sighed. "For now, we'll keep him labeled as an independent villain, until we have more data. the Knight—"
Kid Win snapped his fingers, the sound sharp against the thick silence. "Knightmare," he exclaimed with a grin that didn't quite mask his unease. "Just calling him 'Knight' doesn't cut it. That guy sounds like a walking horror story in plate armor. Might as well give him a name fit for it."
I grimaced. The name was juvenile, a little too try-hard, like something a middle schooler would carve into the margins of a cape doodle. But the room didn't laugh. Piggot didn't blink. Instead, she gave a sharp nod, her voice flat.
"Knightmare it is."
Just like that, it was real. A name, a shape, a shadow that now had a place in our playbook. And somehow, it felt like we'd summoned something worse just by giving it a title.
"As I was saying," Armsmaster tapped something into his armor. "We'll treat him as an independent villain for now. Do not engage."
"Not that any of you are cleared to leave the base until the Bakuda situation is neutralized," Piggot said, tone clipped and cold.
Challenger leaned back in her seat, feet propped up on the edge of the table like she owned the room. She shot a smirk across the table. "Aw, what a shame. No patrols? But the kiddie corps was just starting to enjoy playtime."
There was an audible crack as someone's knuckles popped, Clockblocker, maybe. I wasn't certain. I had the impression that he disliked Challenger as much as I did.
Piggot's gaze narrowed. "Challenger. This isn't the time."
Challenger gave a lazy shrug, still grinning like she was daring someone to call her on it. "Hey, I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. Can't have our precious wards get a boo-boo."
Every moment that I spent in the same room as this bitch was a moment closer that I would just decide to blow the whole place up just to see her shit-eating grin gone from her face.
My gaze wandered to Panacea, kneeling beside another injured civilian, her hands barely touching with that quiet, impossible movement of muscle and sinew.
I couldn't deny the gratitude threading through my thoughts at her being here. She had been given the most heroic power a parahuman could ever hope to get. In a world where everything felt like it was falling apart, she had the ability to put it back together piece by piece.
So why did I dislike her? Besides her judgemental attitude, I mean.
I turned my head when I noticed movement above. Glory Girl was floating nearby, just a few feet off the ground, her cape fluttering slightly in the updraft from a still-smoldering fire across the street. I blinked at her, cocked my head, trying to read her expression.
She gave me an awkward little wave. Not smug, not performative. Genuine, maybe? I wasn't sure what to do with that.
Slowly, she descended and landed beside me, her posture stiff. "Hey," she said, voice quieter than the loud flying brick with no brakes some people on PHO portrayed her to be. "Amy told me what you did. Donating biomass like that..."
I opened my mouth to deflect, to brush it off. "Just doing what anyone in my place would've done," I said. Except it didn't sound right once I heard it out loud.
She gave a tight smile. "Well, no one else offered to do anything like that." She paused for a beat and gave me a thoughtful look. "Not that there are many regenerators like you around."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I just nodded, and for a moment, we both looked out over the ruined street in silence.
Glory Girl sat down on the edge of the ledge beside me, her tone shifting to something lighter, more casual. "So, power theory question," she said, almost like she was trying to distract both of us. "Where does all that mass come from when you regrow limbs? I mean, you gave Amy a whole chunk of your body and you're still walking around."
I blinked, thrown by the sudden pivot. "I... don't really know," I admitted. "I think my power pulls it from somewhere else? Maybe ambient biomass? Or maybe it just makes more. It doesn't exactly come with a manual."
I breathed hard, remembering the trembling face of the child that Bakuda used as a suicide bomber. I hoped he didn't feel any pain when that bomb exploded. I shook my head, and added, "one of Bakuda's bombs almost got me, and I regenerated pretty much instantly, I think half of my brain was gone, it's automatic, like I said."
"Gone?" She whistled. "But you remember everything from before?"
"Yes...?"
She bit her lip, thinking. "But if you got half of your brain destroyed, how do you not have any neurological issues? Does your power give you some sort of backup?"
I shrugged my shoulders. "Like I said, I don't really have a clue."
That didn't seem to please her inner cape nerd. "Dude, that's wild," she blinked, as if realizing something. "I was sure that dumb lecturer was wrong!"
"Who? And what was he wrong about?"
She made a motion with her hand, as if trying to tell me it wasn't important. "Just a professor in my AP Class, claimed that telepathy is impossible because the human brain doesn't have the processing power." She grinned. "But if you retain yourself when you regenerate, it shows that powers don't care about physics, so that's definitely not the reason that there aren't any known telepaths around."
I looked at Panacea, healing the last few patients. "Well, unless your power is to mold existing biology as you please."
She nodded thoughtfully. "Amy's pissed about that stunt you pulled, by the way. Not at you. Just... She's been twitchy as of late, she has this thing about villains, and nature vs nurture that..." She shook her head, and made a face, perhaps realizing that she was sharing too much, instead she shifted to a conspiratorial tone. "Laserdream told me that Amy was seriously thinking about getting a body from the morgue before you walked in like some grim reaper-slash-heroine with a slightly less gross solution."
I snuck a glance at her new arm. The skin tone was off, not quite matching the rest of her body. Subtle, but noticeable. "Doesn't quite match," I said.
Glory Girl looked at it, then grinned, and flexed her muscles. "Yeah. Kinda gives me an edgier look, don't you think? Like I lost my arm in a duel and earned my stripes."
I gave her a look. "You did lose it in a duel."
She laughed, and to my surprise, it wasn't forced. She... was kind of cool, unlike her wet cat of a sister.
-----
Back in the PRT HQ, all the Wards were gathered in the common room, the tension so thick you could've chiseled it into bricks and built a bunker with it. The overhead fluorescents flickered with a faint, sickly buzz, like even the lighting was holding its breath. I took a seat along the edge of the table, near enough to listen, far enough that I wouldn't have to pretend I belonged.
There was this low, residual hum in the air, leftover adrenaline, maybe. The kind that rides shotgun with disaster and doesn't know when to leave. My scales had retracted, mostly, and my limbs ached in that distant, afterburn kind of way that told me I'd pushed past a limit I hadn't known I had.
The others were chatting in hushed voices, glancing my way when they thought I wasn't looking. It felt like walking into the aftermath of my own legend, unsure whether they were whispering praise or the prelude to another rumor. I could've listened in, really, but I forced myself not to. I would rather keep Schrödinger's cat both alive and dead, rather than find out it died.
Piggot entered with Armsmaster at her side, her expression unreadable. Challenger followed just behind, her red bodysuit still immaculate despite the chaos of the day. I braced myself, expecting some backhanded comment or tight-lipped scolding. Piggot's eyes scanned the room, pausing just a moment too long on me. I thought I saw disdain in her eyes, or maybe just exhaustion, until they shifted briefly toward Challenger, and her mouth pressed into a thinner line.
I tried not to scowl, but it tugged at the corner of my mouth anyway. Challenger stood just across the room, polished and composed, her body language a cocktail of pride and disinterest. She'd rather square off with me than haul a single civilian to safety. And yet she had the badge, the name, the press coverage. A Protectorate hero, in title if not in truth.
Me? I'd dragged bodies out of a burning building, felt almost half-deaf from the screams and my own heartbeat pounding in my ears. I'd tasted smoke and blood in equal measure. But somehow, I was still the question mark. The uneasy outsider. The dragon in the room no one quite trusted, even after I'd bled for the city.
If heroism was a brand, Challenger had the better marketing team. She belonged in the set of a bad copy of Mad Max.
She caught me staring, and grinned with the smug satisfaction of someone who'd just stirred a hornet's nest on purpose. "Hey, you up for a fight? I'm still itching for round two against a dragon person."
My jaw tensed as I bared my teeth. I felt the bone shift. My teeth twisted, taking a shark-like aspect to them. "You'd lose," I said, voice low and guttural.
She chuckled, tossed a lock of damp hair back over her shoulder like we were flirting. "That sounds like a challenge, and I love challenges!"
