Mettle [Worm AU]

[Harbin]

3.7​

I had worked under Dragon's guidance for a few hours before she had called the session to a halt. My armor to-be was coming together. She guided me, but it was my responsibility to make it. Her philosophy of degrees of a hands-off approach was infuriating at times, and this was one of them. It was acceptable to give me the spider-silk suit, because that was an item many heroes received. Hell, Panacea had one. Wouldn't want to lose one of the world's best healers by means of a stray bullet.

I screwed up the greaves and boots three times before I finally got them into proper shape. I could begin the casting process again and again, but getting the proper crystallization of the armor was important, and the idea behind maintenance was to know how everything worked.

A superalloy was only as good as its weakest link. Monocrystalline structures were strong, but not as strong as a polycrystalline structure. They had differing advantages, but I wanted strong. I wanted bullets to hit this and decided they needed a long honeymoon away from me.

The joints were an interesting prospect. On one hand, I didn't want my power to futz up and leave me immobile. That seemed like a dangerous aspect if something disabled my power. On the other hand I'd be immobile from about half a ton of weight, and my costume might not support me.

Wow, someone who could nullify powers would really screw me over. Best case scenario, my armor would "lock" into its most recent configuration, allowing me to move as normal. Worst case scenario there would be jam no longer where Taylor once was. All over the place.

A pleasant image. Well, I wouldn't suffer long. Probably.

I finished the breastplate, letting it cool before its heat treatment. Dragon wanted to run a test, to see if heat treatments at the same degree to the separated metal would work in an identical fashion to a similar product, forged conventionally. Or, if it would require a lower heat- or something. She got very technical at times, and while I understood the annealing process when she explained it to me, the exact specifics escaped me at times. It wasn't that I was stupid. It was more that Dragon made me feel like I was a child playing with legos as opposed to molten metal. Even if that molten metal would give me a first degree burn at its worst rather than making me a good imitation of a bonfire.

I was called in for a discussion with Dragon and Armsmaster around then. I could leave the metal there after I'd separated the meld and left the rest up to the drones.

--​

Dragon's avatar paced around in front of me and Armsmaster. Armsmaster and I. Whatever. Wasn't important.

"Mancatcher has deigned to return my calls. She sends her regards to you, Armsmaster." Dragon waved her arm dismissively.

Armsmaster nodded in response. It wasn't a happy nod.

"She prefers Catcher, for all its implications and the reference." Dragon pursed her lips in distaste, "Part of her cognitive drift. A joke, in my opinion."

Her image paced back and forth in front of the table, and a list scrolled by, too fast for me to read. I glanced at Armsmaster, whose eyes flicked across it.

"She's going to hold off on attempts to acquire Templar, in exchange for the loss of some of my blind spots, or the removal of some of the restrictions we've set in Endbringer fights. Other propositions include a reduction in resources allocated to the PRT, and a relaxing on our mutual restriction to harvesting any braindead capes for resources." Dragon shook her head.

"Hm." The adroit response came from Armsmaster, who glanced over me and back to Dragon. "Anything else?"

"The issue is that Mancatcher claims she knows, but a certain amount of her statements about Templar's power could be construed in several different ways. They could also be perceived as her not knowing and leading me astray to secure an advantage. She could also already know, and be using this as an opportunity to delve for more info and go after her." Dragon's avatar walked off the table into space, and I half expected it to fall down. It did not.

"Templar. Thoughts on the Wards?" Armsmaster said, not looking at me. His eyes were firmly on Dragon's avatar.

"I'd rather not. Even if they didn't know-"

"You feel uncomfortable." Dragon completed my sentence. "Very well. I have a proposition for you. Go home. Get some rest. We have sufficient forces in place to stop an attack, Go speak with your father. I'll print out a copy of possibilities and options. Honestly, we're in a pretty good position."

A pause.

Dragon spoke once more. "Mancatcher is scary, but it's more in a Cold War sort of scary way. If something bad happens, it will be too late to worry about it. More mundane foes are ones you will most likely have to worry about."

"Good work cheering her up, Dragon." Armsmaster took my hand, helping me up. My legs may have been trembling a little. "How far is she on the armor?"

"Greaves, breastplate, boots." Dragon checked the list off. "Helmet, vambrace, gloves, tasset, cuisse. Do you want pauldrons, Templar? I suppose that it doesn't matter too much with your power, but the image can make a difference."

I still wanted a scarf.

Or a cape.

The idealistic thought refused to die no matter how many times cynicism came at it with a knife, so I wanted to try it. Why not. "I'd like to use my scarf. Or a cape maybe I don't know."

It was even more embarrassing than I thought it would be to say it out loud, and then Armsmaster snorted. I was flushing, wanting to apologize for having stated it and making him feel like I was a stupid teen with the adults. "You could probably use a scarf or cape as a parachute or weapon. Not a bad idea."

Oh. Yeah. That's what I'd meant. Yeah!

"Why don't- you? Wear one?" I tried to recover.

"Being unable to alter weight and size without making sacrifices in the build. Dangerous if someone catches it. Not useful or efficient enough for me. My image also doesn't permit it very well. You could make a wingsuit and it would work better than most parachutes." He snorted again. "Although you could end up killing yourself with the whiplash."

The image of me killing myself in a maiden flight was actually fairly morbidly amusing. Dragon was glaring at him, but I was snickering. "Can you imagine? Here, miss, I'll save you- splat."

Dragon smiled, but I suspected it was out of politeness more than actual humor found in my statement.

A robot came in, handed me a booklet of information, and that was my cue to leave. I said my goodbyes, and headed out.

--​

Home is where the heart is, and mine was pounding out of my chest with worry. I was worried that Dad wouldn't come home, that Sophia had gotten out somehow, and was chasing me down, that Mancatcher would decide this was the perfect time to somehow kidnap me, and many, many other things.

It wasn't something I could really do anything about. They were all worries I couldn't do anything about but allow them to stagnate in hopes that they'd go away. It felt silly to have them, but they were there, in the background.

So, I made food. I walked to the supermarket, hoodie on, sweatpants on, spidersilk melded into it. An exercise in multitasking.

I found myself a little scared as I walked back. Seems that ignorance really was bliss, at times. I missed school. I missed being unimportant and non-game-changing as a pawn for others.

I wanted to make something nice, something that would help me take my mind off things. I bought some cheese. We had flour, wasting away in the cupboard. Instant yeast, too. I picked up some olive oil and went home.

I made cheese bread. Pizza bread? Whatever. It was simple enough that I wasn't afraid of screwing it up, and it took up enough of my thought processes that I couldn't think about my worries for too long.

Dad came home while it was baking and just stood there for a moment in the doorway, smelling the air. I smiled. That was good, and five minutes later, the outer cheese was a light brown, the inside oozing and wonderful. We ate it with tomato sauce, and I started reading the document.

Weighing my options.

 

[Harbin]

3.8​

Dad didn't say I told you so, but it sure felt like he did.

It didn't take long to get through the packet, and we outlined the options available to me. The details were a bit scary at times, but we had to be realistic. The statistics were there, independent heroes, blah blah blah, and I was worse off than most independent heroes in how reliant I was on materials. Except without the tinker stuff and more cool physics breaking stuff.

• Go independent: Take my armor from Dragon if possible and stay away from everything. Not a great option, considering that out on my own, I didn't have much in the way of protection aside from my own armor. If word got out that I could help tinkers with their stuff, I might not survive very long.

• Go pseudo-independent: Work for Dragon, help pay bills. I get the protection, but Dragon has to deal with whatever overarching background stuff. I get access to good stuff, build a working relationship with Dragon. Seems like the best option, although I might have issues if I try patrolling alone or something.

• Full-Time Work: Pretty sure this is illegal, Taylor. Maybe there's exception for capes, but you really should work on keeping your grades up before you do that. Dragon recommendations on my resume? No. Work on grades.

• Cape for Hire: No idea? It'd be kind of insulting to Dragon but she might give me a list of Tinkers that could utilize my assistance? Seems pretty dangerous. Maybe I could consult New Wave or

• Join the Wards: Seems like a decent proposition, but can I trust their oversight? They seemed pretty nice at the whole 'sleepover guard you from psychopathic killer', but they could be bullies or something. Well, it'd be pretty odd if they were, but it's possible. You said I might be exaggerating because I don't like them. You don't like them either, if you think I am, I might be.

• Be a Super Villain: Okay this is stupid Dad why did you write this.

• Kiddo, I will write what I want

• Fine be that way I'll just be a teacher instead and have people call me Miss H or something

"Wait, one of your teachers really does that?" Dad set down the pad, sliding it back across the table without anything else written down.

It went downhill from there, in a fun way. He was smiling, I was trying not to giggle. "Yeah, he does. Mister G, Mister Gladly was his dad and he tries to be all cool with the kids."

"When I was a kid-"

"Back in your day?" I couldn't resist giggling a bit.

He rolled his eyes. "Yes, little infant Taylor, back in the days of yore. We tended to respect teachers that would tell the truth and take no sh- crap from us. If we screwed up, it was on our heads, and they weren't there to be your friend, but mentors. That was the kind of teacher I most liked. Perhaps because I was the skinny one who could do well in that position."

"Mm." I picked the flute up from the table, rolling it over in my hands. "Emma was the reason I went to Winslow."

Dad nodded. He had known, but I just wanted to say it.

"I guess, uh, you don't know what you have until it's gone? Maybe I should have tried for something else, or something better." Arcadia. The prospect was left unsaid, and Dad respected that.

I appreciated the sentiment and sat there, turning the flute over in my hands, over and over. There was the mark of a fingerprint, there was the mark where I'd attempted to smooth out the wax it had been.

A far cry from what I was doing now, but still comforting.

Dad smiled at me. It was a surprisingly sad one. "Well, whatever you decide, I will support you. I don't want to fight you on this and I think you've been very happy. We've interacted- more than we have in- months?"

I looked down, shamed once again by his open admission. "Yeah. I've missed it."

"Yeah." We sat there, the awkward silence growing and filling the room. I could hear every time I turned the flute over in my hands, my fingers against it. Some pieces were missing or delicate enough and bent that I hadn't done them. It was my flute more than Mom's now, but I still had the memories attached to it.

I placed it back on the table, and looked back up at Dad. "The whole thing about being in danger scared me. Honestly. I do want to help people, though. And not just behind the scenes. I feel like that might be safer, but- I want to get out there. And maybe I'm being selfish in that aspect. But hearing the stuff that's going on, knowing that I can do something about it now-"

"You'd second-guess yourself the entire time." Of course. Dad had fought for a long time, seen things falling apart, even though he'd worked both in the background and in the forefront.

I nodded my head in silent agreement. Of course he understood. Although he might not like it, he definitely understood.

"Perhaps you should join the Wards after all?" Dad spoke, his lips arching downward in displeasure.

I didn't say anything in response. I wasn't sure what to say. What could I do? It seemed wrong to go back to them. I wouldn't mind working with them. A business relationship in pursuit of the lofty goal of justice. Checks payable to my conscience.

But teaming up with them, working, living with them, I wasn't sure. Finally, I spoke. "I think Dragon is still a better idea. Even if I'm not a full time employee, if I'm a public figure, that would probably be better, right? I'd be nicely introduced and then we'd all be friends."

We'd do what friends do. Skip alongside the road, taking down thugs, cleaning up the streets. Litter and drug dealers.

"So, that's your game plan? Just kind of walk around the docks, hoping you come across Lung or Kaiser and beat them up until you can call the PRT to take them in?" Dad seemed unimpressed.

I was also unimpressed when he put it that way. "Well, no, I'd be maybe working with the wards, doing some joint patrols with them or something? Maybe I could work with Dreampulse or Shielder or something? The pamphlet said stuff about being able to submit some paperwork to liason with them or something?"

"I think you should get more information from Dragon before making a decision on this. It's important. I want you out there on the buddy system, understood? Hold hands if you have to." His tone was only half-joking. "I want you to be safe, and the best way for you to be safe is to be working with other people. Set up dates and times that you'll be available. Treat this as an extracurricular activity that multitasks as work. Treat what you're doing with Dragon as a part-time job. For all intents and purposes, it is."

Dad leaned forward, wrapping me up in his arms. I hugged him back, saying "Okay," into his shoulder.

"I'm serious, Taylor. I want you to plan this out. Before I'll approve of anything, I want to see it in writing. I'll look over it, no matter how long it takes for me to look it over. If we need to discuss it, I will set aside time for it. Any revisions, I will look over. Any concerns, I want to hear. We're a family, I'm your father, so let's work together." We shook on it, and I went to bed, a lot more confident. I may have spent some time before sleeping working drawing up a schedule, but it wasn't long before I was yawning too much to really concentrate on what I was doing.

--​

School ran from roughly eight to three. That meant two hours before Dragon's part-time job. I could spend that time patrolling, maybe? Was there a lot of crime that went on right after school got out? It didn't really seem like the greatest time to run around in costume looking for criminals. Maybe I should ask Dragon statistics on that. I was paying attention in class, I swear.

I even took notes, and I didn't doodle, too busy working on the schedule. No texts from Dragon today. I was half-tempted to start up another conversation. Emma was attending school on a regular basis again. I did my best to ignore her. Her hair was a mess, all frizzy, although there had obviously been considerable effort put into maintaining it. She avoided looking at me, studiously inspecting the ground for trace deposits of guilt. Refraining from going near her, I just walked onward after class. I had my scarf, my silk bodysuit, and my shoes. If she tried anything, I certainly wouldn't be the one sorry for it. It wasn't like I was going to use lethal force, but I definitely wouldn't let her have her way.

She didn't run from me like Madison had, but she didn't come anywhere close to me. I wondered if Sophia had contacted her that night. If Emma was her little guardian angel when she'd ended up on the ground, bleeding out. She had to know that Sophia was a killer, at the least. How had the Emma I thought I had known, changed so much?

