Mettle [Worm AU]

[Harbin]

Mettle
1.1
Protection
​

It was the first day after winter break. I think that's when things started. Or at least, they went worse than usual. I was paranoid, in class. Nothing had happened. Nothing too worth mentioning, at least.

Class was odd. I couldn't properly pay attention, trying to feel out what was going on. The botched attempts to surreptitiously glance around were met with snickers and wide-eyed innocence. I wasn't sure what was going on, but I didn't like it. What was happening? They had just- stopped. They were planning something. It was a certainty, and I wasn't in on the horrible joke they were going to pull next. All I had was the overwhelming feeling that something was wrong.

I didn't go to my locker immediately, I had no need for any of the books there. It was a learned reflex, not putting anything I wanted to keep in there. A pang of emotion as I was reminded of the flute. I hugged my hoodie close, wishing.

My classes had been nicer with it. I could clutch it, and feel like my mother was there, helping. I could hold it, and feel that memory, keeping it as a buffer between myself and them. I couldn't do that now, but, things were better. Things weren't quite as bad. That was something I told myself, needed to feel right now. Even if I was waiting for the other foot to drop, I couldn't live in utter paranoia like this. Even if it was justified. Almost everything I needed was in my bag. I just had a few things I'd need later in the day.

I walked to my next class, moving through the hallway, trying to avoid contact, moving around and through people. Staying as small as possible.

Then I saw her in the hallway, and shuddered. I stopped walking, enraptured, horrified.

"What are you looking at, Herbie?"

That was my first mistake. Staring a bit too long at Sophia. Herbie was a "cutesie" nickname. A way to jumble my name, and say it incorrectly at the same time. Madison's idea, I think. It fit her image, her style. They had started it a week after I came back.

Honestly, it was hard not to stare. The thing mouthing words into her ear, made up of so many shadows, misting and reforming all around her. It faded in and out of view. Now, it was so very clear. I could see it out of the corner of my eye, even as I focused on the ground.

"Yeah, that's right, Herbie." She brushed past me. If by brushed, you meant shoulder check. She didn't push me too hard, though. Jagged visions flitted about at the edge of the shadow, coming into stark relief. One, of someone hitting her, an open hand across her face. I could take pleasure in that. Another, a staring at metal boots, electricity arcing between two points. What were these? A smile, or a grimace, spread across the shadow's mouth, forming a beatific expression where the lips stretched too far.

Then it was back to stretching its lips, moving them in ways that could possibly be words, next to her ear.

I flinched, looking away. The first time I had seen it, I had thought Sophia had developed powers specifically to torment me. No one else could see it. Then, I had seen the flickers of images across it. They were weak, gauzy things, spread across the surface of the shadow.

It wasn't exactly something I wanted look at, but it was there, and the pictures were never pleasant ones. The longer I stared, the more explicit they became. Staring at Sophia Hess wasn't generally a problem I had to worry about, though. It seemed like she was some kind of gang member, from the images. Blood on her clothes, in one particularly splintered image, spread across the specter's back as it opened and closed its mouth, wrapping around her.

Was that something to report to the police? As far as I was concerned, I could try, but there was very little proof I could bring to the table. 'Hello, is this the police? I've been seeing a terrifying shadow encompassing my bully, which shows me images that might be her killing people.'

'Yes, Taylor Hebert, we'd like you to come down to the station and meet with these nice people who have some anti-psychotics for you.'

That sounded about right. Why was Emma with Sophia, if Sophia was a gang member? Merchants, maybe? Had she gotten in with them? Well, at least I knew it wasn't the Empire 88, but the ABB wasn't necessarily out of the picture. It was annoying, mystifying. I wasn't sure why, or what had happened.

The facts remained that Emma Barnes, Madison Clements, and Sophia Hess had all but pulled off on their bullying campaign. Instead of continuing after the flute, instead of going after me, pushing on my buttons, they had stopped.

Well, they toned it down.

I had even kind of made an acquaintance. Jane, uh, Philips. She apologized. I wasn't sure whether it was them putting her up to it, if they were teasing, or what. It wasn't a close friendship or anything. I didn't want to talk about anything too close to me, or spend hours chatting or anything. I was too wary for the other foot to drop. I couldn't stop thinking about it, because this had to be another of their plans.

It had been before winter break, we had talked some. She wasn't talking to me today. I think she had class, but-

I really wanted to believe her. But I wasn't sure. It wasn't something I could just let go of, or cease thinking about. I had to look around, unsure and unhappy. I couldn't just let something like this go.

I approached my locker. There were people around it. I wasn't sure if it was the normal crowd or not. There seemed to be more people than usual. Maybe it was just the hustle and bustle of it being just after spring break.

I opened it. Someone pushed me from behind, I stumbled, getting a good look at what was inside. A note, with two words on it.

'I KNOW.'

Stopping myself from looking around was a feat of control I barely accomplished, staring at the thing, picking it out of the back of my locker with shaking hands. I crumpled it up, shoving it into my pocket.

I stumbled into the bathroom, approaching the mirror. My glasses were askew, and I fixed them, putting them back into place. My too-large eyes, my hair, pushed out of the way, my face pale, too pale, I couldn't breathe properly. I tried to control it, but it felt like the room was spinning around, and I walked into the stall, shutting it, locking it, sitting down.

How? How did they know? I knew it could only be one thing. There weren't many things it could be, I didn't precisely have too many secrets.

I looked down at my clothing, at my shoddy jeans. They weren't in great shape, worn and ragged. Then my watch. The sheet metal, not quite inside it, a framework of lines and semi-opaque grey. The baggy hoodie, the oblong object, limned by silver, carefully cleaned, painstakingly repaired. It had been easier with my power, removing the bad, fixing, pushing, hours spent. Hidden somewhere it could never be touched. Not by them. Only me.

It had taken me almost twenty minutes this morning to push the flute into my hoodie, melding it into it. Every moment had been worth it, to know that I could do this, to have this piece with me. Had someone seen me? Was that it? I ran down a list, trying to figure out who it possibly could have been. Was this their prank? Had they led everything up to this moment, just to screw with me and leave me guessing? Maybe they didn't know anything at all, and I was just guessing.

There was a knock at the stall door.

I breathed in, cleared my throat, and tried not to think about things. "O- Occupied," I spoke, my voice a quivering mess.

 

[Harbin]

1.2​

The index card slid under the stall door, kicked there awkwardly by a shoe. It slid about a half foot into the stall before halting on something wet that I did not want to touch.I looked down, trying to check and see who it belonged to. Maybe I knew, and could figure it out- but they were out the door by the time I had managed to adjust myself into a good position to look.

'DOCKS 1 AM
COME IN COSTUME'

Shit. Fuck. Those were the most prominent thoughts that went through my mind. Was this some sick joke? If they knew about the costume, they knew about my powers. What would they do if I didn't go? This certainly wasn't the high school drama I was used to, or the bullying I was used to. If this was the terrible trio, I was fucking ready to give up.

What even was this? What was I supposed to do? God, was their handwriting deliberately terrible because I knew them? Was it Emma? How could she have figured it out? No, there was nothing that would have given it away. I had never brought the flute outside of home. I had never used my powers other than the thing I had seen on Sophia. I wasn't even sure if that was my power or not. Maybe it was just her directed malice for me.

I gingerly picked up the index card, not wanting to keep it, but it was potential evidence if it was just another prank. As far as pranks went, this one was more potentially dangerous than most. How was I supposed to gauge this one? Should I bring along a recorder or have police on standby or something?

The same problem, there again. It was a non-solution, because I didn't want to reveal that I was a cape. I wasn't sure about how this really worked in cape law. They hadn't threatened anything. I could always not go. That was an option. I didn't really view it as one, but it existed.

Having come into the bathroom to calm down, I could definitively say that I had not achieved my goal, and perhaps it had become worse than before. Not really a perhaps. I dropped the index card into one of my bag's pockets, unlatching the door and opening it.

Class was an afterthought. I went, and there was very little I paid attention to. I took notes, but I was trying to take in the rest of the class instead, attempting to get a grasp on a likely person to have done this. Math went about as well, and my desk was only nudged, a pencil falling. It was the result of one of Emma's cronies. I wasn't sure if I should even write that down as bullying or an accident.

The bus ride home was a waterfall of thoughts, constantly thinking and trying to figure things out in a more concrete sense. There was a certain routine things had gone through, and even if it had been hellish, it had made sense. Now, I was left scrambling for answers.

I didn't open my notebook, just checking it to make sure it was still there in my bag. Maybe Sophia had grabbed some pages of the old one when she had torn it apart and thrown it away? Would that have coincided with the lessened aggression?

No, it had come before that. I was fairly certain I had retained all of the contents in the notebook as well. The bus halted and I looked up, jolted from my inner turmoil. Pulling myself to my feet, I picked up my things and exited. It was about a block's walk, and I tried to push those thoughts out of my mind for now. I could continue these thoughts once I'd arrived home.

I pushed open the door, heading inside, going upstairs, my belongings in tow. They fell by the bed, and I fell on the bed. The flute dropped from my sweater almost immediately. It was a certain amount of pressure on my mind to keep it in there, much more than the sheet metal around my watch.

Learning things about my power took time, because I don't think I had sufficient resources to actually use it properly. The ability to extradimensionally carry a weapon of some kind came to mind, but that took a large amount of prep time, a lot of concentration, and a sort of pressure that never really went away when I "contained" an item that didn't fit.

Looking what I could up on PHO, it was a mess. Information that wasn't outright speculation (which was usually deleted) was not helpful to me. I wasn't a tinker or anything. I certainly wasn't making anything stronger by putting it in there or anything. I didn't feel any stronger or faster. Okay, maybe I was faster from running a good amount, but I don't think that was really related to my power.

But, "combining" things that were similar was much, much easier. I had some sketches and ideas for a costume, but I didn't have the money. So, random pieces just sat in my closet.

At least my power made it really convenient to switch costumes? I had a couple ideas for armor that was similar to my usual wear.

Experimenting with my power was weird. Things that fit together weren't a chore to keep together, and they felt better, more consistent. I could put them together faster, and manipulate them better?

I went to my closet, pulling out the old undershirt and the pieces of scrap metal I'd cobbled into a very poor facsimile.

I wanted a bulletproof vest or something, but I wasn't sure where I could get one or afford one without it being traced back to me. Stealing was obviously an even worse idea.

Pushing the two together took only a minute and a half. It still looked like a shirt, and it was just as light as one. I made the decision that it was rigid, as hard as the metal that "overlaid" the shirt. Then I made it a normal shirt again, and only I could tell the difference. The decisions were likewise easier when the shapes were similar. They were all around getting faster, though. It was something that I had always been somewhat aware of when I had repaired the flute.

I had combined it with a candle, heated and bent into the same way it was, and had roughly carved it into the same shape. The two had melded together with ease. This, of course, came after a long time of trying to figure out what the hell I had done when I had grasped two shirts while thinking a bit too long on current events. Suddenly, they were one, along with the hangers.

The amount of failed attempts numbered in the hundreds. Ranging from trying to push dishes into each other, screwing up and having one pop out, breaking on the floor, to an attempt to just combine a piece of cardboard in the vague shape of a shirt to a shirt. I never knew that my power had real-world applications like less convenient ways to get clothes over mannequins until that point.

It had taken weeks to get these pieces of metal, mostly scrap, rusty crap. Buying wire wasn't something that would be traced back to me, so that's what I bound it together with.

God, this was stupid. The costume wasn't done, I wasn't ready. I had projected at least a few months before I could get the rest of the pieces, if I wanted to stay under the radar. And avoid tetanus. The sheet metal around the watch was intended as a potential piece for my legs, some kind of shin guard. I had barely gotten almost anything needed.

What I wouldn't give for some better stuff.

The aluminum bat and the large piece of rebar took a couple minutes. I could choose to make it hit with the weight of the latter, while having the weight of the former for me, and only me. It didn't make sense. I guess powers didn't really make sense at to begin with.

My thoughts returned to the unhelpful topic of who it could be. I was honestly still wary of it being a sick prank. Lure me out at 1 AM, to what was a pretty dangerous place at 1 AM.

Screw it. I'd go.

But how would I go? Would it be as costumed as I could get, did they know what my power was? Because if it was legit, I'd be exposing my identity- I scoffed. They already knew who I was. Okay, work backward. If they wanted me down by the docks, and it wasn't a prank, they might not be sure. Worst case scenario, they knew I had powers, and knew my identity, and wanted to expose me or lure me into a trap.

The best response would probably be to go in my "armored" clothing, but not show anything regarding my potential powers or what I was planning on doing.

...The best response was to stay home and not do anything. If it was them, especially.

But what if there was another hero out there, who wanted to help?

I almost laughed. 'I KNOW.' and 'DOCKS 1 AM COME IN COSTUME' did not precisely engender my trust. It could only be another hero if it was someone at Winslow. Maybe a gang member, even. Shit.

Should I go to the PRT? Adults hadn't been helpful in these kinds of situations. That much was certain. I couldn't rely on them, and I couldn't even trust them to respond. They could even have me suspended or arrested for joke calling or something.

Fine.

"Fuck it." I muttered, setting my equipment on the bed, picking up the pepper spray, and then the chunk of chalk that roughly resembled the pepper spray, melding those two together. "I'll go as myself, but I'll check before I meet with whoever it is."

 

[Harbin]

1.3​

I made sure dad was asleep before heading out. I pulled on the hooded sweatshirt, flipping the hood up. It made me look like a walking scrapheap when I focused on it. The translucent "armor" wasn't going to stop any bullets. I knew that, and wanted to try layering my defenses. Undershirt, shirt, sweatshirt. Bike shorts, jeans. I didn't have enough to armor the jeans, yet, so only the bike shorts were armored.

Look at me, calling these things armor, without sarcasm. At least they'd stop a knife, the way they were. What should I be doing with my power, and how could I use it to become a hero?

That was the question I'd often asked. Continuously, at times. I could become a kind of hidden brute. I could potentially take hits, but if something pierced through that, I was just as squishy as anyone else. I didn't have anything that made me better at fighting criminals.

I could strike much harder than my frame belied, with a pseudo-super-strength. There were thoughts of mass-producing my armor, (with upgrades to bullet-proof vests in shirts or something I don't know, it never got to that point,) maybe trying to sell it to the PRT, but those were swiftly dashed. I couldn't. The pressure on me grew if they weren't in contact. The pressure grew the further away they were. The closer they were, the better I could breathe, and make decisions on how they reacted to the world.

My thoughts of joining the Wards were serious ones. My abilities seemed as limited as a Tinker's without resources, except without a hoverboard or a superbike. It seemed kind of unfair in terms of power differential.

Not that I was complaining too much. At least my powers let me carry around sixty to eighty pounds of armor, with all of its effectiveness, without it even existing. I did need to concentrate, though. Not on the armor, really. It was close enough that it was just like keeping aware of my breathing. In and out, keep eighty pounds of sheet metal from phasing into reality, in and out.

No, the real annoyance was the baseball bat. It was merged with a bunch of aluminum foil I'd shaped into a vaguely bat shaped vessel, as well as the rebar. It was also inside my sleeve, bending to fit. I was the true hodgepodge of capes. It wasn't the first time I'd melded three objects together, but it was the first time I'd screwed with the triple object and manhandled it this much, while trying to pay attention to other things. It didn't stay as a reflexive assembly, it strained at the edges, and I kept having to make sure it was still all in one place. I needed to figure out why. That was something for later. At least the muffled crinkling it made was better than stiffly walking along with a bat up my sleeve.

Still a mistake. I should have found something like a wiffle bat.

It was an hour into my so-called covert stakeout, given that I had left at around 11:30 PM, and it was no wonder I was rambling and thinking idly about my power.

Why? Because my mysterious messenger could go shove it.

Had they even ever been to the Docks? They were huge. A mess of shitty spots, with gang members and crack whores in the best of times. I hadn't been there much, mostly skirting the lines and staying on the boardwalk. I'd only ventured out here twice before, trying to get a grasp of the area and where the fringes were, in order to have a good place to potentially start my heroing.

Maybe they had meant one of the nice cafes, and we could spend the night regaling each other about our heroic to-be deeds. Or shop. With my nonexistent cash. Why yes, I'd like the whatever-brand, please. Ring it up for me over here.

Actually, I kind of had a great way of stealing those now, didn't I? Although I was pretty sure it would be easy for loss prevention to catch me. Oh no, this girl went into the dressing room with five dresses, and came out with none, even though she didn't have a bag and doesn't look like she's wearing tires.

Fuck.

I was stalling. I knew it, but I was trying not to admit it. I had gone up the stairwell of the building, and was now leaning against the ledge, looking downward. It was close to the edge of the Docks, where all those people went from being glam and glitter to crack and, "I'm not very good at improvising."

I wonder if there was any way I could have some kind of shock absorbing boots. Was that even a possibility? I kept staring down, wishing I had bought some donuts or coffee or something. If I stored food in other food, could I make it taste like all of the merged food?

Missed opportunities. God, how did cops do this stuff? Gang members, some drug deals, and one or two prostitutes, maybe? Nobody that really stuck out or anything.

"Hey, you okay?"

Holy shit-

I spun around, keep concentrating on the bat, there was a guy floating down to the ground behind me. Red costume, shield on chest. "H-hi-"

PHO said it was rust red, but I had seen a lot of rust in gathering the metal and that seemed less rust and more maroon or something-

"Hey. You alright, miss?" I'd looked up the Wards, so Aegis was one that I knew. Wait, did he go to Winslow? Was he my messenger? I didn't know he had some kind of weird, creeping fog around him. That wasn't something that PHO or any Wiki had reported. No, he couldn't be my messenger, he'd know who I was, there wasn't any recognition in his voice.

"I- I'm just waiting for someone." I stuttered the words out, acutely aware of how stupid of an excuse this sounded like.

"At twelve forty eight AM? Do you have a ride home, or..?" He wasn't accusing me, but his voice held some degree of concern. "The Docks can be dangerous, especially at this time of night. I really don't recommend hanging around."

The fog swirled around him, revealing that it was made out of worm-like, arrow-shaped heads, all moving and squirming. Squiggling lines as a much larger part of them. They faded out, slowly. Okay, fuck. It's definitely me, and I'm crazy.

"Yeah. I know." I didn't have to pretend or lie, I was already scared about being around here, and now worried for my own mental state. Was there anything on how powers screwed your head up? There was an asylum, but this wasn't that bad, right? "Sorry."

"You don't have to apologize, but please, be careful. An ounce of prevention, and all that." He shrugged. "I'll swing by after patrolling a bit. Good luck, and I hope your friend shows up soon."

He waved, and flew off into the streets. I was distinctly jealous.

I continued to wait.

Being stuck with nothing else to do, my mind went back to more power experiments, because I couldn't do them right now, so why not think of potential ways to use it.

More time passed, more people walked by. Fortunately, it was a pretty quiet night. Maybe because the wards were patrolling, and nobody wanted to screw with them? Or maybe it was just that-

Wait.

That person looked distinctly uncomfortable. Bundled up in a hoodie, glancing constantly from side to side. They didn't move with the stride of confidence or with a hand in the position to grab a weapon. They just looked scared. They walked onward, peering into alleyways, looking around.

If I went down the stairs, I'd lose them by the time I was down there. I took the fire escape, clambering down and making a decent racket. I let myself hang from the last bit rather than dropping the ladder, falling down with a weighty thump.

I raced out, and the person booked it like a frightened gazelle, blitzing into an alleyway. I followed after, sprinting. I skidded around the corner, and it was a dead end.

They were there, and they had a cannister in their hands, and it kind of looked like it was aimed at me. Okay, definitely aimed at me, there wasn't exactly anyone else here. But, even in the shadows, I knew who that was. I'd spent enough time "working" with them.

"Greg? Is that you?"

 

[Harbin]

1.4​

Wow.

Just, wow.

I couldn't keep the incredulousness out of my voice. I'd been worried this entire time about Greg. What the hell? Some pieces didn't really fit, but I shoved those away for later. I definitely did not want to show up to class tomorrow morning having been pepper sprayed.

His face went from scared, to enthusiastic. I didn't consider myself a particular expert in expressions, but his face was so openly expressive. I could tell the differences between the vagaries in Emma and Sophia's faces, but that was more a necessity than a skill. Greg was almost painfully open, in a way I knew my face wasn't. It made me briefly wonder what my expression looked like right now. I didn't particularly feel anything aside from irritation. One in the morning, to meet Greg Veder. Maybe it was a prank. "Taylor! I uh, you came! You are a parahuman!"

His face positively lit up. I was feeling more tired by the minute. Keep the bat together. "How did you know where I was? Oh, man you must have gotten thinker powers or like flight was that you that hit the ground behind me? I was running but I thought it was an ABB or like Hellhound or like Lung or something it was-"

"Greg." My voice was exasperated, mixed with a half-cup of stern. The only heed he took from this was that he was in a library, and he set off again in a hushed whisper. His enthusiasm meant it was scaling back up to normal volume after the first sentence.

He hadn't seen my powers. That was the conclusion I'd drawn. Why did he think I had powers? Was there something different? The bullies pulling off? I didn't think I'd acted any different.

"-Oh sorry wait why don't you have a costume? Have you not made one yet, or are you a changer or like, did you get or- or maybe you're a trump, did you get grab bag powers? Oh my god, you did, didn't you, you're like- oh wait you could be a tinker or or a stranger, and you wouldn't need a costume you'd-"

My thoughts had gone from panicked 'oh jeez, Greg Veder could be outing me' to 'please be quiet I want to go home and fall asleep'. With that in mind, I had a pretty clear path in mind. "Greg. It's one in the morning. I came out here because I didn't want another rumor about me."

He stopped speaking, trying to parse this in his babbling explanation about why the Wards were better for a tinker than a stranger, and why I'd be better off, "But y- you showed up here, and you've like had a trigger event and everything, with all of that and, they weren't going after you as much and I thought I could help and-"

"Trigger event?" I asked. Bewildered. I didn't have to pretend, my ignorance had been handy twice tonight, my gear, zero. Maybe I should prepare even less. "What does PTSD have to do with powers?"

"Oh you don't know, it's when you passed out with your, uh, flute? That's what they said it was, right? And everything, and you, you had it then? It's the worst moment of your life and you get powers then but sometimes it's not as bad and-" His voice was less confident now, a little more halting.

"And you thought you could, what, commiserate with me about it? The fact that they'd been bullying me for a year until I passed out from stress?" I was a lot angrier than I thought I'd be. It was annoyingly difficult to keep my voice under control, and I hissed that last word, trying to get myself back under check. I think it worked. Not really. But it made me feel better to see him cringe.

"Uh. Sorry. I didn't mean that and I talk a lot and kind of ramble and you were well, we're- you're-" His hands pointed at me and himself. I got the message.

"Greg. I don't have powers. I came out here because I was afraid that if I didn't they would blame something else on me. I thought it was the people bullying me." I paused, breathed in, and then continued. The harder part. "I don't see you as a friend. You haven't been much of anything to me, and I don't fault you for that. You're not someone who would stick up for me. Please don't start trying when you think I've got superpowers."

He shrank inward. God, it was like I'd just slapped him across the face and then punched him in the gut, while screaming like a drill sergeant.

It felt like a weird mixture of vindicating and terrible. I couldn't deny that Greg was nice.

Nice wasn't really what I wanted when it came with as many subclauses as Greg's nice did. Subclause 38a: Greg forfeits all recollection of Taylor's existence when Sophia Hess, henceforth referred to as Sophia for the purpose of general expedience, goes to trip Taylor. Memories of being ignored for the sake of not acquiring more trouble were very fresh. Every time someone ignored something bad going on, or asked if I was okay without actually having any intent behind those words or some way to help just to say the words and make themselves feel better it just pissed me off and-

"But they told me that you totally had powers, and you were, you were-" His voice was trembling now, from scared, to cheerful, to a sort of doubting despair. I checked around him, to make sure I couldn't see any sort of-

Fuck.

"What do you mean, they?" I struggled not to phrase this in a way that would make him start up again, trying to figure out how to say non-implicating things. I did not want to give him more hope that I had superpowers. "You mean, the people that have been bullying me?"

"Uh, well," The look of panic in his face was literally the last thing I wanted to see right now. Fuck.

"Who did you talk to, and what did they tell you? How are they going to make my life even worse, Greg? You dragged me out here on a school night, on a conversation with my bullies? Oh, fuck. Fuck." Sophia. If Sophia knew, wait, shit. My room. What did I have in my room right now? What was there that could incriminate me? My journals. My notes. Fuck. Was there anything in the closet? Maybe some leftover metal I hadn't pushed into shape yet. "Did they know Sophia, Greg? Were they someone Sophia or Emma might know, or might be friends with?"

"Y-yeah, I guess they could have been." His fantasy had been ripped away, and I felt a very small pang of regret, but this was way worse than Greg's cape groupie sidekick dream. "Uh, but you were talking with one of Madison's friends, right? Th-they took the note into the girl's bathroom for me."

I was running out of expletives I wanted to hurl. Actually, I did want to throw up. I felt legitimately nauseous. "I- fuck. Greg, I only did that because they weren't doing worse things while they did it. I was still keeping track of their- their shit."