Piggot's glare could've melted paint off steel. "Challenger," she snapped. "Not now."
The smug smirk wilted just a bit, and Challenger stepped back, her arms crossed.
Piggot turned her focus to me, Vista, and Clockblocker. She exhaled through her nose, and for a moment I thought she might say something cutting. But instead she said, with all the warmth of a freezer door opening, "I'm glad you're alive. All of you."
Coming from her, it might as well have been a standing ovation.
There was a moment of stunned silence. Piggot's gaze cut across the room like a razor, finally landing on me with the same warmth you might reserve for a gas leak you couldn't quite fix. Her lips pressed into a hard line before she spoke. Her voice, when it came, was drier than scorched gravel and carried all the enthusiasm of a funeral bell.
"Congratulations, Tiamat. Your actions today have shifted the public narrative."
It wasn't praise, the tone of her voice made it sound more like a weather report. Impersonal, inevitable, and just as likely to be followed by disaster.
I braced for the caveat, the knife wrapped in a compliment.
"People still think you're Lung's daughter," she said, and that was the knife, all right. But she didn't twist it. "But they don't care anymore. Everything you did today has made you the most popular Brockton Bay hero. Enjoy your fifteen minutes of fame."
My heart stuttered. I waited for the catch, the correction. For someone to laugh. But no one did. The room held its breath around me, like I'd grown a second head, or maybe, for once, like they finally saw me as someone with only one.
Before I could react, Browbeat stepped forward, the movement a little stiff, like he'd rehearsed it a few times in his head before committing. He didn't quite meet my eyes, instead focusing somewhere around my shoulder.
"You saved people," he said, each word deliberate, like he was measuring them out in his head before handing them over. "You did it when no one else could. That was... brave. And cool."
There was a pause, and he added with a small, nervous smile, "everyone now knows you're for real."
Vista gave me a thumbs up from her seat, her expression soft with something like admiration. Clockblocker, for once, didn't make a joke. He just nodded, he was still a little exhausted after keeping all those people alive. He did just as much for them as I had.
I looked at Piggot again. She seemed... less thrilled. Relieved, maybe, but far from happy. Like my survival had been useful, not welcome. Like I was a PR solution that saved her a bigger problem.
Armsmaster, on the other hand, stood a little taller beside her. I caught the briefest flicker of something like pride in the way his mouth curled upwards.
Armsmaster stepped forward, clearing his throat. The room stilled instantly.
"Situation report," he said, voice flat but tight. "As you know, one of Bakuda's targets was the Medhall building. Several staff have been confirmed dead, more are missing. Damage was total."
A low murmur ran through the room. I tensed. Medhall wasn't just another company, it was an institution in Brockton Bay. The biggest company that still hires more and more people every single year.
Armsmaster continued. "Max Anders, CEO of Medhall, has publicly issued a bounty for the capture of Bakuda and any member of the ABB. He did this against direct recommendations from the PRT."
Piggot looked like she had eaten a rotten apple. "This will not end well. We're expecting waves of trouble, mercenaries, thrill-seekers, parahuman bounty hunters with questionable loyalties. Worse, the public may begin pointing fingers without evidence. Anyone of Asian descent might be harassed, accused, or worse."
I clenched my hands under the table. I'd seen how fast a scared city could turn ugly. This wasn't just a powder keg. It was a lit fuse dangling over one.
I glanced down at the glass tabletop, my warped reflection staring back at me, the same face that seemed like a stranger, more like Lung's daughter than Taylor Hebert. I wondered if I'd get harassed for looking asian. "Then we deal with Bakuda," I said, voice quiet but steady. "Before someone else burns the whole city trying."
Piggot didn't respond immediately. Her fingers drummed once against the table, then stilled.
She straightened, clasping her hands behind her back like she was preparing to deliver a military strike order. "As of this afternoon, Chief Director Costa-Brown has issued a formal kill order for Bakuda. The Triumvirate is being mobilized."
The words hit like ice water poured down the spine. Silence stretched across the room. That seemed like using a nuclear bomb to deal with a hostage situation.
Browbeat's brow furrowed, and he looked up from the spot on the floor he'd been studying with laser focus. "The Triumvirate? Here? That's... serious."
Piggot nodded once. "Bakuda's threat level has been elevated to an A-Class. I pushed for S, but the rest of the directors seemed to think their own situations were just as dire." She shifted on her feet, clearly annoyed at the threat assessment of her fellow directors. "However, since her technology is unstable, unpredictable, and lethal on a scale we haven't seen outside of Endbringer conflicts, Alexandria and Eidolon are going to get started hunting our resident manic Bomber. Legend is occupied with the Teeth in Boston."
There was a pause, then Gallant raised a hand, his expression thoughtful. He was usually calm, but carried the kind of quiet intensity that made people listen.
"If she's escalating," he said, glancing around the room, "and we're the ones out there, doesn't that make us... targets too?" His eyes quickly focused on me, before darting back to Piggot. "They already tried to kill Tiamat, they almost killed three of us."
It wasn't a complaint, not really. More like someone pointing out the missing step in a stairwell right before you fall face-first onto the landing. The kind of question that left the room a little too quiet in its wake.
Piggot had this look on her face, like she was tired of dealing with idiots who stated the obvious. "Which is why all Wards are to stay off the streets until further notice. No patrols. No public appearances. You keep your heads down and stay out of the way."
I opened my mouth, fury coiling in my chest, but before I could speak, Piggot pivoted and locked eyes with me. Her look said enough. This wasn't a negotiation.
I bit my tongue. For now.
Piggot folded her arms. "Tell us about that knight that almost got Vista killed."
Vista shifted in her seat, still pale from blood loss but lucid. "He was fast. Not just physically. Smart fast. Used space like he could see the battlefield in layers. Every time I tried to trap him with spatial distortions, he twisted around them like they were suggestions, not obstacles."
I leaned back on my chair, closing my eyes as I pictured the hellish knight's helmet. "He soaked a full blast of fire straight to the chest. Not just soaked, redirected it. The armor around him melted, pulled away, then reformed in layers. The metal responded before he did. It was like... the armor had a mind of its own."
Armsmaster made a low noise in his throat, eyes narrowing. "That sounds like Kaiser's shaping ability crossed with Hookwolf's combat responsiveness. Perhaps faster. Cleaner."
Vista frowned. "It was like the environment fed him. Street signs, rebar, vehicle frames. Anything ferrous, even semi-ferrous, snapped to him like iron filings to a magnet."
I shook my head. "Nope. He also had concrete attached to him. Also, When I tried to swarm him with my bugs, he just... absorbed them. I lost connection to those bugs as soon as they touched him."
"So he's a grab-bag?" Kid Win asked.
Armsmaster shook his head slowly. "Or he's something more complex. It could all be one single power. A localized field control with some sort of limited precog or threat detection. Combined with dynamic armor reconfiguration. A thinker-brute hybrid, maybe."
I felt my jaw tighten, the muscles aching with the effort not to grind my teeth. The memory wasn't just vivid, it was seared into the inside of my skull. That knight, that monster in armor, weaving through Vista's traps like they were chalk lines on pavement. Barely a breath behind her every time.
"He didn't hesitate," Vista said, voice low. "He moved like he knew exactly what we could do. Like he'd trained for this. Trained for us."
Next to me, Browbeat shifted. His hands were clenched into awkward fists, not in anger, but like he needed to hold something or maybe keep from stimming. "That kind of preparedness… it means surveillance. Observational data. Maybe predictive modeling." He blinked slowly, avoiding eye contact but focused in the way only he could be. "Whoever he is, he's done his homework."
I tapped my foot, the heel clicking against the tile with a soft, steady rhythm that barely disguised my unease. "I'm not sure he was calculating anything at all," I muttered, more to myself than the room. "He didn't move like someone working a plan, more like a berserker, tearing through everything in his path. That kind of rage doesn't look for targets. It just finds motion and crushes it. Reactive, not proactive."