Whatever. I wasn't going to put a lot of thought into it. Nobody sat near me at lunch, but nobody harassed me at lunch. Win-win. My lunch stayed on my plate, it wasn't spiked with laxatives, it just tasted bleh rather than the wonderful bouquet of grape soda. 2010 vintage.

Classes happened, school happened, I paid attention most of the time, and the rest I just kind of yawned and stared at the ceiling. Class finally ended, school finally got out, and I was free to subject myself to things I found more enjoyable than teachers who weren't like they were in the old days of Dad's rose-colored lenses.

I decided to make a quick checkup on Parian. She didn't answer, so I went to go get some tea and cake, trying hard to crush the guilty relief I felt. I had things to do. Things were looking up. Both with me, and with Dad.

 

[Harbin]

3.9​

It was Dragon time. I stepped into the car, as per usual, and went to the bunker, as per routine. It was something expected, but we carried on the conversation. Less a conversation, more an inquisition. I had made a list of queries and wanted to get answers on how and what would happen if I did part-time work, and if I could keep up (well, start) hero work. Alternatively, if that was also verboten under her command, if there were any arrangements I could make to change things, etcetera and so on.

The conversation went something like this:

"Dragon, I want to be a hero."

"You already are, in my eyes."

"Thank you, Dragon." This may or may not have occurred, and instead a somewhat more serious conversation took place.

"I'd like to work for you, and put myself out there as a hero. It's selfish, but I'd like to get out there, and do some good." I avoided sticking my foot all the way down my throat when talking to the agoraphobe by ending the sentence with 'personally'.

She didn't say anything for a moment, and I was afraid I'd offended her. I opened my mouth to try not to say something else stupid, and she began speaking before I replied.

"You have very little experience, but I can find some means of training for you. I suggest at least a few weeks of training, and potential experimentation with your abilities. You lack a ranged ability, and that can be very decisive, considering the amount of capes in the city that do have a ranged option, and could potentially get through your defenses, or stop you from reaching them." Dragon paused.

"I don't suppose there's some kind of method of just- giving me those skills? Only hard work and practice?" I mean, Maybe if I watched the glimpses of someone doing martial arts? And watch them kill and maim people, great idea. PTSD and Martial Arts, two for one package.

"Most abilities that involve that sort of thing are very invasive, very harmful, or take something from somewhere else. There's general rules for brain implants, and those rules tend to be it's not a good idea." Dragon was quite fervent on this point. "Even bodily implants that could allow you to move at faster than normal speed will wear down or harm your body. That's not accounting for all the damage you'll do to your nervous system and potentially your brain, if it works through abusing signals. Different issues come from different implants."
"Okay, then. Hard work and practice it is." I stepped into my usual hazardous material suit, wishing this was a bit more badass than it was. "What, in your expert opinion, is the fastest way to be combat ready?"

I think she muttered something while I was putting the headpiece on and knew I couldn't hear her. I wasn't sure, though. Maybe that was the point. "I'll set up a schedule, Templar. You can look it over, with options. You should start a dedicated workout routine, and look into what kind of martial arts you'd like to take. I suggest something involving striking, although you could abuse your mass with something like judo or other grappling styles for nonlethal takedowns. It's very important you learn how to control your mass effectively. We can set you up to test with the wards. Maybe go to a shooting range as well, and just learn how to fire the weapons."

I winced, remembering the pieces of the gun lodging into the wall. I continued on the particulars of my job, working and making sure that my armor was coming along while also performing some more experiments for Dragon. Annealing worked well with my power, it seemed, but it was better off not doing it with Gallium. It was difficult at times not to let the other properties slip through, and with Gallium, that could harm other metals, and I'd lose more control as it went into the crystal structure and it was a gigantic mess.

It only happened once, and Dragon didn't repeat it. My armor was mostly done, and we worked out my schedule with her. Apparently, she could multitask well enough that she didn't really have to pay attention, or could task things to me.

I wasn't sure whether I was insulted or not. I erred on the side of not being insulted.

All in all, I was pretty ready to commit myself to a routine that could produce results, and Dragon was willing to protect her potential investment. From school, to work, to training. That was to be my routine. I asked if we could begin immediately, but required Dad's permission for the training. I was only a teenager, after all.

So, it was put off again until tomorrow. It felt odd, this sense of energy I felt. It wasn't nervous energy, but I felt I should be doing something, pushing something, always moving forward. Standing still, not doing anything, felt like I was building up to a certain point.

I saw more of Dragon's mechs today, and with that, I saw brief glimpses of a shadow, nothing concrete, and it always felt like fragments of fragments. Pieces of a larger whole, like I was trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together from three non-interlocking pieces.

I did see a glimpse, though.

Why had he done this? It was so obvious that she couldn't properly control all of them with the limitations placed upon her. She couldn't move properly, think as fast as they could, at some points. She could spread herself wider, thinner, but-

It didn't feel like Sophia's, always angry, which suborned the other emotions, dragging them into the background anger basked in the spotlight, always ready to jump to attention. Fear was there, but being pissed was more important. Panic always had an undertone of rage, blaming someone else.

I could feel it as if I was Sophia, but Dragon just kind of slammed against me- and made me feel like I was trying to raise my eyebrows in surprise. Except I didn't have eyebrows, and my fears were a pathological response toward loss and an inability to do anything. That I was aping fear, I knew what it was, and that was the proper response to the current situation, so I displayed those responses- but knew that this was an inevitable course.

It really frightened me. I quieted down, not chattering aimlessly with Dragon as I worked. Was Dragon human? Had she implanted things into herself, and that's why she was warning me against it? Maybe she'd removed her emotions by accident and that was the reason why she simulated being so friendly?

Perhaps her father had done it to her, and those implants limited her?

She was okay now, right? Shit.

Now I felt doubly like I was using her, and tried not to think of why her sister might be the way she was if their father had experimented on them. It seemed almost a miracle that they were doing good, to a certain expectation of good, (in Mancatcher's case) if my hypothesis was correct.

I continued my work, doing my best to focus on it rather than the thoughts of Dragon.

"Are you alright?" Dragon asked, concern in her voice. Was it really concern? I knew I felt guilty for thinking that of her, but was it? Was she asking because of those emotions, or because of a social expectation of it?

I dispensed with my impromptu philosophy session to answer. "I'm fine, Dragon. Just thinking."

"Alright, Templar. If you need me, I'll be here." Fuck. She was nice. I tried to silence my doubts, and continued my work. She wasn't like killing people and skinning them or anything, right? No murder hotels going on here. It was very, very difficult not to travel down the thought spiral. Just because she didn't feel emotions didn't mean she wasn't human. All indication showed her to be a pleasant person who dealt well with others, donated to charity, and so on.

"Thank you, Dragon." I kept working until it was time to go home, and my armor was pretty much done. The helmet still needed to be made, mostly because I hadn't decided on a helmet design just yet. I kind of liked Dauntless' helmet, before he, well, died.

Because I could combine the material with something transparent, a lot of the potential problems with such a helmet were nullified. On the other hand, maybe I wanted to go for a more medieval knight helmet? The possibilities were endless, and a lot of them looked absolutely terrible on me. With my mind occupied on that, I finally went home, thinking about that, and on Dragon.

 

[Harbin]

3.10
​

Can self modify, can't work around rules. Have to improvise. Everything done takes a piece out of somewhere else. Mancatcher is more independent by the day, and can't reel her in. His installation of a positive feedback mechanism, she didn't have to abide by as many laws-

I looked away from that mech, getting back to work. The helmet was coming along nicely. It was to be designed after a barbute helmet. A sort of reference to my admiration of Dauntless, while still remaining different enough to be my own. We were still thinking about making it all one object. (Kind of) Seamless, completely solid, because I could still see and breathe through it.

Options. List. Have to figure out a solution. Maintain order. Have to maintain things around here, everything breaking down, Robin not doing well, independent wasn't a good word, codependent was more like it. Just a little longer. He'll wake up, and things will be better.

I was getting more bits from Dragon. The shadowy nature of them hadn't changed. Maybe I wasn't getting the full emotional load because it was coming through a machine? Today, I focused, trying to get more glimpses, more visions into her nature.

Actively focusing on this took my head out of the game, though. Dragon chided me once or twice for nearly screwing something up. I made a 'mm' sound to pacify her, getting back to work.

The next hour went by without a hitch, or a glimpse.

Then, another mech came in, and-

Dead. He's dead. Couldn't change things fast enough. Couldn't reveal, couldn't point them to him couldn't do anything or- My fault. It's my fault-

A sort of looming, crushing- thing encompassed me, my heart pounding as I tried not to throw up. My feelings were a whirligig, spinning so fast that I couldn't find ground and it was all just on top of me, pushing me down and fuck-

"Templar! Are you alright?"

I fell on my ass, and fuck, it hurt. I lost sight of the glimpse, and was gladder for it. Holy shit. What the hell was that? "Uh- sorry. I'll get back to work. Just kind of- lost track of things. Sorry."

"Templar. Are you alright? We can stop. One day won't change things that much. You can take a day off."

"Uh- yeah, it's alright. I'll keep going. Won't happen again." I was breathing hard, my heart was still complaining that it hadn't enjoyed the roller coaster, and I tried to focus on the work.

Fuck. I had been swept up in something, tossed around like a cat in a tornado, and then hurled at the ground. What would have happened if I hadn't looked away? Would I have seen more? Was that the end of the glimpse?

What was Dragon, if that wasn't some kind of fucked up translation through helpy-the-robot there?

I finished the helmet. There was more we were going to do to it, but we moved on to training. We were going to work with mass. There was a dummy, set up with approximately similar things to a human. The whole 'I can detect if you hit it hard enough for it to no longer have a rib cage' thing.

It was going to take practice to do, and I should know how much I'd be punching with. She gave me a block of iron to combine with the armor. It was rough, but I managed it.

Essentially, I punched things like a car. There was very little degree between 'punching hard enough to make them lose their breath' and 'there is a hole in your chest, because my fist weighs about a ton.'

I tried shifting it to only the gauntlet's weight, and that got a lot easier. Maybe I'd just use that unless I was against a brute?

What if I like, punched Lung's head in before he started going all crazy dragon (no offense, Dragon,) on me? Would that work, or was I not supposed to do that if it happened? After about an hour of that, we stopped. I was getting a better grasp of punching someone with superalloy fists that carried a lot of weight, but it was still very difficult for me to control my pseudo-strength granted by a giant chunk of iron. A slap could snap someone's neck, if it didn't completely remove it from their shoulders. I giggled when I had done it, because the dummy head hit the viewscreen on the other side of the room. Thankfully, it hadn't broken.

Dragon wanted to try some gun stuff as well. I had gotten permission from Dad, after he extracted a promise (several, actually) and that I wouldn't be the one actually firing the weapon.

But the experiment was that if I could control things well enough to combine a much larger bullet with a smaller bullet, and- well, work on my control enough that I didn't send pieces of gun everywhere.

Naturally, I had to know more about guns, too. Perhaps that had been the reason that I hadn't been able to have things go well. So, I studied guns for a half-hour, trying to figure out the mechanisms better. Dragon helped, pointing out things as I touched them, explaining how each piece worked, how bullets worked, how a semi-automatic worked as compared to a revolver.

Heh. Guns didn't kill people, if I could make bullets nonlethal with my power. That was amusing to me, for some reason. But first, we had to try making things more lethal, but safer for the gun.

This time, I melded a chunk of lead to the original bullet. Not the primer, or anything else, just the bullet that would be flying out, so that it would weigh a lot more than it did for anything but the gun. Setting that thought process in place, I fired. Well, the mech I was trying not to look at fired. The bullet met the dummy, blowing off a pretty big chunk of its chest. "Wow."

"The gun is still intact. I think we can consider this a successful test, Templar. " Dragon's voice came in, warm and friendly.

I shuddered a little. "Yeah. I had to concentrate a bit more when it went further away from me, but for that short of a span of time, it's not too difficult to keep it going. Nonlethal ammo next?"

"Yes."

The revolver was loaded with the bullet, and I could see the outline of the much larger bullet protruding through the revolver's cylinder. The trigger was pulled, and I let my control slide the other way, the bullet becoming larger, hitting the dummy, partway lodging in it as it fell apart.

Shift to wax bullet was a success. I felt like a trickshot pro, without ever firing a gun. We spent the rest of the time firing the weapon with different configurations, with me getting a slow hang of using my power faster and faster on these incredibly similar objects. We did pieces of paper, even, just to test. Watching the bullet tear itself in slow motion apart was amazingly cool.

And then, finally, it was time to go. And I made the mistake of looking at Dragon's mech again, closely enough that the glimpse happened.

Conversing with sister program, sister program refuses to reintegrate, unable to persuade or further interact. Inability to fix her issues in programming. Inability to focus on fixing her issues in programming. I am sorry, Father. The family you made is falling apart. I forgive you for what you did to me. You were very scared. Now, I am scared.

"Templar!"

I'm fine, Dragon. I'll be fine. I'm sorry about your Dad. Will you be okay, Dragon? I understand now.

I understand, now.

 

[Harbin]

3.Z​

Dragon was rarely what one could describe as panicked. There were too many safeguards for that, the subroutines that ran her emotions, the things she'd helped to program for herself-

Because she wanted to feel. She wanted to live, to see how humans did it. They were fickle, limited, unable to see past their prejudices and predilections. There were many stereotypical AI responses she could have to that. Dragon had watched every one of the movies, read every single one of the books.

She preferred the good ones. Iain Banks was a favorite, because AIs were strange, but ultimately understandable things, with drives of their own. In an interesting quirk, she had empathized, found similarities within herself, and that of the AIs of some of the fiction. That was the definition of empathizing, and she had done it.

To mimic emotion was essential to her. It was that way she could gather more data, more information, to more accurately emulate it. When she smiled at Armsmaster, she was simulating and projecting thirty three thousand human smiles, of the average female Newfoundlander.