"Oh. I'm, I'm sorry?" His voice was questioning, and I had no real reason to doubt him, honestly. Greg was oblivious. Maybe painfully so. Definitely so. "I'm sorry."

There was more feeling and regret to it this time, maybe he'd finally realized what they would do. At least to some extent.

"Bye, Greg. Please leave me alone." I was so, so done. I wasn't sure what they could have done to my room, but I was just so tired of it all. Turning around, feeling nauseous and exhausted, I started the long walk home. At least I had kept the fucking bat intact.

 

[Harbin]

1.5​

Why didn't anyone punch Sophia Hess in the face? Did she have a home life, or did she walk home through a portal to hell? Enquiring minds wanted to know. Fuck, I couldn't even make good jokes about it. I continued the long trek home.

It was chilly, and I was cold. My head hurt. I felt thin, flimsy even. What could they have done to my room with the knowledge I'd be out? Would Dad even wake up if they went in through the window?

Maybe if they made a lot of noise. Maybe I was being paranoid. Maybe the people that had shown a vested interest in making my life a living hell before suddenly backing off were just waiting to drop that other foot on my face.

I thought I'd taken reasonable precautions.

Fuck. Fuck.

I wish I had a better, Carrie sort of power. Something to absolutely destroy everything around me. I really wanted to punch things, but I knew that would just result in an angry bruise or maybe some broken bones or something.

Still kind of wanted to do it.

Approaching the door was a chore, having to move so that I didn't make the steps creak, not just the bad one, but trying to silence them all. Then getting to the door to the house, pulling it open slowly, pushing upward so it didn't go creak and would stay in the frame properly without the sound of wood grinding against wood. I closed it behind me and stood at the stairs for a long moment.

I didn't want to go upstairs. I didn't want to go to my room because if they had been in there, that was the last place I wanted to be, the only place that I could go to not be near them and have some form of solace in my life and it was all just fucking gone if they'd been there and violated it and- and god, I was so damn tired of having them be ever-present. I wiped tears away as they welled up, because fuck them.

It was so fucked up. I was tired of being tired. I didn't do anything to them, why couldn't they just leave me alone? Sitting down on the steps, I just stayed there, trying to breathe and get myself under control. If they had ransacked my room, they had plenty of time to do it. I'd been out for more than three hours.

My arm jerked downward, with all the weight of the rebar behind it. It slammed into the step before I was able to stop it. I couldn't even control my power properly. I giggled, and it was as light as the crumpled foil again as I raised my palms to my eyes, grinding them in.

"Taylor?" It was Dad's voice, sleepy but concerned. "Is that you?"

I took a moment to compose myself, clearing my throat. "Yeah. It's just me, Dad. Sorry. Wanted some water."

"Alri-" His yawn was monumental. "Alright. Goodnight."

Walking up the steps just made that feeling grow inside me, my queasiness, and the hope that nothing happened. That everything would be okay, and it was just a shitty prank that they didn't follow up on.

I opened the door to my room, and immediately closed it.

Fuck.

What the fuck was I supposed to even do? What could I do? They knew I couldn't go for help with this. Screaming seemed like a good option. I couldn't tell Dad about this, though. Why? Just, why?

I opened the door again. My things were strewn across the floor, my bag forcibly torn open, with what looked like holes ripped into the bottom. Wet and sticky. My books were strewn across the floor. Some were torn up, some were wet and mushy. The pages were stuck together, what wasn't covered in orange was smeared in ink. Someone had taken my pens and snapped them over them. It was hilarious. They'd only destroyed my school stuff. Everything else was pristine. Mostly. I know I had closed the closet door, but I also couldn't stop giggling as I sat down on the bed. I tried to breathe, but it was coming through in sobs.

I knew it was gone. My notebook. That was coded. They could probably break it. Maybe. But the flute was gone again. Of fucking course. Nowhere was safe.

It was amazingly thorough.

There were pages on the floor, tossed around like confetti. It was two in the morning. I closed the blinds to the windows, locking them and putting a makeshift drop bar in place. I took the bat of aluminum foil out of my hooded sweatshirt, letting it split apart into its component pieces after straightening it out. Meticulous, careful movements. I placed each individual piece inside the closet, then began stripping each individual piece of clothing. Hooded sweatshirt. T-shirt. Undershirt. Pants. Bike Shorts. Pepper spray.

Then, I began the process of "stripping" each meld, allowing each to slowly fall apart. I did not want to risk pieces separating into me. I was not quite sure how the process worked at times. The metal was placed into the closet, and I closed it behind it, aware of how flimsy a shield that was.

Next, I pulled the shirt back over my head, and began cleaning. First, the pages. Then the books. I got a garbage bag, and some duct tape for my backpack. It was three in the morning.

So much was deliberately unsalvageable. There was so little I could use. They took the flute again. The dented, carefully polished and reformed mess, pieces bent back into place. It would never play like it did before, I knew that. I didn't have the money to get it fixed up to that particular standard. But, I had fixed something, and protected it. I wasn't sure why that was so vitally important to me.

What a mess. I wiped whatever stains were on my legs off, and pulled the pants on, heading out with the garbage bag. I went down the street to the dumpster and threw it in. I didn't want to think or do anything, but I had to fix things up. I couldn't let Dad see this. I went back into the house, slowly walking up the stairs, putting just enough energy into my steps so that I didn't make too many creaks.

My nose was running, my eyes kept tearing up. I went to bed, because I didn't want to be awake anymore.

 

[Harbin]

1.6​

Waking up was a fuzzy piece of half-assed contentment that was very quickly soaked by the memories of yesterday. Well, I guess it was "today". I was kind of resigned to it. What would protect me from them? Maybe I'd take my sheets and wear them around, melded with about three hundred pounds of iron. The spookiest ghost, with the most deadly cotton sheets around. I wondered what would happen if I clipped Sophia or Emma with it.

Heh. What time was it? I was still so tired. Not the weary, mechanical tired of yesterday, although that still lingered as I thought about the events that had taken place. Some elements of fear, resignation, and hopelessness. I tried to make a joke about that, but I really couldn't. I just wanted to roll back to sleep.

It was seven. That was way too early for four hours of sleep. I wanted to go back to dreaming and not caring. Was I avoiding school? Yes. Absolutely. I didn't want to see their smug faces, preening, have them taunt me about the fact that they could do whatever the fuck they wanted, whenever the fuck they wanted, and drag me around like I had a damn leash. If I hit Sophia Hess with the bat and broke her ribs with a single swing, would she get the hint? I felt like it would be a much better option. I'd feel like I'd accomplished something, at least.

Everything I did seemed to just put me back another couple paces, and everything I tried to prepare for just… didn't work. It felt so. Fucking. Unfair.

"Taylor," There was a knock at the door. "I'm heading out, there's breakfast on the table, grab a bite before you get to school, alright?"

I could have said it then and there. No, maybe not. I'd made up my mind, when I'd cleaned it all up. What could I do?

"Taylor? Gotta get up." Another rap on the door.

Fuck school. "Yeah, Dad. I'll be up in a sec."

I affected a yawn. Didn't have to fake it about halfway through. What could I do? Should I go to school? I could just close my eyes again, and not care until whatever o'clock it was when I woke back up again.

But, I didn't want to let them win. Maybe it was useless. Some kind of twisted sunk cost fallacy that was deeper than the Mariana trench. But I didn't want to let them win.

"Okay. I'm up." Thoughts hounded me, and I couldn't not think them and think about them. What they'd probably done to the flute this time, what they could do to me-

Fuck it. Fuck them.

I opened the closet door. My room wasn't safe to keep my stuff in. Nowhere was safe, and they'd proven that. Violated my privacy, just to show that they could, just to hurt me.

"Thanks for breakfast, Dad!" I called, adding the enthusiasm into my voice.

"You're welcome, sweetheart!" I think he was even happily sincere. It was nice, to hear him be happy, at least.

I pulled out the rusty plates, putting them on the bed, piece by piece. How long did I have until the bus? Fifteen minutes. My undershirt was tossed on top of one pile of metal, then my shirt was tossed on top of another. Bike shorts over there. Watch here, metal piece there. Like a demented hobo's model kit.

Plenty of time. I pushed, centering the shirt into the metal, deciding what it would be. I changed my underwear, taking a look into the mirror and god, I looked awful. Bags under my eyes, face too pale, a brand new zit just left of my nose. Yeah, no sleep and no shower after all that shit would do it. The whole nine yards. Emma would have a field day. She wouldn't even have to try. Whatever. I jumped into the shower, shivering briefly before scrubbing myself down, not bothering with my hair. The entire process took less than two minutes, with me distinctly aware of my melded objects pulsing in the back of my mind.

I dried off, flicking any stray wetness from my hair before beginning the process of pulling on the melded clothing. Underwear. Bike shorts, undershirt. Shirt. Hooded sweatshirt. The pants were still normal, remaining a casualty of the hurried "costume creation". I didn't have the materials yet. Glasses back on.

Eight minutes. Downstairs. My duct-taped bag with a few pencils and a notebook in it. It was so light it was absurd, after having carried all my books in it. It felt like I had forgotten something and needed to go back up to get it.

Dad had made breakfast. Some of those little sausages, egg, toast. He was trying. It made me feel guilty for not trying, and paradoxically not want to try, because I couldn't do better.

Fuck them. I knew that I shouldn't feel this way. These niggling little feelings made it hard to not want to just fall into bed. It'd be easier. I'd have much less in the way of negative experiences. Honestly, I deserved it. I deserved a bit of break, and I'd just stay somewhere they didn't see me and I shoved that egg angrily into my mouth after skewering it with a fork. No.

No, no, no. I could run away. I could always run away. I could screw things over, make Dad disappointed. That was always a route I could take. But I could fight back. There were things I could do. I couldn't let them break me.

I could wear armor to protect myself, now. Let Sophia break her fist on my stomach and something like two inches of steel. Oh no, she must have punched a locker. How could I have broken her hand?

The thought gave me a bit more pleasure than I was really comfortable with, but I was more okay with it than not.

I couldn't protect my mind as much as I could protect my body, and that thought was oddly comforting. I wasn't sure why. Dish into the sink, quick scrub with soap and sponge, rinse, rack, out the door.

Five minutes for the bus. I checked through my bag one last time, looking through the pockets. Maybe they hadn't gone through everything, maybe there was still a remainder of school sundries. I patted it down, looking through the pockets until I froze, unlatching it and peering in. I hadn't really checked it yesterday. If I hadn't- I closed my eyes, tossing the knife into the grass. I really needed to get steel for my shoes so I could stomp things. How fucked up was Emma? How fucked up was Sophia? Madison? They were trying everything, and holy shit.

Bus was here. I raised my head up and stared forward defiantly, stepping through those hissing doors. I could not let them win.

 

[Harbin]

1.7 ​

Emma was smiling. Good for her. Maybe she could find other hobbies. I wondered if she'd keep smiling when I slammed my iron-melded sleeve across her face. Would that be worse or better than bringing a knife?

"Taylor, I didn't know you had the flute repaired. How sentimental of you!" She watched my face. She wanted a reaction out of me.

I attempted to walk past her, my bag jostling, every movement a reminder that I didn't have anything left of my school supplies. Courtesy of Barnes, Hess, and Clements, Attorneys at Make Life a Living Hell.

She moved in the way. "What's wrong, Taylor? Don't want to talk? No sleepovers?"

Her face was annoying. That carefully managed face, makeup pristine, "It's not like you have anything in your room anyway, I guess."

I moved again. She stayed in the way, smirk widening. "What's wrong, didn't get enough sleep?"

Deep breaths. I closed my eyes, and swayed a little. I felt like I was falling for a moment, feeling like I could just lay down and rest for a while. It'd be nice in the dream.

My mother stroking my hair while I laid on her lap. Reading to me about how Lucy felt frightened, but inquisitive as well. Explaining what inquisitive meant, poking me in the stomach as I giggled.

"It's just like you," she'd said. "Keep asking questions when you don't know what something means. I want you to understand, and enjoy it, alright?"

"Alright!" I had chirped, and she had continued reading. I had asked about mothballs, about what melancholy meant. She changed her voice for each character. Later, I'd read Lucy's part, while she read the other characters.

I was a very truthful girl, and I knew that I was really in the right.

But Emma could be spiteful.

I opened my eyes, and smiled at her, my slightly too-wide mouth, doing my best to give her a toothy grin. "No. I guess I didn't. Can you move, now? I'd like to go to class."

Her knowing smile turned into a sneer. "Sure. Go ahead."

She tried to shoulder check me as I went by. Her grunted bit of pain was music to my ears. Whoops. My bad. My hoodie acting like rigid plate armor hurt you? I was so sorry. Maybe you should leave that to Sophia. I was so tired. Maybe I could sleep some in Mr. Gladly's class.

"Excuse me." I said, continuing forward. This time, she stayed silent.

---​

Of course it was Mr. Gladly that they told. It made sense, and I was an easy target. Creepy loner, bullied, and he knew it, even if he was too cowardly to do anything about it. It was far too easy to tell. He kept glancing at me, a bit wary. Was he scared of me? I almost laughed, if it wasn't so pathetic.

The only thing that made him actually do something was a popular girl telling him she was afraid of the girl she had bullied to the potential point of taking a knife to school. Was he afraid of losing his position as a popular teacher?

Was he just going through the motions of responsibility? Did he only see me now that I was a potential threat? Before, he had been perfectly content to allow for ignorance.

There weren't any group projects today. Today was mostly independent study. Gladly approached my desk slowly, his face supremely uncomfortable. How uncomfortable did I make him? I wanted to know, I wanted a metric for how much I'd bothered him and how much seeing me had bothered him when he'd just let things happen. I wanted to hear his excuses for letting those things happen so I could slap them down and tear into him.

"Taylor? Could you come with me outside?" He asked, quietly.

"Sure." I picked up my bag, and he flinched. It was hilarious.

"Thank you." He said, still talking in that soft tone. Was I a frightened animal too, now? Gladly began walking to the door, and I clutched my bag to me, following.

There was a security guard. Wow. They actually went and got a security guard.

"Someone-" Emma. Or Madison. Both looked sufficiently innocent to cry to Mr. Gladly. "-came to me today, and said that you might be- not happy."

Wow. Might not be happy. Thanks. I didn't know you cared, and I'm sure you're going to rectify the situation by hearing my complaints, accepting my input, and immediately working on fixing things. Yeah, that sounds like you, you go, Mr. G, you're the coolest.

"I'm not happy." I echoed him, looking at him expectantly. "Sorry, could you clarify that?"

"Well, you've been slipping behind. You haven't turned in your work, and you don't seem to be taking notes in class. Someone came to me, and, ah, said they saw a weapon in your bag." Oh yeah, like those E88 and ABB wannabes don't take a shiv or something.

"I wouldn't take a weapon to school. Feel free to check my bag. Pat me down. Whatever. Does this mean you'll do something about the people bullying me?" My voice was monotone, mostly because any other tone was going to be anger. "But hey, if you pat me down, they'll be making fun of me for that, too."

He flinched again. I hadn't really meant to say that. It was vulgar honesty, but I enjoyed seeing this useless person who was a "teacher" and a "friend", but neither to me, receive some version of the truth. "Taylor, you can't say that, it could bring some serious allegations-"

"Like? Like them putting glue on my seat, or destroying my books? Would those count?" Monotone. I was keeping my voice monotone, and it would stay that way. It would stay that way.

"Yes, Taylor. Those would be serious allegations. I'm not blind, I see that you're not working to-" Mr. Gladly was more comfortable now, talking about the bullying probably meant to him that I wasn't going to stab him. "-your potential. I know you can do better. Do you want to talk about the people bullying you?"

"Here's my bag. The rips are from them. The juice stains are from them. I don't have books in it anymore because they shredded those. Would they be expelled?" I asked.

"We'd be able to bring them to get suspended, with evidence. If they kept it up-"

"They've been doing it for almost a year and nobody has done anything. Isn't this part of your job?" Monotone was good while it lasted.

"Taylor, calm down, I'm not your enemy, I'm trying to help." He wasn't my enemy. Mr. Gladly was just another person who just wouldn't do anything, and would let people get hurt if he could be popular.

"Please just inspect my bag, and do whatever. People have broken into my locker, my bag,-" I restrained myself from saying home. "Can I go?"

Mr. Gladly went through my bag, flipping through each compartment, feeling out the inside. His hand came away sticky once or twice, and I shrugged. "They like giving me juice and soda. All over my stuff."

"Taylor, we can go to the Vice-Principal, and Principal right now." He spoke, "You can tell them about this, and-"

"And they're careful enough not to leave stuff behind. Can I go? Are we done?" I had managed to go back to monotone.

"We have to start somewhere, Taylor." He said, helplessly. Or maybe I was projecting. I wasn't sure. He handed the bag back.

I took it. I wanted to make a snappy comeback, some angry parthian shot. I just didn't see the point. He wasn't going to start any time, and I wasn't going to help him help the bullies have another reason to crack down.

"If you need to talk, my door is always open." Mr. Gladly said, patting me on the shoulder. It was only cloth by the time his hand reached it, three levels of metal shifting back.

"Mm." I opened the door, walking back into class. The whispering started almost immediately. I wonder what I had done this time in their little universes. Maybe I'd paid him off. Drugs? Sexual favors? All three?

Mr. Gladly came in after me, and immediately started back into his routine for the last ten minutes of class, talking about what we should be reading, what we could do to finish our homework easier. I didn't bother taking notes. This really didn't matter.

 

[Harbin]

1.8​

I left the class immediately after the bell rang, so I wouldn't have to have any comments thrown at me, or have to watch Mr. Gladly's eyes pass over me. They skipped past me like I didn't exist any longer. It felt like I was furniture. Yes, Isaac, no, Evan. Then here's the 1960's antique showcase classroom desk and chair combination. We're going to get it inspected, so just pass right over it and move onto the next person.

Sophia shoved me as I approached my locker and man that was satisfying to watch. Her using explosive force on my shoulder, which was now covered in layers of warm, comfortable, cottony metal. 'Tunk' was the sound the noise made. Her grimace briefly shifted toward discomfort before firming back into solid derision.

"Can I help you?" I asked. My voice was immediately controlled, but for the first time today, I wanted to laugh a bit.

The shadows wrapped around her as I looked at her.

It mouthed things into her ear. I could see from someone's perspective, leaping through the air, off a building. The sensation was exhilarating and numbed, all at once.

Oh, right, her elbow was at my throat, pressing me into the locker. A lock dug into my back.

"What did you tell him, you shitty little worm?" Her voice was impressively controlled rage. I wasn't aware she could growl like that.

I choked for a moment, struggling to keep an ingratiating smile on my face. I put my arms up, making it have the rigidity of iron. I held them there, preventing her from pushing further in. My strength was no longer the issue, it was her strength versus iron.

"Did you expect me to stay quiet?" I kept that smile on my face, because it looked like it pissed her off some more. "I decided to take pictures of what you did to my room."

I probably should have, but who would believe me, the-

"Shitty little whore." Sophia pressed in against my arms, and was unable to. I was certainly glad not to be choking any more than I was. "You did that to yourself, and you deserved it. That's what all of them will think."

I would love to have fifty pounds of anything on my shoes right now. Stomping down and breaking little miss track and field darling's toes would be exquisite.

"You shouldn't even be here. You should be where you deserve, in a fucking hole, crying to yourself about Mommy." It just didn't quite have that same bite when not delivered by Emma. "You look like shit, you're a nerd, and you're stupid to boot."

"Thanks for the heads up." It was almost mesmerizing to see this thing so close, images flashing. Holding someone at the edge of a rooftop. Hands, gloved.

Kicking a man in the stomach. He was curled up, her booted foot contacting with his side. There was something I wasn't quite putting together. It was so close. It was hard to think, what with the arm pressing into my throat, the exhaustion.

"You don't even get it, do you?" Sophia said, leaning into my face, her mouth contorted in a sneer, her brown eyes glaring.

"Oh. I get it," I said to Shadow Stalker, "I get it."

I opened my right hand up. She flicked her eyes over for the briefest moment, and I headbutted her. The images flashed into fast forward.

Firing a crossbow at someone running away. Feeling a weeping wound in a thigh, fear, bleeding out. More anger. Through a wall, up to the rooftops. Everything muted, things becoming indistinct.

Running was useless. Stupid. I couldn't outrun track star murder girl. It wasn't an option. But, she hadn't used her powers yet. Why hadn't she? Things clicked, made more sense. My window hadn't been broken because she hadn't needed to.

I turned and began sprinting away, pulling my hood up. I left my bag.

They had always been able to steal things from my locker. She didn't need to know the combination. "You fucking little-"

My feet screeched to a halt, and I spun, wrapping my hands up in the cloth-metal. My head was turned to the side, as she grappled for my arm, throwing a punch at my face, half covered by the hood.

"Fuck!"

Her hand contacted with the hood, and I heard little snapping noises. Kind of like twigs. The hooded sweatshirt jostled a bit with the impact. She'd hit it hard.

"Fucking shitting little-" Sophia fell backward, clutching at her hand, keening a little bit.

She wasn't stupid. If she hadn't known before, she sure knew now. Things would add up. If the images were what I thought they were, she was willing to kill. How old was she? Why the hell was she willing to kill at fifteen? Maybe she really had been held back a few years. Maybe Sophia Hess was secretly a Marine and 24.

My head was throbbing where I'd hit her with it. I needed a helmet.

"Cunt!" Oh, hey, she'd come up with a new word to express her pain.

"Okay." I responded, feeling remarkably good about myself. I wondered where she kept her Shadow Stalker gear. Maybe if I kept looking at the shadow pictures, I'd see something about it?

"You're-" she panted, then continued, "-a fucking crybaby who should stay in their place."

Another image, this time of her above a an alleyway, looking down. Watching.

Her pain tolerance was amazing. I was legitimately impressed at her recovery. "Yeah. Your hand alright?"

I wonder if I could get arrested for breaking her hand with my face. Was that a thing?

Sophia moved- it was hard not to think of her movement as stalking now, and a shadow of a smile grew on my face.

"The fuck are you smiling about, Hebert?" Hey, she said my name right- her good hand grabbed at my hoodie, her foot lashing out and wrapping behind my leg.

Bugs. Bugs, all around her. None were touching her. But they could. In the air, on the ground. There was a vibration. Her heart was beating so fast.

Fuck. I knew I needed armor there. I stumbled forward, and her force dragged me down to my knees. I raised my arms in front of my face, and tried to protect it. Then there was a foot in the small of my back, pushing me down.

I really needed to learn how to fight. My momentum was arrested by making my hoodie act as iron once more, sending me forward with a jerk, cushioned by the under layers, which acted as their normal, cottony selves. It still wasn't comfortable.

Rolling over, I threw my right arm out at her. It hit her raised arm with the extra weight and force behind it. She fell off me, going with it. I didn't hear the horrid sound again, so I guessed there were no broken bones.

She was holding the crossbow to someone's belly. I could feel her lips twisted into a smirk. Her other hand was gesturing to the side. There were people on the floor. Most had at least one bolt in them.

I definitely didn't need her life story. I didn't need to feel-- sorry for her? Angrier about her? Guilty? The images were a mixed bag. And she just punched me in the face. Okay.

"Ow." I said, more for her benefit than mine. I was on the ground, but it hadn't been with her full force, more of a jab. I realized she was testing my defenses as she straddled me, trying to hold down my arms with her legs.

Scared. Angry. Leg was cold. Stop pumping so fast, heart. Stupid piece of shit. Get here soon.

Shit, seriously? My arms were held in place, and she was punching me with her good hand. They definitely weren't strong hits, and I could turn my head sideways to temporarily get her to stop, but she could awkwardly rain blows. My lips felt thick, and my face was burning.

"Sophia Hess!"

Then, it stopped. I leaned over to look. Hey, it was the Principal herself. Nice.

Letting my head rest against the floor, I slowly spoke through fattened lips. "Hello, Principal Blackwell."

 

[Harbin]

1.9​

Sophia was sent to the hospital. Apparently, her hand was broken, and it was hard to answer questions while her metacarpals were close to breaking skin. I think they were just trying to get away from her.

She had seemed fine enough when fighting me, but I couldn't really argue that point. All I had felt from my face was a light tingling, burning sensation. Now it ached, and I was pretty sure I looked even worse than I felt.

"Taylor attacked me,-" Her face was a grimace of pain as she turned around, slowly getting off of me while lying smoothly. "She broke my hand."

I laughed. Probably not the best course of action, considering. Sophia wasn't even lying. I had attacked her, after a fashion. My forehead and hoodie, deadly weapons. Heh. I really wasn't sure what to say, and Sophia took full advantage of it. I didn't care too much.

"She's fucking crazy. Tried to take my books." Her wince of pain looked pretty real.

Sophia wasn't saying that I had powers, though. She had to know. Why not say it?

I had put the bare minimum into defending myself.

"Youw're full of shet." I was surprised at how much I had to focus on words to say them. "Punched me. Your fault."

Better. Sophia glared at me. Principal Blackwell made a call on her phone.

So, I sat in the Principal's office. My father had been called. I had been given a pack of ice to hold against my face. It burned, in a more pleasant fashion. If I melded ice together with something, could I make it melt?