My voice tightened. "Maybe we weren't the target. Maybe he just saw us as another obstacle in his way. Wrong place, wrong time, and we looked like the enemy. Or... maybe he didn't care."
I looked around, daring someone to disagree. "Sometimes monsters don't need reasons. They just want something to kill."
Challenger leaned back in her seat and stretched like the conversation bored her. "Honestly? Those powers scream Empire Eighty-Eight to me. The way he shapes the battlefield, the control over metal and debris... Like Armsie here said, it's Kaiser and Hookwolf's lovechild, wrapped in a steel fever dream."
Armsmaster froze mid-keystroke on his armor's forearm console and looked up, his mouth a thin line. "Because his abilities echo theirs? That's not enough. The Empire Eighty-Eight wouldn't be caught dead working with ABB. It's mutually assured annihilation."
Challenger shrugged, and scratched between her teeth, like looking for some leftover food. "Doesn't have to be a collaboration. Maybe they both had the same idea, but Bakuda got there first. Both had motives. Bakuda sees Tiamat as a threat to her authority. The Empire might see her as Lung's heir. Too dangerous to let her keep climbing. Easier to clip her wings before she learns the ropes."
Her tone was flippant, but her eyes were sharp. She wasn't throwing theories out for fun. She was drawing blood with them.
"So what, a two-pronged assassination attempt?" I asked, brow furrowed. "Bakuda goes big with the bombs, and the Knight cleans up in person? That's a hell of a coincidence."
Challenger gave a lazy smile. "Or maybe not a coincidence at all. Just two apex predators smelling weakness and going for the throat."
Armsmaster didn't look satisfied, but he didn't argue either. Which, from him, was practically admitting she had a point. He sighed. "For now, we'll keep him labeled as an independent villain, until we have more data. the Knight—"
Kid Win snapped his fingers, the sound sharp against the thick silence. "Knightmare," he exclaimed with a grin that didn't quite mask his unease. "Just calling him 'Knight' doesn't cut it. That guy sounds like a walking horror story in plate armor. Might as well give him a name fit for it."
I grimaced. The name was juvenile, a little too try-hard, like something a middle schooler would carve into the margins of a cape doodle. But the room didn't laugh. Piggot didn't blink. Instead, she gave a sharp nod, her voice flat.
"Knightmare it is."
Just like that, it was real. A name, a shape, a shadow that now had a place in our playbook. And somehow, it felt like we'd summoned something worse just by giving it a title.
"As I was saying," Armsmaster tapped something into his armor. "We'll treat him as an independent villain for now. Do not engage."
"Not that any of you are cleared to leave the base until the Bakuda situation is neutralized," Piggot said, tone clipped and cold.
Challenger leaned back in her seat, feet propped up on the edge of the table like she owned the room. She shot a smirk across the table. "Aw, what a shame. No patrols? But the kiddie corps was just starting to enjoy playtime."
There was an audible crack as someone's knuckles popped, Clockblocker, maybe. I wasn't certain. I had the impression that he disliked Challenger as much as I did.
Piggot's gaze narrowed. "Challenger. This isn't the time."
Challenger gave a lazy shrug, still grinning like she was daring someone to call her on it. "Hey, I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. Can't have our precious wards get a boo-boo."
Every moment that I spent in the same room as this bitch was a moment closer that I would just decide to blow the whole place up just to see her shit-eating grin gone from her face.
LordBookworm
Sneaky Sneaky
- Joined
- Sep 6, 2021
- Messages
- 7
Thanks for the chapter!
You have a gift for making Challenger incredibly annoying lol, bravo
You have a gift for making Challenger incredibly annoying lol, bravo
Chapter 15
New
Kokusho
Getting out there.
- Joined
- Jun 11, 2025
- Messages
- 16
Armsmaster stood over the reinforced titanium workbench in his lab, the reports splayed out before him like a battlefield of facts and probabilities. LED strips illuminated the holographic displays that floated midair, graphs and readouts cascading across translucent panes.
He barely blinked, his entire focus locked on the section highlighted in red, Tiamat's account of the first detonation. The child, the suicide mechanism, and the bomb that had ripped through space and matter with surgical cruelty. The words "All-or-Nothing" effect had been underlined twice by his own hand.
What was left of her body after the blast barely qualified as human, and if it weren't for her hybrid physiology and advanced regenerative abilities, they'd be adding a name to the memorial wall today.
Dragon's voice filtered through the speakers, gentle but laced with that curious lilt only she could manage. "I find Vista's report fascinating."
Armsmaster adjusted the alignment of his visor without looking up from the file. "She was time-locked when the bomb went off. Her point of view is secondhand at best."
Dragon paused. "Yes, but what she experienced after, is what matters. The threat didn't end with the explosion."
He frowned, scrolling deeper into the post-mission debriefs until Vista's statement appeared. The language was precise, mechanical, likely influenced by her focus on appearing to be more mature than the rest of the wards. The content had information that Tiamat's and Clockblocker's report lacked.
She had tried to extract Tiamat from the collapsed structure. Had gotten within a dozen feet before something attacked her. Something from the sub-level. Armsmaster's jaw tightened.
"She mentioned it came from beneath the parking lot," he said aloud. "Where Tiamat was last recorded unconscious."
Dragon's avatar flickered into view on the side monitor, a faint shimmer of green and gold circuitry in a stylized silhouette. "Exactly."
Armsmaster leaned forward, tapping his gauntleted fingers against the edge of the console. The holographic image of Tiamat's flight path and heat signature flickered in response, overlaid with timestamped logs. "She made it into the parking structure before the second wave of explosions. Twelve civilians were alive at time of entry. By the time backup arrived, there were eleven dead bodies."
"But the reason for their death has nothing to do with Tiamat getting there late, or going slow." Dragon added, as more information bombarded Armsmaster's monitors. "She should've gotten all twelve civilians alive, considering the way she vectored her fire to delay the collapse."
"So the question goes to... why were there eleven bodies, and why did Tiamat get momentarily knocked out, sealing the fates of those people."
Dragon's avatar frowned. "I believe the answer to that lies within the child that Tiamat had prioritized to save first."
Armsmaster went through Tiamat's notes and growled under his breath. He caressed his beard. "You believe the child triggered, and caused her to get knocked out."
"It is a well known phenomenon, albeit with very little actual research behind it." Dragon admitted.
Armsmaster didn't respond immediately. He shifted to the screen displaying Dragon's stylized avatar. "Still. It's rare, almost unheard of, for a child so young to trigger."
"Rare, not impossible," Dragon replied, her voice calm. "There were cases. Chile, two years ago. A cluster of eight-year-olds. Also, last year in Brazil a kindergarten was attacked by the local warlord, causing one of the childs to trigger."
He rubbed his chin. "Bonesaw was what? Eight?"
"Six," Dragon corrected, and her avatar's eyes dimmed slightly. "Not the best precedent, I admit. But everyone's psyche is different."
Armsmaster returned to Tiamat's field log, lips tight. "She claims she blacked out before the ceiling caved in. If the Knight hit her with something, a neurological attack perhaps, that'd cause for major concern. Especially if it worked on someone with her physiology."
Dragon's avatar pulsed a subtle green. "And yet it didn't affect Vista. Or Tiamat during their later encounter. That inconsistency suggests that the Knight has no such power."
He flipped through the updated casualty report. "Eleven confirmed dead. One survivor, a potential trigger event. We don't have the child's name yet."
"I will identify the boy's mother, that'd lead us to him."
He turned to a crude sketch Vista had submitted. 'Knightmare' was scrawled beneath the marker. The proportions were wrong, but something in the posture suggested purpose.
"Do you think the child became this?" Armsmaster asked.
"I don't know," Dragon answered solemnly. "But parahumans who trigger young often manifest stronger, less stable powers. This one's signatures don't match anything on file."