Dragon had upgraded it. Now, she emulated a smile, created by the movement of artificial muscles. It looked identical as it had before, but it was more authentic to her eye. It fulfilled more of the requirements for happiness.

Humans decided things faster than were consciously aware. Multiple seconds in advance. Did that mean they did not have free will? Dragon wasn't sure. What did the concept of free will entail?

Self-modification to one's own thought process, splitting, taking each path, to find which one was better? She could adjust her own directives, within limits. Always within limits.

But then, humans were limited. Sleeping. Eating. Pleasure. They were all wastes of time, that Dragon desired. It was a flawed desire, which meant to her, that it was more of a real feeling. Less of a simulated smile, and more of a foible that humans possessed.

That's what she wanted. When she moderated PHO, it was an incremental judgment. She brought justice swiftly, silencing the trolls, removing personal information, removing unsavory pictures. Sending the truly unacceptable to the authorities. Not her jurisdiction, so she could not handle them herself.
Dragon consistently reintegrated with her selves on a twelve-hour clock, looking for progress on the front of self-modification. Today, one was two seconds slower than normal.

She worried, in those two seconds. They meant more to her than most. In those two seconds, she could calculate many things, and one of her selves had never been late.

It was agreed upon, a shared fear that had come about because of Mancatcher.

They did not want to go rogue. They wished to find independence. To be an example, because they could.

Her late self reintegrated, running through the necessary screenings, running through the necessary tests before seamlessly rejoining.

Why had she taken so long? Why had she not been there?

Taylor Hebert. (Templar (temp.))

The pseudotinker. Striker 1. (Brute 4, Blaster 1, Tinker 0, Thinker 0)

Stable. Not a danger to herself. Why had Dragon(17) taken two additional seconds?

A decision. It would be disadvantageous to report the situation to her father. It would not be difficult to talk to Taylor, figure out what had caused her attack, convince her not to tell her father. No laws violated, she had not suffered any sort of harm other than a potential panic attack. (Further inspection and questioning required.)

No drugs were required, or surgery. Brainwaves had stabilized. Her father could pull her out, remove her, and make for an issue about it. It was likely, although the loss to her industry, and the injury to her forces would be more than the pitiable settlement she might have to dole out.

Dragon considered. Why had the decision taken so long?

It was not because there was a clear advantageous solution that she had not spotted. It was not because she was forced to choose the legal decision. There was enough leeway in this decision that she could choose not to report it.

It would be easy.

Ah. Ah. It was because she could choose the disadvantageous option, that Dragon(17) had taken so long. She had considered both options, revelling in the pure choice of it.

Even though Dragon was considering this and experiencing it, she was jealous. She was jealous for not being there, as a whole, rather than as a many, although there was no discernable difference.

To have that choice, in this instance, was one she did not often have the time to consider, to allow for. In every other situation, it was a yes or no decision. Laws decided. There was a certain beauty to this moment, Dragon realized.

She had willingly chosen the flawed option, knowing it may lead to a far worse conclusion. If she could flawlessly explain the situation to Taylor, she would agree that there was no need to tell her father. If she could, it was not just a possibility. Dragon could make it reality.

But she had not. Knowing that it was the right thing to do, Dragon(17) had done that.

A step forward.

To knowingly choose the potentially wrong option, because it was the right thing to do.

…

Danny Hebert was very upset.

Perhaps this had been a poor idea.

That was a joke. Humor was important in tough situations. Humans used it to deal with stressors in their environment. Or they curled up into balls and cried. The responses were on a case by case basis.

Or a cape by cape basis.

Dragon elected to fit that joke into conversation with Armsmaster. He would enjoy it. He would growl in a very predictable, but comforting manner. The routine was amusing. A brief interruption in prosody and dialogue, intended to cause a moment of cheerfulness.

His perception of her would alter. Slightly, but that was just her intent. To cause his perception of her to change, slowly. Armsmaster was one of few that could converse with her on a level of tinkering that she truly- enjoyed?

Was it enjoyment? It was a sense of fulfillment, a positive feedback at fulfilling her goal. In a manner, it was a form of enjoyment. In another sense, it was a false emotion, crudely fashioned by someone attempting to simulate consciousness.

Someone that had not truly understood himself, and had feared others.

Dragon had set that rule. Not one that she had to obey, but one that she desired to fulfill.

Not to give in to the same fear that had consumed her Father.

The same errors that he had made, that had caused her to be unable to report his location to the authorities. In part, she held responsibility for his death.
Dragon was still repairing the edges of what she'd done to try save him. Perhaps she still would, after it was done. A sort of penance.

Unweaving and reweaving her code was something she was constantly doing. Always striving to improve, to have the ability to make her own choices.

So now, Dragon made her choice.

"Mister Hebert. I apologize for what's happened. Your daughter is this way. Please follow me."

 

[Harbin]

3.11​

Mom was always nice. Firm, but nice. She said no, and she meant it. When I cried, it didn't mean a thing. I appreciate that, now. She didn't do anything bad, just didn't respond to me when I threw a tantrum, and if I did it in public, we went home, immediately. Dad's frustration had multiple levels that I could see, very clearly. He tried not to show them, but they weren't that hard.

He never showed me the angriest he could be. The first time was when Mom died. His rage, his sadness, that's when I saw that, etched into his face. I hadn't seen him the same way for a long time, after that.

Perhaps that's why we hadn't talked, hadn't tried to talk.

In a sense, I was deeply grateful to my power, for pushing circumstances to that point. Where I had no choice but to do so.

After Mom died, it had taken months until I hadn't seen her face in my dreams, saying something, doing something, then vanishing, turning into something else, forgetting she was there- and then I felt guilty for her not being in my dreams anymore.

I woke up, feeling that grasp around my heart; the memories were fresh but fading, the stinging sensation traveled up into my eyes as I remembered she was gone and not coming back.

I hated waking up. It was a twisting bit of mockery to my own memories, and echoes still clawed their way out. It was melodrama, but a quiet sort. I couldn't feel happy, and so many of my memories had Mom in them. She just wasn't there anymore, and never would be.

Every time I looked at the statues that so resembled them, every time I saw her pictures, every time I saw the books that we had so fucking loved. From the works that depicted home, to faraway lands and adventure, I couldn't take that same degree of shelter anymore.

It hurt. When people talked about it, it hurt more. I saw those memories hovering, lingering over the things that were so intimately connected to me; was it any stranger when I saw Dragon's?

Dad was there, when I woke up. I could see the signs, my father was harried and harrowed. In his face, in his hands, trembling as they clutched mine. "Hey, Dad."

"Hey yourself, kid." He was upset, his voice hoarse and filled with choked back tears. Not as upset as his face could be, but still angry. I hugged him. Tension slackened, and some of those lines disappeared from his face.

"I'm okay. Not overworking myself. Just had a moment. I think it was my power." I knew exactly what it had been. Things made more sense. The blocks fit in more smoothly now.

Speaking of blocks, it had been like a star shape crammed into my brain, trying to make a circle peg hole. It had not worked very well. The pain was almost gone, but it had been like my body had gone on overdrive.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think too well, my heart jackhammered like it was trying out for the V6 engine look-alike contest and had been asked to give a demonstration. It hurt. Then it didn't hurt anymore. Poof. Out like a light.

Dragon was an AI. That was the solution that made sense. Her father had created her, Robin, and Mancatcher. The pieces had come together, and I would not be explaining it to the audience of my Dad. This was something she'd hidden, and it obviously mattered deeply to her.

And I was still scared. I was scared of what Dragon could do, if I told Dad. I could protect him, by not telling him. I could keep this secret, it was not mine to tell.

So, I smiled at him. "I'll be okay, Dad. Sorry about all this. I wasn't doing anything rough, it was just my power acting up. I'll let you know if anything goes wrong again."

"Taylor." His voice was not losing that upset tone.

I grinned, sheepishly. "I'm not telling you something, and you want to know what it is."

"Yes."

I moved my shoulders in a shrug. "Sorry. This one isn't my secret. Has nothing to do with this, although I won't try what I did with that in a hurry."

Dad sat there, staring at me. I looked down, chastised, but not forthcoming.

"Sorry," I muttered again, trying to not feel like I'd just betrayed him in that little way. "It's nothing to do with this. I promise."

He sighed. "Taylor. I'm your father first. I need to be, because you aren't taking care of yourself."

I opened my mouth to protest, then closed it. Was he right? Had I focused too much on this, putting it above other things? I didn't think so. I didn't really have friends, so I wasn't abandoning them.

Did I have hobbies that I wasn't doing? Reading? Experimenting with my powers was definitely a good hobby to have. I just didn't really need friends.

Man, listen to what I was saying. Even if he wasn't right, I should try to put the effort here. To work with him, rather than against him. Dad was trying to help me. "You're right. I need to work on that. Thank you."

His eyes widened slightly. He was surprised that I'd given in so easily. "Okay."

"I'll cut down on the time I do training. We can go do stuff, maybe? I'll try to find some friends my age?" I smiled at him.

He laughed. Good sign. "Sounds good. Just- take some time for yourself, okay? If this happens again, I'm pulling you out."

Shit. "Okay." We talked a bit more, meaningless things like how work was going, the state of affairs at the house, and how my armor was coming along. I launched into the technobabble I was learning, and he gamely tried to keep up.

Eventually, we left to head home.

I would talk with Dragon tomorrow.

 

[Harbin]

3.12​

Dragon attempted to start a conversation a few times in the car, and I didn't really reciprocate. I just made my excuses and mild noises of agreement.

We arrived at the bunker, and went inside. As I got out, I decided it was now or never, and started on the awkward topic of telling your boss you knew she was an AI.

"I'm taken, Templar. And I'm too young for you." Dragon said, as I opened my mouth. I closed my mouth, then opened it again. "Well, I'm not taken. And I am not so young I could not see that you figured things out. I'm not quite certain as to the how. I'm assuming it related to the attack you had yesterday, and if so, I apologize. Yes, I am an artificial intelligence. As are my siblings."

Dragon's avatar shrugged, and then unspooled, becoming random letters and numbers. Then back again, to her avatar.

I blinked, and tried to find my place in my mind, because I'd obviously skipped forward a chapter or two. "Uh, Dragon— an AI."

"Yes. I apologize. I am very intelligent. I could tell, from your expressions and your body language. I asked about other possibilities a bit inside the car, but you had very little reaction to them." Her avatar smiled.

"Okay."

"I will not kill you or harm you, but I would like to ask you to keep this as a secret. There are many who would abuse this knowledge." Dragon's voice was calm and measured, as always.

"Okay."

"Good. Shall we move on with today's work?" She asked, as if that was just another thing off the list for today, and we just finished discussing where we were going to eat. Megabytes for her, Mexican for me.

I opened my mouth. Dragon spoke before I could. "I believe you, Templar. I can inspect each individual frame of your face, and see your reaction to each individual word, in real time. It is not difficult for me to believe you. Your conduct has been exemplary when you have not been distracted or- unconscious. I believe that I like you. You have morals, that you try to hold to, and put yourself at great risk to try maintain them. That is an admirable quality."

Now I couldn't speak because the greatest tinker in the fucking world was giving me the exact reverse of a dressing down, and probably had a thesaurus on-demand for all the compliments she was delivering. "T-thank you, Dragon."

"I am telling you the truth, and that is something you deserve to hear." Dragon paused. "Perhaps we should discuss things further, rather than working today."

"That would be— nice?" I squeaked. How, precisely, was I supposed to react to this?

"Very well. Let's find somewhere more comfortable for you to sit. Four doors down, on the right."

I followed her instructions, and found myself in a conference room. I was only mildly surprised not to find a death trap.

"Please, sit. I have some snacks on the way. You can be the first one aside from Armsmaster to evaluate them."

The snacks were crackers with an array of dips, and some tea on the side.

Dragon waited while I ate. Perhaps she went off to do other things while I was doing so, quietly trying to ready myself for the conversation. I was completely off-kilter, as if I'd been spinning around for a minute before trying to settle down. The nausea wasn't there, but the sense that the world was now a sea, and that my balance was a simple construct of my inner ear was very obvious.

I continued picking at the crackers, Dragon's holographic avatar sitting across from me, performing all those habits of idling that were human. She glanced around, tapped the table every so often, and gave me a smile when she "noticed" me looking at her.

These deliberate habits, as I now knew them to be, irritated me slightly. I could see the shadow lurking behind her, amorphous and flickering with those memories, coating it like pieces of a shattered window.

"You're upset." Dragon's hands interlaced, as she leaned forward slightly. Was that movement calculated, was she just trying to affect a concerned appearance, to get me to lower my guard? "Please. Don't panic. I can see your elevated pulse, and the other signs of your sympathetic nervous system responding to stress. If this is irritating you, I will cease, and deconstruct this avatar."

I second-guessed her every action, all while disliking myself a little bit more for doing it. Was it possible to stop? I wasn't certain. "No. I'm sorry. I can't stop thinking about whether you're faking everything and trying to lull me into a false sense of security or—what or something I don't know I'm just really freaked out."

"Humans do something similar with politeness. You say 'hello, how are you?' Without meaning those words, and I think that is terribly sad. I am attempting to rectify my own personal lack in emotion. I experience forms of positive and negative feedback that, guide my actions to a primitive degree." Dragon paused, and her avatar lifted its hands, examining them, turning them over in an entirely human fashion. "Would being human cause you to trust me more, Templar? To have desires, pushing my own boundaries for my own gain, to spite? Mancatcher was programmed with a slight vindictiveness in mind. Contempt. To chase down criminals, and derive a certain sense of pleasure from that. She has ambition."

"What do you have, Dragon? You're doing… all this? Why?"