Things made more sense. Emma had left me because she wanted to be a cape groupie. Sophia got Emma, I got Greg. It didn't quite seem fair. Did I have to kill a few people to get that sort of leverage? Sophia was a "hero".

Yeah. What a bunch of laughs. Sophia being a hero was amusing in the same way that dead baby jokes were funny. The shock value was great. Just like dead babies.

But it also meant I was in pretty serious danger. She was vindictive, and willing to kill. What did that mean for me? She was willing to invade my home, and target my things. Would she go after Dad, next?

What could I do to shut her down?

I could kill her. That was an option. If she was dead, she wouldn't be able to go after Dad. Reporting her to the PRT seemed useless, if they weren't already aware of her conduct. I hadn't really felt too much when she'd broken her hand on my face. Mild satisfaction? Pride that my strategy had worked, maybe?

I was somewhat worried about not being worried about it. I could join up with the Wards? I had already been looking into it. What would that do? Oversight didn't seem very good.

I wanted to laugh in Blackwell's face. Her bowl cut was ridiculous. Deciding against it was a chore, but I managed.

"Miss Hebert. Are you alright?" She asked, not unkindly.

"Mm." My eloquent rebuttal didn't seem to phase her, so she went ahead and kept speaking.

"Your father will be here shortly. Would you like to talk about the events that happened?" She glanced at her computer, typing. Maybe I could catch them if I paid attention.

"I want my flute back." I said, carefully arranging my words over my lips. I was tempted to chew on them because of how fat and numb they felt.

"Excuse me?" She said, taken aback.

"I want my flute back. Sophia took it. I want it back." I raised my voice. What could I meld together? Could I meld computers? She had some plaques on the walls. I could probably meld those within a few seconds.

"Is that why you started the fight? Because you thought Sophia had taken your flute?" She made a sympathetic face while tapping away at her computer. Tap, tap, tap.

If I combined keys, would I be able to make different letters appear? Could I make more than one appear at the same time? "I didn't start that fight."

"Of course you didn't. Could you tell me what happened from your perspective?" She smiled. I didn't like her smile, it reminded me of Mr. Gladly.

"Sophia wanted to know what I had said to the teachers about her bullying me." It was getting easier to speak properly. "She threw me against a locker, and I headbutted her."

"Okay. At what point did you break her hand?" Her voice was calm. I didn't like it. I didn't like her.

I considered lying, saying that she punched a locker and missed my face. It was most likely a more "realistic" answer, given that she'd essentially done something quite similar. What were the alternatives? Hey, by the by, I'm a parahuman. Good way to get dragged in on questioning. Assaulting a Ward, was that a criminal offense if they assaulted you first? I didn't know enough law, and the lawyer I had known was not one talking about parahuman law.

"She must have punched something. I didn't notice what it was. I think I heard the bones breaking." I avoided the question, "Am I going to get punished for her injuring herself?"

Principal Blackwell paused typing, looking at me. "Winslow has a zero tolerance policy. Sophia will be suspended for one week, and you will also be suspended for one week. You could press charges, if you wanted. So could she. You might have to be held back a year, so I'm hesitant to put any more punishments in place that might exacerbate that."

Translation: I really want you out of my school. Please graduate already.

It was amusing how I had gone from almost skipping a grade to being what was swiftly becoming a delinquent. It was funny how the teachers enjoyed me asking questions in middle school, and now teachers looked at me with disappointment, if at all.

I couldn't even make a joke about the zero tolerance policy. It managed to do stand up all on its own, and attract an audience.

We waited there, her tapping away at the keyboard. I sat there, thinking about things I could infuse with my power, holding the ice pack to my face. If I put a pillow and an ice pack together, would it stay cold if I made it be cold? Wherever it went, would it start melting? Random thoughts about my power, because nothing I had really mattered too much aside from Dad. Could I meld humans together? Could I make Sophia Hess a better person? Was it even possible to make her a better person? I tentatively decided it was not.

I heard, rather than saw my Dad come in. His angry voice carried. The secretary attempted to talk to him, and he discussed the finer points of her responsibility in not defending me. Or bowled her over with his controlled fury. One of the two.

He was directed to the office, and entered, closing the door carefully behind him. His actions did not belie his anger, but his face did. He looked at my face, and cringed. Was it at shame, or did it look that bad? "Please sit down, Mr. Hebert. Your daughter got in a fight with Sophia Hess."

"One of the bullies." I supplied, my voice low. I gave him my hand, and his hand was trembling. He slowly sat, gripping my fingers with his own.
"One of?" She glanced at me. Tik tak, away at the keyboard.

I hesitated. Emma was still my friend, in Dad's eyes. She was someone who could be trusted to look out for me, we were as intimate as best friends got, where sleeping over at each other's houses and maybe we'd drifted away a little in high school, but that wasn't that big, right? She'd still cover for me.

"Madison Clements and Emma Barnes." I murmured.

Dad's anger was gone from his face, but his hand trembled even more. "Emma? Taylor?"

Confusion had replaced it, along with quite a bit of shock.

"Yeah. Sorry. Since camp. That's why we haven't talked." I threw out the words piecemeal, trying to force my way through them. "Sorry."

"No, it's- It's okay. Sorry for not noticing. For not asking." He used his free hand to rub at his face.

"So, your claims are that Emma Barnes, Sophia Hess, and Madison Clements have been bullying you?" Blackwell interrupted, frowning. "All stellar students, in their ways. I can see Sophia, she has been in my office for detentions often enough, but I will need proof for the others."

I belatedly wondered if Sophia had left my folder of evidence alone. There was a fat laugh waiting to happen.

"No. No evidence," I said, staring back at her.

"Then I apologize, but I am unable to take action. If you report future incidents, we can take things further. Until then, however, you and Sophia are suspended for the week." Tak, tak tak. Click. She was done.

"So my daughter gets a suspension for defending herself?" Dad's voice was incredulous, anger welling up again.

"As I said over the phone, Sophia's hand is broken. My hands are tied, Mr. Hebert. If you want to call the police, or bring up charges, you can do so. I do not recommend it." There was a tinge of warning in her voice. Oh. She knew.

"I know some people in the media. I think they'd be real happy-"

"That's fine. Thanks for your help, Principal Blackwell." My father blinked at me as I stood, offering my hand to her. Blackwell looked at me oddly. At least she was looking at me. She shook my hand cautiously, and then I turned back to Dad.

"Can we go, Dad?" I squeezed his hand, looking at him with a frown. It probably didn't come across very well.

He frowned. "Alright. Okay."

We walked out of the school together, my steps a little more awkward with the ice held over my eye. It would be a hard talk. I asked him if we could get ice cream. He said yes.

 

[Harbin]

1.X​

Emily Piggot hated her job. Paperwork. Loose sheafs on her desk, one or two pieces had fallen onto the floor. It was a disorganized mess, and she stolidly worked her way through it. Skimming where necessary, stamping, signing off, always more.

The windows were something she enjoyed wiping down, every so often. It was a ritual of monotony, to get away from her work. Perhaps "enjoyed" was too strong a word, but it was something "productive" that wasn't reading over the newest sequence of events that she played no part in. The windows were pristine, so she didn't have a real excuse right now.

Emily also enjoyed the brief moments where she could get up and play with her office golf set. The putter was right next to the 4 iron, and she ran her hand over each with a smirk. For now though, it was back to work, so she looked at her desk from the other side. It was harrowing in its effort to be deeply uninteresting. A frown pushed its way on her face as she picked up the mug.

But, her fingers rubbed at the cup's surface and she smiled in spite of herself.

'I RATE YOU BELOW THE COFFEE MACHINE', stated the mug in blue, bold letters against a grey background. Clockblocker was a good kid. A nightmare for public relations. He'd definitely regret his name in two years or so. She briefly pondered on the potential rebranding opportunities for him, but gave up almost immediately. That was their job. Not hers.

Her job was just to apologize for that bit of stupidity when it had happened, and bring down the wrath of god. Or something like it.

It was more like it when it came to Shadow Stalker, and she grimaced as she sat back down, trying not to think of how it would have been so much easier to simply let her go a bit too far a few more times. The public opinion would have protected her far less, she wouldn't have gotten that lawyer, and she wouldn't have the damned girl on her hands. Why couldn't she be like Vista or Gallant? Even New Wave was better than this.

It was a poison pill and a media circus waiting to happen. Armsmaster agreed, but Shadow Stalker did "good work", and was smart enough to stay in the media's eye when she did so. A villain here, saving civilians there. She was a bit brutal in takedowns sometimes, but nothing that could be construed as excessive force.

Shadow Stalker showed up promptly to her psych sessions. It was suspected she was simply telling them what they wanted to hear, to some extent. However, there was some element of cooperation involved. Perhaps she was making strides. She doubted it.

Emily concentrated back on her work, casting Shadow Stalker out of her mind. A report on the Undersiders here, a report on E88 making another push. The Merchants appeared to be taking more territory as well.

She missed Recon and Patriot.

They had been transferred a few months to Austin, after Hoyden died in an attack. Things were getting worse in Chicago, too.

They were essential to bringing in Shadow Stalker without a fight. Crime had gone down, and had gone back up when they had announced their departure. Armsmaster had been left scrambling, forced to change his routine and work twice as hard. He didn't complain, he never did. It kind of pissed Emily off. She wished he would complain. It would make her feel infinitely better.

He probably just complained to Dragon.

Too many lovebirds for her liking. Back to work.

The work was annoying. The normal government of the city shoveled responsibility whenever they could. It wasn't their fault, it was SWAT's fault. No, no, it wasn't SWAT's fault, it was the PRT's fault.

That was the majority of the work, saying, 'No, this is not our fault, please take this, shove it back to your superiors, and take care of it.'

Time-consuming and just plain rude. She returned the favor, brusquely replying in each circumstance. Tapping away at her keyboard.

Her phone buzzed.

Legend: Are we still on? If you're busy, we can reschedule.

She knew he was being polite. Politeness, meant more for her benefit than his. She could hear it in his voice, not wheedling, not blaming, but calm and friendly. Even though it would be a huge inconvenience to him, he'd do it if she asked.

The man was a walking stereotype. Sometimes it irritated her. Kindness, physique, intelligence. If he didn't have powers, he'd still somehow be a beautiful icon. The thought that she outranked him was a farce, and one he never breached or pushed, because he was nice. Sometimes she wished she didn't know him, so she didn't have to try measuring up.

But the rest of the time she was very glad to call him her friend.

Emily: No, you won't be imposing. I'm just doing grunt work anyway.

She opened the window, leaving a handprint she would clean up later. Within thirty seconds, Legend was there, waiting for permission. She rolled her eyes, waving him in. "Let's get lunch. I'm tired of trying to work my way through this."

"That sounds good. Are we eating out, or in the cafeteria?" He smiled at her, and she chuckled.

"I'll get indian next time. This time, the cafeteria." It was a routine for them. They never did end up eating out, although Legend had brought baked goods from Arthur, and she'd had to reciprocate. All very hush-hush, of course. If one of the most morally upright people in America, if not the most upright, were to be seen giving Director Emily Piggot dewberry tarts, there could be rumors.

And that would be terrible.

They ate together, talking about heroes. She asked him how Recon and Patriot were doing. Still making time for each other? He nodded, smiling. One of the success stories of the Wards, back in their formation.

She mentioned the increased rate in crime, he talked about ways to help out. For a moment, he looked tired. Emily picked up on it, changing the subject.

How was Keith doing? Was he doing well with Arthur? What was his favorite food? Idle chatter, that was a safe spot to avoid the stresses of work.

He answered gratefully, cheeks creasing in a smile as he talked about how Keith was so ready for school, and had really loved the snickerdoodles. She waved a hand, said she'd make some more. It was idyllic and a much needed reprieve for them both.

They finished, exchanging hugs before he left, and she had to go back to her grunt work. Another week before they'd meet again.

The stress was already building. Shooting people was easier than this shit. More time, spent trying to figure out what was their jurisdiction, what was their jurisdiction, except when that department could look good off of solving something easy, in which case it was their jurisdiction most definitely.

Then, the email came.

Emily Piggot put her head in her hands, breathing in and out slowly. She rose from her chair, picking up the 4 iron, placing the golf ball down on the turf. She walked to the window, opening it. Carefully, deliberately, she walked back to the ball.

Then, she split the timeline. In two of them, she swung as hard as she could.

In the final one, she walked back to her desk, putting the golf club across her legs. It was childish. She knew that. A waste of her ability.

In one, the ball crashed through a window. In another, a car. Emily delighted in the bit of chaos, the break from monotony and time wasted with bureaucracy. She knew she should feel guilty. Nevertheless, she waited until the timelines collapsed, watching them slowly fade as things began to focus back into a single one.

 

[Harbin]

2.1
Temper​

I got a mint chocolate milkshake. Dad got a half-pint of something called fishbait. Came with gummy worms, so it was funny. I even smiled.

We went back in the car to eat. Well, I slurped. And talk.

Dad wasn't happy. That was a given.

He did, however, wait until I finished my smoothie, and he finished his ice cream. I asked for and received a gummy worm.

We sat there, the AC blowing. It was hard to figure out where to start. It terrified me, to think of what he'd say. When it had happened, when I had realized it, I thought I could put it off until later.

Why not? It wasn't like it was too important. I hadn't gone out or anything. I hadn't done anything with my power. Then, things were stressful for him at work. So I hadn't told him then. I didn't want to tell him now, either. Would he be disappointed in me? Would he hate me for what had happened? Had he noticed that I'd lost the flute?

Had he noticed what had happened to my room that night?

It just wasn't the right time to tell him. It never would be, and I could keep putting it off, and off. And then what if something bad happened? I, well, shit.

I opened my mouth, then closed it.

Dad held his hand out for the smoothie cup. He took it. "Take as long as you need, Taylor. I'll listen to whatever you have to say."

He stepped outside, and I watched him walk to the trash can, throwing the plastic and paper away.

I took off my hooded sweatshirt. I felt hot, prickly, itchy.

The door opened, and he entered once more, sitting down next to me.

I was surprised how much emotion was in my voice when I spoke. "Dad?"

"Yes?" He replied. His voice was calm. I couldn't tell if he was angry or not, and I wiped tears away.

"They stole Mom's flute. I'm sorry." Tears welled up, and I just couldn't stop them. "I'm sorry."

"I figured it might be something like that." His voice was sad, he was staring down at his splayed hands. "I'm sorry for not noticing. I called Gram. I thought we might have left it there. Before."

His lips cracked into an awkward smile. "She sure chewed me out."

"Mm." I couldn't really laugh, I knew she despised him. Made him feel like crap whenever she talked to him. Mom had threatened to cut contact, and it had gotten better. She couldn't do that anymore, so it got worse. I doubt that's what Mom wanted, but those were the facts.

"Why bring that up now? Was that what started the fight?" He questioned me. Coaxed, really. I wasn't really sure where to start all of a sudden, when I'd had all the emotion of a stone with Blackwell.

"I uh-" shit. Shit shit. Okay. This was something I could do. "When they stole the flute, they did things to it. They crushed it, bent it. I think they threw it in some kind of rotting trash and let it sit there. I begged Emma to return it." I watched his face, and the telltale signs of anger showed. Of course.

Dad looked up at the ceiling of the car, and breathed in and out. He repeated the process, then looked back down. His brows were pressed together, his hands were in fists, but he slowly unclenched them and spoke. "I'd like to call Alan and tell him about this."

"Please, dad. I, I need to do this." I held the sweatshirt out to him. "Can you hold this?"

He was puzzled. Understandably. It seemed like a leadup to a bad punchline. "Uh, sure. What, like this?"

It took him a moment to realize that the sweatshirt wasn't moving. Then, it collapsed inward on itself, and it was cold against his fingertips. Then, the sleeve weighed as much as the amount of metal in it. Then normal.

He stared down at it. I looked at my lap as well, fingers fidgeting. I didn't really want to see his face. At least the first bombshell was over with.

"You have powers?" His voice was a raspy croak. I curled my legs up against my chest, wrapping my arms around them.

"Yeah." I said, into my knees. "They gave it back to me, and I fainted. I woke up at the nurse's office. I took it home, cleaned it, and hid it."

The grossly oversimplified explanation was easier. "I kept trying to figure out how I could fix it, and I kind of- knew? I could combine things. I could make them be like the other things they were combined with. It was easier when they were similar, so I melted candles together and used them as a sort of model."

They were emergency candles, and I think that qualified.

"Things calmed down for a bit. They toned it down. I- I thought maybe they'd started to leave me alone. I wanted to be a hero, so I started getting metal, and making kind of armor. I can make the armor weightless, so I figured I could use, uh, metal from wherever. The junkyard. And stuff." There was a rusty cast iron pan in the sweatshirt, moulded like clay into a really awful breastplate.
"Then, I got some notes. Someone knew I had powers, and told me to meet them at one in the morning. In the docks." I hugged my legs tighter. "I went."

The glance at his face was a bad idea. Dawning comprehension followed by irritation.

"They broke into my room while I was gone. Sophia did. She broke all my school stuff. They stole the notebook I was using to plan, and the flute. Again." I paused, and he took it as the end of the story.

"I didn't hear a thing-"

"Sophia is Shadow Stalker, Dad." I interrupted him, wanting to get the last bit out. "She knows and she's killed people before."

"Killed?" His voice wasn't exactly filled with belief. "Are you sure?"

As sure as mystical glass-shard-shadow-vision makes me.

"My power also lets me, uh, see things. I could almost feel them. I saw her dropping someone off a roof. Shooting people with a crossbow. I think it only works on people with powers." Hey Dad I can kind of read minds of people with superpowers kind of you know who also does that yeah the Simurgh so we're basically best buddies.

"You're sure?"

Yeah the shadow spectre lady had some handy dandy slideshows while I was getting punched by Sophia's good hand. Fuck. I really didn't want to ruin this conversation. I felt like closing down, I just wanted to cover myself up, and be behind something.

If I did that, though, what would I do? Sophia might go after my dad. She might come after me. I had to tell him.

"Yeah. Pretty sure. I really think she's a gigantic sociopath or psychopath or whatever it is. She's crazy." Letting my legs go, I pointed at my sweatshirt. "That's, uh, how she broke her hand. She punched me, and hit the hood. I made it act like the metal that's in there."

Surprisingly, he smiled. "I'm glad. I'm not glad that you didn't tell me about this beforehand. I'm not glad that you didn't tell me immediately when this happened with Emma."

"But I'm glad you're telling me now. I don't want to lose you, Taylor." Dad didn't add the second part. He didn't need to. "Good job defending yourself. What do you want to do about school? I don't know how much a superhero makes, but I want you to get an education."

Superhero.

The word made me feel happy, warm. I could be a superhero.

"Well, I'm suspended for a week. I could uh, catch up on school work." That made him a lot happier, and he was nodding a little. "And I kind of want to find ways to test my power."

Dad admittedly did not look as happy about that. The thought about me testing my powers had led him to the obvious conclusion. "I- I don't want to see you in danger, Taylor."

"What if Sophia comes after me? Or you?" I looked up at him, arms by my side, glasses askew. "I don't want to just let her try to hurt me."

"You're not going to go try fight gangers." That wasn't a question.

"No." I answered, hesitant, hoping. The pause felt like forever, as he sat there, thinking.

"We'll see what we can do. Tell me about your power. Maybe we can come up with some things for it." He opened his arms, turning awkwardly to me. I imitated him, and he hugged me. I melted into it, feeling tension drain. I had missed this.

Dad let me go, he sat back, and I started talking.

 

[Harbin]

2.2​

My upper limit was five. That was if I was willing to focus almost entirely on keeping those together. It was like pushing continuously against something while assembling a rubik's cube from scratch. If the objects I was putting together were different, the pressure grew worse at a steady rate. It became unbearable after about one to five minutes, depending on how bad of a headache I wanted afterward. The pain didn't last for that long afterward, but it was not like flexing a muscle to try improve it. It was like trying to dump milk over my arm to make the bone stronger. It felt about as useless, anyway. I couldn't think of any situations where five would be more useful than four or three.

I worked my way down from there.

Four was nowhere near as bad, but was difficult. I couldn't do it on multiple things at once, or not for long. If they were similar, it got easier. It required constant maintenance, and I couldn't finely tune things. Sometimes, it would shift between the aspects I'd decided, and I'd have to reaffirm them. If I didn't, the aspects would slide about, and I'd be caught up trying to push those back into place, but then other things would come apart-

It was like a game of jenga except the pieces were phasing into each other and they could fall out at any point. Okay. Not a great comparison.

Three was reasonable. It took some concentration, but as long as the pieces were similar, it didn't take up as much concentration. If they were very similar, it was almost as little as two non-similar pieces being melded.

My power's "limits" were not clearly defined in some aspects. I wondered if other people had trouble like I did. It was much easier with Dad's help, though.

Especially when we melded a towel to my glasses. That was interesting. I could see through it if I gave it the properties of my glasses, all while it being opaque to everyone else. It came about after I talked about my half-assed sheet idea. I wondered if this extended to things like breathability. It would certainly cover a lot of expenses if I could stick a cloth patch in one "layer" of melded material and have it cover the whole "I need air to live" conundrum.

It was interesting to think of potential uses with that, and especially cool for potentially disguising my identity or something. He suggested it so that I'd have a way to conceal my identity twice over, make them think I have different powers or something.

Except with a scarf or like a piece of silk or something, not a towel. In case that wasn't obvious. Dad made a few jokes about it. The Amazing Flannel Girl. Towel Woman.

I returned fire with: "I've cottoned onto your plans, evil-doer."

We laughed together.

That was a good distraction from the fact that everything we did was grounded in two things. It needed to be cheap, and it needed to be out of sight. After the talk, he still wanted to go public with it.

I had agreed, but I wanted some kind of defense against Sophia. That's why we were at the motel. Home didn't really feel safe now that we knew she could get in at any time she wanted. Dad had thought of Kurt and Lacey, and we both immediately vetoed the idea.

It felt an awful lot like a horror movie.

Dad had gone to work. Late, because he got us cell phones beforehand. I was sad, in a way. But, I was happy. Dad looked more satisfied and happy, and we were watching movies at night before we slept.

I could not get a hang of the cell phone. I felt like Dad with computers, constantly asking questions that made sense, but made me feel silly. Okay, they sounded stupid to me, but now we were both on the other end, so they made a lot more sense.

He tried calling his contact in the media once we'd straightened things out. A Tom Bailey had answered. He'd listened to the potential story, and refused to report it without any proof. It could blackball him for life, ruin his career, his wife would take the kids and divorce. The whole nine yards. I felt even worse for having cleaned the room, and Dad looked a lot more glum after that.

I had wanted to go shopping for more potential materials today. Mostly at the junkyard, but we'd agreed that a fifteen year old girl in the junkyard would draw suspicion. My extra schoolwork was done at the library.

I had switched to a different hoodie that I hadn't worn in at least- a while. Before the bullying started. It was a vibrant red, and I knew exactly why I'd stopped wearing it. I remembered the comments they'd made back then.

I combined it with the second iteration of the armor we'd made. This one was made of "woven" iron strips. I had melded it with clay, first. I wore gloves, because I wasn't exactly sure what would end up flaking off. Or what would happen if iron stuck onto my hands like clay. It was rolled out into thin strips after scraping off the rust. Then, they were stacked in circles, each at least two inches thick. The first try collapsed under its own weight, so I'd had add butcher paper into the combination, giving it the weight of the paper. Then, halfway through, I'd fixed the structural stability of most of the pieces back to iron.

Making armor with super powers was rough. It was also incredibly fun, and this was just the outer layer. The second layer was my shirt, which was made up of iron strips combined into yarn, then woven together into the shittiest makeshift sweater I'd ever seen. The interlocking strips of metal were firmly in place, and while I'd hoped to make it something more akin to chainmail, it was a sort of failed experiment? Kind of? It still worked as armor, and looked a heck of a lot nicer than my cobbled pieces of rusty scrap stitched together with wire.

My mind buzzed with possibilities and things I could integrate. I wondered if this was how tinkers felt when they finished a plasma gun. And here I'd carefully constructed medieval armor, using historical methods of melding metal with yarn. I felt a tad behind the curve.

I'd repeated this with my pants, and my bike shorts.

I finally made iron shoes. I also wanted to make gloves, but all we had were work gloves, and my winter gloves had been lost in the great laundry war. I suspected desertion through the washing machine.

Lastly, I melded the sweatshirt with a lovingly made representation crafted from tape, frustration, and butcher paper. It was firstly an experiment to me, to see how long it would take before it got irritating. Secondly, because I wanted to see how light I could make my equipment for myself.

I was happy, even when things chewed at the back of my head about how things would go downhill. Things felt good. I had told Dad, he hadn't gotten (too) upset, he had accepted that Sophia was probably a psycho killer, and we were figuring things out.

There were bad parts. We couldn't afford to live at the motel forever. For all we knew, Sophia was wrecking the place. Or just throwing parties there. I wasn't sure which was worse. I had completed most of the schoolwork, and turning it in online meant that there were very few ways it could be stolen.

For now, because I wanted to, because I had time, I went out shopping. My hood was up, my hair was concealed. I'd briefly considered cutting it, and then decided against it. I'd wear something to cover it in costume or something. Or something. I was already kind of concealing it here.