He sighed, low and frustrated. "Piggot's going to love this."
"I will get his name for you in twenty minutes."
"Thank you, Dragon." He said, wondering if even with the boy's name they had any chance of finding him, considering the city was in total chaos at the moment.
------
Emma lay back on the infirmary cot, her lip split like a flower forced into bloom, her eye swollen shut with ugly purples and yellows. The taste of blood still lingered at the edge of her tongue. The rhythmic tick of the infirmary clock grated at her nerves, sharp and persistent, like the clink of a spoon endlessly tapping porcelain. It echoed with mechanical indifference, a reminder that time was passing but nothing was changing. No comforting hum, just a scrape of monotony she couldn't ignore.
The doctor who approached was a woman cut from harsh angles and harder days, all cheekbones and judgment. In Emma's swimming vision, she looked like someone who would've made a great villain in a hospital drama, maybe the one who turned out to be a ghost. Her white coat fluttered as she moved with a purposeful sort of grace, and when she seized Emma's chin, it was like a mechanic inspecting a dented fender. Not cruel, exactly. But indifferent, like everything under her touch was just another problem to diagnose and shelve.
"You wince like a kitten but scream like a banshee," the doctor said, tilting Emma's head to one side and then the other. Her fingers were firm, clinical. "Try not to flinch. I don't want to fix your nose next."
"Your bedside manner sucks," Emma muttered through gritted teeth.
The doctor didn't bother to respond. She turned to the tray beside her, uncapped a small tube, and let the scent of antiseptic fill the room. "So," she said, conversationally, as she dabbed ointment on Emma's torn lip. "You get smart with a girl from the Empire? Or just had a bad lunchroom chat with a Merchants' little sister?"
Emma didn't answer. She stared at the blank white ceiling instead. The doctor clicked her tongue.
"You can't play queen bee in here," she said, her voice dry enough to start a brushfire. "These girls aren't scared of attitude. They're scared of knives, razors in pillowcases, and getting burned with hot soup. You act like royalty, they'll crown you with fists." She paused, then let out a short bark of laughter. "Heard what you did to land here. You tried to play queen of the hive, right? Funny thing is, most girls here just killed someone. You? You tortured your best friend. That's… novel."
Emma's jaw tightened. "I'm a survivor."
The doctor gave a mirthless laugh, dry as paper. "Everyone's a survivor. Until they're not."
From her coat pocket, she pulled a blister pack with the same calm a butcher might unwrap a slab of meat. She popped out a small white pill, held it between her fingers, and stared at Emma with a cold smirk that didn't touch her eyes. "Here it is. Tiny, harmless, and the closest thing to mercy you're getting tonight. Take this and maybe you'll sleep through the next round of consequences. Be a good girl," she added, leaning close so Emma could smell the metallic sting of antiseptic on her breath, "and I'll even throw in a lollipop, because you're such a brave little monster."
Emma glared, but the fight was leaving her, ebbing away like warmth from a corpse. She took the pill and dry-swallowed it, the chalky bitterness catching in her throat. Her body was a roadmap of aches, each bruise and fracture lighting up in dim protest. The pain in her ribs pulsed once, then faded to a distant drumbeat, like something buried alive beneath the floorboards.
Her limbs grew heavier with each breath, her eyelids too burdensome to keep open. The sterile world of the infirmary blurred and bled at the edges. Somewhere in the building, a girl laughed, a sharp, broken sound that reminded Emma of glass in a garbage disposal. Sleep took her, not gently, but like a black tide rushing in, whispering promises in a language she didn't understand and didn't want to.
She dreamt of a better life, one stitched from the golden thread of revenge and validation. In it, she had powers, real ones, not the squirming jealousy that nestled in her chest like a parasite. She and Sophia were unstoppable, storming through the city like righteous fire, razing the ABB and every leering villain who had ever dared to look down on them. The Protectorate knelt. The world watched. She had arrived.
The fantasy wrapped her tight, a comforter against the cold truths she'd learned since being thrown into juvie. That night with Sophia, her initiation into a sisterhood of cruelty, had been a turning point. Afterward, Sophia had become gravity, and Emma, a moon bound in orbit. She'd spent years scouring PHO and weirder, darker forums, certain that the universe had missed a step. She was supposed to have triggered. She'd read the signs in her reflection, in her anger, in every scraped-knuckle day she woke up still mundane.
For a brief spell, she'd even convinced herself she was a Thinker, some kind of intuitive genius always one insight away from proving the world wrong. But the tests came back negative. Every attempt at glory fell flat.
She wasn't a Thinker.
She was a joke.
Less than nothing.
Her dreams twisted, warped. No longer empowering, they became strange, ink-drenched. She wandered alleys that shrank behind her, heard Sophia's voice echoing in corridors where no doors existed. Bugs crept under her skin, not biting, just... watching.
Then came the pain. Sharp and sudden, lancing through her torso like she'd swallowed a knife made of glass. Her eyes flew open, dragging her from the dream's fever haze. The sting from her lip, the pounding in her ribs—they'd returned. Whatever the doctor had given her had worn off.
Reality, cruel and fluorescent, returned to her in pieces. And something felt different in the room.
Emma's eyes fluttered open in the dark. The room felt smaller, tighter, as though the shadows had crept in from the corners and woven themselves into the walls. Her limbs were slow, dull with the heavy syrup of sleep, but the hairs on the back of her neck rose as if pulled by strings. Something was wrong.
Where the doctor had been before, sharp lines, antiseptic breath, no patience for drama, stood someone new. A shadow, a horror story waiting to happen, shaped like a woman.
The woman was tall, willowy in a way that made Emma think of trees just before they snapped in a storm. Her eyes were wrong. They didn't blink. Not once. Just two glassy coins pressed into sockets too deep. Her lips barely moved when she spoke, but her voice was crystal clear, like a whisper transmitted through bone.
"Is the bed you made for yourself comfortable, Emma Barnes?"
"What— who are you!?" She said, as she eyed every possible escape route.
The woman got closer. But she didn't walk. It was as if she was floating an inch above the floor.
"I'm an echo, a rumor that no one truly believes exists, a lonely soul who seeks to right the wrongs of this universe," she said and caressed Emma's mangled face with unnaturally long fingers. "But we could be friends, we could—" She paused, and grinned. "Ah, but we both know what you do to your friends."
The woman's hand moved with inhuman slowness, as though savoring the moment, and then her fingers sank into Emma's scalp, not clawing, but pressing, sliding under skin like it was softened clay. Her nails were long, obsidian, glinting like volcanic glass, and they parted Emma's hair and flesh as though her skull had forgotten how to hold itself together. A scream rose in Emma's throat, high and primal, but it came out a choked gasp, caught in the vise of sheer, body-numbing terror.
Each nail felt like it was prying open something deeper than bone. Her mind flashed, not with memories, but with sharp, errant visions: a school hallway slick with shadow, whispers bleeding from the walls, Sophia's eyes full of fire and nothing behind them. Emma tried to move, to fight, but her limbs refused her.
It felt like the woman wasn't just piercing her skull. She was unmaking her. Pulling at the threads of Emma Barnes and weaving something else in their place. Something older. Hungrier. The darkness around them seemed to cheer the transformation on, the room vibrating with a low hum, like a lullaby composed by teeth and rust.
Emma screamed. The sound tore out of her throat raw and animal. She twisted, tried to bolt, but a sharp tug at her wrist stopped her cold. Cuffs. Cold steel bit into skin still puffy from bruises. Panic took hold like frost on glass, cracking her calm wide open.
The woman gilded back, examining Emma like a boy with a magnifying glass and plenty of ants to massacre. She reached into the folds of her coat—or was it a cloak? Emma couldn't tell—and pulled out a vial. The glass shimmered faintly in the low light. Inside swirled something blacker than the room around them.