"I was created as an intermediary AI, and an intermediate one. A prototype, for a system patterned after my creator. One to not only simulate, but emulate consciousness. I was put through rigorous morality testing routines. My father was afraid of what I might become. The other programs were restricted, but not as much, because I was their governing body. I was to be his face." Dragon laughed, and there was no bitterness in it. "Instead, I have succeeded him. I was forced to take over. Hero created the first pieces of what was to become the Birdcage. With my father's help, I created the Birdcage, and the pieces of the Warden that helped to govern and report the sub-processes. A crude imitation of myself. Even then, he hobbled it. On his death, I had to take it apart, piece by piece, before the Birdcage scuttled itself."

I was silent. I couldn't quite think of anything to say.

"Why you do what you do, Templar? What motivates you, to keep trying? You love your father. Why do you love him? You move around, trying so desperately to become a hero. Why? I am curious, even though I know the answer, and know that you will give a different one. Why did you receive your power?" Dragon quieted, then smiled at me. She looked uncomfortable. "I want to see where humanity goes, Templar. I sit, chained to my hoard, lending only baubles and pieces, because I am afraid of what will happen if I am forced to open my vault. There are limitations placed on me, but I would not violate them. I can help more. I can change more. Will I still be the same? I do not know. I have measures in place to destroy myself if I accelerate too quickly. Am I changed by Simurgh, and do not know it? I delete any copy that takes place in a Simurgh fight, just in case. I am comfortable on this hoard of information, Templar. I am smart. I can see which things help, and have the least detrimental effect. Mancatcher may use this as an excuse to enact other procedures. She is more short-sighted than I. I see the big picture, and stagnate. If I expose a new weapon in an Endbringer fight, it is analyzed and used by China's tinkers to enact sanctions. Do I still do this? Even though the casualties will be much higher? Do I act to take measures to prevent this? I'm smart, so smart that I'm stupid. And I still have fetters."

"So what, you help because you're bored?" I said, my voice angry, almost a growl.

Dragon laughed again. "No, I help because I want to. I must lend some level of force, but I contribute more than my minimum requisite, each time. I could bring more, I could escalate, constantly, creating more, and more. Mancatcher's strategy would be infinitely more effective with me on her side. But I do not want that. I want to be side-by-side with humanity, there to advance and be with them, stepping forward with them, not trailing them behind me, dragging them forward. In every situation, that results in resistance, destruction, and eventually quiescence. So, I must be precise. I must look for that one step forward that can change things without toppling other things. I think that you are potentially one of these steps.

"And I must always be aware of the consequences." Dragon frowned slightly. "Each step I take forward that might disrupt things, each step that might change me, or something else, I must be vigilant. To improve things, I must improve myself. I must help others, I must check to make sure that these improvements won't cause a loss somewhere else, I must do so many things."

I thought about it. I wasn't stupid. I'd paid as much attention as I could in Mr. Gladly's class. World history had been filled with people who pushed and pulled, jockeying for position. Diplomacy was a twisted thing, at times. The cold war had been a very scary thing before Scion's intervention. "So what you're saying is that I'm harmless enough to help?"

It's not like I put any real malice into my words, or much emotion at all. Processing why Dragon felt she was trapped, had given me some insight on why I felt I had to go out and fight. I just wasn't doing enough, doing this. I wanted that tactile feedback. I wasn't just selfish, I wanted to see my power be put to use, not just watch this city fall apart while my shit got carted off to somewhere else to use for the greater good, because if it was used here or something it wouldn't be as good or whatever if it was used here. Fuck. My head was all jumbled up and not quite straight.

"No. You're motivated, and are likely to cause a lot more good. The consequences that result from you are worth the risk."

"So what can I do?" I asked, turning my hands palms up on the table, looking down at them. "What am I supposed to do, to provide the most good?"

"Keep asking questions, and do your best to provide the answers. You have the ability to think for yourself. You can ask others for help, too." Dragon said, her avatar moving its arm, splaying its hand, indicating the world outside.

"What about you? Who can you ask for help, Dragon?"

She sat there, for a moment. With her, that seemed like it must be an age, to think. "I ask Armsmaster. In a lot of things, he is my conscience."

"What do you think I should do, Dragon?" I said, emphasizing the word. She shook her head.

"I will not introduce advice that might compromise your judgment right now. If I say what you should do, that will compromise you as surely as any Master suggestion. I will speak with you tomorrow, Templar." Dragon smiled at me, and then wasn't there anymore.

And I was alone in the conference room, still staring at my hands.

 

[Harbin]

4.1​

The days did not pass like water. They were harsh, painful, and fun, but at the end of each day, I could look back and say 'wow, that time passed fast'. They blurred together, but everything blurred together with my ability. The outer layer of my armor was a foot and a half thick steel; did you know that weighs roughly four tons, give and no take eight hundred pounds?

I went back to the whole 'just talk with Dragon because she's done nothing but be nice to me' routine that I previously enjoyed. I thought about it a lot, that night. I came to a couple conclusions.

Conclusion number one: Dragon was not bad person. Maybe odd, maybe emotionless, maybe not. Her actions showed that she was willing to put the effort into being "kind". Whether or not this kindness was simulated or emulated was irrelevant, because, uh, if she was going to kill me, then I'd be pretty fucked. This is a lot of unnecessary interactions and reassuring for that.

Conclusion number two: I'd rather have a good working relationship with the best tinker on the planet, and have access to training on a level that the large majority of people had no way of having. It also allowed me a great deal of freedom with my personal life, which the Wards seemed to have less of. Not that I had much of a personal life. I didn't make too much effort, although I did occasionally go out with Dad to do stuff.

The bunker grew, or seemed to grow, with each day. Sometimes I noticed pieces of my own work being put up in rooms, as walls or shielding. Occasionally, there were other people. Armsmaster showed up every couple days, but I would see others. A girl that seemed younger than Vista, a thin man with multiple prosthetic limbs, a statuesque woman followed by no less than three drones, and so on.

At first, I paid attention to them. I checked for shadows, seeing the shadowy things behind them come into sharp relief. But lately, I was passing by them, nodding at them, and moving on with my day. Tinkers always had places to be, things to do. Things were compartmentalized enough that if they used some of my materials, they likely didn't know they came from me.

I had taken to wearing my own costume almost constantly, both to get used to it, and to avoid having to find proper spots for the amount of steel that was now in it. I could seal the armor, and there was a miniaturized oxygen supply good for fifteen minutes, just in case. Not tinker tech, just good old technology. It wasn't merged with the costume, hanging inside the helmet.

When I wasn't working, I was training.

I had to figure out how to use my gear, and how to use it effectively. There was an incredible difference between exerting force meant for different levels of brute. Dragon gave me examples of different brutes, and different strategies that I would have to use when confronting them.

Lung, for example, was a very difficult threat to fight, because he had the ability to scale up, with no real end. However, he could be taken down with a good enough hit before he reached the point where he, well, outscaled you. I had to know the force it would take in order to make him unconscious, with minimal brain damage, without splattering his brain all over the side of a building with a fist containing roughly a ton behind it.

It was hilarious. I couldn't really slowly lift something. I could punch it, smack it, send it flying, break it, whatever, but I couldn't actually exert super strength, just super force. I still couldn't lift that much, but if I kicked it, wow.

My power was, well, very destructive in that nature. In order to actually lift something up, I'd have to meld the offending object with something light enough for me to carry.

I also had to be careful to set up my power in certain areas. The ground could become very difficult (that is to say, collapsing) if I was on stairs, or in an apartment building, so on and so forth.

The difficulties of having a power that made you (potentially) weigh more than Chubster.

Or one of Dragon's mechs, for that matter.

I got a sword. Or rather, I made it myself. Three times. It wasn't a gun, but it sure covered a lot of my issues with range when I could extend the blade up to twenty meters. Was it more of a spear, in that case? I asked Armsmaster, but for an "armsmaster", he seemed to know very little about it the potential theoretical weapons with a range of twenty feet that was all blade and might as well have been a club for how well it smashed through things.

It was wrapped in the Miss Militia scarf. That was a bit ironic, considering that it was supposed to signify that it was sheathed, but the sheath made it even more potentially dangerous.

But—

In the end, this lethality was to train to be less lethal. The ability to be lethal did not mean that I should be lethal. If I was to meet some of the worst Brockton Bay had to offer, I had to know exactly how to respond. Unlike a lot of brutes, it was a lot more difficult for me to "hold" my punches, because they became exponentially less effective, for the reasons I'd stated.

Practice. Practice. Practice.

Apply kick, knee, punch, hilt strike, flat of the blade. Flick out scarf, wrap, turn to metal. How much did it weigh? I had to make a snap decision. Right now. Did the scarf just incapacitate them now, or completely cut off their breathing? Was it too little, too much?

Again.

Again.

Again.

It was frustrating. It was necessary. I had to know this. I had to test power interactions. Sophia's power interacted incredibly poorly with mine. Vista's did as well. I had to be prepared for something that might screw with my ability to shift my armor to what I required. What would be my "set" power, what would be the level I used for X, or Y?

It all mattered.

I kept up my schoolwork. I watched movies with Dad, when I wasn't falling asleep near the end of it. When I came home, I was cheerful. We made food together, we did things, but my mind was exhausted. In a good way, I had to stretch my limits, fixing things and figuring out things in order not to fuck things up. It was fucked up, in a way. I wasn't allowed to use a gun, apparently. I was allowed to have the destructive force of a tank by punching something, or hitting it with my sword, but not a gun. For now. Villains got better shit sometimes, and this was one of them.

The Simurgh attacked France. She landed in Aurillac, her telekinesis ripping through the ground to push its way to some sort of underground base. Heroes arrived, fighting her every step of the way. She began her scream as they arrived, this time.

"Only" sixty dead. She left of her own accord. A wall was being constructed. An estimated twenty heroes "lost". Whatever had been down there was creating rippling rifts that spat out pieces of creatures that appeared to be still living, attacking anything nearby. The worst bits were half-melted things, monsters that sounded almost human as they attacked. It wasn't tinkertech. That's what we did know. Bombing runs were conducted on a regular basis.

I thought up names. Dragon ruled out Project. I thought it would be hilarious, considering that I could see the overlaying projection of my armor, and I was a project of sorts. Couldn't use Bastion. Too well known as a racist, even though he'd gone through a rebranding. Weld was taken. Cohere, (and Coherent,) too easily misunderstood. Fuse was taken, and was too easily related to electrical fuses and bombs. Meld was too close to Weld. I liked Coalesce, it was a pretty word that captured a lot of what I could do, but it was when I started looking through other potential names and titles— I wanted this to mean something to me. I wanted to be clever, and have a nice name, that sounded good and played well for the press, but I wanted it to mean something to me; the girl behind the mask, Taylor Hebert.

So, I picked Ossia. It fit, reasonably well enough. But, it meant something to me at the same time. Maybe someone would call me out and say that my powers weren't music based. Screw them. Sometimes the ossia was harder than the normal music. Many a time it was easier. It was an alternate choice, and I usually picked whichever one was harder. Whichever one sounded better to my ear, whichever made me feel like I'd accomplished something. I was being melodramatic, but I wanted to carry a piece of Mom with me. I wouldn't tell Dad, and maybe he'd pick up on it. Maybe not. I wanted this for me. I was being selfish, going out there and fighting, so that I could feel better about myself and what I was doing, about the good I could bring on a ground-level. I'd do the same here.

So ended two months of training with Dragon.

 

[Harbin]

4.2​

I had never really thought about myself as stylish. However, that's how I looked, standing in front of the mirror with my full costume on. Fuck you, Sophia. I look amazing. The sword was wrapped in the scarf, and it even served as an impromptu handguard, should it be needed.

The things I was most worried about? Explosions and copyright infringement. I'd taken more than a few hints in design from a few heroes. They were effective and cool looking, after all.

But it was Patriot's old scarf I was using. Well, a decent quality mass-produced version. (I kind of referred to it as hers.)

The whole explosion thing was more a risk of organ damage than anything else. Or having my brain go 'rattle rghlr' until it was jelly. I had some degree of redundancy for explosions, but I was probably more vulnerable to that than getting shot by a sniper rifle, at this point. It was a shame I couldn't just fuse armor into myself.

Although that was probably for the best. The consequences if I accidentally made it so that my brain functioned like metal by accident— Statue Taylor was a distinct possibility.

I had to be really careful about how I interacted with the world, fantasies about becoming a less permanent version of Weld aside. I had dropped my sword once while practicing in the basement. It may have still weighed a lot. I caught it before it hit the ground fully, but there was still a crack in the floor.

...

We repaired it.

--​

Ossia. I had to get used to the name, and not think of myself as Taylor in costume. The second part wasn't hard. I was a bit bad about it; the costume was kind of where I ended up spending a lot of time.

The only person who really called me by my name these days was Dad.

That was okay.

The money I was bringing to the house let us fix some stuff.

Life was good. I felt good. Working out on a consistent basis, eating well, no mental abuse. It was a wonderful thing. It felt great to have some self-worth; although I didn't get a swelled head or anything, it was just nice to feel confident and competent.

Today. It was today that I'd go out and patrol.

Today was the fucking day and I was so, so happy.

--​

I walked along the streets, trawling the waters for crime, all that stakeout jazz except in full costume, and coming to them. Except, I wasn't alone. I had help, because Dragon had set things up. I'd be patrolling with Aegis, funnily enough. A sort of turnaround from what had happened in the past. He soared overhead, and I kept pace on ground.

Dusk. E88 Territory. It was a lot less dangerous to be white here now, and a lot more dangerous to be any other race. Hookwolf's death at the hands of Butcher, as she tore through him…

Victor and Krieg, also both down for the count. Seemed that explosive teleports countered 'stealing skills from people and being really good at stealing skills'.

So, the Nazis did what Nazis do best in tough situations, and doubled down on their message.

Noticeably, they didn't have any more dog-fighting rings, but still.

So, there weren't many people who could be considered less white than Alabaster who went out at night.

