Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern [Worm Fanfic]

[Ack]

Yes, this is another story about an unpowered Taylor Hebert as an unpaid intern to a powerful organisation.

But what if she interned, not for the PRT, but for Medhall? The Brockton Bay Heart of Darkness itself?

While having no idea who was running the show, of course.

(And no, this will not be a crossover with Slippery Slope. That story is that story and this story is this story).

And just to spice things up, she's not the only intern on site.

Without further ado ...

Disclaimers:

1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.

2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.

3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.


Index

Part One: Introduction (below)
Part Two: Highs and Lows
Part Three: One of Us
Part Four: Battle Lines; Drawn
Part Five: Glorious Schadenfreude
Part Six: Stepping Up
Part Seven: From Strength to Strength
Part Eight: Plans and Schemes
Part Nine: Showing Respect
Part Ten: Unlikely Heroes
Part Eleven: Moving Forward
Part Twelve: A New Player
Part Thirteen: Ongoing Developments
Part Fourteen: Moving Along
Part Fifteen: More Troubles
Part Sixteen: Training Day
Part Seventeen: Curiosity, Meet Cat
Part Eighteen: Threads
Part Nineteen: When in Doubt, Run Away
Part Twenty: All For One
Part Twenty-One: Running the Gauntlet
Part Twenty-Two: Debrief
Part Twenty-Three: Second Wind
Part Twenty-Four: Return to Medhall

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part One: Introduction


[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


The elevator ride seemed to take forever. Or maybe that was just because I was sharing it with Greg Veder. I mean, I didn't dislike Greg, but there wasn't much I liked about him, either. He didn't join in on the bullying, I guess. Though it didn't help when he was so clueless that he accidentally helped them out. At least, I chose to think it was by accident, because otherwise he was a better actor than anyone I'd ever seen before.

I eyed the numbers as they crawled upward, and nervously straightened my skirt. It was a denim number that went to below my knees, because it was the only skirt I owned, and I didn't want to show up at my first day of work experience slash internship looking like a typical teenage girl. It wasn't that I had any particular yearning to get a job at Medhall, but I really, really wanted this work experience gig to go on for just as long as I could stretch it out. Three half-days a week away from Winslow and the three girls who spent all their time making my life a slice of hell? I'd have to be insane to want to screw that up.

Of course, that was the problem with Greg. He was good at screwing things up for me, and nobody ever gave me a do-over. I'd been cautiously optimistic about my chances of remaining at work experience for the entire period until Christmas, right up until I'd heard that he was doing it with me. Now, I gave myself a week, tops, before he managed to screw this up, too.

"So hey," he said almost breathlessly, even though neither one of us had been talking up until then. "Did you hear the latest about Shadow Stalker?" The tone of his voice suggested that he was the only one who knew the news, and that it had potentially world-shaking consequences. I had my doubts on both points.

"Let me guess," I said sarcastically. "She captured Lung and Kaiser on the same night, and she's being inducted into the PRT Hall of Fame?" Shadow Stalker wasn't someone I held a lot of admiration for. She was a teenage vigilante whose exploits showed up sometimes in the papers, usually with the notation 'badly beaten' or 'crossbow arrow' attached. Not exactly someone I saw as a role model. Now, if she could come to Winslow and clean the place out a little, I could get behind that. Maybe dangle Sophia Hess out of a third-floor window by her ankles for a little bit.

Well, I could dream.

His expression was startled. "No! Where'd you hear that?" Before I could tell him I was joking, he went on. "No, I found out from PHO this morning that she's joining the Wards. She's always been pretty kickass. Now she'll be even cooler, with the tech the PRT can give her."

I shrugged. "I guess. Wonder how she'll get along with the others?" Shadow Stalker had been on her own for some time, while the Wards were by all reports a close-knit team. I hadn't seen any news stories about her teaming up with them which might've led to this development. Then again, I was pretty sure there was stuff going on behind the scenes that I was never going to learn about.

To my everlasting relief, just as Greg opened his mouth to reply, the elevator doors dinged and slid open. I stepped out of the elevator, clutching my shoulder-bag close to my ribs, and looked around to see who I should be reporting to. Greg hurried after me, somehow managing to look dishevelled in his freshly ironed shirt and slacks (I made a bet with myself that he hadn't done the ironing) and semi-neatly combed hair. I guessed it was just his general air of uncoordination.

"Miss Hebert, Mr Veder." The voice was female and filled with authority. "You're late. I was expecting you ten minutes ago."

Oh crap oh crap. I refrained from checking my watch as I turned toward the person who had addressed us. She was in her forties, wearing a severe business suit and an even more severe expression. Black hair was pulled back over her scalp and bundled into a bun that bullets would probably bounce off of. She was also carrying two manila folders. "Uh, ma'am, I'm sorry. From the clock in the lobby I thought we could get here with time to spare—"

She countered my apology with a sniff that brought me up short. "Here at Medhall, we are on site and ready to start, at fifteen minutes before time. You would do well to remember that." Stepping forward, she stopped before us and subjected us to a glare that should by rights have seared us down to the bone. Her expression of disdain never wavered; in fact, I was pretty sure that it had intensified. "Understand this. The internship program is contingent on a tax break for Medhall. This is the only reason you are here. Moreover, it's not a large tax break, so if we decide that either or both of you are more trouble than you're worth, then we'll write it off. And you with it."