"Quite unlucky you are little one," the woman said in a singsong tone. "No Corona Pollentia. No spark. A candle without a flame." She eyed the flask and sighed. "And you had a perfect little moment that could've made you soar to your wildest dreams."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know what I mean." The woman's smile widened, unnatural, grotesque. Her mouth stretched impossibly far, lipless and predatory, as though her jaw might unhinge and swallow the room whole. "You don't have the potential to become a parahuman," she said, her tone like a lullaby warped on broken vinyl. "You're just a normie, a bystander in your own tragedy. Destined for a life of no significance, except perhaps for this—"
She gestured at the infirmary around them with a lazy flick of her hand. "Your legacy, Emma Barnes. The cautionary tale. The girl who broke her best friend and got broken in return."
Emma's fear twisted into something uglier. Her teeth clenched, tears welling behind her swollen eye. "It's all Taylor's fault. If she hadn't—"
"—tattled?" the woman interrupted. "Turned the rock and showed the worms underneath?"
Emma's breath hitched. The woman got closer, uncorked the vial with an audible pop. The smell that escaped was not of chemicals, but of ozone and rot and candle wax burned too long.
"You are luckier than you deserve, Emma Barnes. My employers have tasked me with presenting this to you." She sounded perplexed at the objective she had been given, but would do as demanded with no questions asked. "This will give you what you desire," the woman said, and gently, almost lovingly, pressed the vial into Emma's free hand.
The glass was warm.
"What I desire?" Emma whispered, her voice paper-thin. Every instinct screamed for her to throw the vial away, but her fingers curled tight around it, treacherous, like they belonged to someone else. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out thought. Her body shook, a marionette yanked by invisible strings.
"It will bring forth the greatness that you were denied," the woman cooed, voice dripping with something darker than promise.
Emma brought the vial closer. She smelled it. Ozone, burnt sugar, rust. The liquid shimmered—dark, thick, alive. Her lips parted against her will. She tilted her head back and drank.
Fire. Not metaphorical, not spiritual—real, skin-peeling, nerve-shredding agony. It roared down her throat, filling her stomach with a molten pit that radiated outward. Her scream never escaped her lips. She tried to claw at the woman, to make her stop, but the skin on her hand sloughed away like wet clay, revealing a glistening bone beneath. Fingers curled, skeletal and useless.
She wanted to beg, to plead, but she had no voice. She reached for her throat and found nothing but scorched, melting flesh. Her vocal cords were gone. Her breath came in ragged wheezes through ruined airways.
The woman stepped back, smiling like she'd just opened a present. Emma's vision blurred, narrowed to a point. Her body slumped, writhing. The lights flickered again. No power surged. Just black.
"Such beautiful suffering," the woman whispered, voice stretched thin and delighted. "Let it remake you."
And then everything went silent but for the creature's laughter, low, endless, and amused.
-------
Somer's Rock smelled like old beer and desperation, soaked into wood paneling that hadn't seen a good scrubbing since the Eighties. Grue walked ahead, a human wall of calm tension, while Tattletale kept half a step behind, her eyes flicking over the interior. Clinging to Tattletale's arm with a white-knuckled grip was Spitfire, her hood drawn low and her frame practically vibrating with barely restrained panic.
"This was a mistake," Spitfire murmured under her breath, sidling up next to Grue. "Half the city wants my head. Maybe more."
"And yet here you are," Tattletale replied, smiling thinly. "Means you still want to survive. That makes you useful. Relax, you're a good person, everything will end up well for you. I promise."
Grue's tongue clicked underneath his biker helmet. "You're lucky that Bakuda went nuts, you're way low on the PRT's priority lists."
Tattletale grinned. "Yup, don't worry, you're old news!"
Spitfire didn't answer. She just stared down the length of the bar. The place was decrepit in ways she couldn't have imagined..
Her hoodie was drawn low, hands stuffed in her pockets, but her steps were twitchy, the kind that spoke of nerves wound too tight. Tattletale clocked the hesitation, the way behind Spitfire's mask, her eyes darted across the bar like someone expecting to find themselves face to face with a shotgun barrel.
The bar was a mess of cliques and posturing, Merchants at one corner table with three too many knives between them, Empire capes playing casually playing on the pool table, and scattered villains nursing drinks like they were lifelines.
Tattletale scanned the room, and muttered, "interesting."
"What's interesting?" Spitfire asked.
"Hookwolf is usually close to Kaiser, but he's nowhere to be found." Tattletale said, a bit louder than the rest of the Undersiders would've liked. "Also, usually he's surrounded by his playboy bimbos, only one bimbo today." She made a face, pretending like she was thinking about something. "I think they got taken out by one of the bombs. Medhall, maybe?"
"Why would Hookwolf be in Medhall?" Spitfire asked, and immediately decided to shut her mouth, since pretty much all of the Empire's capes shifted their attention to her.
"Also, your old boss is over there."
Fautline gritted her teeth under her welder mask as she made her way through the villains. "Ah, Spitfire, I see you allowed yourself to get out of that rock you hid yourself in."
"Uh, hello Faultline." Spitfire side in a mousy tone. Tattletale pressed her arm, motioning for her to follow Grue to their seats.
They went past the Merchants, who were busy being sidelined to one of the stalls instead of the main table, even though there were plenty of seats over there.
Faultilne watched them like a hawk, then turned to Kaiser and nodded. "I believe that's the last group we were expecting."
"Oy, wait for us," a voice cut through the room like a whip-crack, loud and theatrical. Heads turned in unison toward the entrance, where a man stood framed by flickering overhead lights. He wore a tailored black costume with blood-red accents, a tophat cocked at an arrogant angle, and a crimson mask that curled in a perpetual smirk. He stepped forward with a flourish, like an actor taking center stage, his boots echoing too loud on the cracked linoleum.
Behind him, his team filed in with unsettling synchronicity. A girl with a sun motif glowing faintly on her breastplate, her movements like clockwork. A massive man clad in bulky armor with a square, mirrored mask that gave no hint of humanity. And then the last was a hulking, four-armed creature so large it had to crawl to pass the doorframe, its leathery skin stretched tight over grotesque muscles. The creature wore a vest and leggings in the team's colors, the mask molded into a crude mimicry of a smile. Each of its fingers ended in talons, six inches long and sharp enough to cut air.
"Ah, the Travelers, I thought you were in Boston" Coil spoke.
Tattletale didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed. Coil was sitting in a stall to the back, like a rat that tried to keep himself away from unwanted attention. His expression was unreadable under the full mask.
The man with the top hat inclined his hat. "You could call us nomadic. What was happening here was too interesting to pass up, so I decided we'd stop by for a visit." He waved at everyone in a theatrical manner. "I go by Trickster."
"Grab a seat, and play by the rules if you and yours want to remain in one piece." Kaiser said from the edge of the make-shift long table like a silver-plated statue chiseled out of rage, his armor looked different than usual, tighter, with more edges and spikes. His voice was measured steel. "I want Bakuda's head. On. A. Spike."
Grue shifted on his seat. "We had an encounter with her a couple of days ago, she is a deranged maniac."
Spitfire looked like she was going to say something, but groaned instead as Tattletale gave her a light tap with her elbow.
"True, true." Kaiser said, nodding along. "While I believe no one here held any love for Lung, at least the lizard knew proper etiquette."
"There's also the bounty that Max Anders gave to her and every active member of the ABB." Faultline added. "We shouldn't go about this without thinking, we don't want to start a city wide war."
"Talk for yourself, bitch!" Skidmark's voice came from the Merchants' table. "We don't care about that fancy pants pansy born with a golden cock in his mouth."
Kaiser inclined his head. "Everyone here will accept a truce while we deal with the ABB."
Trickster giggled under his mask. "And how will we even get the money from Anders anyway?"
Tattletale snorted. "We can keep track of every single ABB member we take down, then we ask nicely to mister Anders," she said, looking at Kaiser straight in his eyes. "I'm sure that he would trust our word about how many we will claim to capture."
"Or kill." Kaiser added. "We don't care if they die or rot in a cell."