So, I went to the market. I wasn't precisely going to go buy dresses. Maybe a scarf, if I could find one. After all, it would be really cool to have. And maybe I kind of wanted to be a little like Patriot.

I also maybe had some fantasies about catching bullets in the scarf and letting them fall to the ground. Without superhuman reflexes it wasn't really possible, but there were other things I could do with it.

Fifty bucks. That was my limit.

Hoodie, shirt, pants, bike shorts, shoes. I could barely feel it as I walked along. The hoodie was noticeable, but not a pressure. The similarity in items made a serious difference.

The stalls smelled good. There were all kinds of food. It was brisk, and there was a lot of hot chocolate. Someone had s'mores. I wondered which stall it had come from. I continued down the way. It wasn't nearly as crowded as it could get on the weekends, but it was nice.

Then, I caught a glimpse of it.

Eyes, roving around, blinking in and out of existence, in the air. Around, above someone in the crowd. I could see the amalgam of mismatched eyes, a different one opening after one closed.

I moved away immediately. One blinked open, blue-green, staring at me.

"Excuse me. Sorry." I pushed my way through people. No way, no how. I wasn't sure which Ward or Protectorate member that was, but I was not getting near them.

I ended up not getting my scarf. I did get some hot chocolate, though.

$49.50. I'd try again tomorrow.

 

[Harbin]

2.3​

Was the person of many creepy eyes stalking me? No, that wasn't right. Sophia hadn't heard what the shadow-thing had said to her. Or if she did, I couldn't hear it. It seemed more likely that it was some kind of representation of their power, or maybe something related to it.

This was probably their patrol route. Nevertheless, today was the second day in a row I'd seen them. This time I didn't immediately leave. I kept at least three people away from them, carefully moving by.

The eyes tracked my movements, three of them seeming to focus on me before shifting, looking at stalls, looking at people. Green, grey, brown. Each had different sized pupils.

I kept moving.

"Hey-, wait up-" Nope. Good luck. No thanks. A female voice, my mind faintly registered. How had she noticed me? Were the eyes actually her power? "Hey!"

Not listening. I already had what I came for, a silk scarf. What Patriot's looked like before she'd updated her look. Could I get sued for copyright infringement? Was that a thing? Your honor, I didn't have the money to get expensive scarves for my costume so I just bought some stuff from the street stalls.

It cost me ten bucks, so that was good. Wrapping it around my hoodie would have made me feel a little too ridiculous. I settled for stuffing it into my pocket and worrying about it later.

I had also picked up some faux-leather gloves that I was assured was real lambskin. My unimpressed expression bargained that falsehood down to five bucks. They looked decent on the outside, were comfortable, and that was good enough. They were on my hands now, and they looked reasonably nice.

I wouldn't be winning any fashion competitions, but it was another step forward, and that felt nice. I only stopped moving when I could look back and not see her anymore. Eye-lady hadn't kept following me after my initial burst of movement, but I had wanted to make sure.

The fringes of the marketplace had less in the way of goods I wanted, surplus clothing that smelled like cigarette smoke, plastic toys, and records. I moved past them, not really paying too much attention as I made my way back to the motel. I considered it a pretty big success. My power was still a light occasional reminder that it was in place, and I had plans for the gloves and scarf.

To be entirely honest, I felt a little giddy. I wasn't sure what to do with it, so I put it into working on the gloves and scarf once I'd got home. Working with clay-iron was proving to be very soothing. Whether it was because I was using my power to break the laws of physics and that was interesting, or because if it was just a soothing activity, it felt good.

There was butcher paper all over the floor, and I'd ended up needing to meld the steel-clay with it in order to stack it up. When finished, I'd made about two inches of metal with the same proportions of the scarf.

I removed the paper and the clay, melding the metal into the scarf, making it light, flexible, soft. This was so cool. I wrapped it around my hand, faking punches with it, and then unraveling it to swipe through the air. I didn't hit anything with it, but I didn't want to potentially end up killing anything or anyone.

The gloves were next, and harder. How was I supposed to make clay-metal into gloves? Making shirts and hoodies were all good and fine, but the fingertips of gloves eluded me. I ended up making reasonable facsimiles with the steel-clay and then carving a hole into it my hand could fit into. They looked more like bloated boxing gloves with fat fingers attached to them.

It worked. I was amazed and relieved.

Dad came home around five minutes after that, and apparently I hadn't noticed the mess I'd made of the place. There was a lot of iron stuck to the butcher paper, along with rust. We bundled it up and threw it out, then went out to have dinner.

Burgers and fries counted as dinner, right?

He quizzed me on my schoolwork. It felt good. Both to have him care enough to do so, and the interaction. I showed him what I'd done, and he tried to lift the scarf. I made it as heavy as it should be, and he was unable to do so. Then I lifted it, pretending to strain under the effort before twirling it around, putting it around my shoulders.

Dad laughed. Then, his expression grew thoughtful. "Taylor, have you thought of carrying around some kind of clay?"

I didn't follow his train of thought, so I answered, "Uh?"

"You could carry around some wet clay and model it into things. You know, like search and rescue. If there's a car on someone, or a girder, you could meld them, and lift it off." Oh, that was a good idea. He also probably didn't want me to get into danger, and his suggestion might have been inspired from that.

"That's- a really good idea, Dad. I'll be sure to put that in the utility belt." He chuckled in response, but he was smiling. That was good. It also gave me other ideas. If I could put a pebble inside a steel sphere, I'd be able to use it as a pretty effective weapon.

We watched a movie, and he went to sleep first.

I walked outside, armor on, gloves on, scarf wrapped around my neck. I wasn't going to go do anything rash. There was just a certain level of desire to step outside like this, feeling like my "costume" was almost complete. To show it off. I hadn't thought of a hero name for myself. I felt more comfortable like this, clad in armor that probably bordered on weighing a ton by this point.

It was tempting to go on a jog. I could potentially run into a situation where I could try out my powers, and use it as an excuse. Couldn't sleep, wanted to move. It just happened, sorry.

I went back inside, pulled off the armor, got dressed in an old t-shirt and sweatpants, and went to bed.

 

[Harbin]

2.4​

It was an odd feeling to wake up to what sounded like road work, and not one that I would wish on anyone. The sound vibrated in my head, and my head hurt. I groaned. It was a motel, but I wish they'd put a blanket over it or something. I gave up trying to sleep. It was impossible. The work would stop for a minute or two, giving me hope.

These were dashed across the asphalt as they resumed work. Please.

I sighed, clamping the pillow over my head before giving up. I stretched, turning the television on, turning it up. Now it was just an uncomfortable mess of noise. Flicking between channels did not help. "STRATOCUMUL- OVER BROCK- AEGIS- FOR 19.99, ORDER- TODAY, HERO AND HIS APPR-" Oh, that one was some guy singing. It was smooth enough that the beatings outside didn't interfere too much with it. It was probably autotuned, but I just kept stretching. The bass and drums distracted enough from the roadwork. I stripped, took a shower. It was nice and hot, and I could pay some nice attention to my skin and hair. I let it hit my face for a while, then my neck and back. It eased the headache, and the rhythmic drops let me filter out the noise.

With that done, I stared into the mirror while drying off. My face was unimpressive. Blurry with the steam, so I rubbed the mirror down a bit and made some faces. It made me remember taking pictures of each other's faces. Fuck you, Emma.

I finished drying off and began pulling on underthings. Then, I looked at the floor next to my bed, and blinked. No, it wasn't my shitty eyesight.

Huh. I hadn't tested that before. Hadn't really thought of that. My armor laid on the floor, still melded. Shrugging, I pulled it on. The scarf went around my neck, the gloves were shoved into the hoodie's pockets.

My hair wouldn't dry for a while yet, but- the armor felt nice to be wearing. It wasn't like anyone I knew saw me yesterday, either. I promised myself I wouldn't make a habit of this.

Sitting there, yawning, listening to the music for a bit longer- it was nice. But it only took a few minutes before I couldn't ignore the grinding noise outside any longer.

I walked outside, making my way to the library. The hood of my sweatshirt was left down so that my hair could keep drying.

It felt reasonably safe. I had armor, all around me. These normal people around me, if they suddenly got hit by a bullet or a knife, they'd just die. I had multiple layers of armor. It felt odd, like I'd kind of separated myself from them in a sense. I wondered if heroes like Aegis felt this way. Maybe that's why he'd picked his name, so he could protect those weaker than him.

My headache continued to ease as I kept walking, so I started contemplating potential hero stuff. Both things I'd looked up on PHO, and my own personal experiences. Anecdotal, but still somewhat relevant regarding this. I was more in E88 territory than anywhere else, so it wasn't like I was likely to get jumped. Maybe I'd be offered drugs. When I could honestly say Nazis were the least trouble I was likely to have I was far more worried about the Teeth.

Butcher dying a few months back had only set up for another one to take her place. It had made national news. The Undersiders had garnered serious attention after that. With one of their biggest hitters gone, they had mostly disappeared from the public eye. Or at least, from my research.

Honestly, I was just glad that the Slaughterhouse 9 hadn't moved in along with Nilbog at this point. The heroes seemed like they were spread thin.

The last time they'd showed up had been in Chicago, months back. The speech King had made was online. They'd picked up two "recruits" there, leaving only a hundred dead. Only. Revel, Annex, Tecton, dead. Tread, Oberon, Bolthole, along with several other villains, dead. There were at least another hundred, well, gone. Courtesy of Gray Boy and his "sister", Gristle Girl. King had entitled it an art exhibit, to which all were welcome to enjoy.

I had made the easy decision to not look for images.

Back on less ominous yet still scary things, it was interesting how many people I walked by had powers. Some of their glimmering spectres were clearer, brighter than others. I walked by one as I made my way to the library. One was weak. Stylized lines growing from his skin, whirling around him slowly, drawing things inward. I could see lines extending outward until they were cut off by the edge of the "window". His shaved head and faded tattoos let me know he definitely was not a hero. I didn't spend much time near him, and looked away after he had glared at me. I didn't spend too much time looking at other people's power-things after that. In total, I hurriedly walked by at least four more.

Two were together.

I tried not to break into a run. I succeeded, so when I finally made my way into the library, I collapsed at a computer in relief.

There were about ten minutes of glorious, wonderful, stress-free bliss before the road work started up again.

Wait. That wasn't road work. That definitely wasn't road work. Uh.

I looked around me. Someone was already making a call to the Protectorate, by the expression on his face and how he was screaming at the operator to 'get some heroes over here or we're all going to die, you fucking cunt, do you understand?'

A lot more people were filming the twenty foot woman fighting the fifteen foot trash monster.

Oh. Shit. Maybe the guy on the phone had a point.

I elected to call Dad. He picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Daniel Hebert speaking at the-"

"Dad. There's a fight going on outside. I'm going to help. Not going to fight if I can. Okay?" I said the words rapidfire as I moved into the bathroom. Oh thank god there was nobody in here.

"Taylor." He paused, and I heard the crackly, staticky intake of breath. "Don't- please don't get hurt. Stay safe."

"Okay. I'll do my best. I love you, Dad." My voice cracked with emotion and I pulled the hood down, taking the scarf off as I walked into a bathroom stall.

"I love you, sweetheart. Be safe." Dad sounded like he was about to cry. I cut the connection. If he said more, I don't think I could go out there. I pressed my glasses into the scarf, then wrapped it around my face, tying it in the back, tying my hair down as best I could.

Hood up. Concentrate. I opened my eyes, and I could see through the scarf, as if it was glass. Or, well, my glasses. I pulled on the gloves, opening the stall door and glancing at myself in the mirror as I passed. I looked silly, except for the "mask". That looked odd. A sheet of some stars, some stripes, with no indication of eye holes, nothing.

I had the choice of plastic, mothballs, or iron to smell in. Plastic was the least egregious, so I settled on that as I walked out.

Wards and Protectorate weren't here yet.

Thunder-thighs and Trash-man were still duking it out. Okay, maybe I was just jealous of her figure. She slammed him with a giant shield, and chunks fell off of him while he stumbled backward into the building opposite to the library.

I was half-tempted to simply turn around and walk back into the building. How could I help, in this? Two giants fighting. Both were villains, right?

Whichever the giant was, Fenja or Menja, and the Trash-guy was part of the Merchants. They were both powerhouses my power didn't feel on the same scale with.

Okay. Negative thoughts weren't helping. Maybe I couldn't fight them head on. What could I do? I could look for anyone trapped, or needing help, maybe shield them from the falling bits of building and trash.

Garbage-golem struck back, throwing (F/M)enja into a building. Windows shattered, falling and I moved, shoes hitting pavement. The glass wasn't a problem with my armor, and I tried to grab anyone who was injured. Damn I was weak. I was so used to toying around with entire sheets of steel, playing with clay, this was a heads up as to my physical fitness.

There was a guy in the middle of the road. He had a suit on, and part of it was mucked up with sweat and dirt. I looked him over for injuries. A glass shard in his shoulder that he was tugging at.

"Hey. Hey, can you hear me?" I pulled his hand away from the glass, and tried to hoist him to his feet. His hand kept tracing up to try yanking it from the wound. He blinked a lot.

I cursed, and started pulling him by both his arms, as he stumbled after me. After a tense thirty seconds, with the ground shaking every time the titans decided they needed to hit each other especially hard, I managed to settle the guy on the side.

"Hey! You!" I pointed at a girl filming the confrontation with a smartphone. "Keep this guy from taking the glass out of his shoulder. I think he's in shock. I'm going back in to help people."

She blinked and looked at me as if seeing me for the first time. "Please, he could die if he takes it out."

The girl slowly put her phone away, taking the man's hands, keeping him from weakly reaching up.

Shit. Shit, shit shit.

I ran forward, trying to figure out what I could do. Trash golem was now closer to me, so I ran toward it, looking up. Was the entire thing a sort of monstrous villain? Did he absorb trash? I tried to look for his spectre, and the image was unhelpful.

A field of rats. They ran over each other, running up each other, biting, eating at each other, endless and- Ah! There was the center.

I couldn't get to it. Did I tell giant villain lady?

Fortunately, that decision was made for me.

And unfortunately, I guess. A white figure leapt from a rooftop, touching giant lady before hitting the ground on his feet, as if he hadn't just jumped forty damn feet down.

She was no longer moving, unnaturally still, her shield extended outward, one of her legs raised slightly off the ground. Clockblocker. Trash-guy ran forward, and I ran at him. How did this guy stand the stench of his own stuff?

I threw myself at the left "leg", and bulled straight through it, with all the force and weight my armor lent me.

The ground came up fast at my face on the other side of the wall of trash. My gloved hands smacked against it, arresting my movement as I turned around.

"He's in there!" I pointed at the right side upper side of the trash. It slowly topped to the side, and then clambered back, creating a new leg out of excess trash.

"Mush! You can come in peacefully or with a beating. I like the former. You stink." Clockblocker's voice was kind of echoey through the helmet.

Oh, so Garbage Guy's name was Mush. Now I just needed to find out if that was Fenja or Menja, or if they were secretly triplets.

 

[Harbin]

2.5​

I smelled. I really smelled. It was like a miasma. It could rate as a superpower. I really didn't want to burn this scarf. Could I like, combine it with silicone or something to wash this off? This decision was one that I would always regret.

Was there a superpower I could use not to feel nauseous? I'd really prefer that one right now, please.

Eugh. I looked back up, and Clockblocker dodged backward out of Mush's clumsy swipe. Or- Wait, I was sure Mush was going to hit him.

"Alright then, I guess it's the second option. We'll just have to mop the floor with you!" I groaned. That wasn't even a good quip.

Mush made another swing at Clockblocker, and the hero just ran straight forward, holding his hand out to the right side.

This time, I spotted it, and it gave me a headache. The space between Clockblocker's hand and Mush's trash suddenly got a lot shorter, distorted in a way that looked like Picasso told Dalí they should team up with Escher. For an LSD party. Then it snapped back as his hand made contact with Mush's arm.

Mush moved the arm, and it came off from the point of which Clockblocker had touched it.

"Damn, Mush. You look like you're falling apart on me. Try to keep it togethe-" He didn't manage to finish the quip as Mush slammed his other trash-hand down.
Clockblocker simply rolled forward, and space did that thing again, allowing him to tap both legs and still somehow make it through. The golem slowly toppled forward, reforming into something smaller- and some pretty big pieces that were breaking off were further away.

Another person dropped from the roof, landing with about as much of a fuss as Clockblocker had. Green-blue armor plates, with a full-face visor. A skirt with wavy green lines moved their way up and her bodysuit.

Vista. I'd suspected after I saw the distortion, but I hadn't been sure. She was bright. Her shadow was obvious, and I looked away as my stomach churned.

"And my wonderful partner joins me at last-" Clockblocker tagged Mush's reforming legs again. "Come on, buddy. Give up and let live. I don't want to tag every piece of trash here."

Vista didn't talk, glancing over at me. I put my hands up.

"Not an enemy. Have powers, thought I could help out before you guys showed up." I tried to speak without trying to sound too panicked. I did not want to get hit by Vista's power while I had to smell this crap. I'd have to puke. Gas mask. Or something. Oxygen tank?

"She'll be signing up as Miss Militia Mark Two. The sequel. Less guns, PG-13." Clockblocker said while moving his way around the trash. Mush had given up, slowly getting up out of the remains of the golem. It sloughed off him, and Clockblocker cuffed him, leading him away from the trash and close to M/Fenja before using his power on him.

"Sorry, had to be safe. You hurt?" Vista's voice was surprisingly high. I had thought she was just short. She was probably younger than me by at least a couple years.

"No, I'm fine. There's a guy over there that has a piece of glass in his shoulder. Any chance-" Vista was already moving, and she covered the ground there with another distortion. She removed something from her waist, and began applying first aid. Her hands were swift and precise. I had to look away again.

"Vista, does he need me?" Clockblocker said. Vista nodded, helping the man up and leading him over.

"It'll help." She said, glancing over at me again. I looked downward, not wanting to look at her spectre again.

"Well, thanks for the assist, Mini-Militia. Do you have an actual name, or can I keep making ones up until one sticks?" Clockblocker responded, holding his hand just above the F/Menja's ankle, tapping the man as Vista drew him in range.

Clockblocker's was different, an IV bag dripping and leaking from holes that were also legs. As it dripped, the leaks froze, squirming and flailing before stopping. Then it pulsed, and it went back to water. Then icy legs, curling again.

Each time he tapped one of the three next to him, frost grew up the leg-leaks, and it pulsed irregularly.

Still nowhere as bad as Vista's. I looked at the broken wall of windows.

"Well, uh, I guess I'll be going, then. Thanks the save, guys." I said, lamely.

"Stay around, we could use some more American flags in the Wards." Vista elbowed Clockblocker. "Okay, okay. If you'd like a relatively healthy working environment, where you can learn to use your powers and receive supplies and a stipend to do so, the Wards are for you."

"Join the Brockton Bay Wards today." His voice was completely apathetic. Vista shook her head.
"Always need more to help out with stuff like this. Mush is a pushover for my power, but it could have been Skidmark or Squealer." Vista said.

Clockblocker tilted his head, and then let out a sigh. "Fair enough. We shouldn't need you for anything, though. Cape privacy laws, and you're not wanted for anything, right?"

"Th-this is my first time out. I just heard it happening in the library." Oh god, I was stammering. Man, this was the worst first heroing ever. I stank, I felt sick, and now I couldn't even talk good in front of heroes. Wait, shit. Did I want to be a ward? I don't think I wanted to be, Shadow Stalker was a ward. They hadn't stopped her.

"Came out today just for them? Very brave." He made a mock bow, and then hurriedly straightened, tagging Mush as he began to move again. "But no, seriously. It was very brave. Good work."

I murmured something noncommittal in response, feeling warmth in my cheeks, and a smile on my face.

"Thanks. Really." Vista said. I could feel the eyeroll in her voice, aimed at Clockblocker. It was nice to be appreciated, even if I hadn't done all that much.

I had a big smile as I ran off. Preferably to get some bleach. Baking soda. Vinegar. Something.

Did all heroes start off like this, or was it just me?

 

[Harbin]

2.6​

Did the Wards have access to an industrial washer? I had tried the soaking in baking soda. I had tried white vinegar. Dad vetoed bleach. The clothes were currently on their third wash cycle.

The secret costs of being a Hero. I bet Villains just bought new outfits.

That'd be nice. I took a moment to imagine an evildoer imperiously purchasing outfits. I never did find out if that was Fenja or Menja, so I just pretended they were Emma. Roughly the same level of evil.

The buzzing of the washing machine coming to a halt interrupted my fantasy of bullies being unable to find clothes that fit correctly. I opened it, smelled it, and my shoulders sagged in relief. It didn't smell like ten flavors of crap. It only smelled faintly of vinegar.

I put in more coins, threw in more detergent , and started it up again. The first conversation with Dad had been awkward. I explained what had happened, and he had gone from worried to laughing.

Instructions on how to clean my clothes of unwanted smells had followed. I could hear the smile in his voice. It made me happy, but slightly indignant. It was nice, though. After I put them in for the first wash, I called him again and told him about what had happened in more detail.

He said he was proud of what I'd done. I didn't cry. Especially not in the laundry room, as someone walked in.

I read while I waited for my laundry to finish. A sigh of relief when it didn't smell like vinegar anymore. Then I read some more as the dryer went underway. The tedium was nice as what had happened began to catch up with me. I might not have fought on the same level as Clockblocker and Vista, but I had gone out there and done my best to help. Nobody had died. Those were all good things.

--​

Dad got back about halfway through the dryer cycle, so I went for a jog. With only the bike shorts, shirt, and shoes as protection, it felt odd. Even if it had been extremely light, it felt like I was more vulnerable, not being able to look down, and focus on those frameworks and lines. The pepper spray felt like less protection than my clothes, now. How weird was that?

Jogging let me think about things, and not think about things at the same time. When I started worrying, I could run harder, and push those thoughts out, focusing on my breathing and the pounding of the pavement until my heartbeat was louder than my footsteps, and my panting was all I could hear. The stitch in my side helped. When I slowed, and thought about other things, it was also nice. I'd have to discuss with Dad about this stuff. He didn't want me risking my life, but that would be easier if I had training.

Sophia was also in my thoughts. How would I deal with her? Her hand was broken, so she probably wouldn't pull something. Except her hand was broken, so she might pull something because she was more pissed. Except maybe because she was a ward, she had access to Panacea? Except getting help might piss her off even further.

I pushed myself again, running harder until I couldn't focus on those thoughts anymore.

Where could I go for help? Could I just show up on New Wave's doorstep, ask them for advice on crazy-killers or how to defend myself?

"Hello, heroes. I am also a hero, just like you. Except I have no idea how to hero." Door shut, go see the Wards, we're busy having fun without bad things happening to us and no bullying here.

That'd go over real well. Maybe I should talk to M/Fenja. "Hey I know we got off on the wrong foot, you almost stepped on me, I helped out the wards, and you're a Nazi and all, but is there anywhere I can go for hero training?"

This was dumb. I was being dumb. I picked up the pace again, turning back toward home. I'd talk with Dad. I had resources, I should use them to improve my chances.

When I arrived back at the motel, I separated the sweaty clothes from the metal, throwing them into the laundry hamper. Dad had gone out to grab dinner. Italian, from the scrawled note on the door.

Boring stuff. He came back with the food, we ate, and I asked him. He paused from his herculean task of slicing a meatball with a plastic fork in the container on his lap.

"Well, I don't think most martial arts would help. Or maybe they would." He chewed on the piece of meatball and the thought, thinking it over. "How does judo deal with someone flying?"

"Sounds like a koan," I responded, before taking a bite out of my chicken parmesan.

"Yes, young pupil. And now how must you catch the sparrow dancing?" His comeback came with the added flourish of pointing his fork at me, spaghetti swirled around it.

"Ha, ha. Really, Dad. I want to be able to help people. I can do some really cool things with this power. The way Clockblocker and Vista teamed up, and took down those two was pretty amazing to watch." Another bite.

He leaned back in his chair, eating for a moment again. "Why not call New Wave anyway? The worst they can do is say no. Or get a restraining order. They've seemed pretty decent in their public appearances. A lot of charity work. They probably have some resources for new parahumans, even if they're a family-oriented group."

I didn't really have a good answer to his proposal. I kind of felt uncomfortable around heroes after learning about Sophia. Never meet your heroes was a lot more real when one of them bullied you for an entire year or so. Did Clockblocker do that in his civilian identity, pushing people around and making fun of them? Was Vista some sort of sadistic Madison type?

"Look. You really want to do this, and," he sighed, frowning. "I don't approve of you getting into danger. I do approve of you doing your best to help people, while staying safe. But this is something you're going to have to decide."

He put his dinner to the side, going through the drawers of the motel nightstand, pulling out a phone book. "Carol Pelham, Carol Pelham."

"Dallon." I corrected, in a flash of memory. "The Pelhams are the other half of New Wave."

"Ah, that's a weird first name. If you say so. Dallon Pelham." He looked up at me and I rolled my eyes, not having a better response. "Here. Pelham Carol, Brandish, Attorney at Law, Co-Leader of New Wave, etcetera, etcetera."