Beside me, I heard Greg gulp audibly. Either I was made of stronger stuff than him or I was just plain used to being looked down on, because her scathing words didn't really bother me. It wasn't as if it was personal. She probably loathed us because we were interns, not because she knew us. It was almost comforting.

She leaned slightly closer, making me think of drill sergeants in war movies. I had no doubt that she'd have recruits wetting their pants in less than ten seconds. "Do you understand what I just said, or do I have to repeat myself?" Her tone made it abundantly clear that making her repeat herself was a very bad idea.

"Ma'am, I understand what you said," I replied quickly, restraining myself from trying to go to attention, because I had no idea how that was really done, and she'd probably think I was making fun of her. Or she'd critique my attempt, which would probably be worse. I didn't even try to include Greg in my statement; let him sink or swim on his own. Heartless that may sound, but only to anyone who'd never tried to do a class project requiring his input to succeed.

Beside me, Greg made a strangled noise that she obviously chose to interpret as agreement with what I'd said. The decision was a lucky one for him; if she'd let his brain get into gear, the gear of choice would be Reverse. I'd heard him speak when he was relaxed and in familiar surroundings, and that was bad enough. God only knew what idiocy his malfunctioning brain-mouth filter would let through under these circumstances.

"Good." Her forbidding demeanour relaxed ever so slightly. Now she only looked as though she beat up muggers for light exercise, as opposed to terrifying them into submission by sheer force of will. "My name is Ms Harcourt. You will call me Ms Harcourt or ma'am. I will be your supervisor. You will come to me for instruction. You will not speak to any of the executives in this building." She held out the two folders. "These are your induction folders. You will read through the material in them, fill out your details where necessary, and initial each page after reading to confirm that you have understood the material." She pointed at an open door; there was a table visible inside. "You will do your reading in that interview room. Once you have completed your induction, you will report to me. My office is that one over there." She pointed at a closed door with HARCOURT embossed on it. "Is there any part of this that you do not understand?"

"No, ma'am," I said crisply. I was starting to get the hang of this place, I hoped. Turning, I headed for the interview room.

"Miss Hebert!" Her voice cracked across the room like a whip. I froze, mid-step. Oh, crap. I didn't asked to be dismissed, or something. Well, there went my work experience and with it, my reprieve from Winslow.

Slowly, I put my foot down and turned back toward Ms Harcourt. "Yes, ma'am?" Whatever she said, I was going to put a brave face on it. Even if she said I was being fired from my job of unpaid menial labour.

"You forgot to ask me for a pen," she snapped. "You'll need one for your induction papers." From a hidden pocket—she certainly didn't carry them in public—she produced two retractable ballpoints.

"I don't need one, ma'am," I said, trying not to sound smug. "I brought my own." Greatly daring, I patted my shoulder-bag. From the hangdog look on Greg's face, it seemed that I was in a minority of one; sheepishly, he reached out and took one of the pens and mumbled something that might have been thanks.

"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes, possibly trying to figure out what else I had up my sleeve. I tried to look helpful and intelligent and prepared. "You think ahead. Good." For all that the praise was grudging, it sounded genuine. "Commence." Turning, she strode toward her office.

After a moment, I had to remind myself to breathe. I wasn't being kicked off work experience! And my new boss had said something nice! As I turned toward the interview room, I let myself feel something I hadn't experienced in some time; hope.

This might actually work.

<><>​

The interview room contained several chairs and a water cooler in the corner. I pulled out a chair, sat down, and opened my folder. My bag went on another chair beside me, and I began to rummage through it for the zippered pencil case. As I found it, I heard a trickling noise. I looked up to see Greg at the water cooler, running himself a cup.

"Greg!" I hissed. "What are you doing? Didn't you hear Ms Harcourt? We're supposed to be getting these pages filled out and initialled, not goofing off!" Unzipping the case, I picked out a pen I knew to be reliable.

"Oh, relax, Taylor," he said, sitting on one chair, then half-turning it so he could put his feet up on another one. "We can take our time at this. She just wanted us out of her hair. I bet she's like Blackwell, all shouty when we're in front of her, doesn't give a crap when she can't see us." He leaned back in his chair and took a slow sip from his cup. "I interned for my uncle's firm last summer. Trust me, I've got this crap nailed."

He sounded very sure of himself, but I wasn't so certain. "What if she comes and checks on us? I mean, she just told us to fill out these papers and get back to her."

"What, she's gonna come over here from her office just to make sure we're doing it as fast as we can?" He took another drink from his cup. "I doubt it. Anyway, I can see her office door from here. You worry too much."

Something caught my eye, and I looked up into the corner of the room behind Greg. A clear glass dome held a security camera, with a glowing red light next to the lens. It moved very slightly, angling down toward Greg. My eyes widened and I opened my mouth to say something, but before I could, the camera waggled from side to side in an unmistakeable motion.