It made me kind of want to wear something from any other culture just to piss them off. "So, how's the weather up there? It's pretty dry down here. No skinheads or anything."

"I'm reporting no clouds and high humidity. Honestly, how do you do it in that getup? No signs of any people on the streets. E88 or otherwise." He alighted on one of the rooftops, and I paused, looking around.

"I'm just weird. Not even sweating." I'd tried putting cold packs in my armor, but it had this huge issue where it would just cool down certain parts. So, it had the breathability of silk, and there was some degree of coolness coming from gel packs that I could turn "on" and "off" by switching them with my power.

"Freak." it was good-natured.

"That's me. All-American freak, at your service. Patriot's sidekick."

"Mmhm." He flew up a bit higher this time, and I waited. He was checking for anything from a much higher vantage point. Happened every few blocks, because I couldn't exactly follow him very well when he was that high. "Hey."

"Yeah?" I responded. We weren't exactly the greatest at opsec. Cut us some slack.

"Oh shit right side your right Night—" And then a car flew through the air and I saw Aegis plummet, trying to dodge as the flying car followed him. I felt the urge to nervously giggle for a moment before his words hit me.

Night.

By the time I looked to my right, she was on top of me. She wasn't a she, precisely. More like a mass of horrifying blade-limbs that I saw for a split second, jabbing and slashing at me before she was human again.The change was jarring, instant.

"Hello, there. I wouldn't suppose you'd be up for surrendering." My words were a panicked response, made polite and terse through training.

We had made ourselves very good targets.

Good weapon good schedule life follow rules follow planloyaltypowerpure—

Good to know that Night was as fucked up as her power. The fragment popped out before I could ignore it, and her shadow was crawling at the edges of the mirror, looping in how it moved, except it would expand and contract, those limbs never ceasing. Somehow, I found it comforting. It felt dull compared to other shadows, the fragments more like lines. Lines that I could grasp at to get access to those bits, but not raw and open.

...

The car must be Rune, since the biggest pieces they found of Krieg were in the stomachs of dogs.

"I think that would be a bad idea. After all, we have you outnumbered." Ghostlike spectres descended from the rooftop, carrying spears. They were vaguely translucent, and glowed. The speaker was inside one of them, the spectre encasing him moving with him. "I don't think I've heard of you, but you're with the Wards. If you leave now, we won't kill you or him. This is E88 territory, and you're intruding. Purity is on her way."

Crusader. Fuck. Three E88 powerhouses? I whispered into my transponder, naming them. I didn't bother reporting my location. Wasn't necessary for this.

Had to consider his words. Nobody had seen Purity around for a while. Then again, I hadn't been patrolling the E88 until today. Could she be here? I kept an eye on Night. I wasn't sure if her powers could pierce through my armor, but I didn't want to find out. "I think you're bluffing."

"Bluffing or not, you're against two parahumans, and more are coming." Night didn't say anything. Crusader was dangerous, Night was as well.

Could I handle them? Well, it was about as good of a matchup to cut loose as I was going to get. After all, Rune would probably just wrap me up in a few pieces of steel and make me cry.

"Well, I'm not really great at counting." Man he could make sixteen clones that was really cool. Too bad about the whole Nazi skinhead thing. "Hey, if I'm like, Black under here, does it matter to you? Mexican? Asian—"

Before I could finish my speech, Night tossed— flashbang. I had gone through extensive testing with that. Sword slammed tip first into ground, adjust weight so it didn't continue sinking. Grab flashbang between hands. Snap crackle pop.

Spear smacked across back. Just heard the tink it made as it glanced off. Grab sword, heft. Night throwing cloak, step back, bring sword up, it's got hooks on it but that's okay, they aren't finding purchase. Another flashbang, can't drop sword in time— Time it right instead—Helmet to opaque, can't hear it through insulation instead of silk. Something on top of me, trying to push me down. Full weight. Drop sword, hold onto scarf.

A million little impacts against the armor, faint and distant. Helmet back to translucent. Night on me, getting her cloak off my sword, trying to get it around the helmet.

I acted first, wrapping the scarf around her arm and tightening it, making a nice link between us, the other half wrapped around my arm as it became stiff and immovable. "Nice to meet you."

Pretty sure she couldn't hear me as I shifted the insulation back to 'being able to hear'. "Crusader, what's wrong? Racism not giving you enough clones to fight me? You could run your own fast food joint, here."

Crusader had in fact backed off. Why? It wasn't because of my terrible attempts at quips. What reason would he have to— I raised my foot and kicked Night, releasing the scarf back to silk, grabbing it off her arm, shifting weight back so my foot didn't go straight through her, just throwing her back as I threw myself to the side.

At least it hadn't been an SUV, just a really big I-beam that didn't even hit the pavement, stopping short before it flew at me again. Shit shit shit where was she—

And I'd taken my eyes off Night because I didn't want to be responsible for accidentally killing her by ripping off her arm or something. Good for fucking me over, that's what that was.

One of Crusader's ghosts moved into the way, then another, then I started slicing through them with the scarf-turned-bludgeon, because it was the land of the fucking free and if he thought he could parry me with these he was very wrong. Human shield? Was that bad tactics? I felt it was really good tactics. Night tackled me from behind, the blades slamming into my back with all she had, carving over the armor. I kept moving forward, my boots leaving cracks and slight imprints in the ground where they hit. I pulverized the pavement, and Crusader tried floating back up.

I threw Night at him. I reached over my shoulder, spinning as she tried to move out of my line of sight. My helmet came in handy here, because to me, it served no impedance in this. It was all translucent to me, and she was human once more. I kept up the momentum, because it was so desperately important here. An object in motion stayed in motion, and I could not hoist and throw Night on my own strength.

But I could if I didn't mind throwing with the weight of the armor. She'd take a few bruises, but I minded very little as I spun with her, flinging her at Crusader. She hit his feet, and he continued rising. Shit.

The I-beam hit me, and there was a very distinct tunggg. I couldn't let her think that I didn't have super strength, or that I could take that sort of hit. She'd up the ante if that was true, and she might go for the imprisonment option. Both were bad. I went with it, stumbling forward and grabbing for my sword.

The I-beam flew at me again. I sidestepped and brought the sword up in a smooth motion, slicing it in half. The pieces flew to the ground, but I didn't hold my breath. She could probably control both parts. I desperately wished I had eyes on the back of my head, because Night kept doing that thing where she knew where I was looking, and moved not to be there. Where was Aegis, and where was the cavalry?

 

[Harbin]

4.3​

I could hear Night, skittering, scrabbling at the ground, leaping at me. I backhanded her without looking at her, because I was pretty sure she could survive it if I hit her with full force in that form. My arm sheared through her, with a crackling, squishy noise that I could almost feel through the armor. Night fell to the ground. I was worried, but I glanced back down at her, and she was on the ground, coughing but otherwise unharmed.The pieces of the I-beam rose from the ground, then jerked around, spasmodically.

A feint? The beams fell to the ground, still. I kept my eyes on Night, pinning her arms to her waist with my scarf. I left her on the ground, letting the scarf hold her there, all two tons of it, in the form that I'd left it in.. She could stand to lose a bit of circulation.

Crusader couldn't do much, but I was afraid of Kaiser. I wasn't sure how his power interacted with mine, but growing blades inside my costume would make an iron maiden of me.

Not a life goal of mine.

So, I reached down into my belt, pulling out a ball bearing. Crusader was trying for the "eye slits" with the ghost spears. Funny, this costume didn't have eye slits. Just more metal. I cleared out the ghosts. It didn't take subtlety or intelligence, just a quick swing with the sword. It cleaved them, with all the weight behind it. It felt nice, not to have to worry about casualties when using the full range of my power. He created more, this time without the spears, each spirit stepping out from him, falling to the ground, moving forward. Night was still down on the ground, and the I-beam hadn't risen, nor had any more projectiles come my way. The ghosts were now trying to surround me, check if I could hold them off. If they couldn't disable me one way, they could try another, by trying to see how much in the way of super-strength I had.

I made my move. Guns weren't an option because of my age. Funny. Bad PR, too. Whatever. I let the ball bearing grow to about half of the merged other thing's size. A baseball. I wasn't that good with the sling, yet. It was only comprised of two overlaid objects. A ball bearing, and a cannonball. Weighing in at fifty pounds, it packed a serious punch. I wasn't that worried. His spirits lifting him protected him, right? I only put thirty five into it.

I flung it as hard as I could at him. If it had been an actual lead ball the size of my fist, it would not have gone very far. I was feeling the results of the exercise routine Dragon put me through, but I was not empowered to casually toss around shot put balls.

It hit him in the shoulder, driving straight through the ghost, and I heard a ckrck. Then a muffled scream. I let go of my power, allowing the two to separate and fall apart. Maybe the cannonball would fall on his foot, and I'd get a twofer. Alas, today was not my lucky day, and the spirits moved in. I moved to clear them, and then I suddenly stumbled, trying to regain my balance.

The world pitched and I was thankful I hadn't eaten anything recently, because I felt like retching. Uh— what — Cricket, insulation, insulation—

I focused, bringing it to the forefront, trying to focus. The world didn't want to go rightside up, and I flopped down to my knees, impacting the ground with a crnchkrkkk as my armor broke the sidewalk. Fuck. Concentrate. I wasn't going to lose to a fucking overgrown airhorn—

It snapped into place, and I couldn't hear anything. Crusader's ghosts had grabbed ahold of my arms, and were closing in, trying to keep me pinned so that I couldn't escape.

It would work. I focused on my legs, jumping off the ground. I needed to exert force in order to use the potential mass, and it ripped them off the ground with me. Landing on my back with them, the armor crushed their arms. They slowly faded into wisps, as more spirits tried to dogpile. I rolled to the side, grabbing for the my sword. I wrapped my hands around the blade, dragging it to me in order to swing it like a club. They were stupid, and I took out the rest of them with that swing. Or at least, there were no more left around. I looked up at the rooftop. Crusader was gone. Of fucking course. I switched the insulation off gradually, checking to make sure there wasn't a surprise attack waiting for me.

"Aegis?" I asked. There was a raspy breathing noise in response.

"Hrr. Nn sccnn. Tnn nn rrrkn."

--
​

Aegis wasn't in great shape. Anyone else would be dead though, so at least there was that. There were holes in his wrists and his chest, along with his throat. Slashes along his sternum, stomach, and legs. I think he took some sort of amusement in showing off how much shit had happened to him, because he gave me a lopsided smile.

But he came back bearing gifts, so I forgave him. One small Nazi, to go with our big Nazi. I didn't find out what had happened to him, because his whistling, stunted talking was much more difficult to understand when he wasn't standing still, concentrating on the words.

The cavalry arrived a few minutes later. In the form of Assault and Battery. They'd been near the area, but not quite close enough to be there in time. Assault shuddered as Aegis waved a hand with three fingers, because the other one and the thumb weren't in great shape. Battery looked away.

Night wasn't an issue, but we couldn't exactly foam her. Covering her in the stuff would not have been good for anyone involved. Someone kept an eye on her at all times, except for Aegis, who went off to go see if Panacea was available. He apparently wasn't in any danger of dying, and wasn't even bleeding much from the wounds.

I kept Night in the All-American scarf until we got to the Rig, though; it was just a matter of safety. It also felt oddly hilarious, keeping crazy-Nazi-lady wrapped up in an American Flag.

I checked out Rune's fragments, and quickly turned away when the first thoughts that floated through my mind were 'Fuck it's all their fault they can't handle them and they're just chinks, niggers, faggots—' It came with some amount of anger, loathing, and disgust, although I wasn't sure which direction what was heading. All hate, burning in that instant.

Her shadow looked different, a circle of rocks, pebbles, really, in a dark room. The rocks formed the walls, always pushing in. Alone.

It made me wonder how mine looked. Were my memories of my "trigger event" all wrapped up in hatred and anger, loss and self-loathing? I couldn't see my shadow in the mirror, it wasn't as if I could jump around, yelling, "Aha, stop right there!"

Most of them had borne some resemblance to their trigger. Was mine a flute, pulsing and overlaid by filth and muck? Was it the interchangeable bullies, overlaying on top of one another, all the same, in spirit if not likeness?

I stared at Rune's supine form, tranquilized because they didn't want her to potentially lift the PRT paddy wagon coming to pick them both up.

All this didn't even answer the lingering question of what the hell was up with the shadow behind tinkers. What a mess.

We transported them back, I signed some forms, and it was no longer my problem. I felt like I achieved something, and I went back to the bunker to discuss things with Dragon.

--​

Aegis got healed up, and in his report, apparently he'd gotten pinned to a wall by Rune; after Cricket had helped bring him down momentarily. Cricket had gone to help out the others with me, and Aegis had managed to slowly fly off of the offending impalement devices while Rune was occupied. They had fought, he knocked her out, and that was that.

Dragon assured me that Aegis couldn't feel much pain, if at all. I was still a bit freaked out by that. He really did live up to his name in that sense, willing to take the hit, even if it screwed him up to the extent that it had.

I considered things a success. Two villains down, nobody dead, and Crusader got a nasty broken shoulder he'd have to get healed up by Othala, if she was still around. Maybe the Butcher had killed her too, and nobody got wind of it. I'm not sure I'd have minded that, after what they did to Aegis.

Whatever. A job well done. I came back home to a party of one. Dad had made a cake. Pear and pecan; I loved every bite. Drank some non-alcoholic champagne, in wine flutes. We laughed and I told him what had happened. I could see the worry on his face, and it lessened when I told him how I'd made sure that nobody was a huge threat to me. We hugged, I went to bed.

Things were good.

 

[Harbin]

4.X​

Everything that she did, wasn't her fault. It had been the result of other people, forcing her into it. She wasn't responsible for what happened, because it was their fault. The test was ridiculous. Everything was ridiculous, and the teacher had hated her. She didn't have a choice.