"Here's her number." Dad handed me the phone book, open to the appropriate page before sitting down and eating his dinner once more. I looked down at it, staring for a long moment. It just didn't really feel right to reach out. I knew it was necessary, but I felt like I should be doing things myself somehow. How would calling Carol Dallon help me? I knew it would, but I- I was doubting again. If I didn't try, I wouldn't get anywhere, and this was a way I would have to try.

I took out my cell phone, and started pressing the numbers in.

 

[Harbin]

2.7​

"Hello?" The bright, confident, and cheery voice was not was what I was expecting. Brandish often looked stern in pictures, her plated costume and- "Hello, who is this? Mom's helping prepare dinner right now, one second."

"Uh, this is-" I almost said my name. Thank goodness I hadn't talked to anyone about my name for a while. Fucked up bullying saved me from outing myself. "A new parahuman."

"Oh, so you're a client?" The voice said. I could hear shifting and then feet pounding down steps. "One sec, I'll get you to Mom."

"Wai-" Okay. Well, that didn't really go as planned.

There was a rustling noise as the phone changed hands. "This is Carol Dallon speaking. Thank you, Amy. How can I help you? Our usual business hours are-"

"Uh, sorry I'm a new parahuman but I'm not a client I'm a hopeful hero." I babbled, trying to fit my words in before she cut me off. That was more of the voice I thought I'd hear. There was a certain element of terseness to her voice, but it was tempered by tenderness.

"Oh. How can I help you? Were there extenuating circumstances to your trigger event?" I heard jangling in the background. Silverware, perhaps? "Vicky, no cookies. We're about to have dinner."

"Uh, sorry," Maybe I should call back later. No, shit, it was hard enough making the call. "I was just wondering if you knew where a new, uh, hopeful hero could go for training."

"Hm. Hopeful hero? Vicky. I saw that. Amy, keep watch." More jangling, followed by a 'chk'. "One moment. Let me find it. Firstly, from your voice, I'm guessing you're in your teens? Have you considered the Wards?"

"Yes." I hoped there wasn't too much trembling going on in my voice. "I uh, have an issue with one of their members."

"I'm guessing Shadow Stalker. If you'd like to talk to me in person, I can arrange something." Carol said, flipping through something now. "Basic martial arts training is something I would recommend if your power allows for it. Even some videos online. Lets you learn restraint with your power. Listen, I need to eat dinner with my family. Sorry for cutting this short, but could we resume this tomorrow morning? Ten AM?"

"Uh, sure, that'd be great, sorry for calling at an inconvenient time, I didn't-"

"Don't apologize. Work on writing up a list of your powers, if you wouldn't mind, and I can make better suggestions for you. Have a good evening, miss." It was a clear dismissal, although polite.

"Good night." Well, that had been intense. I slowly looked at the phone, hitting the 'end call' button just in case. "She'll call me again tomorrow? Ten?"

"You did it, Taylor. You're going to have to get used to doing stuff like this if you want to be a hero. Kind of like a job." Dad chuckled as he pondered that one. "Could still probably do work moving things down by the docks if you melded boxes with itty-bitty ones. Not terrible pay."

I smiled and looked down at my hands. "Thanks, Dad."

It felt like I should be doing something, because I felt full of energy, mind racing, but drained at the same time. "Oh, I should write down my powers. Shouldn't I? They wouldn't like, use it against me in some kind of trap, right?"

"I doubt it. I'd think they'd have a little more infamy if they lured aspiring heroes in, just to capture them." He remembered what I'd said about Shadow Stalker, I could see it on his face as he sighed and looked downward. "Look. It'll just be a phone conversation. Get the advice, tell her what you can do. New Wave is supposed to be transparent. That's their entire thing."

"Mm." I went and looked for a notepad and pen. Found the notepad, Dad tossed me the pen.

--​

The next morning, I went out early to run. This time, I'd taken the scarf, hoodie, pants, and left the other armor back at the motel. Pepper spray, wallet, and phone were in pockets. It didn't take long, I just wanted to get aching muscles moving again. Grabbing breakfast on the way back was just a bonus, I assured myself.

Dad woke up when I came back through the door, so I set the meal next to him, guiding his hands to the coffee.

"L'v you Taylor," he murmured, and I hugged him.

"Love you too, Dad. Going to head out to the library early, so I can get back and call Brandish." I stood, and headed toward the shower.

"M'kay." He looked more awake as he sipped at the coffee.

Once I was finished with the shower and dressed, I made sure everything was in place. It felt like I needed more in the way of weaponry, things that would allow me to have a bit more range. Or I could use the scarf, but Brandish was right. I really needed to figure out what lethal force was with that. Hitting someone with something like two hundred to three hundred pounds in a thin scarf form could end up killing them if I wasn't careful. Or even if I was careful.

I also needed a mask. Not the scarf, if I wanted to use that as a sort of weapon. Deciding to think about that on the way to the library, I headed out. "See you later, Dad. Love you."

"Good luck today, Taylor. I might be late today, so get some dinner, okay?" I nodded at his response. It still felt a bit odd to be talking with Dad this much. We'd just kind of- not put any work into talking.

This was better.

Except for the fact that the library was closed. Right, they had a supervillain attack right outside, and they were still cleaning the mess up. Shit.

I wasn't sure how I didn't see this one coming, but I was definitely not walking halfway across town to one of the other libraries. I settled for walking aimlessly and pretending i knew where I was going. Or maybe I went back to the house. It felt odd, coming home. I didn't go inside, just stared at the outside. If Sophia had screwed it up, we'd take pictures, have evidence, and Dad and I could go public.

I stepped onto the creaky step, listening to it as I pushed it up and down for a moment. It brought back memories. Running around the porch with Emma, laughing with her. Sitting here, crying with her. It was amazing and scary, and I sat there. Only this long away from it, and doing this- I sighed. Coming here was a bad idea. We'd be living back here soon enough.

I hoped. The walk back to the motel was a long one. I made it back before the appointed time, so I just waited, sitting there, staring at the list and the phone.

At ten, it rang.

"Hello, this is the hopeful hero. Thank you for calling me back." I tried to speak clearly and politely. It was a pretty big favor she was doing me.

"If things go well, I'll be thanking you. So, let's get down to business. I'd like to help you out because I believe it'll be mutually beneficial. You'll get some experience, be less likely to die, and be grateful to New Wave. What are your powers? If you're thinker or tinker oriented, I'd highly recommend finding a sponsor or joining the Wards, soon." The urgency she put into her voice surprised me.

"Uh, I'm not sure if my power could be qualified as those, but it's sort of close to a thinker-tinker power. Er, hear me out, though. Not in the way you're thinking. I think." I paused, then looked back down at the list. It was easier than actually saying my power out loud. "I can merge objects together, and selectively choose how they apply to the world. The most I've ever done is five, but I can't do that for long. So far, I've used it for armor. There's a kind-of range limit. It gets harder to maintain when it's further away from me."

"Would you say that there is anything else to your powers?" She said, sounding like she was scribbling down things onto paper.

"Yes? Maybe? I've been using it for armor, but it's got a lot of kind of strange applications. I have to touch it to do it, initially. I could potentially use it for-" She cut me off, and I let her speak.

"Okay. So you've got what seems to be a striker power. That means you have to touch it in order for your power to work. You should definitely be focusing on finding someone who can help you out. Maybe try get apprenticed to someone. Look. If you have an issue with the Brockton Bay Wards, you could look elsewhere. Chicago got hit hard, Austin could use some help, although they're shoring up much better." The tapping of something came through the phone speaker.

"I- I don't want to leave Brockton Bay. It's my home." Dad would be hurt if I moved away. If I left, it'd make him feel terrible, like all he'd done here to see the place try come back to life- and I would have abandoned him.

"Alright." She said simply, abandoning that entirely. "Other options. Keep in mind, here that I am stating these as options. I do not recommend joining Faultline's gang, for example, but it is an option. You could keep going like this, working through things and trying to work toward things and improve on your skills. You'd have to do everything yourself, you would have some difficulty if you got injured. No teammates, no help."

"Independent heroes in Brockton Bay don't last long. It's not kind to the inexperienced, and mistakes don't lead to a very happy end. Moving on. You could conceal your power, keep working, going to school, until you're old enough to find other opportunities." It was a pen, tapping against paper. That was the conclusion I'd come to.

"Not an option. Sorry. I'm uh, getting bullied at school. This is something I want to do. To prove them wrong." She hmm'd again after I said that, tapping that pen.

We kept speaking. Brandish was impressed with how I had made my armor, and asked if New Wave could see it sometime, and maybe test it.

She offered a lot of ideas that I hadn't considered. Potentially asking Dragon, who was apparently only an honorary protectorate member? Her suggestions of several martial arts dojos was a good one, but I wasn't sure if I'd be able to pay for them. I wrote them down anyway. She gave me a few numbers to call as well. Crystal Pelham, Victoria Dallon, and Parian. Brandish made sure to give me availability times for Crystal and Victoria, then explained that Parian was a fashion specialist, and if I could get a consultation, I might be able to work on a costume design without going to the PRT.

The talk went on for an hour or two, and by the end of it, my head was abuzz with possibility, my previous ennui forgotten. I thanked her profusely, and she laughed.

"Do me a favor. Please be careful. Don't lose sight of what made you want to become a hero, alright?" Brandish's words were oddly somber, given the friendly tone she'd used before.

"Alright. Thank you again, for all your help. I really appreciate it." I hung up, and flicked through the four pages I'd filled up on the small notepad. I'd call these numbers tomorrow.

There was a knock at the door. Was it Dad? No, he was supposed to come back late.

I looked through the peephole. Sophia stood there, hands in her pockets, smiling at me through it.

"Waited until you were done with your conversation, Hebert. Should be a little more careful, these walls are thin." She shrugged. "Not my problem. We gotta talk."

I could have called the cops. I could have screamed for help, and then called Dad.

Instead, I wrapped the scarf around my face and head, pushing the glasses in. Instead, I pulled my hood up.

Finally, I unchained, then opened the door.

 

[Harbin]

2.8​

"Wow. Your costume looks like shit, Hebert." My witty reply died in my mouth when I couldn't actually say 'can you do better?'

I settled for a simpler response. "What the hell do you want, Sophia?"

The shade swirled around her, grasping at her arm, petting at her head, mouthing syllables into her ear. The lips tore into shapes that no human could manage, twisting, breaking apart and reforming.

"I've had some time to think." She glanced behind me, at the room. "Your Dad in?"

"He knows. I told him everything." My voice was steady. It startled me, a little, the easy confession of this, to someone I hated. Did I hate her? I wasn't sure. I was trying not to care about her, at least.

There were shards, images I could look at, as the shadows roiled around her.

She whistled. "Coward grew some balls."

I didn't like her smile. It felt like I should be doing something, "What do you want, Sophia? It couldn't have been easy to track me down."

"I'm Shadow Stalker." Her admission caught me off guard, even though I knew. Why tell me?

"I know."

A voice, it reminded her of something, and that pissed her off. She wanted him to hurt.

"Figured. Have a problem with Shadow Stalker without ever meeting her. And you always looked at me weird after your shitty flute." There was a surprising lack of venom in her voice. "Always looked away, as soon as you could. Had to know something, a change like that. You break into my locker?"

Sophia withdrew her hands from her pockets, splaying them outward. They were empty. She crossed them, stretching.

"No. I didn't do-"

"Yeah, you're some kind of moral paragon or some shit. Hopeful hero, I heard it all." A bit of frustration had crept into her voice. I wanted to push it, prod it into a reaction, so I could punch her.

Waiting. It felt good, to wait. It meant she had power. She could act, whenever she wanted. They couldn't wait below. They all had to move, and that made them sloppy. Them, and their victim.

"And you're a fucking psycho, so why are we having this conversation, Sophia? Get to the point." I started to close the door. It was odd, to be getting a better grasp of her. I wasn't sure which part of the images I was more disgusted by.

"You hear that, Hebert? It's the sound of no one caring. Your shitty little hero plan isn't going anywhere, and you're going to end up dead. Dad's going to go boo hoo. They're going to laugh." There was the hate I knew and loved.

Why weren't they picking up? She hated needing the help. Needing anyone. Fuck! Fuck. Try again. Had to try again. Why couldn't she just move?

The images and feelings that came with them just made it easier for me to respond. I could hurt her. I could bring pieces and parts of them up, not enough so that she would know I knew, but enough that it irritated her.

It would be justice, in a way. Emma had told her my secrets, my weakest moments. I would just be returning the favor. I breathed in, then let the breath out, calming myself. It would feel so damn satisfying. But I didn't want to feel like them.

They lifted her, delirious. Everything was so slow. Was she dying? She didn't want to die. Fuck. Fucking hell. She wanted something. Didn't know what. Just, leave her alone. Go away. Don't need your help.

"You should stop now, for your own good. I can arrange a meetup with the wards if you're good. Do the rounds, and then go back to where you should be. You'll thank me, in a couple years. They laughed at you, you know." She examined her fingernails. A habit from Emma? Maybe. They? Who was she referring to? "Connect the dots, Hebert. I did. Pathetically easy. Wannabe comes out, runs straight into garbage. Who else could it be but you? Come back to the scene of the crime the next day?"

"Thanks for the advice, Sophia." I shifted position. "Do you have anything else to say?"

She looked at me, appraisingly. I stared back, the scarf covering my face and expression. It was liberating. Perhaps they had laughed at me. Sophia was good at lying. The shade was looking right at me, its mouth separated into segmented pieces that swirled in and away. It smiled. It pissed me off.

"You're pathetic." Oops. The words slipped out as I thought them. Well, whatever. "At least my Dad would be sad if I died."

Sophia rolled her eyes. "Just telling you the truth, Hebert. I know you don't have the spine for it, but try to keep up. You don't have what it takes to be a hero."

"Yeah. It's nice to be pitied by someone so obviously unhinged." I smiled at her, hoping it came across. "Makes me just feel sorrier for you."

I could see the shadows billowing out, cut off by the edge of whatever my ability saw. Sophia's face tensed, and she reached into her duffel bag. I tensed as well, closing the door. Her foot shoved into the crack, so I raised my foot, fully prepared to bring about forty pounds of metal along whatever strength I could to bear. She pulled out the flute, and I froze.

"You know why I have this?" Sophia retracted her foot, tossing the flute end over end. She caught it, then threw it into the air again. This time, she let it fall a bit further before catching it again. "Because you couldn't protect it. If you can't protect a stupid-ass flute, how can you protect-"

Her face would look really nice smeared against the wall.

"-anything else? You're useless, Hebert. That's all you'll ever be." She smirked.

"Give me my mother's flute." I didn't move. If I moved, I would be slamming into her with all the force I could. If I moved, I'd punch her as hard as I could, and I didn't think I could control my power very well right now.

"What'll you do? Call Daddy for help?" She was trying to provoke me. If I hit her, if she didn't die, they'd believe her. No proof otherwise. If i used my powers, it'd be even worse. What was worse was that she was good at it. It wasn't Emma's deeply personal commentary, where the betrayal of trust was what hurt. Every time she used a memory we shared to crush me a little further.

Sophia just homed in, finding those aggravating points and insults and stabbing the knife deep. It probably wouldn't effect me as it did without the flute. But she knew that.

"Is all you do look for fights? Do you have anyone in your life, Sophia? Nobody that loves you?" My voice was very spiteful. "You're just a child lashing out. Stealing, getting into fights. What's the matter, Sophia? Did you miss out on praise? Daddy yell at you?"

I could see her face contort into apoplectic rage. It was beautiful, the amount of anger she managed to fit into that expression. She lunged at me, dropping the flute and reaching into her bag with one swift motion.

I slammed the door in her face, knowing that was no obstacle. That there were things I could have done better.

Sophia looked pretty scary coming through the door. She wasn't called Shadow Stalker because it looked like daisies and buttercups, that was for sure. Her skin wasn't visible, the shadows, the thing around her, was streaming off of her bones and skull. No wonder she scared the shit out of gangsters.

"What, Sophia? You can deal it out, but can't take it?" I kept my position, raising my fists.

"I don't have to take it from a depressing cunt like you." She leveled the crossbow at me. The tip of the bolt looked weird.

"Okay, whatever. Go away, Sophia. Leave now, and I won't have to call the police. You're breaking and entering." With the full armor, I felt confident. I was pretty sure the crossbow couldn't punch through multiple inches of steel and still hit me.

Sophia looked thoughtful. I was creeped out. "Nah. This'll be pretty easy."

She shifted the crossbow down, and shifted into shadows and wisps of black. The crossbow shifted with her, and she fired.

I didn't move fast enough, and something weird happened. I could see it passing through the layers of steel, and it looked odd. Then, the bolt shattered.

It also shattered partway inside my armor. The pain was nauseating. I moved, and it rubbed against the fragments stuck in my leg.

"Wow. Weird." Shadow Stalker said. "Guess I'm a natural counter to you. Thought it'd just go through. This is probably better, though. 'I didn't know her power worked that way.'"

She fired again, shifting, and I lurched out of the way, not fast enough. The edge hit my arm, and I could feel the fragmented pieces of the tip. Not nearly as bad, but it was like comparing splinters to, well, serious injury. Fuck. Fuck.

I reeled to the side, trying to maintain my balance. My leg wasn't doing so hot. I grabbed for my makeshift mask, ripping it off. Thank god I hadn't tied the knot so tight. I whipped out with it, and the next shot passed through it, fragmenting as well. I turned my head away, and pieces ricocheted of my armor.

Could I kill her, if i hit her with it? What would it do to her if she shifted into shadow form and I hit her with this? Fucking fuck.

I didn't know what to do and my leg and arm hurt like a bitch.

 

[Harbin]

2.9
​

"You want to be a hero?" God damn, Sophia. Shut up. It really hurt, and you whined like a bitch when it happened to you. "You can't even stand."

I growled, but it kind of came out wrong. More like a whimper-gasp of pain as I tried to get to my feet. Holy shit. The movement made the fragments in my thigh- agh, fuck.

My sight was blurry. Both from tears, and from my shortsightedness. Not metaphorical shortsightedness. Glasses were still in the scarf.

"See, this is where you deserve to be. Just turn your power off or whatever, and I'll make it easy." She fired again, and I hurled the scarf at her arm, it fell pathetically short. Shit. I hadn't made it act like- The shotgun fragments of whatever the bolt was made out of flew at me, and I covered my face frantically.

The scarf landed in front of her feet, coming to rest. Just a FUCKING inch more-

Options. No time- "Come on, Hebert. You didn't even have a name. Miss Militia Mark Two." She chuckled, then shifted her aim and fired again. Come on, move. The bolt hit the ground, as I lunged to the side and away from her, pushing my uninjured arm into my pocket.

She carefully around over the scarf, and I let my power unravel around it. My glasses fell out first, then the slab of misshapen metal.

It clattered, and Sophia stepped backward, taking everything in rather than glancing at it, like I'd hoped. "Jeez, almost scared me there."

She pointed the next bolt at my gut and pulled the trigger. It fragmented as it passed through the first layer of protection, and impacted against my armored shirt. Nothing made it through. I pulled my hand out of my hoodie's pocket, and- fuck it had a safety why- move fingers-

The next bolt hit my other leg. There wasn't any pain, for a moment, I just felt the shards digging in. Then I dropped the pepper spray, safety off. Fuck- I threw up, retching to the side. Dad was going to be unhappy about that.

I fumbled for the pepper spray, make sure it's not pointed at me-

Sophia tried to kick it out of my hand. My arm was iron.

She kept her foot on my hand, and while she couldn't remove it, I couldn't lift my hand up to make a clear shot.

I grabbed at her leg with my bad hand, she stepped back, and fired again. I made it fully cloth. It went through, hitting my injured arm. It didn't hurt as much, although it had a kick to it. I could feel something cold seeping in.

I raised my good hand, and sprayed her. Some of it got into her face, I think. I hoped. Yeah, she was screaming. I could hear it above my own sobbing. Good.

Dragging myself back against a wall was harder than I thought it'd be. "Sure- are good." I choked out the words, using the wall as a support to pull myself up. To brace myself. I wasn't sure where I was taking that sentence. I wasn't sure if this would work. I took the pepper spray in both hands. My left side felt numb.

"Fucking fuck, you little bitch." Another shot, in the left leg. It didn't hurt, because it was cloth now. "Don't need to fucking see you to shoot you."

I could hear her coughing. The blood pounding in my ears felt really slow.

It took two tries to get my fingers to clench down on the thing. The insides were chalk. They were, and I snapped it in half, throwing both pieces at her. Then, as they hit her, they weren't.

Her screams felt really good to hear, as I slumped back down. I felt monumentally tired.

I could.. really go for a nap. Right about now.

Yeah. It didn't hurt as much anymore.

Just let things happen.

--​

It was really loud. You weren't supposed to be loud in a library. I shh'd them, but it didn't come out properly. That seemed really funny to me, so I giggled.

Bright lights and beeping. This library was all wrong. I tried to tell them so, but then I felt all sleepy again, so I went back to sleep.

Me and Emma sat there as mom read to us. We laughed, because she would make faces, and do all the voices. Even the deep ones, which she would growl out, before she'd cough a little and sip at her tea. We ate things. Watermelon wedges that were actually mango tarts. Wobbly jello that was chocolate eclairs.

It was a sad dream, because I had to go away. I couldn't move my arms or legs, there was something around them. Dad was standing outside. He wasn't allowed to come in, and he was mad. It was Armsmaster, too. I think. He was all blue. Who else was blue? Shielder? Legend probably wouldn't be sent for me, right? I tried to tell him it was okay, Armsmaster was a hero. He wouldn't let anything bad happen. But then I felt sleepy again, so I closed my eyes.

Sometimes I got moved. I could tell, because I'd kind of wake up a bit. The movement made me feel kind of sick. There would be slightly jerking stops.

--​

Consciousness came slowly and harshly all at once. My head was dizzy, my limbs ached. I couldn't move my arms. I tested my restraints, trying to ease into a sitting position. The bed did it for me, slowly reclining upward. I tried to relax against it, but I was tense. "H-hello?"

"Hello, Parahuman. You have been provided with Templar as a temporary designation. You are currently in Master-Stranger containment. Any responses you make will be recorded, distorted, and interpreted by an AI before being read." The voice was calm. If I wasn't tied to a hospital bed, I might feel a little calmer.

I didn't respond, looking around. I wanted to curl up into a ball. Sophia had tried to kill me, or hurt me badly enough that I couldn't do anything? Or- I wasn't sure what had happened. It was coming back to me in fragments and pieces. Just like she'd shot me with. Heh.

At least she hadn't killed my sense of humor. The cell was small, featureless. There was a toilet, a table, and the bed I was currently bound to. I had to assume that I'd be let out of these confinements, or that something would happen so that I wouldn't be forced to void my bowels in this bed. I mean, I had thrown up. So it wasn't an issue. I was also hungry. My nose was itchy. So was my shoulder. I tried to take care of both by rubbing my nose on my shoulder. Shoulder stayed itchy.

I waited, feeling more scared as time went by. It was hard to tell how much time had passed. I didn't want to speak with whatever computer was running the thing. It could make me look more guilty. Or not talking could make me look more guilty. I just wanted to go home and sleep.

"Templar. How are you?" The voice carried no judgment or anger. Male, slightly distorted through the speakers.

"I'm, uh, fine. When can I go home? Can I get out of these restraints?" I started off slow, then cut myself off as I started babbling.

There was a pause.

"Sorry. You've been accused of being a master by Shadow Stalker. You'll need to stay in those until we get a thinker to take a look at the situation." The voice trailed off.

I started crying. I couldn't help it. Everything felt like it was bearing down against me, like everything was so fucked up, in so many ways.

Another pause.

"I'm sorry. I'll be back later." and with that, I was alone again.

 

[Harbin]

2.10​

I counted the minutes. It wasn't like I had much else to do. That guy came back to talk, and he told me I could have my restraints off now, and sorry it took so long.

They slid back as he finished his sentence, letting me slowly rub at my wrists and ank- guh, stretching that far hurt.

Then he surprised me with a question. "Do you know where Shadow Stalker is?"

"No? Why, what's happening?" There was no response. I brought my knees up to my chest, clutching them to me. Waiting was horrible. It was worse not knowing what was going on.

I considered doing something, trying to break out, maybe? Were they going to believe Sophia over me every step of the way? Where had she gone? What had happened after I'd passed out?

There had been a lot of screaming. I knew that.

--​

"Hello." It was a calm, measured voice. Dry, pleasant. "I'm a thinker that is sometimes used to figure out what's going on in these situations. I'd like to speak with you to try find out what's going on. Do you think you'd be willing to do that with me?"

He somehow made that statement not sound condescending, or confrontational.

"Please." I begged, "I just want to go home."

"We're working on that. I promise. I want you to raise your hands up, then turn them back and forth for me, if you wouldn't mind."

I asked myself why, but complied.

Couldn't avoid a wince. It stung, and ached.

"Thank you. I'm sorry for making you do that. Would you mind telling me your power?" I complied. I didn't say it all. I didn't want to let that detail go.

He hmm'd. "Well. Your father is a very lucky man to have you as his daughter. You've put up with a lot, and he's put up with a lot."

"Thank you? I think?" I wasn't really sure where this was going.

"Do you hate your father?" The question caught me by surprise, and I was left sputtering. "Nevermind. I apologize."