A lot of things became clear to me. We were under observation, and I'd probably passed some sort of test for noticing. But whoever was on the other end of the camera didn't want me telling Greg about it. If it wasn't Ms Harcourt, I would've bet every dollar I owned that she knew about it. The next question was simple: did I risk my internship by sticking with Greg and giving him the heads-up, or did I do what I was told? The answer was depressingly easy to arrive at; I kept my mouth shut and started to fill out the first page. I'd come to Medhall to do work experience. If Greg wanted to goof off, that was his look-out. I wasn't getting in trouble for him.

"Hey, do you play Space Opera?" he asked as he poured himself another cup of water. "It's an online space game, where you can—"

"No," I said briefly. "We've only got dialup at home. And I don't have time to play games like that." Or the inclination, I added silently. "You really should be filling out your form." Focusing back on the paper, I returned to filling out my details. Wonder of wonders, my curt tone must have gotten the message across, because he shut up then and drank his water. Or maybe he was just thirsty.

I was about halfway through my paperwork, learning about the safety regulations as they applied to mere interns, when Greg finally deigned to start looking through his folder. He muttered and mumbled as he filled out the personal-details sheet, causing me to grit my teeth. I knew from experience that pointed glances wouldn't work, and I suspected that Ms Harcourt would object if I hit him with one of the chairs—if only for the sake of the chair—so I ignored him and carried on.

It took me another ten minutes to finish, while Greg seemed to think that filling out his details was enough work for the time being, given that he settled back in his chair and put his feet up again. At least he wasn't muttering to himself any more, which I considered to be a bonus. I kept on reading, studying each sheet in turn. When I figured I understood the contents of each, I initialled it and turned to the next one.

I had to hand it to Ms Harcourt; the induction folders were comprehensive. Not only were there ample safety regulations, but I had floor plans to study so that I knew where the bathrooms were (among other things), and also a list of the executives along with photos so that if one happened to address me, I knew who it was. Topping the list, of course, was Max Anders, CEO of Medhall and someone with whom I was entirely unlikely to interact.

I was on the second to last page (a list of the parahuman villains of Brockton Bay, and the required procedure for responding to an attack by each one. The procedure for a depressingly large number of these was 'run and hide') when a rustling sound caught my ear. Looking up, I saw Greg was simply flicking through the sheets and scribbling his initials as fast as he could. Unless he'd acquired a page-at-a-glance speed-reading ability in the last hour, he certainly wasn't taking any of the material in.

"Greg, you're really supposed to read those before initialling them," I muttered, trying to get my exasperation across without raising my voice. "Those are important safety regulations you just skipped straight past."

"Wow, relax, Taylor," he said confidently. "I told you, I've done this before. Nobody ever expects you to actually learn anything from an induction. If there's an emergency, they'll tell us what to do. I mean, seriously. We're just kids. Nobody expects us to actually be responsible." He tapped the stack of papers with his pen. "This here's just for insurance purposes."

I'd been warned not to tell him about the camera, and I'd tried to warn him without telling him about it. If he didn't want to listen, that was no skin off my nose. So I initialled the page and turned to the last one, which was basically a document requiring me to assert that I'd read and understood the rest of the induction package before I signed it. I ticked the box that said 'YES', then signed. With a sigh, I closed the folder and stood, bending backward to work the kinks out of my spine. Greg went back to skimming the induction papers, dashing off his initials as fast as he could turn the pages.

It would, I decided, be very irritating if he turned out to be correct.

Greg completed the last page of his induction folder at just about the same time that I finished putting my pencil-case back in my shoulder-bag. "There, see?" he said smugly, bouncing to his feet. "One-tenth the effort, and I got it done in the same time you did."

I refrained from carrying out the impulse to dope-slap him and point out the camera. Months of bullying had honed my situational awareness (or so I liked to think), but he was still as clueless as when he'd walked into the room. "Let's just get this over with," I said as I slung the strap over my shoulder.

Picking up the completed folder, I left the interview room and made my way across to Ms Harcourt's office, with Greg sauntering beside me. He was gracious enough to let me get to the door first, or maybe he'd realised that I was perfectly willing to elbow him in the throat if he jumped in front of me. Raising my free hand, I knocked on the door.

It opened almost immediately, confirming my supposition that Ms Harcourt had been watching the video feed. "You've finished already?" she asked, her brow creasing heavily in suspicion. "That didn't take long."

Doing my best not to grit my teeth at Greg's almost palpable air of told-ya-so, I offered her my folder. "I've read every page through carefully, ma'am. If you believe I need to study it more, I will."

"Hrm." Without taking it, she turned her attention to Greg. "And you? Have you read your induction paperwork through carefully?"

Anyone but Greg (and I meant that literally. Anyone.) would've spotted the bear-trap lurking in the undergrowth. But he just stomped right ahead without a care in the world. "Sure did, Ms Harcourt. It's all right here."

As he offered his folder with a flourish, I cringed inwardly. On a scale of one to ten for 'ominous foreshadowing', Ms Harcourt's question hit about eleven and a half. If my instincts were correct, a ton of shit was just about to land on the back of Greg's neck. I just hoped that I wouldn't be caught in the splash radius.