Grue nodded, but he didn't seem too pleased with this.
"That sounds fine," Coil said in a strained voice. "With her pety attempt at conquering the city, Bakuda has brought with her the attention of the protectorate."
Kaiser hummed. "She almost killed three wards, didn't she?"
"She actually tried to kill Tiamat." Tattletale said, in a poor attempt at sounding helpful. "The infamous Lung's daughter."
Kaiser nodded at that. "Yes, that girl. It's her fault all of this is happening."
"We should probably focus our attention on the ABB and Bakuda." Coil said, practically sweating bullets under his suit.
Tattletale's power flicked on without needing to be called. Something was off. Shape of his face is 2% more symmetrical than Coil. Too stiff. Worried for his life. Worried that his task will not get accomplished. Is a body double. The real Coil is somewhere else.
Tattletale cocked her head, hunger behind her eyes. She demanded more from her power.
Coil isn't watching live through this proxy's eyes.
She wondered what was going on with the snake. Her power tugged at the answer like thread from a loose weave.
Coil is running blind. His ability is malfunctioning after trying to simulate the world through a blind spot. Coil's power is recharging. He needs the gangs to go slow so he can plan ahead.
She stared at the fake Coil for the better part of a minute, and wondered how long she had until the real Coil recovered his power. How long?
Her power provided an answer, although, it didn't explain how it got to that conclusion. Twelve hours. That's how long he'd be flying blind. That much time, and no more.
Tattletale kept her expression neutral. She let her smile bend lazy and unimpressed, even as her mind screamed opportunities. Coil vulnerable. Bakuda exposed. Kaiser bloodthirsty over the death of his underlings and the destruction of his company. Every piece in motion. If she could make the right connection, push the right moment... maybe, just maybe, she could end this game before it ended her.
He barely blinked, his entire focus locked on the section highlighted in red, Tiamat's account of the first detonation. The child, the suicide mechanism, and the bomb that had ripped through space and matter with surgical cruelty. The words "All-or-Nothing" effect had been underlined twice by his own hand.
What was left of her body after the blast barely qualified as human, and if it weren't for her hybrid physiology and advanced regenerative abilities, they'd be adding a name to the memorial wall today.
Dragon's voice filtered through the speakers, gentle but laced with that curious lilt only she could manage. "I find Vista's report fascinating."
Armsmaster adjusted the alignment of his visor without looking up from the file. "She was time-locked when the bomb went off. Her point of view is secondhand at best."
Dragon paused. "Yes, but what she experienced after, is what matters. The threat didn't end with the explosion."
He frowned, scrolling deeper into the post-mission debriefs until Vista's statement appeared. The language was precise, mechanical, likely influenced by her focus on appearing to be more mature than the rest of the wards. The content had information that Tiamat's and Clockblocker's report lacked.
She had tried to extract Tiamat from the collapsed structure. Had gotten within a dozen feet before something attacked her. Something from the sub-level. Armsmaster's jaw tightened.
"She mentioned it came from beneath the parking lot," he said aloud. "Where Tiamat was last recorded unconscious."
Dragon's avatar flickered into view on the side monitor, a faint shimmer of green and gold circuitry in a stylized silhouette. "Exactly."
Armsmaster leaned forward, tapping his gauntleted fingers against the edge of the console. The holographic image of Tiamat's flight path and heat signature flickered in response, overlaid with timestamped logs. "She made it into the parking structure before the second wave of explosions. Twelve civilians were alive at time of entry. By the time backup arrived, there were eleven dead bodies."
"But the reason for their death has nothing to do with Tiamat getting there late, or going slow." Dragon added, as more information bombarded Armsmaster's monitors. "She should've gotten all twelve civilians alive, considering the way she vectored her fire to delay the collapse."
"So the question goes to... why were there eleven bodies, and why did Tiamat get momentarily knocked out, sealing the fates of those people."
Dragon's avatar frowned. "I believe the answer to that lies within the child that Tiamat had prioritized to save first."
Armsmaster went through Tiamat's notes and growled under his breath. He caressed his beard. "You believe the child triggered, and caused her to get knocked out."
"It is a well known phenomenon, albeit with very little actual research behind it." Dragon admitted.
Armsmaster didn't respond immediately. He shifted to the screen displaying Dragon's stylized avatar. "Still. It's rare, almost unheard of, for a child so young to trigger."
"Rare, not impossible," Dragon replied, her voice calm. "There were cases. Chile, two years ago. A cluster of eight-year-olds. Also, last year in Brazil a kindergarten was attacked by the local warlord, causing one of the childs to trigger."
He rubbed his chin. "Bonesaw was what? Eight?"
"Six," Dragon corrected, and her avatar's eyes dimmed slightly. "Not the best precedent, I admit. But everyone's psyche is different."
Armsmaster returned to Tiamat's field log, lips tight. "She claims she blacked out before the ceiling caved in. If the Knight hit her with something, a neurological attack perhaps, that'd cause for major concern. Especially if it worked on someone with her physiology."
Dragon's avatar pulsed a subtle green. "And yet it didn't affect Vista. Or Tiamat during their later encounter. That inconsistency suggests that the Knight has no such power."
He flipped through the updated casualty report. "Eleven confirmed dead. One survivor, a potential trigger event. We don't have the child's name yet."
"I will identify the boy's mother, that'd lead us to him."
He turned to a crude sketch Vista had submitted. 'Knightmare' was scrawled beneath the marker. The proportions were wrong, but something in the posture suggested purpose.
"Do you think the child became this?" Armsmaster asked.
"I don't know," Dragon answered solemnly. "But parahumans who trigger young often manifest stronger, less stable powers. This one's signatures don't match anything on file."
He sighed, low and frustrated. "Piggot's going to love this."
"I will get his name for you in twenty minutes."
"Thank you, Dragon." He said, wondering if even with the boy's name they had any chance of finding him, considering the city was in total chaos at the moment.
------
Emma lay back on the infirmary cot, her lip split like a flower forced into bloom, her eye swollen shut with ugly purples and yellows. The taste of blood still lingered at the edge of her tongue. The rhythmic tick of the infirmary clock grated at her nerves, sharp and persistent, like the clink of a spoon endlessly tapping porcelain. It echoed with mechanical indifference, a reminder that time was passing but nothing was changing. No comforting hum, just a scrape of monotony she couldn't ignore.
The doctor who approached was a woman cut from harsh angles and harder days, all cheekbones and judgment. In Emma's swimming vision, she looked like someone who would've made a great villain in a hospital drama, maybe the one who turned out to be a ghost. Her white coat fluttered as she moved with a purposeful sort of grace, and when she seized Emma's chin, it was like a mechanic inspecting a dented fender. Not cruel, exactly. But indifferent, like everything under her touch was just another problem to diagnose and shelve.
"You wince like a kitten but scream like a banshee," the doctor said, tilting Emma's head to one side and then the other. Her fingers were firm, clinical. "Try not to flinch. I don't want to fix your nose next."
"Your bedside manner sucks," Emma muttered through gritted teeth.
The doctor didn't bother to respond. She turned to the tray beside her, uncapped a small tube, and let the scent of antiseptic fill the room. "So," she said, conversationally, as she dabbed ointment on Emma's torn lip. "You get smart with a girl from the Empire? Or just had a bad lunchroom chat with a Merchants' little sister?"
Emma didn't answer. She stared at the blank white ceiling instead. The doctor clicked her tongue.
"You can't play queen bee in here," she said, her voice dry enough to start a brushfire. "These girls aren't scared of attitude. They're scared of knives, razors in pillowcases, and getting burned with hot soup. You act like royalty, they'll crown you with fists." She paused, then let out a short bark of laughter. "Heard what you did to land here. You tried to play queen of the hive, right? Funny thing is, most girls here just killed someone. You? You tortured your best friend. That's… novel."
Emma's jaw tightened. "I'm a survivor."
The doctor gave a mirthless laugh, dry as paper. "Everyone's a survivor. Until they're not."