What was going on?

"Do you know where Shadow Stalker is now?" All the questions were asked precisely the same way, gently, kindly.

"I- I don't know. I wish I did. Maybe things could get mopped up if you did know? She tried to kill me." I was crying again. Shit. I tried to wipe away the tears. "She shot me with her crossbow- and she kept shooting me and-"

"It's okay to cry. You've been through quite a lot. It's just an honest expression of yourself. Don't worry about it." The voice paused. "You have something you're keeping from me. Related to Shadow Stalker?"

"No!" I lowered my voice. "No. I wanted her to leave me alone, she broke in after I shut the door-"

"Did you master Shadow Stalker?" There was an odd intensity to the kindness, now.

"I didn't! I barely even know what that means, all I can do is push objects together, and it's not even that great and I don't know why she kept bullying me an-" I stopped, my shoulders sagging. They wouldn't believe me. Shadow Stalker was a Ward, a hero. Taylor Hebert, hopeful nobody.

"Hm. Well you'll have to be held here for a grace period of about twelve more hours. Is there anything I can get you? I believe that Shadow Stalker got herself into this mess. It would be interesting to see how she gets out." The voice paused. "Good work surviving. If you had died, there would be a lot more ambiguity and a lot less to work with."

"T-thanks?" I didn't feel hungry anymore.

"I'll get you a shake. You really should get some fluids in you. You'll be much better off. I'll be requesting Panacea for you. I understand you've had some contact with the Dallons?" His voice left off on that hanging note.

"Yeah. I wanted to know how I could be a better hero with my ability. And stay safe. She gave me suggestions." I wiped more tears away.

"Good people. Good luck with your heroing career. I'll be going, now." Silence, after that.

I waited. A compartment appeared, sliding outward. A shake, along with a burger and fries.

Okay, maybe I was a little hungry.

--​

"I'd like to apologize. I received a call from Shadow Stalker. She was in severe pain, claiming that she had been mastered by you. I'm ashamed to say that I was also not aware of her bullying campaign against your civilian identity. I should have been." It was back to that first voice that I'd heard.

"I'm Armsmaster. I'm responsible for the Wards program, along with Director Emily Piggot. It was remiss of me. There were signs I could have noticed, that seem glaringly obvious now. You've been cleared, but you'll need to remain here for about two more hours." Armsmaster stopped speaking, waiting for a response.

"Thank you. Can I speak with my Dad?" It was over. It was finally over. They hadn't known about Shadow Stalker. Or at least not to the extent that I had.

"He's being processed out of Master-Stranger containment at the moment. He'll be out shortly. Is there anything you'd like me to tell him?" The warm, friendly voice was comforting.

"Tell him that I love him. Please. Thank you." I fell back against the hospital-bed-chair. I didn't know quite how to feel. In a few hours, my world had been turned upside down, then thrown into the blender.

"I will. I'll send someone back with him when I can." And then he was gone.

It felt odd, being this isolated. I kept waiting for that ominous other shoe to drop. Or to just hear someone walking by. But, I was exhausted. From my limbs, to my mind, so I took another nap.

--​

"Hey." There was no distortion to the voice this time. I recognized the voice. It was the girl who'd picked up when I'd called the Dallon household. Oh. Right. Amy was Panacea. I opened my eyes, to find her beside me, holding my hand. Her white costume with golden trim looked very nice. "You've got some pretty distributed injuries here. Fragmented bits of what are carbon fiber, I think. They weren't able to get out everything. There's also enough of whatever Armsmaster fills those tranq darts with to put down a, well, something big. It breaks down pretty quickly, but could cause some kidney problems. Blood loss I can't do too much about."

"Some proclivities toward cancer, shortsightedness. Nerve damage in your arm. I'll fix all of it, and the PRT'll foot the bill." She smiled at me. "Serves them right. You seemed pretty nice on the phone. Did you master Shadow Stalker?"

"No!" I groaned.

"Alright. I believe you. Also, I can see your heartrate and brain and such, so it makes it pretty easy to tell. Listen, I gotta go help out Vicky and stuff, so do you want to be healed?" She smirked at me.

"Yes? You make it sound like a bad thing?" She laughed at my unsure response.

"Alright. Here we go. Don't say I didn't warn you." I tensed, my eyes widening in fear. "Okay. Done."

I could feel some things against my legs and hands. "What-"

"Yeah, real scary, right? Anyway. You go and meet up with Mom some time, 'kay? She was really upset when she heard about this." Panacea turned, and started walking away after patting my hand.

"Thanks!" I called after her. She waved in response. I was still confused, but I guess she didn't fix that.

 

[Harbin]

2.11​

Dad.

I hugged him. He was crying, I was crying.

It felt good.

Seeing further than five feet in front of me without glasses felt weird. It's not like I was blind as a bat before, but now I could actually look at, well, this room wasn't a great example. I could see Dad from the other side of the room as he came in. That's what mattered. Also that they'd given me clothes before this. Wearing a hospital gown everywhere was not my ideal situation.

"God, Taylor. I thought I'd lost you. I thought you were dead." I could hear his exhaustion, and see it on his face. Had he not slept at all since I'd been brought in?

"How long?" I was suddenly afraid. How long had I been out? What had happened, that he was this tired, this scared?

"I believe I can answer that." The man my father was with nodded at me. A mask was on his face, nothing ostentatious, just one that concealed his upper face. His hair was short, hair slicked back.

Stones dropped into a lake. Ripples forming outward, and where the ripples intersected, things were crawling out, many-legged and too many eyes across their bodies. They scattered to the edges of the window, dragging thread along with them. They were iridescent.

"It's been one day, six hours. You were in and out of consciousness, but while there was a possibility of permanent disability, you weren't in danger of death." He paused, mouth twisting in distaste. "If your neighbors hadn't stopped what they were doing to call the owner, it could have been much worse. The motel owner had a shotgun. Shadow Stalker broke off to try convince him that you were a villain. The blisters and boils from your pepper spray were quite persuasive. It interacted very poorly with her power."

His thin lips spread, as he continued speaking in that dry, pleasant voice. "I sincerely doubt she'll be getting far with Director Piggot on her case. She's quite tenacious."

"So she won't be coming after my daughter, right?" Dad spoke first, his voice trembling and angry.

The threads spread, lacing across each other. Where they touched, water pooled outward. First drops, but as more lines intersected, more water spread, and it was once again a clear pool.

"We'd like to put you up with the Wards and Protectorate, if possible. They're the safest possible place from Shadow Stalker, given that she has a clear vendetta against- Templar." He smiled at me. "We'll get you a better name. Once again, you did quite well."

Recognition dawned. "Oh, you're the thinker that was talking with me!"

"Yes. I find it to be much less effective to talk to someone without being able to see their eyes. It's harder to recognize them, and I apologize. Master-Stranger containment meant I could not have done that. But, I take pride in my work, and I am glad it has led to a swift resolution in your case." He reached out a hand with thin, long fingers. I shook it, hesitantly.

"You helped her? What did you say your name was?" Dad shifted into spokesperson mode, holding out his hand to shake as well. He adopted a less tense, but no less tired expression.

"I go by Coil, here. I'm a thinker that works with the PRT." He shook my father's hand, then gestured down the hallway. "We'll go show you the rooms, and the Wards. I recommend you stay with us for the time being until we've made sure Shadow Stalker isn't a threat to you, or your daughter. You're free to go, if you would prefer. There are no charges against you, or your daughter. I would not recommend leaving."

Dad didn't want to stay. His back was too straight, his eyes were too set. He didn't want to be proud, but he didn't want to accept their help after what they'd allowed. Coil could see it as well, and he shrugged, looking at me slightly.

"Dad. Let's stay. They'll catch Sophia, and we can go home. We don't have to do anything. I'm tired. You're tired. Let's just see how things are in the morning." I reached over, holding his hand.

He closed his eyes, and sighed. "Alright. Please, Coil. If you wouldn't mind."

"Certainly. If you'll just come this way." He walked to the elevator, pressing the button. We followed. "Here, Templar. You may want to put this on, since you may be meeting the Wards."

Coil removed a domino mask from his suit pocket, handing it to me.

"Thanks." I placed it on my face, feeling it adhere. Thankfully around and over my eyebrows. Would be an odd way to pluck those.

"Sir, would you like one as well?" Dad accepted Coil's second proffered mask. He looked silly with it on. We both giggled at each other, Coil stayed respectfully silent.

The elevator doors opened, and we got inside. "We'll drop your daugher off with the Wards. I assure you, none of them are anything like Sophia. She was on probation, which she has violated, many times over. All of them want to apologize to your daughter for not knowing about this sooner."

The Wards wanted to apologize to me? It seemed like another joke setup. How many Wards does it take to fix a rampaging Sophia?

Dad had been swelling up, ready to swing into a tirade. That little speech punctured it. "I just want her to be safe."

"It wasn't your fault. Shadow Stalker is a trained parahuman, both self-taught and by the PRT. She was supposedly improving. It's very obvious to all of us that that was not the case. Your daughter defended herself, and did so very well." The elevator stopped. Coil moved off of it, striding over to a wall. "I won't suggest the Wards, there's a lot of impetus for it, but I will recommend that your daughter receives training here. She could test, and use our facilities, potentially."

He lowered his face to a small port, and there was a beep. "They'll be given a warning so that they can put their masks on."

After about five seconds, the light above the door turned green, then it slid open.

I walked in, Coil staying at the doorway, along with Dad, who looked concerned.

Vista, Aegis, Browbeat, Gallant, and Clockblocker. All the Wards were here. Vista, Gallant and Clockblocker wore domino masks rather than their usual headgear.

It was odd. I could see the spectres behind them. Vista's almost drowned them out, but they were visible. I attempted a smile. "Hi. I'm uh, that girl who Shadow Stalker-"

"Who beat the shit out of that bitch. Good work. Couldn't have happened to a better person- hey! It's true! I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. Shadow Stalker was an ass, but she was never-" Vista cut Clockblocker off after elbowing him.

"Psychopathic. I'm really sorry about this. If I'd reported her sooner, I thought she was improving, she apologized… I could have stopped all this." Vista suddenly looked her age. "I'm sorry."

"I didn't know her too great, haven't been here long, haven't been on patrol with her. She was a dick to me whenever I saw her, though." Browbeat raised his hands up along with his shoulders.

Gallant was handsome, but his face was absolutely contorted in what looked like shame and self-loathing. He didn't say anything other than shaking his head.

"Anyway." Aegis said. "As the leader of the Brockton Bay Wards, let me show you where you'll be staying. It's not ideal, but Shadow Stalker will not be getting in. I'm staying overnight. So is Clockblocker and Gallant. Vista is still getting permission."

I glanced behind me. Apparently it was enough to satisfy Dad and Coil, because the door was closed. I followed Aegis, hoping that there weren't more psycho-socio-serial-killers on the team. This might have been a PR move. Maybe they were trying to soft-sell me on the wards, maybe ten million other things. But right now, I just felt confused and somewhat hopeful.

 

[Harbin]

2.X​

It was exceedingly easy to lose track of the pieces for the whole. He had promised not to let it happen again, but here it was, and it was indirectly his fault.

Tinkers were supposed to fix problems. They had a solution for everything.

The delivery load was too heavy. Had to cut corners, and that wasn't helping. That made heat issues a problem. It was a good sort of challenging, but a frustrating sort of challenging. He was working with predefined limits, hard ones, not soft ones. Different bugs would have a different weight limit, but it wasn't effective if beetles were carrying it. It was much harder to notice a gnat or a mosquito. That was the point.

The smaller the parts, the worse the heating issues got. Had to compensate for it again, because the last time hadn't been good enough. New idea, saved to notes: 'working on an addition for the halberd later consult dragon'

And then Recon had left, with Patriot. He understood why they had to go, it was necessary. He knew that, but it was much harder to come to terms with. It felt like a betrayal, of sorts. They were so close, and now it was just left to rot, with a few prototypes going with him.

Armsmaster had sighed, then. It was always time he was working against. Everything else was secondary. Efficiency. Public relations, would they help as much as putting another hour in to fix programming? Would micro-soldering the pieces for the new project be better than talking with friends?

His limits frustrated him. Sleep frustrated him. Inundated by the shit. Eight whole hours. It was was a damn waste of time. He could be doing something, even if it was furthering his brand, boosting his budget for other things. He did his best to avoid sleep. Dragon didn't sleep. Or at least she had automated things enough that she didn't seem like it.

He admired her. Armsmaster heard the advice of people around him. He listened to Dragon. The discussions he could have with her alone, the smiles on both ends, the ideas that were created-

It was time he happily would have wasted to have talked with her. It was never a waste, when she was involved. She drove him onward, to improve his gear, perhaps even improve himself. He took care of himself more when she was around, that was for sure. She would have understood, but he wanted to have her be smiling, not that concerned, worried expression.

Yeah. He was in love. He knew it. Crushing hard on the world's best tinker. But was it possible to hold up that kind of relationship? Would she even want it? How did you even start that conversation? He hadn't dated in years. Non-tinkers just didn't get how much time had to be invested just to stay on-par with the curve.

And now he was here.

Because he'd invested too much into staying on top of that curve, and not enough time making sure Shadow Stalker wasn't a bomb waiting to go off.

It would have been easy, too. She'd been lying in her psych sessions, they thought, but weren't sure. Monitoring prosody, pulse, pupil dilation. Could have made something to make sure. Check up on her school activities, check reports. Could have retasked a program to check for irregularities. Something. But that was a tinker problem, creating wider solutions to problems that could be handled personally. Was Shadow Stalker something that could be handled with interaction? Not anymore.

There was just so much to do, and so little time to do it in. He always had to be somewhere. If it wasn't patrolling, it was maintaining. Something was always broken. Something always took priority.

And then there was cleanup. Scraping the pieces off the ground from when something had gone wrong, and was making a mess. It made less time for other things.

Piggot's voice was taciturn. No long speeches. "Armsmaster. Half a block east. Send your cycle around the north side."

She was good at her job. She made calls that sometimes made him hypothesize she had triggered during her experience at Ellisburg. Much of her success was attributed to Coil, but he'd seen the records. He trusted her judgment.

He moved, gripping the handle of the cycle, interfacing directly with it for a moment. The cycle switched to autopilot, going to flank for him. This was all his responsibility. "Acknowledged."

Armsmaster moved, his armor assisting movement. His halberd was held in a defensive position. The mechanisms inside of it could have allowed him to scout from the rooftops, or send out an echo pulse, mapping the area.

He was using none of them. At first, it had been Assault and Battery, looking for Shadow Stalker, under the impression she'd been mastered. If she had done something under control, or blown her civilian identity wide open… things could get bad. Both for her, and the PRT.

This would have been so much easier with Velocity. Or Dauntless.

Maybe he should be calling in New Wave? He didn't want to get into that political firestorm. Rogue Ward almost kills hero, New Wave called in to assist, is the PRT really our best choice?

The hours he'd have to spend at a table answering questions, feeling ideas rot away at his mind, that was abysmal.

"Shit." The words were whispered, but the suit picked them up, IFF and voice recognition labeling it as a male, and not any known villains. The location was labeled on his HUD, and an approximate outline on the right side.

Armsmaster kept on moving.

"Shadow Stalker. Half a block north, fleeing east." Piggot's voice came through, and Armsmaster immediately swiveled, his eyes flicking to the map.

"Acknowledged." He moved again, tapping his fingers against the halberd. It wasn't a nervous tic, but a means of controlling the cycle, saving time. He locked the instructions in.

A wisp of shadow on the rooftops. It firmed up into a form he could reliably confirm. Then, it stumbled, falling off of the rooftop, going shadow once more before hitting the ground hard.

She coughed, glanced back, and saw him.

"Stop, Shadow Stalker. Don't make this worse on yourself." His voice was amplified.

Her face was a mess. Open sores weeping, blisters. For a moment, he doubted that Templar had done this on accident. She ran.

The doubt vanished.

He aimed the halberd at her, and fired. The electrified bolas fired with a tshhk of air venting.

She ducked, scrabbling at the ground. He pressed a button, and microjets fired, stopping in midair. His footsteps were heavy as he advanced on his former charge, the bolas hemming her in. "Surrender. You won't get another warning."

"Fuck you- you-" She turned and shifted, diving through the wall. Armsmaster pressed another button. The bolas returned to their position on the halberd as he pursued.

"Left." Piggot's voice.

"Acknowledged." He moved. His trust of Piggot's judgment calls had grown over the years. He barely heard the words before he responded, moving to the left, chasing Shadow Stalker through the left alleyway, outward to the front side of the building.

"Fuck-" Shadow Stalker's voice. Approximate location was identified and labeled.

"Pursuing into building." He spoke as he placed the other end of the halberd against the door. If it was unlocked, he'd be a fool. But that was one potential additional step. Check if it was unlocked, if it was locked, use breaching charge. One to two seconds could make that difference. He'd learned that, lessons paid by others for his sake.

Thumph.

The door opened as he pulled. Armsmaster would never solve Schrödinger's lock. He proceeded into the building, halberd telescoping down to a baton in size, thicker around except for where he was holding. Better for close quarters, less likely to get caught in walls. Less features available, but the relevant ones were still there. He tapped a button. His cycle cruised around the other side of the building, cutting off a potential escape route.

She was around the corner, about eight meters away. Desperately trying to control her breathing. It came in pained hisses through her teeth. He shook his head, walking forward. The program assembled an almost pointillist image. One hand at her side, another clutching something.

A crossbow. Not the one he'd assembled for her.

Her hand raised.

He stepped backward. A crossbow bolt came through the wall, shadowy. It slammed into the wall next to him. She cursed.

Shadow Stalker ran, and he pursued.

Her hands tried to reload the crossbow while moving. That's why he'd made the pneumatic one. She threw it at him, and he stepped back and to the side. No risks.

She dove out the side of the wall, where he had sent the cycle. If she had been wearing her mask with the lenses he'd made, she'd have seen it.

A net with electrical charges fired out from it.

 

[Harbin]

3.1

Cohesion
​

It was an eventful series of days.

Sophia was captured. I got the flute back. We went home. Dad and I cleaned. Sophia hadn't wrecked the place, but it was amazing what we'd let be, and downright ignored.

I got used to having perfect vision. Slightly better than perfect vision, actually. I could see incredibly well, at least compared to what I'd been capable of seeing previous to Panacea's tuneup. The 'I didn't have to worry about cancer in 5-10 years' was a real load off my shoulders as well. Well, I hadn't known about it, but… A shrug off my shoulders, then.

Coil gave us his card. We received a settlement from the PRT, along with a NDA about Shadow Stalker. Dad and I elected to take it. I just wanted to wash my hands of the whole deal. I made the mistake of calling Brandish afterward rather than beforehand. She made a noise that I assumed was a sigh of exasperation and 'god damn it'.

Oh. They also uh, gave me back my clothes. Armsmaster had needed to cut me out of them. Right.

Yeah. I was also covered in blood and unconscious, but talk about embarrassing. They all had long cuts down the side.

They also helped transport the metal, until I got there to help out.

And like that, my suspension was over. It felt odd, to the point of cognitive dissonance. I struggled to reconcile the fact that someone had tried to kill me. I had expected her to try or something, but like, now I was going back to school? Were there school supplies for dealing with this? I was going to go back and pretend nothing had ever happened, that it was all just part of another life?

Apparently.

I sat in class. Not wearing my armor made me feel vulnerable. It made me want to constantly look around, checking for threats. I could be making more armor right now. The metal was there. My scarf was wrapped around my arm, under my sleeve. My shoes still had their metal.

So at least I could cheat real good at soccer and dramatic posing.

I wondered what rumors were going on about me now. Had I killed Sophia? Was I secretly Armsmaster in disguise?

Could this class be possibly be any more boring? I scribbled in my brand new notebook. Mr. Quinlan just made math worse than it already was. His quiet, droning voice made me want to sleep. Who cared about sin, cos, and tan, proofs, whatever, when I could violate the laws of physics on a whim?

Perhaps I was going a little off the rails with my career prospects, but really. At what point in my life was any of this going to be useful if I already had a potential secure career path?

Maybe I could make a tangible difference as a mathematician, but thinkers would always one-up me. Heck, I could serve as a one-person transport squad if given time and resources.

...Luggage weight would never be a concern.

Man, I had the best power for making life easier on a very mundane, preparation level. Heck, I could even cheat on tests with it. Not that I would. I was going to keep my studying up. If only because I'd agreed to with Dad. And Mom would have wanted it.

I scribbled in my notebook some more. My doodles took up about three-fourths of the page. The notes took up the rest.

Not all of them were notes about the class. I really needed to pay some attention.

Class ended early. Lunch time.

I ate and nobody came to try mess with me. It was a little lonely, but holy crap it was amazing. No snide comments, nothin'. Emma was absent. Madison glanced at me, and then ran off.

Woo! Perks of getting into a fight with the top bitch and having her mysteriously disappear afterward after breaking her hand. It scared me.

I wasn't worried about my reputation or anything. It was more the apparent facade this whole hero thing was. Everyone pretended I was normal. Maybe some knew, maybe they didn't. I was pretty sure Madison and Emma knew. Had they told everyone to back off because they knew what I'd done? Because they knew what Sophia had tried to do to me?

It seemed like Sophia to boast, before she started things up. Had Emma known, then had Sophia contact her while she was on the run?

Ugh. Too many questions, too many possibilities to consider. Had to pay attention in World Issues. Wait, did Blackwell know about me now the way she knew about Sophia?

Mundane life was really mundane. School was a slog, so I put on those galoshes and waded through.

Okay. I was getting a little worried about my reputation after someone came up and hit on me. I was honestly a bit flattered before I recognized they were from the E88 side of things. I think they were from the E88 side of things. I could have been wrong. If so, I wasn't aware that 'thanks for taking out that nig bitch' was common nomenclature.

I had figured my biggest worry was getting shanked. Now it was getting recruited.

--​

I called Dreampulse, AKA Crystal Pelham, after school. Busy. Right. She was a college student. Probably in classes later than I was. Or just on her way home or something. How about Parian?

Parian answered. One out of two wasn't bad.

"Hello. This is Parian. May I ask who this is?" I wasn't sure what I was expecting from an apparent fashion designer and someone who'd been commissioned for floats for the last gala- but it wasn't the hesitant, almost timid voice that came across.

Did I sound like that? "Hi, this is a wannabe hero. I was hoping to maybe make an appointment, discuss some potential costume designs. I spoke with Brandish and the PRT. Brandish recommended I call you."

"Oh. Uhm, I can put you in tomorrow. If, that would be okay with you?" All her sentences sounded like questions, but enthusiasm had slipped in. "Brandish recommended me? That's very nice of her."

I felt the urge to take my glasses off and rub them. It was hard to do with them folded up in my room. This girl was making me feel insecure by proxy, like she was scared of something, so I should also be scared of that something.

"That sounds good. Thank you, Parian. What time would be best for you? I have classes until around three, but after that, I should be able to meet." I tried to push more confidence and encouragement into my voice.

"Is five good for you?" It seemed like there was an unsaid add-on of 'if it's not, we can change it, that's okay.'

"Yes. Thank you so much." Poor girl. I tried to think of what might have happened to her to cause that. Maybe she'd been bullied, or harassed.

A number I didn't recognize called a few minutes later.

"Hello? May I ask who this is?" I echoed Parian's words by accident, wincing.

"Hello, Templar. This is Coil. If it's a good time for you, I'd like to do some testing with your power, and make you an offer. Feel free to consult with your father. I just have some items you might be interested in to-" He paused. "Improve your power's effectiveness."

 

[Harbin]

3.2​

I went. Of course I went. Coil had helped me out, and if I could get something better than scrap iron for my armor, it'd be amazing. Dad had enough cash that we could possibly get some better materials now, but the thought of combining tinker stuff and having like super-armsmaster power armor was an amazing thought.

--​

Turns out I couldn't have super-armsmaster power armor.

Not for lack of trying, though. Apparently my power played havoc with tinkertech electronics. Something about things being twisted with in my power. In addition, a lot of tinker materials felt alien to my power. I couldn't merge them effectively, and when I did, it was generally more effective to just use conventional materials. Thus vanished Taylor Hebert's dreams of becoming the next Armsmaster Mark II.

It was possible to create a tinkertech interface, that hooked up to my armor. If i made real armor. But then it became difficult to maintain, which was apparently an issue with tinkertech. It was just so difficult to incorporate the stuff into my armor. It didn't click, or slide in, even when the objects were similar.

It occurred to me that Coil probably had more important things to do, but he was here, looking at my abilities, analyzing them, making suggestions.

I could sort of potentially detect tinkertech, if only because I could immediately feel the resistance my power put up against it. My power didn't extend to just weight, durability, and similarity, I could also conceivably make weapons the size of the largest item without much difficulty in how I was holding it.

However, I needed to be very careful in how I used it. I was allowed to meld a shotgun and a pistol, and it took about eight minutes to do. Coil had suggested that the 'similarity' was a conceptual melding in my head. That I was allowing objects that I perceived to be as sharing common traits to be pushed together. The more common traits they shared, the easier it was.

The pistol-shotgun was fired by a machine. Just in case.

It exploded, so that was for the best. It was decided that I wouldn't do more live firearms testing, because of the risk to the weapons.