"Very good," she said with a contortion of her face I belatedly realised was supposed to be a smile. "Come on in. There are just a few things left to do."

My brain registered her words, but refused to process them. He's going to get away with goofing off like that? Oh, that's just not fair. Doing my best to ignore the smug look he gave me behind her back—because the alternative was grabbing him by the scruff of the neck and bashing his face into the doorframe—I followed her into the office.

Things just didn't add up. The camera, the leading question … I didn't get it. The moment Greg opened his mouth and lied to her face, Ms Harcourt should've been all over it like a school of piranha. Or maybe a great white shark. But she'd accepted his words at face value. This internship suddenly began to look sucky all over again; not because Greg would get me 'fired' but because he'd be breezing his way through it while I didn't dare not do everything by the book.

"Mr Veder. Miss Hebert. I have one more thing for you to do." Ms Harcourt's clipped voice brought me back to the present. She was standing next to a large metal trash-can beside her desk. From where I was, I could see that it was mostly full of papers. The thought Wow, she uses a lot of paper in one day clashed with the secondary thought Right, so we've got to empty that. Yay.

She turned toward us and I registered two things. The first was a faint smell of lighter fluid. The second was a lit match in her hand. My eyes opened wide as she tossed the match. It described a perfect parabolic arc into the centre of the trash can.

I hadn't been imagining the lighter fluid. The instant that match touched down, everything caught. Within a couple of seconds, the trash can was alight from side to side, flames leaping a yard into the air.

"Fire!" yelped Greg. "Fire! Fire!" With an admirable turn of speed, he bolted from the office, leaving his induction folder flopping to the ground and spilling paper everywhere. "Let me outta here!"

I was also halfway out the door, but not to seek refuge. Fixed in my mind was one of the pages I had carefully studied. Entitled 'Fire Safety', it had clearly shown the fire exits, the WIP phones (I had no idea what the acronym stood for), the locations for the manual fire alarms … and the fire extinguisher closets.

The closest of these was only a few steps away. I reached it and dropped my shoulder-bag and folder to the floor before wrenching the door open. Within hung a large red fire extinguisher. I couldn't recall what the green triangle meant, but they had to have anticipated paper fires when they equipped the closet. With a grunt, I took up the extinguisher—it was heavy!—and lugged it back to the office.

By the time I got there, Greg had run straight past the clearly marked fire exit door not once but twice, and was pulling open random office doors, apparently in the hope that the fire exit might be concealed in one of those. I put him out of my mind, having more important matters to deal with.

Ms Harcourt was standing in the office doorway with an electronic device in her hand. Her thumb was hovering over a large red button when I edged past her. Inverting the extinguisher—I'd read somewhere that you had to do that—I pulled the pin, awkwardly aimed the nozzle at the roaring blaze, and squeezed the trigger.

With a blaring hiss, it blasted white powder over everything. Some settled on my glasses, but I had no hands free to wipe them clear. I just kept moving forward until I was firing the stuff into the trash can itself. Smoke and ash billowed up, making me cough, but I didn't let up until the extinguisher ran dry.

I stopped to catch my breath and take stock of the situation. The fire was definitely out. I'd plastered that entire side of the office with white powder, and gotten more than a little of it on myself. Smoke filled the office, forcing me to stumble back to the door, then a few steps beyond, to get a breath of clean air.

"Well done." Ms Harcourt loomed up beside me, even as men wearing high-vis gear and breathing apparatus ran into her office. "You can put it down now." She held my folder and shoulder-bag.

I blinked, then realised she meant the extinguisher, which I was still clutching like a protective talisman. It felt quite a bit lighter now, probably because I'd emptied it all out on her test. Releasing the cylinder, I let it swing by my hand for a moment then dropped it to the carpet with a dull thud. The last of the smoke scratched at my throat and I coughed. "I'd speak to maintenance if I were you, ma'am," I said. "There's a fire sensor and a sprinkler head in your office, and they both failed to go off." I knew why, of course. She'd probably had them both disabled for this test. But in order to pass the test, I couldn't act as though I knew it was a test. In fact, even though there was smoke spreading across the ceiling, none of the fire sensors were going off.

"Quite," she replied, sounding almost amused. I was pretty sure she knew that I was playing along. "I'm going to need you to visit the infirmary, to ensure that you're suffering no ill effects from smoke inhalation, before we go on."

"Sorry about the mess I made of your office," I said instinctively. I knew which floor the infirmary was on, of course. It was going to be a pain getting rid of all the powder.

"Oh, that's not my office," she said as she led the way to the elevator. "We maintain a dummy office area, which we use for training situations such as this. Our in-house emergency crews need to be kept on their toes, after all."

As well as your interns, it seems. But I didn't say a word as we stepped into the elevator.

<><>​

I lay back on a bed with my shoes off and an oxygen mask on my face. Air that was slightly cooler and drier than I was used to breathing wreathed its way into my lungs. I felt a little light-headed, but that was probably due to the fact that I was breathing almost pure oxygen. When I'd first put it on, the doctor had encouraged me to inhale as deeply as I could, which had started a coughing spasm. This had passed quickly, though. Now I was just lying back and enjoying life.