From her coat pocket, she pulled a blister pack with the same calm a butcher might unwrap a slab of meat. She popped out a small white pill, held it between her fingers, and stared at Emma with a cold smirk that didn't touch her eyes. "Here it is. Tiny, harmless, and the closest thing to mercy you're getting tonight. Take this and maybe you'll sleep through the next round of consequences. Be a good girl," she added, leaning close so Emma could smell the metallic sting of antiseptic on her breath, "and I'll even throw in a lollipop, because you're such a brave little monster."
Emma glared, but the fight was leaving her, ebbing away like warmth from a corpse. She took the pill and dry-swallowed it, the chalky bitterness catching in her throat. Her body was a roadmap of aches, each bruise and fracture lighting up in dim protest. The pain in her ribs pulsed once, then faded to a distant drumbeat, like something buried alive beneath the floorboards.
Her limbs grew heavier with each breath, her eyelids too burdensome to keep open. The sterile world of the infirmary blurred and bled at the edges. Somewhere in the building, a girl laughed, a sharp, broken sound that reminded Emma of glass in a garbage disposal. Sleep took her, not gently, but like a black tide rushing in, whispering promises in a language she didn't understand and didn't want to.
She dreamt of a better life, one stitched from the golden thread of revenge and validation. In it, she had powers, real ones, not the squirming jealousy that nestled in her chest like a parasite. She and Sophia were unstoppable, storming through the city like righteous fire, razing the ABB and every leering villain who had ever dared to look down on them. The Protectorate knelt. The world watched. She had arrived.
The fantasy wrapped her tight, a comforter against the cold truths she'd learned since being thrown into juvie. That night with Sophia, her initiation into a sisterhood of cruelty, had been a turning point. Afterward, Sophia had become gravity, and Emma, a moon bound in orbit. She'd spent years scouring PHO and weirder, darker forums, certain that the universe had missed a step. She was supposed to have triggered. She'd read the signs in her reflection, in her anger, in every scraped-knuckle day she woke up still mundane.
For a brief spell, she'd even convinced herself she was a Thinker, some kind of intuitive genius always one insight away from proving the world wrong. But the tests came back negative. Every attempt at glory fell flat.
She wasn't a Thinker.
She was a joke.
Less than nothing.
Her dreams twisted, warped. No longer empowering, they became strange, ink-drenched. She wandered alleys that shrank behind her, heard Sophia's voice echoing in corridors where no doors existed. Bugs crept under her skin, not biting, just... watching.
Then came the pain. Sharp and sudden, lancing through her torso like she'd swallowed a knife made of glass. Her eyes flew open, dragging her from the dream's fever haze. The sting from her lip, the pounding in her ribs—they'd returned. Whatever the doctor had given her had worn off.
Reality, cruel and fluorescent, returned to her in pieces. And something felt different in the room.
Emma's eyes fluttered open in the dark. The room felt smaller, tighter, as though the shadows had crept in from the corners and woven themselves into the walls. Her limbs were slow, dull with the heavy syrup of sleep, but the hairs on the back of her neck rose as if pulled by strings. Something was wrong.
Where the doctor had been before, sharp lines, antiseptic breath, no patience for drama, stood someone new. A shadow, a horror story waiting to happen, shaped like a woman.
The woman was tall, willowy in a way that made Emma think of trees just before they snapped in a storm. Her eyes were wrong. They didn't blink. Not once. Just two glassy coins pressed into sockets too deep. Her lips barely moved when she spoke, but her voice was crystal clear, like a whisper transmitted through bone.
"Is the bed you made for yourself comfortable, Emma Barnes?"
"What— who are you!?" She said, as she eyed every possible escape route.
The woman got closer. But she didn't walk. It was as if she was floating an inch above the floor.
"I'm an echo, a rumor that no one truly believes exists, a lonely soul who seeks to right the wrongs of this universe," she said and caressed Emma's mangled face with unnaturally long fingers. "But we could be friends, we could—" She paused, and grinned. "Ah, but we both know what you do to your friends."
The woman's hand moved with inhuman slowness, as though savoring the moment, and then her fingers sank into Emma's scalp, not clawing, but pressing, sliding under skin like it was softened clay. Her nails were long, obsidian, glinting like volcanic glass, and they parted Emma's hair and flesh as though her skull had forgotten how to hold itself together. A scream rose in Emma's throat, high and primal, but it came out a choked gasp, caught in the vise of sheer, body-numbing terror.
Each nail felt like it was prying open something deeper than bone. Her mind flashed, not with memories, but with sharp, errant visions: a school hallway slick with shadow, whispers bleeding from the walls, Sophia's eyes full of fire and nothing behind them. Emma tried to move, to fight, but her limbs refused her.
It felt like the woman wasn't just piercing her skull. She was unmaking her. Pulling at the threads of Emma Barnes and weaving something else in their place. Something older. Hungrier. The darkness around them seemed to cheer the transformation on, the room vibrating with a low hum, like a lullaby composed by teeth and rust.
Emma screamed. The sound tore out of her throat raw and animal. She twisted, tried to bolt, but a sharp tug at her wrist stopped her cold. Cuffs. Cold steel bit into skin still puffy from bruises. Panic took hold like frost on glass, cracking her calm wide open.
The woman gilded back, examining Emma like a boy with a magnifying glass and plenty of ants to massacre. She reached into the folds of her coat—or was it a cloak? Emma couldn't tell—and pulled out a vial. The glass shimmered faintly in the low light. Inside swirled something blacker than the room around them.
"Quite unlucky you are little one," the woman said in a singsong tone. "No Corona Pollentia. No spark. A candle without a flame." She eyed the flask and sighed. "And you had a perfect little moment that could've made you soar to your wildest dreams."
"What do you mean?"
"Oh, you know what I mean." The woman's smile widened, unnatural, grotesque. Her mouth stretched impossibly far, lipless and predatory, as though her jaw might unhinge and swallow the room whole. "You don't have the potential to become a parahuman," she said, her tone like a lullaby warped on broken vinyl. "You're just a normie, a bystander in your own tragedy. Destined for a life of no significance, except perhaps for this—"
She gestured at the infirmary around them with a lazy flick of her hand. "Your legacy, Emma Barnes. The cautionary tale. The girl who broke her best friend and got broken in return."
Emma's fear twisted into something uglier. Her teeth clenched, tears welling behind her swollen eye. "It's all Taylor's fault. If she hadn't—"
"—tattled?" the woman interrupted. "Turned the rock and showed the worms underneath?"
Emma's breath hitched. The woman got closer, uncorked the vial with an audible pop. The smell that escaped was not of chemicals, but of ozone and rot and candle wax burned too long.
"You are luckier than you deserve, Emma Barnes. My employers have tasked me with presenting this to you." She sounded perplexed at the objective she had been given, but would do as demanded with no questions asked. "This will give you what you desire," the woman said, and gently, almost lovingly, pressed the vial into Emma's free hand.
The glass was warm.
"What I desire?" Emma whispered, her voice paper-thin. Every instinct screamed for her to throw the vial away, but her fingers curled tight around it, treacherous, like they belonged to someone else. Her pulse thundered in her ears, drowning out thought. Her body shook, a marionette yanked by invisible strings.
"It will bring forth the greatness that you were denied," the woman cooed, voice dripping with something darker than promise.
Emma brought the vial closer. She smelled it. Ozone, burnt sugar, rust. The liquid shimmered—dark, thick, alive. Her lips parted against her will. She tilted her head back and drank.
Fire. Not metaphorical, not spiritual—real, skin-peeling, nerve-shredding agony. It roared down her throat, filling her stomach with a molten pit that radiated outward. Her scream never escaped her lips. She tried to claw at the woman, to make her stop, but the skin on her hand sloughed away like wet clay, revealing a glistening bone beneath. Fingers curled, skeletal and useless.