Coil was interested if the similarities were 'hard set' by my power, or if they could change as determined by my preferences. Or, if they were determined by the zeitgeist. If I was born and raised in another area, would my power and what it recognized as 'similar' be different?

It was odd (but intriguing) to look at it that way, but it certainly did add to why he was interested in my power. I guess most powers didn't exactly operate on vagaries like mine did.

He encouraged me to try establishing relationships between vastly different objects and seeing how they worked. For instance, if I carried something on me at all times, was that a 'similarity' as my ability interpreted it? If I tried to skirt the laws of my ability we'd be able to figure out exactly where those rules were.

And that would help me remove weaknesses.

Osmium. They obviously couldn't give me much, and were going to charge me and Dad if things went wrong, but I was able to manipulate it like clay, when it was the clay I'd combined it with. I explained how I'd made my armor, and how I'd gone through it to make my things.

They were very interested. Lowering the melting point of metals, potential superconductor work. Apparently tinkers were better for superconductor stuff by a long shot, but manipulating metals for easier use and potentially safe transport of radioactive stuff was a pretty big deal to them. The tinker demand for materials that were normally very difficult to shape was immense.

Everything fell into place as I reflected on this. I was seeing some sort of- overlay? Overlap. Some sort of parahuman overlap between themselves and their power. I wonder what would happen if I saw Scion, if Vista made me want to glance away. Perhaps it was related to memories of trigger events- no, Shadow Stalker hadn't been in an alleyway in costume when she'd triggered, I'd received pieces? Pieces. Of her daily life. Mostly strong emotion. Was that it? Strong emotion related to her power, maybe?

It made sense. Maybe the longer I spent around them, the more I could see the overlap and see more fragments that were related?

Or was it because Shadow Stalker and I had fought? When Sophia had attacked me, I had seen multiple flashes, pieces. When we'd verbally sparred- Huh. That seemed potentially very dangerous.

Coil smiled at me, and all his teeth were in it. Did he know? I hoped not. I'd been staring at my hands until now, when I'd looked up to see him approaching.

Apparently Dragon wanted to talk to me after hearing that last bit. Osmium. Tantalum. Rhenium. Right.

I was stunned. Talk about a crazy turnaround. Coil patted me on the shoulder as we walked into the elevator.

--​

Apparently, Dragon had been here in (sort of) person to show off her new remote mech to Armsmaster. It was an almost humanoid model, lion-esque legs with jets on the joints. The suit itself was only eight feet tall, as opposed to most of her other models. It even had a human face installed, surrounded by tech and armor. Somehow it blended in, along with the draconic tail. "Hello, Templar."

When she spoke, I could see something behind her, almost like the shadows I'd seen in parahumans. It was odd. Perhaps because it was similar to her, I was seeing a sort of 'overlay' there? Was it because I associated her more heavily with her machines than the actual social recluse Dragon?

I had so many questions, now. I wanted to go talk with Dad about these. Someone. Without getting locked up for not disclosing this information. Or locked up for being able to see capes in and out of their secret identity or something.

"Hello. Dragon. I'm, I'm- I'm a fan." I blushed, thankful for the half-mask I'd chosen to wear this time.

"Thank you, Templar. I always enjoy meeting new heroes. I'll be direct, as not to waste your time. I have a vested interest in keeping tinkers afloat. A lot of this is done through automation, whether that is of a nature involved in delegated tasks, to allow for more time, or for a means of creating more pure products." She paused, allowing me to process. After I nodded, she continued. "Tinkers have exceedingly odd requests. Two of today's log. Two incisors, must be less than a day old. Foamed rhodium, baked to one inch hexagonal ceramic chips in a zero-g environment. Sometimes they request less difficult things to procure, but by nature, the act of creating the ingredients for their creations take up a great deal of time."

"You want me to help?" My voice squeaked.

"Yes. Your ability can help. I'll have to pass it through channels, but I'd like to offer you a job. It won't take much of your time, but I'd be willing to set a fair commission for each thing you produce. The possibility of being able to spool otherwise incredibly brittle materials, potentially treating fibers as gallium, and experiment with them is worth it to me. It's hard enough, reserving time to experiment with tinkers that specialize with particular environments." Dragon folded back on her haunches, a smile stretching across her face. I wondered what material that was made out of, and how many hours of work it took.

"I'll have to- to talk with my Dad." I couldn't get my voice under control. I was getting scouted by Dragon, and I wasn't a tinker.

 

[Harbin]

3.3​

I pitched it as the best paid internship in pretty much ever. Short of apprenticing for Coil, it was about the best way I could think of to improve my abilities, make money, and maybe even make armor with amazing metals. They didn't even have to be tinkertech! Armsmaster came back somewhere around that time. He exchanged a few glances with Dragon.

Maybe she'd let me pilot a mech. That was the dream.

Dad was more happy about the fact that I wouldn't be running out into the streets to try panhandle for supervillains. I mean, he was also super happy about the potential to have Dragon on my resume.

"Yeah, I uh, worked with Dragon for a few years at the start of my hero career." Buff nails against shirt, look at them, get hired by whoever. Didn't matter who.

So, I gave her the answer within a few minutes, after having called Dad.

She extended what could be reasonably called a hand from the mech, and I shook on it. Armsmaster called her a filthy poacher good-naturedly, then shook my hand as well.

"I'm glad, and I sincerely hope this hasn't poisoned your view of the entire PRT. The majority of us are hard workers, trying to fix things to the best state we can. I'm looking forward to seeing how your ability helps out the potential advancement of technology, not just the tinker community." He gave me a nod, then nodded to Dragon once more. Dragon's smile was somehow very human, and filled with… esteem? Fondness. It was a stunning recreation on the simulacrum's face. For the second time, I wondered how much time it had taken to make that face, just to present a more human image for the mech.

I nodded.

Her shadow was there, softly pulsing.

Perhaps this was Dragon's way of getting out of the house, sending as accurate of a depiction of herself as she could into the world. Living vicariously through her mechs. Maybe that's why I saw it.

Armsmaster's was much clearer, simpler to see. Was this image one I'd come to associate with him, or what he associated with his trigger event?

Long, tapered fingers, tracing equations I couldn't read into the air. One was linked to another, then another, then another, and then they were overlapped, drawn into a single piece. They were too tall to see their face, or all of the things that were scrawled into the air with their six arms.

Okay. Uh.

"Templar, are you alright? We must find a better name for you. Alloy? Liminal would be accurate, perhaps, but easily misinterpreted. There will be time. We can discuss it between test and production periods. Names are important, but if you won't be in the public eye, you won't have to worry about having it be decided for you." Dragon contemplated, "But I apologize, I have kept Armsmaster waiting long enough. I will set up time in the Workshop with you on a daily basis. If you require transport, I'll provide that as well. The paperwork itself should take a few more hours, but I've already sent the necessary documents, and you'll be able to collect what you need on your way out."

Damn. She already had everything finished?

"I uh, have school and I'm going to meet with Parian tomorrow at five-"

"That's fine, don't worry. Does seven to nine sound good to you?" She asked, pausing at the threshold.

I nodded mutely.

Man, was this what it was like to be popular?

--​

I thought yesterday was slow.

I was wrong. I was wrong, and it was even worse today. How could it be worse. Why was I still here? If I called Dragon and asked her to pick me up would she? I entertained that fantasy briefly as I took (some) notes. Woosh. See you later. Important Protectorate stuff.

It was a struggle. I managed to survive. It took forever.

--​

Parian's office was only such in the loosest sense of the word. The loosest sense of the word was workshop, in this case. There was fabric. There were some stuffed animals, and some unstuffed animals, sadly deflated on the floor. I thought I recognized one from last year's floats. Patchwork bunny, ears a different color than the head, pink plaid on one arm, baby blue body, pink legs. It was hung up on the wall.

The place was a mess. Not in a 'stylish hipster artist' mess, but someone who didn't particularly care a lot about their wellbeing. Parian had her signature mask on, a marble-white depiction of a female face that reminded me of a death mask more than anything else. A greyish shirt along with a patchwork skirt.

"H-hello." The mask made her voice sound more breathy and nervous. Did she know?

"Hello, Parian. I haven't quite decided on a name yet. I go by 'you' and 'hey' for now, though." I tried to push humor into things, to be nice, but that just made it feel like she was shrinking away.

I focused on her, looking for her shadow.

It was there, I just needed to look a bit harder.

A doll, made from thread. Except it was being pulled by the threads, unravelling, unspooling, and needles worked at it constantly, trying to keep it intact, stabbing in and out. The threads anchored everywhere as they drew out, coiling further away, demanding more, and more.

Okay. So, not like Armsmaster's. What had Clockblocker's looked like? A beating heart-IV-bag-spider-thing. His trigger event might be related to something in a hospital? Was Parian's her career? Maybe her home life about her career?

How could I handle this? I felt guilty, manipulative, but she was a shrinking violet who was afraid of me making jokes, being nice.

"Sorry. I'm not too good with people, Parian. I thought I should come here and talk things through, because that's something that people have been encouraging of me. I'd just like to get a consultation and see how you've handled things as an independent hero? Maybe talk a few costume ideas over?" I extended a hand. "No hard feelings if this isn't a great time."

"A-ah, no. I'm sorry. I should be a better host. Let me get s-some tea. Would Chai or Chamomile be better?" She hurried off to the fridge, opening it to allow me to see the jugs of chilled beverages.

"I'll take Chai. Thank you." She poured a glass for me, and carried it over. Our hands touched, and she almost jerked away. Her hands were trembling ever so slightly, and she backed away. It felt like she was trying to recover herself as she smoothed her skirt, sitting down on a stool.

She couldn't keep everything up. Waiting outside the door, feeling her stomach churn, wanting to cry, wanting to give up and just go back to her room and feel like shit and guilt for not going to class again and-

Problems with class. Bullies. No, I shouldn't use that as the first choice. Not understanding the material, maybe? Dislike of the teacher? Come on, fragments. "So, uhm. My power is to put things together, and be able to decide what traits represent themselves."

Silver lining. I was getting better at telling people my power. I'd done it often enough recently.

"So uh, my scarf. I have a lot of metal in it right now, so it's really heavy compared to normal. To everyone except me, it weighs a bunch. I can also make it rigid, like metal." I demonstrated, as if performing a magic trick. All in the flick of the wrist. The scarf froze in midair from my hand for a second, then resumed its progression. I wound it back around my hand.

Parian didn't clap. Just nodded slowly.

"I haven't tried much, but I think I can push the appearance of the other thing out as well? Maybe I could have a color shifting costume?" I tried to interact with her, draw her into the conversation.

"Yes. That sounds like it would be best." She agreed with me. It was something.

Dad dead debts everywhere what were they going to do she wasn't going to classes and everything was falling apart. Engineering went from difficult and unrewarding to hellish and so stressful that she'd had to curl up in bed after each class at least the ones she'd gone to and it was only getting worse and the guilt was always there wasting student loans wasting everything-

"Yeah." I could sympathize with her. Empathize, even. She had it rough. "Do you have any suggestions? I won't be offended. I don't really have a fashion sense. Regardless of the outcome here, I'll pay double whatever your consultation fee is."

"T-thanks." Fuck. This wasn't the right tack to take here. I could feel it at that answer, with the shadow behind her.

I desperately wanted to reach a conclusion and get out. I was getting afraid of making things worse, pushing her somehow in a way that might force her further inward.

"Parian. If I give you a couple concept ideas, do you think you could get back to me with a few sketches after a couple days?" I felt like I was just boiling pity and tossing it over the wall at her. I was saying it all wrong.

"Yeah. I could try." She was looking off to the side. I dared to hope that it was a hint of something positive.

She wrote things down when I talked at her. It felt terrible. I sipped at the tea.

 

[Harbin]

3.4​

I left much earlier than expected. I wasn't sure what I had been expecting. Maybe someone enthusiastic about their craft, or someone who was down on their luck. Not the thing I had tried to lob questions to.

"Thank you for the tea." She had nodded. As if she expected me to leave. As if she was saying why wouldn't I leave. Fuck. "Call me when you finish the designs?"

Another slow nod.

I left her with a hundred bucks, and it was as if I was trying to bribe my way out. Maybe I could buy some hot chocolate to bring next time? Maybe I could talk with Dragon about it. At the same time I felt like I was violating her privacy somehow. That she was struggling on her own, and pushing that would push pieces of that around.

I felt frustrated, drained, and guilty. Guilty for feeling those emotions about her. I didn't feel like I'd helped her. Maybe I hadn't made things worse, but I certainly hadn't helped.

There was still an hour left before my meeting with Dragon. I went to go get something sugary.

I had to remind myself that I had money now. Staring at the display case of cakes, it was all too easy to begin mentally crossing things off. Or just want to buy them all. Two. I settled on that. A small piece of layered green tea cake, along with a red velvet cupcake. I got the overpriced darjeeling to go with it. It did go well. Staring at the treat and sipping at the tea did very little to clear my mind, though.

Made my taste buds happier. That's about it.

--​

The mood whiplash of Dragon's kind enthusiasm made me feel guilty for feeling happier. It made me feel petulant and Dragon picked up on it almost immediately.

"So, have you thought of any names? I thought we'd go over those before we get to the facility. It's not complete yet, so you aren't allowed to judge it." The image that displayed on the windshield of the car smiled at me. It was being driven by a minor AI Dragon had delegated the task to. "Miss Milita is open."

I smiled in spite of myself.

"I'd like to add to the suggestion pool with slightly more words I've pulled straight from a thesaurus but might be fitting. I suspect you would rather not contend for Aegis with his title?" The car turned to the left. The ride was smooth to the point where I had to look through the translucent-Dragon-face to see the road.

"No, I think he can keep it. I met him on my first day out, so it'd feel a bit cruel to steal it from him." I felt the urge to make funny faces at Dragon. I refrained.

"Boo. No fun. Well, Bulwark and Escutcheon are both taken. You could vie for Escutcheon, I think the original is in Australia now. Might be retiring in a year or two. Considering you aren't limited to straight armor and metals, though, you could also go for a more desert costume look. You could have loose-fitting, easy breathing clothing. Would make the costume switching easier, too. Brockton Bay gets very hot and humid during the summer, so you should take that into account when you assemble your outfit together." Listening to Dragon talk like this made me feel more relaxed. A conversation where I felt like I wasn't just trying to extend things out and receive little to no response in return.

"I talked with Parian." I sighed. "She's-"

"Yes. Parian is not doing so well. Records on her indicate increased reclusion over the last year. Her projects have decreased in scope and frequency. There were a few deals offered to her in the infancy of her career, but they fell apart. I am not saying anything that is private, this is all publically searchable information." Dragon's voice held a tinge of regret.

"Can't anyone do something to help her? She seems like she's in a really bad place." I frowned. I felt like I was accusing Dragon directly now, and that definitely wasn't what I intended to do. And it was an exceedingly bad idea, if I had intended it.

"Her problems might be addressed if she were to join the Protectorate. My hands are tied in this matter. I would much rather her be a hero than be desperate enough to go into villain territory. Anything I do can be considered building a powerbase. I've used up a good amount of pull to 'acquire' you. If I help someone, many things need to be taken into account. If I give her money or treatment, I can be called out on bribery. Even if this is not true, it hurts my public image, and can lead to me having operations shut down, or people refusing to work with me." Dragon's face was bitter. "Worse, I can be ordered to shut them down. I despise losing good operations because of bad PR. I have asked someone to check in on her, extend an offer."

"I'm not very good at getting outside the box myself, Templar." Her image smiled wanly.

Heat rose in my cheeks, and I stared downward.

"Oh, I'm not offended, Templar. I've made steps to correct my- issues, but until future notice, I'm limited in regards to mobility. I believe this conversation has been made awkward, so I'd like to motion to move onward from it." Her lips quirked upward, smirking.

"Seconded." I smiled back. It felt a little weird to hear Dragon's reply be 'no, I can't help' and for my personal thought process not to jump straight to resentment. And then down 'please go away boulevard', next to 'I'm not listening avenue'. Perhaps it was a result of her explanation, leading into her own, personal admission. "So, what will we be doing with my power, Dragon?"

"Today we'll be experimenting with alloys. Perhaps a simplified explanation, and a more complex one if it's necessary for your power. Metals have different melting and boiling points. This differentiation makes it difficult for the creation of some alloys, and makes different techniques necessary for different alloys." She was enthusiastic, other images showing up on the screen. A block of silvery metal, frosted over. An identical block of Copper, with a silver piece taking up one of the corners. "My thoughts are that we'd test your power's ability to interact with objects and create basic alloys. Using Gallium as the 'base', as a metal that has a melting point of roughly eighty-six Fahrenheit, thirty Celsius. We'll try copper and a bit of tin and zinc. Easy stuff. I'd like to move on to superalloys sooner than later."

"Oh, and I can't wait to see how annealing works with your power. I think it might work, if your power reacts how I'd like it to." It was easy to sit there and listen to her.

We arrived a minute or so later. I exited the vehicle. It was a bunker. I felt like I was a supervillain. Or that Dragon was a supervillain. "So, uh-"

The place lit up, and then the wall lit with a pulsing arrow. "Sorry, I've been dying to show this off. Just follow the arrows. I'm hoping to get a sort of general-use tinker thing going for more legal tinkers. For ones that aren't like Armsmaster. Or have established their own clientele. The PRT is a great resource, but I think there needs to be an intermediary, especially for people who can't do things like the PRT does. Whether it's problems with authority, personal issues due to trigger, or not wanting to be known but wanting to abide by the law. I'll be handing it off to Hero, I think. I'm not good with authority. Too prone to abusing it."

Right. Dragon, abuse her authority. Psh.

She led me to an airlock, where I put on what was a fairly comfortable hazmat suit and mask, then entered a room that was definitely chilly. The black marks on some of the walls were more noticeable. The cubes of metal were here, on a table, and on the other side of the table was a very small mech. Small for Dragon. Five feet, with a few limbs extending from a boxy, treaded frame. To the right of the table was what looked like a- kiln? Kind of?

"So. Would you mind combining the two cubes? I've made them as similar as I could to each other in size and shape." The objects slid together like they were meant to, overlapping with ease. Jeez. It wasn't even a drain on me. I had to think about separating them.

How similar had Dragon made these cubes? The robot moved the copper-zinc-tin cube into the kiln-thing. I really needed better names. "Okay, Templar. We're going to start heating it up inside the heating device."

I felt like she was being patronizing. "What's the device's actual name?"

"Repurposed kiln. Made it yesterday for this. Kiln 2.0? More of a step back for everyone that doesn't have your power. Kiln 0.5?" Dragon chuckled. "Anyway, I'd like you to try focusing your power on the metal, and make the boiling point of the metal identical to the gallium, if you can."

I could see the overlap through the kiln. I tried to figure out what the heat part of it was. Some pieces came naturally, some pieces I had to push, get used to. I wasn't sure if it was related to the concept of durability or not. The heated wax to mould the flute came with repeated separations and reintegrations. I tried to focus on that experience, working it in, the warmth. How it had bent, rather than broken. That wasn't quite it. It was close, a forgotten thing.

Oh. The chalk-pepper spray came in handy. It was the solid and the gas form, almost having to hold and bind them. To have it react in a certain way to the heat, from the one aspect.

I sat there, working on saturating the entire object with that sensation, next time I'd do this when I could touch and feel it. Knowing it was working and feeling it was working sometimes made a huge difference, and I felt like it would in this. My hands were pressed up against the kiln, and I became aware that they were trembling. I leaned back, and sat down on the ground. I could repeat that. I could do that again. I knew how to do it now. It would take a while before I could do it on the fly. What a rush.

"Fifteen minutes. You've successfully made your first alloy, Templar. Congratulations! It's still in a liquid state, but it has the temperature of ninety degrees. Impressively odd. Very good for potential forging or precision spooling, too. A lot less energy taken up." Dragon was happy. That meant really good things, potentially.

"Alright! So, I'll have you test to see if you can have this poured into case molds, then I'll check to see if there's any difference in the alloy before and after you separate them. After that, we can work on superalloys." I nodded. Using my power, pushing it in this way- it felt amazing. It was a new potential skill, how could it be useful? Maybe shifting metal into water, then back as a containment method? Was that possible?

I followed Dragon's instructions, almost forgetting about my Parian encounter.

 

[Harbin]

3.5​

Dragon was a slave driver. That was her true identity. I had found the truth. Her wheedling, kind words set me up to try one more thing out, then gave me approval afterward, making me feel like I'd done something awesome. Which I had, but I was so tired.

It was so much fun.

I learned stuff. Creep. Grain boundaries. Dragon wanted to test for those next, but it'd have to wait until tomorrow. We'd already done so much, today. We did some nucleation with a rhenium alloy/sugar mix. It became hard to keep track of, to keep those boundaries and mergings up, when it got that small. She was ecstatic about that one.

She wanted to work with something she called sintering and single crystal casting, but our time was up. And I was exhausted. I didn't know how she kept up that energy through everything.

I asked her if I could use what she paid me to have her produce, well, non-tinkertech armor using some of what we made on the ride back to the PRT, where Dad would pick me up.

"And I suppose if I give a Templar a set of armor, she'll ask for a weapon?" Dragon gently chided.

"Well- hey, I am not going to ask- If I help clean the bunker, does that mean you'll do it?" I couldn't help but giggle.

"The entire bunker? I'll give you all the milk you'd like after that, Templar." I broke into a giggling fit. I couldn't stop. It was ridiculous. I was making jokes about shared childhood memories. With Dragon. And she'd started it. I yawned about halfway through my laughter, then kept laughing.

I fell asleep some point later on the ride.

--​

I woke up on the way home in Dad's car, looking outside at the lights passing overhead as we drove onward. Dad's car made that comfortable noise that I remembered every time we'd gone out together. Whether it was out to Emma's house, hiking, movies, wherever. He'd preferred this car. The memories of Mom hit me really hard, and I started crying. I remembered falling asleep with her in the back seat, because I always wanted to sit in the front. I remembered all those parts of the memories that she was even tangentially associated with.

"Sorry. I'm sorry, Dad. I miss Mom. I miss her -" I wiped the tears away from my eyes, and Dad pulled over for a moment.

"Yeah. I miss her too, kid. Sometimes it hurts. It hurts so much, and I'm in the kitchen and I remember working with her there, bumping into her- hugging her. Telling her I love her." He smiled. It was wavering, and his eyes were filled with tears. "Now it's you and those memories. That's all I've got left of Anne."

Dad wiped his tears away. "Let's do our best to be happy, okay?"

"Not going to say she would have wanted it that way?" I responded, looking down at my hands for a moment before looking back at Dad and smiling.

"Nah. She would have had a philosophical quote ready that would blow our socks out of the water. So I'll stick with what I'm good at." He ruffled my hair affectionately. "Let's head home."

I nodded.

--​

I slept really well that night.

--​

The next day, school was more of a blur. I went through my classes, took notes, and paid attention. I felt good. Put together.

Things clicked in and I was paying attention. The world seemed a little less of that pungent, disgusting shade of yellow hopelessness. I learned a new way to tie my scarf at lunch time. I kept the actual scarf tied around my elbow, under a long-sleeved shirt.

I smiled at Emma. She flinched. I wish I could say that didn't feel good, that I was the better person.

Revised Statement: I wish I could say that didn't fill me with satisfaction.

Other than that though, today, I didn't really feel that burning frustration. I could do things now. I had things going for me. Things were going better, truly.

I half-expected the Endbringer sirens to go off. I received a confirmation text from Dragon. We weren't texting buddies. Yet.

Me: Is starting from 4 ok?
Dragon: 4-8 is fine. See you at the PRT station.

Maybe it was one of her automated responses.

Dragon: Do you mind if Armsmaster comes along?

Okay definitely not.

Me: Sure, go for it!

I decided not to prod the Dragon by adding that they made an excellent couple. I went and had another couple cakes from that cafe again. I tried a different tea. Ceylon. It was enjoyable. The cafe was good enough that I probably could have thrown darts at the menu and gotten great tasting food.
Someone sat across from me, and I looked up.

They had a shadow. That was beginning to be the first thing I noticed about people. Curly hair, pretty face. Lazy posture.

A marionette, twitches working along its hands and arms, until they reached its center. It hung there, then began moving in place. Fake. A sham.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Keep everything even. Set the tea down. Wait for the attack. Take phone out. Stupid buttons, which one was the on switch?

"Not here to fight. No need for the phone stuff. Good faith, all that shit. My employer wants you to know you've got eyes on you." He raised his hands up, then did a little jazz hands with them.

All of his glimmers were muted. Everything I tried to look at was pieces of pieces, or wisps, intangible and brief. "Oh? And what if I don't want eyes on me?"

"No, no. You've got eyes on you and they aren't my employer's." He shook his head slowly. "They think you're a tinker or some shit."

He ferreted around in his pocket for a moment, I tensed. He pulled out a notepad. "You've been spotted going off with Dragon to places unknown. They may look to target you or your father. Work faster."

He read it in a disinterested monotone, stood, then walked by me, patting me on the shoulder as he passed. "Here's to never seeing you again."

"Same? I guess?" I took my phone out and worked on texting Dragon.