"How do you feel?" The doctor came over to stand by my bed. I gave him a thumbs-up. He offered me a professional smile; I vaguely wondered how many people he'd seen high on oxygen. The idea made me want to giggle.

There was one of those clothes-peg thingies on my finger. The doctor checked a readout on the monitor next to me, then unclipped it. "Blood oxygen nominal. Pulse strong." Leaning over me, he examined my eyes. "Look up. Look down. Look left. Look right." He made a notation on the clipboard. "The redness is going away nicely."

"Thank you, doctor. You can go now." Ms Harcourt stepped up alongside him. For a grown woman, she could move very quietly. She looked down at me, and a small frown appeared on her brow. "You surprised me, you know. I expected you to show Mr Veder the fire exit and to seek safety, but you went above and beyond. Why didn't you just pull the fire alarm and leave?"

Reaching up, I took the oxygen mask off. Breathing the purest air I would probably experience ever had given me a level of mental clarity I was unused to. "Because the fire extinguisher was closer," I said. "Do you do this with all your interns?" Inwardly, I winced. Apparently, increased clarity came with reduced judgement as to what I was about to say.

Her lips compressed slightly, though I didn't know whether it was due to what I'd said or something else. "Given that you're the first two interns we've taken on in some years, the answer would be 'yes'. Do you feel fit to start work?"

"I suppose so." I pushed myself to a seated position and swung my legs off of the bed. My head didn't spin, so I slid off the bed and landed on my feet. I nodded at Ms Harcourt. "I feel all right, though I'm going to have to look up the contract Dad signed for me to come in here. Because when he finds out what happened, he's gonna get very unhappy, very quickly. Just saying."

She tilted her head to one side. "Mr Veder is saying much the same, though in somewhat stronger language. The word 'lawsuit' keeps cropping up. But you aren't saying it. You don't even seem particularly put out. Why is that?"

"Part of it's the oxygen high, I think. I knew that I wasn't in any real danger. And I'm reasonably certain a big-name company like Medhall wouldn't pull a stunt like that unless you had every safety precaution in place and your lawyers had all their bases covered." I shrugged. "Which is why I want to see the contract and figure out how you worded it." I found a chair and sat in it to pull my shoes on.

There was the other aspect, of course, but I managed not to talk about it. Being able to step up and fix a problem had felt exhilarating. It wasn't just firefighting, but solving problems in general. Is this how superheroes feel? I didn't know, but I liked it.

Also, I found I was willing to put up with quite a lot to keep my internship from going belly-up.

"Very well." Either I was getting used to Ms Harcourt's manner, or she was deliberately being less intimidating toward me. "Come with me, and matters will be explained."

<><>​

"When my mom hears about this crap, she's gonna sue you guys into the bedrock! I'll probably end up with a controlling interest!"

I heard Greg's voice before I saw him. He sounded more agitated than I'd ever seen or heard him before. When I opened the door and entered the room, I was a little surprised by his appearance. I shouldn't have been; the ranting had given me plenty of warning.

His previously-combed hair was all standing on end, probably from running his hands through it. Somehow, his clothes had gone from 'neatly ironed' to 'salvaged from the bottom of the laundry hamper'. It must have been a boy thing.

I'd caught him in mid-pace alongside a table. On the other side of the table sat a woman in a business suit, with a briefcase on the table in front of her. He turned to face me. "Taylor!" he exclaimed. "You're all right!" Two paces toward me, he stopped. "You are all right, aren't you?"

"I'm fine," I said lightly. "How are you? You look … rumpled there."

"Oh, I'm great!" he said, his voice tinged with hysteria. "Couldn't be better! I come to do a nice easy internship, and on the first day I'm catapulted into a life-threatening situation, masquerading as training!" He stomped over toward Ms Harcourt. "You guys are so sued, I'm telling you that!"

"You will sit down, Mr Veder." Ms Harcourt didn't raise her voice, but she didn't have to. It wasn't so much a command as a prediction.

All of Greg's bluster and fire … vanished. Hastily, he drew out a chair and sat down in it. Before I needed to be asked, I also pulled out a chair and took a seat.

"Thank you, Miss Hebert." Ms Harcourt turned to the business-suited woman and nodded. The woman took the briefcase and snapped the latches open. She lifted the lid, took out a familiar-looking document, and slid it over to me. A moment later, a similar document was skated across the table to Greg. "Do you recognise these forms?"

I picked mine up and scanned it. "Yes, ma'am. It's the form my father signed to allow me to intern at Medhall."

Greg looked over his more carefully, then went back through, scrutinising each page as if suspecting forgery. Ms Harcourt let him go on like this for thirty seconds, then cleared her throat.

"Oh!" He jumped as if he'd been shot. "Yeah, this looks like what my mom signed. Doesn't get you off the hook, though. There's nothing in here that says we'd be exposed to life-threatening situations."

Ms Harcourt ignored the threat. "Clause twelve. It states that interns will undergo the same safety training as regular employees. Correct?"