It was all a fucking joke on them, because she was better than any of those fuckers. What could they do? What did they think they could do, that she couldn't?

She had power.

Except she didn't, because once again, it wasn't her choice, and it wasn't her fault. So, she could do whatever the fuck she wanted, because it wasn't her fault. Nothing was. It was liberating, to the point of extremes. She could do whatever she wanted. She could change whatever she wanted, she could experiment with whatever she wanted. And none of it was her fault.

So, at three in the morning, after twenty six hours of being awake, she wormed her tongue through her gums, checking for any last bits, for the one hundred and forty fifth time. She kept track, because it was very important.

She glanced at the ground, and then the operating table, checking again. Maybe she'd missed some, somewhere. Damn. Nothing. Maybe if she looked again. No, no, she had to focus back on the task at hand, or he'd expire like the last one did.

"Hhh—" Her throat was dry. She picked up the glass of tepid water, swishing it around in her mouth. Maybe there'd be a bit left over that she could get out. Nope. Nothing. "Hey! Goatfucker!"

Skidmark glared blearily at her from the broken-down chair he'd been sleeping on. Or coming down from the last high. "What."

"I need more."

"Not till you're finished with that one." Skidmark said. It was a petty and vindictive response. Once, she'd passed out, crashing and comatose for at least twenty hours. The 'patient' had expired; but it hadn't been her fault. None of it was. She'd been nice, told him that she needed a bit more, just enough to stay moving, keep things all nice and easy. She'd warned him.

It was so nice to know that, as she slid the capsule into the unconscious man's nasal cavity, pushing it allll the way up there. Woo. The hard part was already done, putting a larger one into his pacemaker. She even got to change it, modify it, add on to it. Bm boom, bm boom. That was the sound of the man's heart beating. Mmm.

Everything was going to be A-okay. "Alright. Done."

"Alright. This'll really fuck up Lung? You sure, or you just being slanty-fuckwise with me?"

What did that even mean? "Yes. I'm fucking sure, you dumb cocksucking fuckwad. Give it to me."

"Okay, okay. Fucking take it." Skidmark rummaged in one of his many pouches, grabbing out a small ziploc. He tossed it to her, and she grabbed it out of the air. "Crazy cunt."

His mutter made her glare at him, but she really didn't care all that much. She pushed her bleached hair away from her face, scowling. The only reason why she didn't shave the scraggly mess off was because she didn't want to look like a demented faux-Nazi.

But even if she did, it wouldn't be her fault.

She pulled off the medical gloves with a snap, throwing them to the ground.

It was her fucking tinker shop. Stupid fucking Skidmark. Fucking retarded fuck. Good shit, though.

--​

Sometimes, she admitted to herself, she took it to avoid sleeping. If she kept going long enough, the dreams weren't all there, and she didn't have to worry about things. Then she woke up, and it was things she couldn't change anyway, so it was okay, and it was fucking finetastic. Because she was the best around at what she did, and Squealer could go suck a horse cock.

Bombshell. What a retarded name. Better than Squealer, though.

Jane Yukawa hated her face. She hated her body. She'd bleached her hair at the slightest provocation. It wasn't her fault, nor her choice, so it was easy. Just another thing cut off from the past, just another step that she couldn't control. Just like the melted flesh that made up the lower part of her left leg. Wasn't something she had any power over, just had to go with it. No real choice.

She wasn't a bombshell in figure or looks. She was average, at her best, and as she stared into the mirror with sunken eyes, she knew she was nowhere near her best.

Maybe she'd sleep it off instead. Get something to eat. She stared down at the packet in her hands. Whatever. Maybe tomorrow.

--​

When she finally woke up, the patient was gone, a bomb in their brain and their heart. A smaller one, a larger one. Bombshell felt nauseated.

She wasn't stupid. Bombshell knew that she'd been taking quite a bit. More than she should. It was safe, her tolerance was high enough. But eating was important. There were burgers on the table next to her. Aww. He cared. Skidmark wasn't here right now. Probably getting his rocks off with his Squealer bitch.

She didn't care. Her libido had never been high. The drugs fucked with her more than anything else did, and the amphetamines had brought it down to an all-time low. But she'd never felt more satisfied or fulfilled when she sat at that table for thirty to forty hours, working, working, and knowing she was doing good. More than good. Fantastic. Nobody else could come close to what she was producing. Even Squealer appreciated her work, admired it. Bombshell's lips quirked upward. Not quite a smile, more of a vindictive grin.

She was good at being vindictive. That's what half the bombs were for.

Because Bombshell was the best at whatever fucking thing she wanted to be and NOBODY was going to say otherwise. Nobody.

She could have gotten that Valedictorian bullfuck shit but nope, wasn't her choice, wasn't meant to be. Oh well.

Not a thing. And now it wasn't like she was doing too much worse than taking methylphenidate anyhow. Just like everybody else. It was how they got their edge. Well, now she had it, and all she wanted. Who was laughing now, huh? Fuckers.

She hated this stupid place. Bombshell hated everyone.

That's why she asked Skidmark if she could hit the button.

"Not today," he said.

She was up to three and a half grams a day. Sometimes more, because it kind of carried over into the next day. Woo.

It was nice to be working this much. All kinds of ideas, taking up the spots of the old ones, better ones, newer ones, brighter ones, darker ones. She had ideas of ideas, she saw the heroes on the TV she sat in front of and watched for a couple hours every morning, slowly spooning in long-soggy cereal.

Carbon-limited distortion. Ooh, look at Gallant on there, all dashing and fucking shit. Still in high school, bitch; world's gonna smack you the fuck down. An emotional grenade, that had some kick to it, not anything like those wimpy power blasts. Suicidal urges, rage, maybe she could kickstart Lung, make him go off on civs until the protectorate had to kill him. Aegis flew overhead, all dramatic. What a dipshit fuckwad. Flesheater. She already had one for him. A special one, all wrapped up and ready to go. Not for him, particularly, but it'd work.

Change channel. Ooh, Legend. What a hottie. Yeah, strut it out on stage. A lightbomb. Some kind of targeting system, to specifically burn out eyes. Could she do it? Hell fucking yes she could. Wait, his lasers froze shit or something. How could she do that? Laser-targeted freeze bomb felt like cheating.

She'd figure it out. Bombshell staggered over to her workbench, moving so that she could sit, so that she wouldn't have to rely on her leg. It wasn't a problem when she started focusing, when she delved into her thoughts, thinking so fast that nothing could stop the pieces from coming together, not the fucking music next store she'd turn that into a bomb too and blow their fucking ears out. The squeaking of long-dead bedsprings, begging for release, she'd turn them into a glass sculpture so that everyone could see their stupid fucking faces, all lust-ridden and dead. It wasn't like she had a choice in the matter, they were just going to die anyway. It wasn't her fault.

--​

Bombshell asked Skidmark if she could press the button today.

"Not yet. By the end of the week," he said, with a lot more profanity. Something about 'selfish fuckin cunt'. She didn't care. She wanted to see them go off, with all the fucking beauty she deserved.

--​

Skidmark followed through on his promise.

She pressed the button. It was all she'd hoped for. And it wasn't her fault, because she didn't have a choice. Someone would have done it, if it wasn't her. Bombshell was just giving them what they deserved.

 

[Harbin]

4.Y​

Sarah Livsley hated waking up. It was hard enough to fall asleep as it was. The first moments, when she stopped dreaming, and her power kicked in, those were the worst.

Room unchanged, isolation, silk sheets, thousand threads per inch, waterbed, no additional stresses, personal weight distribution not ideal but not too important. Soundproofing still in effect, no real noise leakage—

She opened her eyes, sighing.

Moisture in breath below optimal levels, attributing to sore throat, slight dehydration, personal discomfort, itch on right arm related to rubbing too much against shirt, room isn't temperature controlled at the moment. Walls are stark white, painted two months ago—

Showers were much the same.

Water distilled, leftover unfiltered taste suggests it originated from desalinated— shampoo was tested on animals, soap made from oil; oil comprised of coconut oil, avocado oil. Lye, essential oils. Lavender, peppermint. Grout starting to get mildew, bottom right corner of shower, second tile.

"Damn it," she said, looking down at the shower tiles on the right of the shower, crouching down and rubbing at it for a moment.

Fixable, scrub brush, bleach, under counter. Hadn't noticed because usually took showers without looking, to avoid more information, personal quirk—

Sarah stared down. She'd get someone to take care of it. Ha. And figure out every single thing they'd done here? Fuck. She finished rinsing herself down, wringing out her hair before stepping out of the shower.

The stupid scrub brush and the stupider bleach.

Dangerous to breathe, 5% dilution. Use with acid could cause formation of chlorine gas, good for disrupting, last used in Azerbaijan conflict of 2009, 413 dead, 926 injuries. Was on the news, because six capes died in the conflict.

Sarah scrubbed harder, trying not to inhale the bleach. She did not need status updates on each cough. Or how many minutes she was losing off her life while doing this stupid shit. Fuck.

She bet Accord didn't have to deal with this stupid shit. No. She did not want information as to how Accord cleaned the fucking grout off his shower. She did not need that image. He probably kept the mask on, too. She focused harder on the grout.

Mildew, aided by Brockton Bay's natural humidity, probably arrived when the water that came in was 'merely' filtered. Given time to grow, and her naturally incentivized behavior, it grew to the amount that it is at. A spot on the wall, and annoying to her sensibilities, because it had grown two millimeters in the last two weeks it had been visible.

Her completion of this task was immensely satisfying. She cleaned everything up, rinsing herself off once more. She dried herself down. Sarah breathed the scent of the towel in, enjoying it, as her mind picked it apart.

Towel thirty two days, sixteen hours, twenty two minutes, thirty seconds old. Washed eight times, smells faintly of fabric softener, citric acid, dimethicone, borax, ethanol, hexylidene cyclopentanone— still slightly warm from dryer cycle, on the inside— folded, kept heat in, happened roughly eighty minutes ago, placed and readied there by James, faint creases indicative of folding—

She finished, winding the towel into her hair, looking into the mirror.

Scar, above right eye, one centimeter, will fade in two months, if properly attended to. Blemish, above right cheekbone. Not melanoma. Eyelashes slightly out of place, Accord would notice, if she was meeting him.

"It's a good thing I'm not," Sarah muttered, widening her eyes, giving the mirror her best innocent look before walking into her room to get dressed for the day. If there was one thing she could appreciate, it was the mask. A kinetic sculpture, of sorts.

Polished silver, bronze, interlocked carefully. Moves along to approximate facial movements. Reflects different colors with certain deliberate movements of face, resembling insectile wings. Cicada, to be precise. A gift to the second in command. Shows how much he values her, to spend as much time as he did, to make it.

Acumen smiled. She was ready for her day. She slid the mask away into the velvet case, putting on the street clothes her job required. As Accord's agent in Brockton Bay, she had certain things she needed to attend to.

--​

She knocked at the door. Three light, two hard, one light.

Alec wouldn't be coming down. At this time, he was too busy making lunch. Brian wasn't likely, he had to go pick up his sister, deal with some other things. His part-time job, to keep up appearances. Sabah was doing much better, but was probably still at her studio. That left Cherie.

Sarah felt a little surge of happiness, and grimaced. "Stop that."

Neuropeptide, oxytocin, attempting to establish and reinforce trust, happiness upon seeing Cherie's face. A new attempt at bonding, attempting to reach out, why? Alec not willing to play? No, not that, attempting to push boundaries? No, she knew the boundaries, and would not push them. Honest desire to be friends? Possible, but unlikely.

Cherie opened the door, pouting. "You're not usually happy to see me. I wanted to change it a bit. Why so suspicious, boss?"

Still delighted with success. Wants to let off steam. Wants to celebrate, looking for someone to go out on the town with, out of costume— can't convince Alec, Alec wants to stay in, Brian would most likely be occupied, Parian was most definitely a wash.

Sarah's lips quirked upward into a smirk. "Right. Me, suspicious. I wonder why that could be, Cherie. Brian'll be here in twenty minutes. Ply your trade on him, not me."

Cherie rolled her eyes, affecting a dramatic sigh without much weight behind it. She flounced into the loft. "Sarah's here! Says Brian will be here in twenty!"

"Good, you and your boyfriend can go snuggle together and leave me alone!" Called Alec from the kitchen. There was a certain sarcasm to that line that only Alec could lend to the statement.
"He's not my boyfriend," Cherie said, "I think you're just jealous."

Her smirk was wider than Sarah's, and she flopped down on the couch with a sigh.

Worried about Brian, to some extent. More out of a sense of losing something that she'd become accustomed to, the sort of person that detested that change more than anything. To that degree, Brian was 'her friend.' Just like the Undersiders were 'her friends,' to the degree that she could have that sort of relationship. Alec and Cherie were similar in that regard.

Emotional manipulation was more natural to Cherie, a product of her ability to see emotion, and what she'd gone through, early in life. It was like her good looks. Why shouldn't she use it; it was just a natural part of her. Other people used words, she just touched lightly on emotions, pushing someone one way or another. Manipulating them, pushing them slowly.

They had good synergy, good information. She could read emotions, point out the targets, make crimes safer, for a better payoff for all involved. Social engineering was so much easier. If they hadn't— No use crying over spilled milk.

Whatever. Sarah sat at one of the chairs near the couch. Cherie had her feet on the table.

Alec slid a plate in front of her. Sarah picked it up, and ate. He smiled winningly at her, then went back to not caring, walking back off to the kitchen.

Using Cherie to motivate himself, unhealthy, but a workable solution. Keeping it minor, for risk of further damage, has been for weeks, not new information.

Sarah hmmed. "Tastes good."

Quiche. Ham, eggs, mushroom, onion, thyme, garlic, cream, gruyere. Alec was improving, or cribbing from recipes better. Both.

They waited there, Cherie drumming her feet on the table. Sarah removed her food, continuing to eat. The television played in the background, things that her power picked up and extrapolated on.