She wanted to beg, to plead, but she had no voice. She reached for her throat and found nothing but scorched, melting flesh. Her vocal cords were gone. Her breath came in ragged wheezes through ruined airways.
The woman stepped back, smiling like she'd just opened a present. Emma's vision blurred, narrowed to a point. Her body slumped, writhing. The lights flickered again. No power surged. Just black.
"Such beautiful suffering," the woman whispered, voice stretched thin and delighted. "Let it remake you."
And then everything went silent but for the creature's laughter, low, endless, and amused.
-------
Somer's Rock smelled like old beer and desperation, soaked into wood paneling that hadn't seen a good scrubbing since the Eighties. Grue walked ahead, a human wall of calm tension, while Tattletale kept half a step behind, her eyes flicking over the interior. Clinging to Tattletale's arm with a white-knuckled grip was Spitfire, her hood drawn low and her frame practically vibrating with barely restrained panic.
"This was a mistake," Spitfire murmured under her breath, sidling up next to Grue. "Half the city wants my head. Maybe more."
"And yet here you are," Tattletale replied, smiling thinly. "Means you still want to survive. That makes you useful. Relax, you're a good person, everything will end up well for you. I promise."
Grue's tongue clicked underneath his biker helmet. "You're lucky that Bakuda went nuts, you're way low on the PRT's priority lists."
Tattletale grinned. "Yup, don't worry, you're old news!"
Spitfire didn't answer. She just stared down the length of the bar. The place was decrepit in ways she couldn't have imagined..
Her hoodie was drawn low, hands stuffed in her pockets, but her steps were twitchy, the kind that spoke of nerves wound too tight. Tattletale clocked the hesitation, the way behind Spitfire's mask, her eyes darted across the bar like someone expecting to find themselves face to face with a shotgun barrel.
The bar was a mess of cliques and posturing, Merchants at one corner table with three too many knives between them, Empire capes playing casually playing on the pool table, and scattered villains nursing drinks like they were lifelines.
Tattletale scanned the room, and muttered, "interesting."
"What's interesting?" Spitfire asked.
"Hookwolf is usually close to Kaiser, but he's nowhere to be found." Tattletale said, a bit louder than the rest of the Undersiders would've liked. "Also, usually he's surrounded by his playboy bimbos, only one bimbo today." She made a face, pretending like she was thinking about something. "I think they got taken out by one of the bombs. Medhall, maybe?"
"Why would Hookwolf be in Medhall?" Spitfire asked, and immediately decided to shut her mouth, since pretty much all of the Empire's capes shifted their attention to her.
"Also, your old boss is over there."
Fautline gritted her teeth under her welder mask as she made her way through the villains. "Ah, Spitfire, I see you allowed yourself to get out of that rock you hid yourself in."
"Uh, hello Faultline." Spitfire side in a mousy tone. Tattletale pressed her arm, motioning for her to follow Grue to their seats.
They went past the Merchants, who were busy being sidelined to one of the stalls instead of the main table, even though there were plenty of seats over there.
Faultilne watched them like a hawk, then turned to Kaiser and nodded. "I believe that's the last group we were expecting."
"Oy, wait for us," a voice cut through the room like a whip-crack, loud and theatrical. Heads turned in unison toward the entrance, where a man stood framed by flickering overhead lights. He wore a tailored black costume with blood-red accents, a tophat cocked at an arrogant angle, and a crimson mask that curled in a perpetual smirk. He stepped forward with a flourish, like an actor taking center stage, his boots echoing too loud on the cracked linoleum.
Behind him, his team filed in with unsettling synchronicity. A girl with a sun motif glowing faintly on her breastplate, her movements like clockwork. A massive man clad in bulky armor with a square, mirrored mask that gave no hint of humanity. And then the last was a hulking, four-armed creature so large it had to crawl to pass the doorframe, its leathery skin stretched tight over grotesque muscles. The creature wore a vest and leggings in the team's colors, the mask molded into a crude mimicry of a smile. Each of its fingers ended in talons, six inches long and sharp enough to cut air.
"Ah, the Travelers, I thought you were in Boston" Coil spoke.
Tattletale didn't flinch, but her eyes narrowed. Coil was sitting in a stall to the back, like a rat that tried to keep himself away from unwanted attention. His expression was unreadable under the full mask.
The man with the top hat inclined his hat. "You could call us nomadic. What was happening here was too interesting to pass up, so I decided we'd stop by for a visit." He waved at everyone in a theatrical manner. "I go by Trickster."
"Grab a seat, and play by the rules if you and yours want to remain in one piece." Kaiser said from the edge of the make-shift long table like a silver-plated statue chiseled out of rage, his armor looked different than usual, tighter, with more edges and spikes. His voice was measured steel. "I want Bakuda's head. On. A. Spike."
Grue shifted on his seat. "We had an encounter with her a couple of days ago, she is a deranged maniac."
Spitfire looked like she was going to say something, but groaned instead as Tattletale gave her a light tap with her elbow.
"True, true." Kaiser said, nodding along. "While I believe no one here held any love for Lung, at least the lizard knew proper etiquette."
"There's also the bounty that Max Anders gave to her and every active member of the ABB." Faultline added. "We shouldn't go about this without thinking, we don't want to start a city wide war."
"Talk for yourself, bitch!" Skidmark's voice came from the Merchants' table. "We don't care about that fancy pants pansy born with a golden cock in his mouth."
Kaiser inclined his head. "Everyone here will accept a truce while we deal with the ABB."
Trickster giggled under his mask. "And how will we even get the money from Anders anyway?"
Tattletale snorted. "We can keep track of every single ABB member we take down, then we ask nicely to mister Anders," she said, looking at Kaiser straight in his eyes. "I'm sure that he would trust our word about how many we will claim to capture."
"Or kill." Kaiser added. "We don't care if they die or rot in a cell."
Grue nodded, but he didn't seem too pleased with this.
"That sounds fine," Coil said in a strained voice. "With her pety attempt at conquering the city, Bakuda has brought with her the attention of the protectorate."
Kaiser hummed. "She almost killed three wards, didn't she?"
"She actually tried to kill Tiamat." Tattletale said, in a poor attempt at sounding helpful. "The infamous Lung's daughter."
Kaiser nodded at that. "Yes, that girl. It's her fault all of this is happening."
"We should probably focus our attention on the ABB and Bakuda." Coil said, practically sweating bullets under his suit.
Tattletale's power flicked on without needing to be called. Something was off. Shape of his face is 2% more symmetrical than Coil. Too stiff. Worried for his life. Worried that his task will not get accomplished. Is a body double. The real Coil is somewhere else.
Tattletale cocked her head, hunger behind her eyes. She demanded more from her power.
Coil isn't watching live through this proxy's eyes.
She wondered what was going on with the snake. Her power tugged at the answer like thread from a loose weave.
Coil is running blind. His ability is malfunctioning after trying to simulate the world through a blind spot. Coil's power is recharging. He needs the gangs to go slow so he can plan ahead.
She stared at the fake Coil for the better part of a minute, and wondered how long she had until the real Coil recovered his power. How long?
Her power provided an answer, although, it didn't explain how it got to that conclusion. Twelve hours. That's how long he'd be flying blind. That much time, and no more.
Tattletale kept her expression neutral. She let her smile bend lazy and unimpressed, even as her mind screamed opportunities. Coil vulnerable. Bakuda exposed. Kaiser bloodthirsty over the death of his underlings and the destruction of his company. Every piece in motion. If she could make the right connection, push the right moment... maybe, just maybe, she could end this game before it ended her.
GasperVladi0
(Confirmed Nurgle Cultist)
- Joined
- Apr 24, 2021
- Messages
- 2,040
I'm seriously surprised that this doesn't have more likes and isn't more popular.
DalDalDalhan
Your first time is always over so quickly, isn't it?
- Joined
- Dec 19, 2024
- Messages
- 1
You should probably add more to the title because it doesn't really tell anyone what to expect from the story.