"Well, yeah, but …"

I didn't say anything. Turning to clause twelve, I found a notation that referred me to Appendix G at the back of the form. I flicked back to Appendix G, which stated that regular employees agreed, by virtue of signing, to undergo 'regularly scheduled* emergency drills' including (but not limited to) simulated chemical spills, earthquake, supervillain attacks … and fires in the office space.

I almost skimmed over that asterisk, but then my eyes were drawn back to it. Frowning, I looked down toward the bottom of the page, and there it was.

* Including at most one (1) unscheduled surprise drill to be carried out once per employee per calendar year, at the discretion of Medhall upper management. Results of unscheduled surprise drills to be assessed as per any standard drill.

"But nothing, Greg," I said out loud. "They're covered. That was an unscheduled surprise drill, which we actually signed up for."

"What?" he yelped. "But … no!" Frantically, he paged through the form until he found clause twelve, then followed the same path I had to Appendix G. Finally, his eyes went to the bottom of the page. For a good thirty seconds, he sat there while his eyes flicked back and forth along that single paragraph, looking for a loophole.

"No, that's not right," he protested. "Taylor got smoke inhalation. I'm mentally scarred. We've suffered harm from your stupid surprise drill. We can still sue."

The woman with the briefcase lifted out a weighty tome and dropped it on the table; Greg jumped at the solid thump. The title read simply MEDHALL COMPANY POLICY.

"Part D, section three, subsection four-B," said Ms Harcourt. I had zero doubt that she was quoting verbatim. "Any Medhall employee, contractor, temporary employee or otherwise signatory to the Medhall Company Policy, having suffered injury or malady as a direct result of Medhall policy being enacted, will be compensated immediately and without contest, with the full cost of external medical treatment necessary to treat the injury or malady. A bonus sum of one thousand dollars will be paid out upon completion of treatment. Should the injury or malady be sufficiently treated in-house, or should there be no lasting effect upon the person of the signatory party, the sum of one thousand dollars is still payable."

I blinked, wishing I was still under the oxygen. My brain had worked so much faster then. "Does that mean … we get a thousand bucks?"

Ms Harcourt nodded once, curtly. "Each, yes."

The lady with the briefcase took her cue once more. Taking two thick envelopes from the briefcase, she slid one to each of us. I took mine up and opened the flap to determine that it definitely contained money. Not bothering to count it, I slid it into my shoulder-bag.

Greg was less restrained. Pulling the money out, he fanned it wide, then stuffed it back into the envelope and whistled. "Score!" Turning to face me, he winked elaborately, apparently trying to hide it from Ms Harcourt. I had no idea what the wink was supposed to signify, but Ms Harcourt was on the ball.

"Mr Veder," she said freezingly, "if you are considering launching a lawsuit anyway, be aware that your acceptance of the money specifically indicates that you consider there to be no lasting effects on you from the incident."

For a long moment, Greg blinked at her. " … what?"

"If you're gonna try to sue them anyway, Greg," I said impatiently, "you gotta give the money back. Keeping the money means you don't think there's anything wrong with you." Taking my envelope out of the shoulder-bag, I ran my thumb over the edges of the bills. "I know I'm keeping mine."

"But I'm a minor!" He looked from me to Ms Harcourt. "You can't hold me to any agreement like that!"

"Sure," I agreed. "You think your mom's gonna let you keep a thousand bucks you got paid under the table?" I smiled tightly at him. "Won't happen. Especially once she understands how the company policy is worded."

Now he looked betrayed. "You wouldn't tell her, would you?" Friends wouldn't do that to friends, he didn't quite say. Which was fortunate, because he probably would've been offended if I laughed in his face.

"I wouldn't have to," I said bluntly. Turning to Ms Harcourt, I went on. "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to interrupt."

She favoured me with a brief nod, then fixed Greg with a gimlet eye. "Miss Hebert is essentially correct. Attempting to keep the money and also launch a lawsuit will involve a countersuit for fraud. If you wish to be free to sue … return the money. Now." She held out her hand commandingly.

"But … my money!" Greg clutched at the envelope in a way that reminded me of a certain wizened little character in a fantasy movie. My precious …

It was quite possible that he'd never held so much money in his hands before; I certainly hadn't. And while the smoke inhalation hadn't been exactly pleasant, they'd certainly gone all-out to ensure my well-being after the fact. "Greg, for God's sake. If you really think you're going to sue them, leave the money. Otherwise, take it." I caught his eye and mouthed the words, You'll lose. Emma's dad had talked about how companies beat lawsuits like this; they just kept appealing until the little guy ran out of money. And Medhall had the resources to appeal until Doomsday rolled around.

Greg let out a pained sigh. This was apparently the signal that he'd given up on getting a controlling interest in the company, because he tucked the envelope in his pocket. "Okay, fine. You win."

I personally didn't think getting a thousand bucks in the hand exactly constituted 'losing', but then I wasn't Greg. Thank God. "So, um, Ms Harcourt, what happens now?"