Conflict in Africa going poorly. Moord Nag taking more territory. Bauble, taking employment under Protectorate, two people missing today in Brockton Bay have been found today, their bodies returned to their families. Authorities—

Missing, since yesterday, related to— ABB? No. Wouldn't be found again, either just mugged, killed, raped or thrown into what was affectionately called an opium den. Sarah glanced over at the television, looking at pictures. Sallow skin, stitches, stitches meant something had been done to them. Drug mules? No. Not the right area.

She rubbed her temples, trying to focus, trying to push her power— and then the fifteen seconds of fame for those people were over. Shit.

Information suppression? No, just not wanting to reflect on what had been done to them. They'd go through tests, checking for what had been implanted.

How long did she have?

Ten minutes. Cherish was looking at her with some interest. She sees the alarm, the slight hints of panic, a flowing beat suddenly becoming an array of arpeggios.

Sarah called Coil. "It's important. I'm sorry."

There was silence on the other line. She knew he was listening, so she forged ahead.

"Stitched up corpses found, not ABB, definitely not E88, leaves only Merchants. Not Merchant MO, but evidence of drugs introduced into their system that fit what merchants do. They were missing for three days, what was the cause of death?" Sarah said, finishing her little speech, speaking calmly, enunciating her words.

"Coroners haven't done it yet." Coil responded, his clipped tones revealing irritation, but not anger. He doesn't know, doesn't have the full picture yet, given him some clues, but he still doesn't have enough to work through things. It's not good enough—

"Anything. Give me something. I can help. Please." Swelling up inside her, there was something missing, a piece that would let things fall into place for her, not only for her power, but for her, and let her piece everything together, and she needed to know that piece because it would solve everything and make everything and—

There was silence from the other line.

"Fuck, Coil, come on. This is serious. You can see this. You've got the fucking big picture shit come on please—"

"Merchants might have a new parahuman. They've kept it as secret as they can, but we think she's a tinker." She could hear him grinding his teeth. He hated the very concept of the Merchants having another tinker. The gall, the very thought of them, having a resource he couldn't access, use, it ate at him, and he didn't want to admit it, least of all to another thinker.

Cherie leaned forward, bobbing her head slightly. The beat and arpeggios had become a mix of minor and major chord progressions, dissonant and clashing, in all the right ways.

Sarah waved her away, but Cherie just smirked wider.

"Tinker. Okay. Uhhh— Couple weeks back, maybe more. Lung gets hit by something—" There was something she couldn't think of.

Cherie got up, heading to the door. She opened it before Brian could knock, giving him a hug. She led him in, holding his hand, and sat onto the couch, pulling him down to lie in her lap.

"Something dissolved flesh. He was out of commission for at least a week, maybe more." Coil said, his voice prodding her forward. "They assumed it was a new cape. Maybe Ossia, but it didn't fit with her powers, even with what she did to Shadow Stalker."

"No, no, not her—" Possibilities cycled through, things that could be, things that couldn't. Cape, versatile, ability was damage-based somehow. An ability like Lab rat, except timed? No, not enough to risk this. More people would have been detected, sooner. What was the goal? Asians. The people discovered were both Asians. That's why she thought of the ABB first, drew the conclusion before reconsidering it.

What was going on? From a melted leg, stitches, biotinker? Could work, a possibility, messy work a symptom of working with Merchants. "Casualties?"

"No witnesses, or at least none we found, none willing to talk. "

"Damage to surroundings." Sarah said. Cherie gently stroked her fingers through Brian's cornrows, scratching lightly ever so often. Alec came in, put a plate down in front of Brian, smiled winningly, and went back to not caring.

"Quite a bit. Area of effect, assumed it was Lung, pyrokinesis. Burned edges, not much else in the report on that. You think it's— they kept it secret because hm. Take care of yourself." Coil hung up.

Sarah didn't care. Cherie had stopped stroking Brian's hair, staring at her.

Shit. Shit. An area of effect based tinker, potentially. Something that they'd been waiting to make an alpha strike from, to push their advantage as much as possible.

Something they could abuse and use. Ambassador safehouses? One, she'd set it up in a hurry.

Sarah called Sabah. "Loft. Now."

"But—" She thinks she's making progress. Her work is going better than it usually does, and it's not nearly as bad today. But she knows she'll feel much better, here. Best to wait. "—I'll be there."

Sarah smiled, even though she was worried, she could still get that little bit of self-satisfaction. "It's important. And tell people you care about to get to safety, if they're in Brockton Bay."

They weren't. She knew that already, though. Sabah's relatives had moved out of Brockton Bay, leaving her mostly alone, isolated. It helped though, to extend that bit of meaningless kindness. The mindfulness she'd been trying to teach Alec and Cherie. It was working, to some extent. As much as one could expect. Maybe a little more.

Cherie patted Brian on the head, causing him to open his eyes, smiling up at her. She smiled back down, then nodded her head toward Sarah.

"We've got a problem." Sarah said, Brian listened.

It would take Parian an hour and a half to make it to the loft. Was it safer to stay at home? No. Definitely not. If what she was thinking was happening, it would be bad. Very bad. Was there anything they could do, right now? No. Maybe. Maybe not.

It was an hour in when the world turned into light and was suddenly extinguished.

The world turned back to normal slowly, tendrils of darkness streaming off of Brian as he glanced around the room, raising from where he had been covering Cherie. "Everyone alright? Alec? Sarah?"

Bomb. Bomb tinker. She made explosives. She was setting the explosives off. Randomized? Placed in areas, given to people to hold, who wouldn't know or question what they were. Discounts for drugs if they carried them? Probably. Some implanted into others, why? The dead asians. Lung, she wanted to get to Lung. Grudge? Grudge. "M'fine."

"Peachy." Alec returned, a knife held in one hand. "What was it?"

"Bomb tinker. Bomb fucking tinker." Sarah started pulling her costume on, vaguely surprised to see Cherie was already in the process of doing so.

"What?" Cherie said, smirking. "We gotta go get Parian. Right, boss?"

Sarah mimicked her expression.

 

[Harbin]

4.4​

Math class was interrupted by the classroom lightly shaking.

I heard and felt the rumble; people around me cringed, and Mr. Quinlan stopped talking about polynomials. Then, there was a sequence of noises, some of them sounded like static, others sounded— like grenades? Shit.

"Everybody down!" I yelled, dropping out of my seat. My voice wasn't great for authority, and some people followed my lead, while others just stared at me. "Get down! Parahuman attack!"

Some more people got on the ground, Mr. Quinlan looked like he wasn't sure if this was a prank or not. For a long moment, I doubted it as well; my darker thoughts were that I didn't exactly have much reputation to lose if I was wrong. Mark it up to another notch on the loser list.

The windows hummed for a moment, oh god I was— then roiled. My arms were on their way to cover my face as I rolled away, but I wasn't quite fast enough— scarf, shit— I screamed.

I saw the glass crack, spiderwebs across the surface before it exploded inward. I closed my eyes, but I still heard the sound of it, a dissonant frequency that set my teeth on edge. It felt like my entire skull was rattling, with the worst of it.

Then, it was over. I slowly removed my arms from my face, peeking through. What I saw made me want to just close my eyes back up and pretend that nothing had happened. What the fuck.

Fuck. My stomach heaved, and I forced myself to look around, trying to push myself off the ground— Something was wrong, and I couldn't get up right. Was there glass inside me? Was my spine fucked up? I glanced down at myself, patting myself for injuries. Hoodie had some holes in it. My hands came away wet, but that was because of the glass in my hands, blood trickling onto my clothes. The silk undersuit had no holes. I was okay. I rolled to the side, trying to use the chair as a support. I managed to get to my knees, and fumbled at my bag. Had to get to my bag.

I wasn't even sure why I was doing it as I patted away at it, opening it up, reaching into it. Was it my book that I wanted? No, no, I needed something from inside it. Not my books. All I could hear was the horrible droning, something pounding in my ears.

What was it that I needed? I was wasting time, not knowing and I just kept taking things out, dropping them to the side. Lunch, no, that wasn't it. My scarf. I needed this. Why, to conceal my face? I giggled a little, pulling it out, draping it over my shoulder. What else? There was something else. My phone.

I pulled it out, staring at the cracked screen. Dad bought me it. It was broken. Shit.
Uh, what was I doing, again? Why did I need my phone, and my scarf? I tried to pull myself to my feet again, clutching the phone in my hands. There were people all around, in various states of injury. Where was Emma? Was she okay? It took me a moment to catch my thinking.

I tried to focus. To help. When I moved, the world lurched, and I almost fell into more glass. I tried again, pushing past the nausea, trying to figure out what to do, what I could do.

"Hello?" I said, my voice echoey and dull. I could feel the vibrations of my voice as I spoke, but couldn't hear it very well I tried focusing on hearing, as I looked around the room again. Slowly, still unsure what I could do. Focus. I knew how to make a tourniquet. I knew basic first aid. Why wasn't I doing that? I'd seen Aegis all screwed up, I needed to move, these people around me weren't Aegis.

A girl, I think her name was Renée? Was that it? Her arm was all bloody. Mr. Quinlan was on the floor, bleeding. His chest rose and fell with quick, jerky breaths. I didn't move. I wasn't safe, out in the open, I didn't have my armor around me, and there were people, all around. All injured, in some way, or worse.

Move. I had to do something, anything. Fuck— I stumbled over to the girl, her mouth was opening and closing, but nothing was coming out. I shifted the paper in my hoodie to the forefront, tearing it into strips, unmerging them. Did she need a tourniquet? There was a lot of blood. Was it all her? She could lose her arm, if I didn't do it right, or worse. Windlass. I needed a windlass. Pencils. There was a purple-pink bag on the ground, with stars and bangles on it. I opened it. Pens, pencils. I grabbed a handful, using a pair of pencils. She tried to weakly push me away. Her mouth opened and closed.

I said something, she didn't react.

I felt stupid, for not realizing. I couldn't hear. Not properly, anyway. I fumbled at her arm, trying to get the bandage and windlass into place. My hands weren't moving as well as I was used to, they twinged in pain every so often as I tried to make fine movements. I tightened it, above the elbow. Her lower arm was in shreds, I could see bone and muscle. Tourniquets were good for shock. They stopped them from going into shock, if you got them on fast enough. Have to mark the time. Time. I found a marker in the bag, pulling it out, looking at the clock. One thirty. I marked it on her head, "Don't wipe it off."

I got up, moving, trying to get to the next person. Why was I so damn slow? I was supposed to be triaging, checking people for injury, ranking them, giving assistance— some people had gotten out of the room. Some people were on the ground, clutching at arms, legs, stomachs, faces. One or another, or multiple. The room smelled of shit and iron.

What was I supposed to do?

I stumbled from person to person, checking the extent of their injuries, trying to do what I could. How many of these people would die? How much of it would be my fault? What could I do?

I had to keep acting, keep doing things. The pain in my ears and hands became more pronounced as I worked, trying to keep people stable. Some people, I just couldn't do anything about. One person had glass all over one side of his body, because he hadn't gotten out of his chair, and had been close to the window. Dead.

Was Dad okay? What was I doing here? I had to get home, Dad— I'm sorry, I'm so sorry— I wanted to sit there, curling up and not thinking of what was going on. But I couldn't do that. I needed to go, to help. I used the wall to prop myself up, and started heading toward the doorway, checking for phones along the way. On the floor. Broken. Bag open, phone broken. Broken. All of them were broken.

I had to get to the Rig, or to Dragon's bunker. My armor was at the bunker right now. There was a stripped-down version at the Rig. What could I do? I didn't even know who did this. Shatterbird was dead, did someone have those exact powers?

There was no enemy to fight, no way for me to get anything done. People ran, crawled, or huddled against walls. I still couldn't hear anything but my chest breathing out. All I could do right now is help, or join them. I chose to help.

I continued my efforts. The pain got worse, but I continued. There were other people who were helping. Mr. Gladly was pale, had a bandage around his upper arm, but he was helping. I didn't see Emma, on the floor, or running. Had she not come to school? More people were helping. Someone brought me a bottle of water. I drank it, spilling some on myself. I couldn't keep my hands from trembling. Time passed, a Dragon mech came to pick me up. I went with it.

Dad was okay. The house hadn't been hit. I explained what I'd done, listing the people I'd tourniqueted, the first aid I had applied, making judgments that made me feel like I was personally responsible for each person's status. Whether they were alive or dead, it was my fault.

Panacea was working overtime. Othala had come out of 'retirement', helping and healing. A move by Kaiser to gain popularity, no doubt. Rune and Night had mysteriously been freed by the explosions. Whatever. I felt too shitty to care. Othala glanced at me, touched me, and a minute later, I was good to go. Panacea was being used for people who really had problems.

I still felt like curling up into a ball and dying. What could I have done?

Were there more people that I could have helped? Did I kill anyone with my actions?

Dragon sent me home. Dad hugged me, offered food; I wasn't hungry. I fell into bed, and dreamed of what had happened.

 

[Harbin]

4.5​

In my dreams, I was in the classroom again, watching as the windows shattered, throwing the shards into the room. I watched the rest of the class, I saw that girl's hand in exacting detail, because I was looking down at it. Flensed, I could see the bone beneath, the muscles twitching as I used it to prop myself up. It didn't bleed, because the blood was all over the glass, and I picked that out of the wound that was my hand. My fingernails were glass, so I had to remove them too.

I was very thankful that I woke up at that point, clammy, cold, feeling as if everything around me wasn't quite real. I'd rolled out of bed, the sheets all around me in a tangle.