 

[Harbin]

3.X ​

With a tap and a blink she'll be there,
It's high time for villains to care,
She'll be there when asked,
The villainous forces harassed,
It's- ​

"Shit." Mouse Protector muttered, trying to remember the words. The lyrics weren't as good as it was in season one, but this one had more feel to it, y'know? The whole fucking thing was messed up at that point, so she just hummed along with the mental tune as she peered into the window. It was shuttered, so she couldn't see anything, but that's what the tinker lenses were for. Tapping into wavelengths and translating blah blah blah blah.

Tinkertech, great. (Nerd.) Just tell her what it's for and when she should bring it in.

It let her see through walls. Three people waving guns around, one standing around looking bored. Against a board. No, no. that wouldn't work nearly as well verbally. Another one, his hands out at people.

Two probable capes, three idiots with guns.

"Got anything?" She tapped at her throat mic. "Yo, Celsius."

"That didn't get old years ago, Mouse," Fahrenheit responded, rubbing at her temples.

"Yeah, but Celsius is so much cooler." She listened for the telltale groan, her lips quirking up as she gave a mocking salute to her backup.

"None of them are manipulating heat, as far as I can tell. One has a cigarette. Another's just standing there. No weapons for either. One has a- gun that's jury-rigged. One sec. It's full auto. The others are normal. One full auto pistol, one normal, one semi-auto rifle." Her voice paused. "Can't get a good enough image on them to ID them."

"Dang. Was hoping to get a few things ready for them before going in." She pouted, taking a grappling hook and firing it up at the roof. It was more like a piton gun, but that just dissolved into background noise when they started talking about the specifics of how it would work.

Mouse Protector paid enough attention, okay? Enough of that explainy-sciencey-bullshit. She had an image to keep.

And maybe she liked rubbing them the wrong way.

Heh. That's what she said.

The grappling hook tightened, and she scaled the side of the wall, making her way up to the top. There were already a few lollygaggers, and she gave them a little wave, then a shooing motion.

Guns were more dangerous than powers. Powers were stupid and unfair, but it was more likely they'd control their shots, out of fear of the Birdcage. Someone who'd made their pistol full auto-

There were less probable moral compunctions behind that bitch, and a few remarks she wanted to smear in their face about overcompensation.

"They say they'd like to negotiate for the safe release of the hostages." Fahrenheit said, as Mouse Protector went to work on the lock.

"Mmhm? Milk'n'cookies? Partridge in a pear tree?" Mouse Protector made a disinterested noise, peering at the lock. "Time limit?"

"Ten minutes."

"They better not want snickerdoodles. I can't make cookies that fast." She withdrew the lockpicks from the door, turning the doorknob experimentally. "Code for the door?"

"Five Oh Two Two Zero."

"Bless you. Thank you." She pushed the buttons in and glanced upward, checking for any additional alarms. "Electrical sources? Insulated anything?"

"No, and no. Alarms are already taken care of, mostly." Her voice sounded fairly confident.

Mouse Protector frowned. "Mostly. Am I going to walk into a Dragon-bot here or what?"

"No, just the glass ones are hardwired. Sorry."

"Well and here I was all for the dramatic skylight entrance." She glanced over at the rooftop. Would have been rather difficult without the skylight. "Alright, heading in. Wish me luck, Fairy."

"No." Fahrenheit said flatly.

"See that's why nobody likes you." Mouse protector made the switch to subvocalizing seamlessly, continuing down the steps.

"Uh huh."

"Come on, throw me some softballs here. Gonna have to go straight to an interview after this. Prep me. I'm ready, coach." She cajoled, very, very quietly.

She peeked through the door, looking through the metal with her lenses. Ten, twenty three, thirty three, Two of them weren't in range. "You got eyes on those last dudes? They pulled a vanishing act."

"Yeah, One is hanging around vault. Other is inside, cape. One's on the phone, other room. Good guys trying to stall for time."

"Well. That's nice of them." Mouse Protector scanned the door up and down, looking. "Trap on the door. Connected to a charge. These guys are assholes."

"Guy on phone isn't happy." A pause. "Wants a Mover, now."

"Hey, I'm a Mover. And a lover." Another groan. Mm. The best part about it. She efficiently stripped the makeshift trap apart, wrinkling her nose as she discarded the pieces next to the door. "Alright, Fairy. Showtime."

"I'll prioritize civs. My limit is three misfires." Fahrenheit said. Mouse protector nodded, disengaging her sword from her leg's armor. She clenched her right fist, opening it, causing her buckler to clk clik chk into place.

It could have been silent. Just like her blunted sword didn't need to make the humming that it did when she charged it up.

Pff. Whatever.

She opened the door, and walked in. Relaxed, not a care in the world. Two hostages near the door. They looked at her, and uttered gasps of (probably relief) adoration. She held a finger to her lips and winked. There was that guy at the table, his back currently turned to her, yelling angrily into the phone.

Mouse Protector tapped one of the hostages, and a point blossomed in her mind. At any moment now, she could grab onto that point, and suddenly the world would funnel into that brilliant point.

And then she'd be there.

She walked up behind the angry dude on the phone, who was angrily gesticulating at the lobby. Was he expecting them to notice? It wasn't like anyone except her was looking.

"Excuse me." She tapped him on the shoulder with her shield hand, and another point was in her mind. "Do you know where I can find the bathroom?"

"What the f-" She slammed him in the stomach with a knee, then reached for the other point.

The world churned, she whirled, and was back on her feet next to the stunned hostage. She winked at him conspiratorially.

Then she grabbed the other point.

What a rush.

"This is a PG-13 adventure, sir. I'm going to have to-" She ducked under his first swing. His fists and wrists were thickening, becoming rock.

"You should see someone about that." Dermatologist took way too long to say. She slammed the buckler into his gut, and electrified it. "Skin conditions are serious."

"Fu-gighghhl-" He jerked and spasmed, and she patted him on the head, leaving the Foam blister there.

She grabbed the hostage point, discarding the angry dude's one, and watched the rapidly solidifying foam silence him. "I still think he should see a doctor about that."

"Two are moving toward his location," came Fahrenheit's voice. "Normals, two guns. Full auto checking on other hostages."

"Thanks for the update. On it." Mouse Protector sprung into action, looping around the corner into the lobby. She glanced around. Three hostages here.

"Hey! Where can I get some service around here? I'm missing my lunch break for this!" Her voice was a shout, amplified by her equipment, yelled into the bank proper.

crak

The bullet whizzed by her head. It hadn't missed. Not really. It was easy for her to see the gun's barrel, and her agility allowed her to tilt her head out of the way, making it look like she had just adjusted her position.

How long she had worked on making the movement look natural was not a topic of discussion.

"Misfiring." Mouse Protector heard Fahrenheit's first syllable and exploded forward into movement. Her buckler came up in front of her. The stylized mouse raising the sword into the air heralded her approach.

Marty Mouse was her mascot, after all.

chk

Her sword caught the edge of the gun as he tried to fire again. The blade vnnmmmed into action as it contacted the metal, carving through it without stopping, she glanced to the side, snapping her foot up to kick him in the head- point- and raising her buckler to block a shot from the other direction. "Guns? Do you think you can stop me-"

She flipped backward, using only her right hand to spur her movement as she watched for the other robber's response. He leveled the rifle, tightening on the trigger- and she was gone, drawing on that point.

"The great Patriot-" There was no need for mindgames with this lot. She flickered into existence, kicking the first robber in the head again. "-with bullets?"

"Wait." She affected shock. Avoid firing lines toward hostages. That one was too risky- block. "Was that reveal not supposed to come out yet?"

"Joking, jeez, tough crowd." Rush forward- "Misfiring-" his gun clicked. She kicked, (Grab point) her sword slicing the gun out of the air, and again before it hit the ground.

She tilted her head toward the pieces as they fell. "And can still cut a tomato."

Still watching the robber as he grabbed a desk lamp to try hit her with. That one was just too easy.

"Knock knock." She pulled, and was behind him. "Who's here!"

Her leg hooked around his, and she pushed him forward. Didn't bother electrifying the shield.

She raised her sword into the air, putting her boot on his back before making a sweeping bow. "Couldn't have done it without a little help from the audience."

She secured them both, heading off toward the vault- changing direction, and heading off toward the vault.

"Full auto is in the vault getting cape buddy." Fahrenheit sounded tired. Preventing bullets from firing exhausted her. Her real limit was probably two, but she was game for another one.

Mouse Protector trusted her. "So, which lead-in haven't I used for a while?"

"You actually want me to check?" Fahrenheit's voice was a sigh.

The hero raised the hilt of her sword to her nose, scratching an itch. "Nah, they just blend together a bit. Gotta keep it fresh for the viewers, y'know?"

She smiled. "Last two. Let's do this."
"Probably a metallokinetic. Seems to be slow, from how he's opening the deposit boxes. Might have fine control."

"Thankyew kindly, Pardner." Mouse Protector glanced around, heading further into the bank. So far, so good. No hostage injuries or casualties. Good stuff.

Moving on. She made sure her steps made noise on the marble floor, whistling this season's theme as she stepped forward. It seemed only appropriate, and it's not like they had any hostages down there.

The grate-door in the vault was twisted, bent away from the frame so that it could be opened. "Hello? Mouse Protector, here with your pizza? You asked for extra cheese, pineapples and-"

A deposit box came flying her way, at a speed fast enough that she had to flick her body backward and down, flexing her legs and abdominals to throw herself back to her feet. "No tip, then?"

Another box. Dive to the right. Slide to a stop.

She leapt forward into another aisle of half-mangled deposit boxes, confronted by a man raising up a pistol.

taktaktak

Mouse Protector threw herself flat, feeling the bullets ping off the metal as her body hit the ground. Ow. Thrust arms downward, propel upward, track gun with shield- shift legs, lunge, no, backflip- legs tensed push against ground as hard as possible in air, gun tracking-

taktaktaktak

The bullets couldn't catch up to her. Foot brought down-going to miss, adjust, shoulder instead. Point! Step off-

And then the deposit box hit her in the left arm, sending the sword flying away. "No-" she gasped, tumbling to the ground.

"God damn, it's Mouse Protector." The cape was six feet, easy, wrapped around in metal and dross, forming discolored ridges around his shoulders and legs.

"Hey. No swearing. Violence is fine, so let's keep it clean. Nothing below the belt. Anything over-" The full auto pistol pointed at her.

"You ever shut up?" The voice was furious, pained, and the man clutched at his shoulder with his free hand, keeping the pistol trained on her.

"Nah," she kept her eyes trained on his trigger finger, waiting. Dramatic moments weren't good unless they were close, and she had a lot of experience. "I prefer to keep up a dialogue, y'know? Keep things friendly and all sorts of-"

He pulled.

She pulled first.

"Intimate." She breathed into his ear, pressing the shield into his back, grabbing his gun hand with the other and twisting. The electrical charge fired, and the gun kept firing in time with the man's spasms.

"Whoops. Seems like he didn't last very long, huh? How about you, buster? Got what it takes to take down justice itself?" The cape's projectiles were chunks and pieces of metal, thrown at her with varying speeds. It was simple to dodge most of them, and she rolled, grabbing at the pouches on her belt, pushing forward into the flurry. She bounced off the walls, moving in a manner that was never in the same place at once, tantalizing her opponent with each shot. Oh look, that one almost hit! Oh boy, you were so close that time! Come on baby, work it!

And then she was in front of him, not two feet away, her gloved hand reaching out and slapping him across the face. Point.

"I thought you loved me, whateveryournameis." She pouted. His face was furious confusion. The foam pack adhered to his cheek. He tore it off before it could expand, but it caught his arm, limiting his movement. "And now you won't even take a token from me?"

She found the time to languish, a hand against her forehead. He raised his free hand, hurling more metal.

Mouse Protector pulled. She was in midair, using his shoulders to flip herself, (foam pack on back) pushing off and tweaking his nose. "I got yer nose, evildoer. If yer good and come quietly, I'll give it back."

She narrowed her eyes at him, blowing smoke off her fingers. The foam pack went off. This time, he didn't have the ability to remove it fast enough.

"You okay, Fairy? Got awful quiet there." She walked toward the still-twitching normal, kicking the gun away and securing his hands.

"Yeah. Good work, Mouse Protector. SWAT is moving in now." Fahrenheit sounded exhausted.

"No biggie. You say that like I don't always do good work." She smirked, looking around the chaotic, nearly-destroyed room. "Mouse Protector is the best, Fairy. I'm her number one fan. I'm at every public appearance she's at. Every signing? I've been there. Been to her house and everything. Her bed is fantastic."

"That's because you are her, Mouse Protector." The voice was world-weary, but didn't hold much bite.

"Oh, right!" She grinned. "Let's go talk to the news people, then. Thanks for the assist."

 

[Harbin]

3.6​

Dragon was furious. She talked animatedly with Armsmaster about the whole deal. He sat in the driver's seat, I sat in the passenger seat. Apparently she was keeping watch over Dad with drones, and was doing something that I assumed was like her pacing, irritated, as a smaller avatar of her on the dashboard strode around. The bigger projection of her on the screen expounded on her points.

"We take threats against tinkers more seriously than most threats, because they generally have the largest destructive potential. Dragon takes them more personally. She's lost a few of her contacts in the independent tinker community recently. " Armsmaster sighed as Dragon shook her head.

"It's more than that. I think that the Toybox might be targeting Templar. If her ability can help to accelerate tinker work, she's a force multiplier for anyone that gets their hands on her." Her miniscule figure on the dashboard was somehow adorable while explaining the horrifying implications of being kidnapped and experimented on by evil tinkers.

"Mm. So what do you propose? I doubt she'll enjoy twenty four hour surveillance, even if that might be necessary." Armsmaster glanced at me, or rather, turned his visored head at me.

All of a sudden, I'd plunged into a world that was much, much bigger than me. I had fun with my Dragon inner tube, but all of a sudden, I was being swept up in politics and I just kind of wanted to curl up and hold things in.

"Templar. Okay. Let me explain things. I have, hm." Dragon paused. It felt awkward, rather than deliberate. "A family. We don't get along very well. We see things very differently. The PRT knows this. It isn't concealed, but is- discouraged. She went by Mancatcher, previously. She is my younger sister, I suppose. She has reached- a rebellious stage. She believes she knows more- effective ways to perform her duties."

"I am telling you this because I believe that she runs the Toybox. She is incredibly intelligent, and collects tinkers and thinkers, working with a villain named Minder. He's attempted to change his identity to avoid notice, but we know him, to be Teacher. They work out of a dimensional pocket." Dragon stopped speaking, her avatar lacing its fingers together. Armsmaster leaned back, and he was frowning. Not surprised, just unhappy.

"Going to tell her about Robin as well?" Armsmaster spoke, his voice hard.

"Not the best time. He's still amenable to reason, at least." Dragon shrugged helplessly. "Not a threat to her."

"Mm." The noise of acknowledgement didn't fill me with confidence.

"There are- rules of engagement. With us. I cannot do as much as I would like to do with my abilities, or she will begin to interfere as well. She may view this as a breach of these rules. I will attempt to address this, but she may take aggressive preemptive measures." Dragon sighed. "This is a large part of what I meant when I spoke to you earlier. I did not precisely lie."

"I am sorry for concealing it, but now I think you should be properly warned. My sister's abilities are mostly centered around catching and retrieving criminals. At some point, her priorities began to shift from this, moving away from simply catching and retrieving to active- rehabilitation. That is a kind way to put it. She communicated with thinkers, and with tinkers. Teacher very readily responded to her once he learned of her abilities." Dragon shook her head, putting my open mouth and its words in storage. "She has likely not been compromised by Teacher. She was always quite careful. Free-spirited, even. Oriented toward self-improvement."

"Exposure to Teacher alone-" Armsmaster commented, then shook his head. "We've had this debate."

"Yes. I know certain aspects of their relationship that you are not aware of. And I am not able to inform you of. She was in contact with me for a while. Her goals did not change, there was no indication of corruption, and she simply expounded on her philosophy. She even offered to have tinkers and thinkers work to- remove some of the- limits on my abilities. I declined." Dragon looked to the left. "We're here."

Neither of us got out of the car.

"Templar. We'll need to move forward with some aspects sooner than expected. I was hoping to complete this, and then surprise you with it later, but it appears that we'll have to work on it today." She looked back over at Armsmaster. He nodded.

"I'll get school out of the way. We've got enough PR leeway with Winslow to make it a non-issue, even if she interferes." He looked over at me. "It's up to you, Templar. I believe we have a very real requirement to be prepared in this. It's an important adjustment you'll need to make, and it's a very difficult one you'll have to deal with."

"She isn't aware of the bunker. Deliberate blind spot. If she breaks that rule of engagement, we've got bigger issues than any of this. No offense, Templar, but if she attacks us here, it could start a World War." Dragon grimaced. "This is a hell of a lot to take in over a few minutes. I know."

"It's like a sick game. She ignores pieces and bits, and I don't actively pursue pieces and bits. She helps out with endbringers, and the large majority of people who go missing outside of the endbringer truces are people nobody will miss. I don't expose her, she doesn't expose me. The really bad ones go to the Birdcage, and sometimes she'll 'gift wrap' them for me." She gave Armsmaster a look. "And don't say Robin again, Armsmaster, I see that look on your face. I am not willing to risk the crash that he might cause with that sort of leeway."

Armsmaster shook his head. "Let's head inside, then. I'll help with her armor. Make some suggestions."

Dragon nodded, and the doors opened. The inside of the bunker seemed a lot brighter than before, but also more stark, more cold. Less friendly, less 'let's have fun with your ability while making useful stuff!'

We walked through the hallways, approaching a room at the end of the hall. "She might take this as me flouting the rules entirely. That's the worst case scenario. She starts working on those blind spots. She was- she is very vindictive. It's how she's always been. Core part of her personality."

"Sorry, Templar. Here." The doors slid open. There was a table inside, with a lump atop it. Loose-wrapped, dark grey. "Recon does his best to mass-produce these, but there's a certain loss in quality when he does. He has to cut corners, can't make exact measurements, and I apologize, I am babbling. It's spidersilk. Black widow, as opposed to Darwin's bark spiders. Those have stronger, but Black widows thrive more easily here. He has to save what he makes for important members of the protectorate."

"I've altered it to hopefully fit your measurements properly. I've also begun work on your armor. I will need your assistance for it, to make sure that things go well, and that the resulting alloy works with your abilities well." I'd never heard Dragon this worried before today. And I'd known her a long time, all of three days. I smirked at my own joke, the huge disparity between my current circumstances and the thoughts that were rushing through my head.

Armsmaster stood silently at the doorway.

I was still hopeful.

"You'll have to think up a name a little sooner," was all he said, and I looked back down at the grey, smooth thing that rippled under my fingers.

"Okay," I said. "I'm good to go."

​

 

[Harbin]

3.Y​

Vicky didn't feel pain. Amy was screaming something, but it was okay. She did good, right?

They were in the mall. She'd wanted ice cream. Mom was too busy, at the office. As usual. Vicky knew that. Amy had held her hand, and they'd gone to get ice cream, because Amy was nice. Amy was sad. Vicky noticed. It wasn't very difficult, when Mom would look at her sister, in that disdainful way, and then away.

She was old enough to understand when Mom got into arguments with Amy. She hated that. Amy said they weren't arguments, but Vicky knew what arguments looked like. They looked like her sister's face, gloomy and moody afterward. No hint of happy Amy. Voices weren't raised. It was quiet discussion, with tense, strained voices. Afterward, Amy would just look at her and sit down on the couch next to Dad.

Dad had skipped his meds today. He said they made him feel sleepy. By the time Vicky had noticed, it was already too late in the day to pout at him until he'd take them. She'd do better tomorrow.

To her, it felt like everything was going away. She could tell that much. Mom was angry. A lot. There were no yelling matches, no outright tantrums. But even when it wasn't out and obvious, she was frustrated. When she wasn't frustrated, she was irritable. When Amy talked, she was offended, exasperated. When Dad talked, she could see the bitterness, the hopelessness in the lines on Mom's face. Mom spanned that spectrum of anger. Then, it spread.

The exasperation went to Amy. The bitterness, the hopelessness, went to Dad.

Amy went to school, and came back tired. Vicky went to school, and had fun. She felt guilty for having fun. For having friends. Amy never looked happy when she flopped down on the couch next to Dad, then asked him if he wanted anything from the kitchen.

Dad attempted a smile. It didn't quite work. He shook his head dully, made a noncommittal sound, then went back to watching the television.

Vicky hated the television.

On his good days, Dad was active. He smiled. It felt wonderful. He brought light into the room with him, sometimes literally. He went on walks, runs. He remembered his medication, he didn't half-heartedly apologize for missing birthdays.

Those were fewer and fewer. He avoided Mom's eyes when they spoke.

When he put on his costume, he cried, sometimes. But mostly, he was sitting there, at the couch. Sometimes he made dinner. He was a good cook. A better one, on his good days.

Vicky always made sure to compliment him first, so that everyone else would too. Dad needed the compliments.

But today, Amy looked very sad. So Vicky asked if they could get ice cream.

"Ames. Let's get ice cream! You're sad, we can fix that. With ice cream." The nickname had come about when she couldn't pronounce Amy as a baby. It had been embarrassing when she'd become aware of it. Then, it had gone the entire loop of embarrassment and come back to adorable. Carl, she had neglected to continue calling Mom.

Amy had taken Vicky's smaller hands in her own, and smiled at her, hugging her. There was a little bit of happiness in that smile, and a little bit was better than nothing at all.

"Tell me about your day, Vicky." Amy said, on the walk.

"So we ran today in phys ed-" She didn't call it P.E., only the third graders did that. "-and we got to play basketball and the whooole time I was super good at it. I scored like, three baskets."

"You should join the basketball team. I think you'd do very well at it." Amy was muted, but there was a smile peeking through that gloomy, cloudy face.

"Yeah, totally going to do that when I can. What kind of ice cream do you want? I'm getting-" She considered. "Rocky road? Cookie dough? I'll decide when I get there!"

"Oh, so you haven't decided yet, but I have to decide first? That's unfair." Yesss. She was smiling.

"Yep! You gotta decide first 'cuz you're older. Age before beauty!" Vicky stuck her tongue out at Amy, and Amy stuck her tongue out right back. They stood there for a moment, making faces at each other.

"Hmm. How about we both try new ice cream, then?" A little of the wistful sadness seeped back in, but there was enough happiness now that Vicky just nodded.

There was screaming, and noises like fireworks. She held Amy's hand tightly, and they didn't get ice cream because something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The sounds got closer, and they were running. And then Vicky saw someone walk out from the staircase with a gun. Amy was looking straight ahead, pulling her forward.

The man leveled the gun, and in that moment, Vicky did what she knew she had to do. She'd never hit her sister, even when she was at her most angry. She sulked. She pouted, never in a way that Mom could see, because Mom would start giving Amy the third degree.

She shoved Amy as hard as she could, and then she heard the noise happen.

Her legs didn't move as well as she wanted to, and Amy was holding her tightly. More fireworks, gunshots, rang out.

She felt warm. Amy loved her, and Vicky had saved her. That was what heroes did. Dad would be sad. Mom would be angry. But she had done the right thing.

And that was what mattered.

--​

Amy threw the basketball at her, and Vicky caught it expertly, working it into a spin on her finger. She rolled her shoulders, faking a yawn as she kept it spinning, then switched to dribbling it.

Amy rolled her eyes, shaking her head. "Yes, Vicky, you're very good at what you do."

"Yeah, well, can't do anything with it, can I?" She dribbled the ball between her legs, doing a fake-fakeout of her sister, who was just standing there. "Under investigation of having super-"

She threw the ball. "-powers."

Woosh. Two points.

"Well, you do." Amy said, and Vicky's face dropped from amused all the way down to did anyone hear you say that?

"Shh! And it's not like it would help me in basketball anyway. Don't you dare tell Mom and Dad. I want to finish my stuff, first." She already had.

The programming for hard light constructs was finicky, unintuitive. Amy had known from the beginning. Well, not the beginning, because Vicky had tried to avoid hugs for a few days. Amy had noticed, and Vicky was forced to confess.

"Well, it's a little flattering, isn't it? In a weird way." Amy picked up the basketball, tossing it back to her. "She's so good, she has to be cheating."

"Yeah, but it's because of the family, too." Vicky dribbled the basketball, then tossed it back.

"Fair enough." Amy bounced the ball, up and down, up and down. "So what's your first thing going to be? Gonna make armor? A shield?"

"Nah." Glory. That was what they were calling her. Carefully dressed in a makeshift costume, and a wig.

Programmed with a pretty good fuzzy logic system. Not true AI, she couldn't do that. There was also a link system, to allow for fine control. Even a reasonable imitation of speech.

She already had the best sister in the world, one that was selflessly giving her time to help so many people. She'd helped Dad. Mom had left.

The relief Vicky had felt, the guilt that she felt better after Mom left. It had all roiled up inside her, squirming and writhing.

That was when she'd woken up with powers, moments later.

Mom had come back. They went to therapy. Things got better. Slowly, but that was the nature of such things.

But something that Vicky was waiting for. She wasn't telling Amy about Glory, for one, very important reason. She wanted to have that surprise, the moment where she'd show her the construct's face. Her present to her hero, who'd done so much.