"Now, Ms Hebert, I will assign you your positions." Ms Harcourt looked sternly at me. "You showed initiative, but you also ran into a room where there was a fire without any sort of protective equipment. I think I need to keep a close eye on you, so you will be working for my personal assistant for the duration of this internship."

I nodded meekly. "Yes, ma'am." If not actually nice, Ms Harcourt had basically been fair with me. If I kept on my toes, I figured I could handle this.

"And as for you, Mr Veder." She bent her gaze upon Greg, and her expression was considerably more disapproving. "You failed utterly to take note of anything in the induction folder, including the locations of the fire exits. Then you lied to me. Until you can prove to me that you're capable of anything resembling actual responsibility … you'll be assisting the janitors." Her frown deepened. "And I will be getting a daily report from them."

Greg stared at her, his jaw dropping open. If I had to venture a guess, this was not how his previous internship had gone. "Janitors?" he squeaked.

"Janitors," she confirmed. "And be aware: we like our bathrooms sparkling."

It seemed, after all, that Greg'd gotten one thing right.

He had this crap nailed.

Just not the way he wanted.


End of Part One

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Two: Highs and Lows

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Ms Harcourt's personal assistant was a blonde lady about five years older than me. Her perfect makeup, clothing and figure made me feel absolutely inadequate within seconds of meeting her.

"Hi," she said warmly, shaking my hand. "I'm Tracey Grimshaw. Your name is Taylor?"

"I, uh, yes, Ms Grimshaw," I mumbled. I wasn't used to people being friendly.

"Pfft, call me Tracey," she said, though I suspected she was pleased I'd gone with the formal greeting first. "Everyone else does around here. So, Taylor, has Ms Harcourt told you what you're going to be doing today?"

Numbly, I shook my head. "She just said to do whatever you told me to do. And if there's a real emergency, to leave quietly by the fire escape so the professionals have something to do."

Tracey laughed delightedly. "She said that? Wow, you must really have made an impression on her." She gestured toward the small side-desk in her office. "That's where you'll be working. I've never had an intern assigned to me before, so I'm afraid we're just going to be making it up as we go along."

"Well, I've never been an intern before, either," I confessed. "So what do you want me to do first?"

"First, I think I'll show you where the coffee machine is, and then … hmm." She seemed to consider her options for a moment. "You can use computers, right?"

"I'm not an expert," I said hastily. "But yes, I get good marks in Computer Studies."

That seemed to satisfy her; she beamed.

After an introduction to the break room coffee machine, and a brief course of instruction in how to make coffee the way Tracey—and Ms Harcourt—liked it, I was ushered back to what would be our shared office. With what came across as almost unseemly satisfaction, she carefully arranged the transfer of a laptop and a flatbed scanner across to the desk I would be using. Most of the problems involved ensuring that the cords didn't get tangled or unplugged, but eventually we had matters arranged to our mutual satisfaction. After that, I moved a large box of paper files to a spot beside my desk. A second box, this one empty, went beside the first.

"All right," she said, dusting her hands off, despite the fact that I'd done most of the heavy lifting. I didn't hold that against her; unlike my clothing, I doubted her apparel would stand up to any sort of exercise. "This is what you're going to be doing. We went fully digital with this sort of thing years ago, but someone found a few boxes of old files at the back of a closet somewhere, and now we have to integrate them with the rest of our records."

"So you want me to scan the files?" I wasn't quite sure what she wanted me for. Any idiot could work a scanner. Then again, right then I was probably the 'any idiot' they were looking for.

"Not just that." She indicated the laptop. "That's been set up to receive the input from the scanner. The optical-character recognition software is supposed to render the filled-out forms into the digital format we're using these days, but OCR has been known to throw up glitches. So you scan the files, then eyeball them to ensure that everything translated across OK, and enter any corrections. Then you check with the main system to see if they've already got that client number on file. If the system is working right, it will take the data you've entered and integrate it into the correct file."

"And if it isn't working right?" Because with my luck, it wouldn't be.

She gave me a brilliant smile. "Then it'll throw up a query and between the two of us, we'll try to figure out what's gone wrong. Any questions?"

I frowned. "Yeah. Isn't this sort of thing confidential? Won't I be breaking laws just looking at it?"

"Nope." She shook her head definitively. "We already had someone from Legal check it over. This is old data, stuff that's no longer current. There's nothing there that could be used against anyone."

"Oh, good." I eyed the box. It seemed to be quite full. "I guess I'd better get started, then." Sitting down in the office chair that had been provided, I leaned down and took out a stack of files. When I dropped them on to the desk beside the scanner, dust rose and I sneezed.

"Bless you." Tracey retreated to her own desk, waving her hand before her face.

Taking a tissue from my bag, I blew my nose. "Thanks." I opened the first folder and took out the file it contained. This was going to be boring makework, I knew, but at least it was boring makework away from Emma and her coterie.

I'd take that all day long.

<><>​

"Ugh." Greg slumped into the seat opposite me in the staff canteen. "Hey, Taylor. So, how's your day been?"

My nostrils twitched at the smell of bleach wafting off him. It made a change from that of dusty files. Not necessarily a welcome change, but definitely a change. "Hi, Greg. My day's been … okay, not as interesting as the induction was, but it's definitely bearable. How about you?"