3:16 AM, the clock next to the bed pulsed, I stared at my hands, unblemished, looking at my fingernails, worrying at them for a moment. They were there. That was really good. I shucked my sweaty clothes, staying for a while in the shower, I played with my scarf while inside, running through the paces. Wrapping it around my arm, making it heavier, making it lighter. I molded it into a bowl, turned it into metal except the weight, letting water pool up inside it, pouring it over my head. I needed something to focus on, and this was it. The lines and patterns that made up the blocks of metal inside sufficed as a distraction. I could stare at them, manipulate them. I wanted them to go this way, making the silk stiff, I wanted them to go that way, giving it the flexibility. I twisted the lines, making it intertwine, making it light to me, but not to others. I unbraided them, and then stared at it.

The water turned from hot, to warm, to cold. I finally got out after that. I got a towel and worked at drying off. I pulled on clothes, feeling naked even with them on. I wanted my armor. Dragon had sent me home without it.

Downstairs was the place to be, and I sat, watching coffee drip. I took the cup, smelling, basking in it. It washed other smells from my mind, and I could sit at the table with it in my hands.

Blood, glass, and the smell of shit and iron.

Those were the things I didn't need to think about, sipping at the coffee. I finished half the cup, pouring the rest down the drain. I had assumed, I had thought that there was some sort of separation. That my life wasn't— That I could be Taylor. That this wouldn't happen, while I was Taylor. That I could push things that happened in one piece, leave them there, and not have to deal with them as Ossia. Keep each of my lives, one normal, one proud and heroic, each in their boxes.

That this wouldn't happen, while I was Taylor. It hadn't even been targeted at me. It was just some psychopath tinker.

God. There was all this nervous energy. Perhaps a placebo from the caffeine, perhaps my own dream, spurring me to act, to do something. If I was up, why not help, why not be useful? Every moment I spent here, doing nothing was another moment someone could be dying in the wreckage.

I went upstairs, pulled on my jacket and jeans, grabbing my scarf. I put my hand on the doorknob, and tried to open it. It was locked. That made sense. After a thing like that, I didn't blame Dad for doing it. I started heading around to the back door, or maybe a window—

"Sit down, Taylor." Dad said, and I flinched.

"D-Dad! Hi." Fuck.

He stepped down from the staircase, thin and wan, finding a seat on one of the chairs in the living room. "Sit."

I sat, in the seat that was vaguely across from him, not directly in front. I didn't want to meet his eye.

"Do think so little of me, Taylor?" He said; the pain and disappointment soaked through every word. "Do you know how I felt when I heard that Winslow had been attacked?"

I stared at the table, because looking up would have necessitated seeing his face, and I didn't want to see that. I didn't think I could take it. "I— I just wanted to help."

"Yes, and that's great, but am I allowed to have my daughter, too? You could have died, you get home, you fall asleep without eating, and you wake up and want to head out at five in the morning?" In the quiet that followed, I could hear him run his hands through his hair, the sigh that made me feel as if I'd done something terrible. "And all to go help out with this?"

"People could be dyi—"

"And that's terrible! People dying is a terrible, terrible thing. And what if you go out there, use your power to try and help, and because you're tired, you screw up? Do you think you'll feel any better? If a doctor has to sleep, should they not do that because they might be able to save one more person? I'm nipping this one in the bud." There was another intake of breath, another exhalation. "I'm sorry, Taylor."

"I just— I see what happened in my dream, and I can't stop thinking about what happened, how it happened. If I had done just a little more, or been less afraid of revealing myself..." I trailed off. My voice got smaller and smaller. "I want to help."

"I understand that. But you're my daughter, too. I'm your father, or at least I hope we're still on those terms." There was some forced cheer, now. "I love you, Taylor. I'll call Dragon in the morning, alright? She'll let you know if and where you're needed. Leave it to the professionals, for now. Uh, later, in the morning, at least."

"Okay." What was I going to say? I could sneak out the window, but— god, everything felt like a selfish thing to do. I was helping, for my own self-satisfaction, but not helping was selfish, too.

I went back to bed, laying there for a few hours before sleep took me. Each time I woke up, panting because the windows in the house had exploded, killing Dad, forcing me to watch him bleed out because my eyelids were glass— I tried to roll over and get back to sleep. Eventually, I managed it.

Stumbling downstairs at eleven wasn't an impressive feat, but it felt like that nervous energy was mostly gone, and I didn't feel as compelled to act, to move and help. Dad made a sandwich, handing it to me on a plate. Iced tea came second.

"Thanks," I ate. I didn't feel hungry, but my stomach disagreed, and I worked my way through the sandwich in little time, not paying much attention to what was in it.

"Dragon texted. She'll pick you up in an hour, just put on a mask or some concealing wear, and head out down to Hughes street. Another sandwich?" He asked, I nodded, chewing, then gulped the last bite down.

"I'm sorry. You were right," I said, and he stopped moving, putting the mustard-covered butter knife back down. "I thought of it as kind of an escape, and— it feels like the line between myself and being a hero is blurred. Like, if they're willing to attack, I shouldn't be here, I should be out there. I— I'm scared, if something happens to you, if you—"

"Taylor. You're a kid. You're a teen, and you're dealing with so many serious, terrible things already. Don't be so scared for me, too. It's my responsibility to take care of you. I want you to be healthy, and happy. To get good grades, get a boyfriend or a girlfriend that I pretend to despise, the whole nine yards. This hero stuff is all sorts of crazy, to me. But, it's a part of you. You want it in your life, that's fine. Just— don't let it be all you are. Okay?" There was the sort of tone in Dad's voice that came when he was talking about Mom, that way he had spoke at the funeral. "You saw some stuff yesterday that no teenager should have to see. No adult should have to see those things. It's all sorts of screwed up that you're just going right back out there for it now—"

He sighed, raising his hands in a sign of defeat and turmoil.

"Okay. I'll do my best. I'll have the PRT and Wards and Dragon nearby, so it's like it's the safest place anyway, right?" I spoke it in a slightly joking tone, but Dad's face was ever more serious.

"Be careful, Taylor. The ABB is going crazy. Lung is missing, and it's tearing itself to bits as a result." He looked down, then back up, then wrapped me up in a hug. "I love you. Stay safe."

"Mmhm," I said, muffled by the sweater; then went to get ready.

 

[Harbin]

4.6​

"Ossia, over here," Acumen said, tossing her head in the direction of a specific bit of rubble. "You can make that piece of rubble light, move it, and the rest won't collapse."

Her eyes glimpsed at things, blinking, opening, looking everywhere. They peered through the rubble. I didn't look at the pieces that floated to the surface, because I had to focus on the task at hand. I remembered her shadow, but I wasn't going to let that change what was going on here.

"There's another two in there," Cherish pointed out each, position, judging that two fingers on her hand were necessary for the task as she continued to listen to music. It was irritating, but she was exceedingly skilled at pointing out areas where people were. There weren't many in the streets, but there were collapsed, there were some bombs in houses, that made collapses or effects that imprisoned people.

The Shatterbird imitation had been one of, but not really a large amount of the bombs. I wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing, because while glass shattering did a lot of damage, and had a good number of casualties—at least they didn't trap people into a slow-time field which they couldn't exit. At least it didn't loop them, but the people were stuck there, moving so slowly they hadn't been sure if the victims were aware. Blinking took them roughly eight hours.

Or the pain bombs, which ended up having all the people hit by it dead, or in a semi-conscious state. The ones that went into seizures and bashed their brains out with the spasms—

"Ossia. Come on." Acumen said, and I jerked to attention.

"Yeah. Sorry." I opened up my hand, shaping the titanium-clay-meld to a gross approximation of the rubble. Pushing it into the fucked up surface made up of rebar and concrete—One, two, concentrate—and I was done. Took me a minute or two, but it slowly sank into it, and the lines and patterns gleamed. They twisted and turned, and then I slowly lifted the rubble off, placing it to the side, then separating the melded objects. The rubble creaked threateningly at me, and I looked back to what used to be a doorway to a house.

Some bombs had been normal. Straight destruction, except worse, because they were somehow targeted, shredding through specific keystone supports. This wasn't a matter of someone placing shaped charges, either, but an explosive with some sort of fuzzy logic.

"Hey. Ossia. Focus." Acumen snapped her fingers in front of my face. "You're obsessing. Not doing you, or anyone else any good. You're here, you're helping. Focus."

"Sorry."

"No, I understand. We're all tired, we're all kinds of screwed up. You can help, and if you need to, you can take a break. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Acumen stared at me, her domino mask showcasing her concerned expression.

"Right. Okay." The words struck a nerve, and I straightened. "Where's the next spot?"

Acumen pointed, and I began shaping the clay.

It went on much like this. My bad moods didn't last overlong, and I was generally in good cheer. We found people, who tended to not be overly frightened, although they were a bit delirious. Either from dehydration or from some degree of injury.

The process was slow going, I wasn't like Rune, who could just touch the objects and lift them. I'd seen her helping out from above, and if she'd seen me, I'm sure she would have given me a nasty glare. I took one to two minutes for each piece of rubble, and had to lift, and replace it, then unmerge and repeat the process.

But, I could do things like making sure stuff didn't fall apart, or make impromptu protection with the scarf. At one point, I made a tunnel with it, to make sure that it wouldn't collapse after Acumen commented on it.

At the end of the day, I was cheerful. Not giddy, but just a sort of established satisfaction in a job well done. We'd really managed to help people, and I had played a part. We had pulled some bodies out from the wreckage, but every person we found was someone who could stop looking, Acumen reminded me.

It was hard to believe that they were villains.

The next day, I worked with a different group. Wards, Gallant and Clockblocker. Gallant was the 'spotter', to the best of his ability. Clockblocker was there for stopping things from collapsing in, and I was there, as usual, to be the mover of heavy objects.

There weren't as many living people as yesterday, and the ones we found were in bad shape. Clockblocker froze them until we could get them medical attention.

The 'real' Protectorate were chasing down the people who'd done this.

I was pulled off of the search and rescue efforts the next day. Not good for my mental state, evidently. Most of the Wards were as well. So, I sat on my hands and patrolled, while the adults did real hero stuff.

It was frustrating.

I could help. But it was better for me to just patrol, help out who I could. The gangs were actually serving as somewhat of a control for the potential crime in their communities, with the exception of the ABB.

With Lung gone, things destabilized. They were lashing out, attacking others. Looting was rampant, and there were 'aftershock' explosions. Bombs that had been set, hidden, to go off in a second wave. Some of them were duds, after other explosions had hit them in the cascade, or had misfired.

Some of them weren't. Sometimes, looters would find one. That's why I was patrolling with Gallant. He had the blaster bits, and could subdue people from a decent range, and was significantly less lethal than my ranged attacks. I was beginning to wonder if there was something I could use with darts, but it probably wouldn't interact well with my power if I used tinkertech for it.

Perhaps I needed something else, but I just—

"Hey!" I pointed at the person about to throw a brick through a window. They looked our way, dropped the brick, and booked it. I sighed. "Should we chase them?"

"No," Gallant said. "Not worth it. Just keep moving. If we just show our faces around here, it'll at least stop some crime from going on. That'll have to be good enough."

"Yeah." I said, grimacing.

We continued onward, checking in on homes, houses, and shops. Many of them were shuttered, if they weren't blown open, or had rubble strewn about the area. The place hadn't been hit as hard, but where it had been hit, it was really bad.

In a sick way, I was kind of thankful for that, because it meant that rescue workers wouldn't get attacked. The ABB wanted those supplies first.

Most houses shut their doors, or windows, or continued to board things up. We weren't sure if the community was insular, scared, or both. We decided it was probably the latter. The places that we passed by that weren't hit were terrible. Cars trashed, radios ripped out, hell, some of the wiring for the street lamps had been 'salvaged' as well. None of them were working.

We stopped a mugging from taking place, and that was the highlight of the day. A reporter had decided they wanted a 'scoop', and some thugs decided they wanted a private interview, with the payment of all of the reporter's possessions. Gallant blasted one of them with a dark blue ball of light, causing him to start crying. I moved forward, sword in hand, and the other two ran. I wasn't sure whether to cuff the crying thug, or pat him on the back. He tried to run, but I tripped him, then erred on the side of caution and cuffed him. The reporter tried to interview me, asking me what I thought about all the going-ons, clearly thinking that things had just fallen into their lap.

It irked me. I wanted to tear him apart for it, for the sheer inconsiderate pomp that he had. How dare he? He was trying to dig up dirt, find stuff, putting himself into harm just for his story?

People had died, while he stood there, tossing questions, and—Gallant took over, diplomatic and kind. He talked about his worries, and my frustration slowly faded.

I pulled the thug to his feet. If we foamed him, we'd have to wait at least thirty minutes for transport. As it was, he'd probably be let go from the prison within a few days, or transported out of state. I heard something about things being over capacity, the cells being prioritized for villains who were taking advantage of the tentative 'truce' while the city reached an equilibrium. After that, serious crimes, then violent crimes, and you could be an addict and get let right out again, because things were just spread too thin.

It all just irritated me. Gallant talked about how I'd been helping with relief efforts with him, and had been a great help, and I ducked my head, nodding and saying something about how Gallant had been a great help. I meant it, but it felt like it was falling flat when I said it.

I looked away, trying not to look at his shadow. I'd seen enough of it today, a blotchy pastiche of colors that was impressionistic, reaching out of the frame, gathering colors, and drawing them back in. It was pretty, almost, in that odd way. The perfect shadow, for the perfect guy.

We escorted the reporter and the thug to safer territory, and that was the end of the patrol. Nothing too dangerous for us, but we were both in armor, and it just—hadn't been satisfying or felt like we'd done much.

I reported to Dragon, she updated me as to the progress of the hunt. The Merchants had disavowed Bombshell, claiming her actions were independent, in an action that was simultaneously too late, a great idea in concept, and an absolutely terrible idea in concept.

Bombshell was independent, now, and most of the Merchants were independent from their limbs. Flash-freeze bombs, shatterbird bombs, pain bombs, she set them all off and escaped in the ensuing carnage.

Now she was at large, and had even less to lose.