"Cleaning." He groaned. "Do you have any idea how many bathrooms there are in this building?"

"I … uh, no." I did actually have an idea, from the floor-plans that had been part of the induction package, but I decided to let Greg have this one. "How many?"

"Too many." He groaned, running his hands through his hair. "I lost count. I am getting really, really good at scrubbing them. Even when they're clean, I still have to scrub them."

I suspected that his idea of 'clean' wasn't the same as that espoused by the janitorial staff; they may have been deliberately hazing him from time to time, but some of it was almost certainly justified. "Hey, it's all valuable work experience. Even if the experience just serves to teach us exactly how boring life is in the workforce." That was something Tracey had said. I was pretty sure she thought she was joking at the time.

"But I thought it would be more exciting than this. Or that they'd let us, you know, sit back and do nothing." He actually managed to look righteously upset.

"You had to know not all internships would be like your uncle's business," I reminded him. "Some places might actually make you do the work."

He gave me a dirty look, which only intensified when I smirked.

"Not fair," he muttered. "What've you been doing?"

"Making coffee and scanning." I rolled my eyes and took a bite from my pita wrap. I had to pause to chew and swallow, then I continued. "So much scanning. I never knew optical-character recognition could get so many things wrong."

He snorted, then glanced around. Maybe because we were interns, or maybe because Greg reeked of cleaning products, all the nearby tables were empty. Nonetheless, when he spoke, his voice was lower than before. "Talking about getting things wrong, maybe I'm getting things wrong, or …."

"Or, what?" I looked quizzically at him. "Don't tell me you're having second thoughts about this whole internship thing."

"No, no, it's not that." He leaned in closer. My eyes began to water from the reek of ammonia. "Some of the guys, the jokes they've been telling while we're cleaning the restrooms … they're a bit, you know, racist."

"What?" I stared at him. "Is that all?" I didn't tell jokes like that myself, but I had no idea what Greg considered racist. Some of the more off-colour jokes the Dockworkers had been known to tell were a little racially insensitive, but I knew the guys weren't about to down tools and take up with Kaiser.

He seemed taken aback by my dismissal of his concerns. "Well, yeah. I just … I just thought you should know. But I guess it's nothing."

I sighed. "Do you see anyone being harassed or taking offense at the jokes? That's when you need to say something. And by that, I mean speak to your supervisor on the quiet so they can say something. Okay?" Because if there was a faster way to get kicked out of an internship than by openly criticising your workmates' sense of humour, I wasn't exactly sure what it might be.

"No, nobody's being upset by the jokes," he conceded. "And they are pretty funny. I guess I was concerned over nothing."

"Mm-hmm," I agreed, taking another mouthful of food. In between doing the file scanning—I was halfway through the first box already—and fetching coffee, Tracey and I had been getting to know each other. She was nice, and friendly, and efficient. I liked her, and she didn't talk down to me. The endless scanning (and the occasional bug lurking in the paperwork) aside, I was really starting to enjoy the internship.

We chatted casually as we finished our respective meals, then dumped our trays and headed back to our duties. Greg was a little more reluctant than me; I got the impression the janitorial staff were enjoying putting him through his paces. Well, as I'd already told him, it was all valuable experience. Boredom, after all, was also something that one could experience.

<><>​

When I got back to the office I was sharing with Tracey, bearing a steaming cup of coffee for each of us, I found she had a visitor. A good-looking guy in his mid-twenties was perched on the corner of her desk and flirting with her so blatantly that a flashing neon sign couldn't have made it any more obvious. From all appearances, she was flirting right back. They looked around as I entered the room.

"Oh, uh, sorry," I said, reversing course. "I can go away for five minutes—"

"No, it's okay." Tracey shook her head, still giggling at whatever he'd said just before I came in. "Justin was just leaving. Weren't you, Justin?"

His mouth twisted in a wry grin, then he nodded. "Yup. Places to go, people to do. See you 'round, babe. We still on for Friday night?"

"Sure," she agreed, then reached out and prodded him in the chest with her forefinger. "But if you stand me up again, you can whistle in the wind for all I care."

He captured her hand and kissed her knuckles, eliciting a giggle and a blush. "I'll be there. Even if I have to tell the boss where he can shove his overtime." Sliding his butt off the desk, he straightened up and turned to me. "And good afternoon to you, Miss …?"

"Hebert," I said, startled that he was addressing me. "Taylor Hebert. I'm just the intern." As if he needs to know that, I chastised myself.

As he looked intently at me, I felt a blush of my own begin to rise in my cheeks. He was good-looking, after all, and there was an attractive sort of roguish charm about him. "Well, now. I'd heard we had a new prodigy in the office. Harcourt's been singing your praises over how you handled induction." Without giving me a chance to respond, he ducked past me. "I'd love to talk more about that, but duty calls. Oh, coffee. I'll take that, thanks. Bye!"

And with that, he was off down the corridor with my cup of coffee in his hand. I stared after him until he vanished around the corner, then at Tracey. "What just happened?"

With a tolerant smile, she got up and took her coffee from me. "That was Justin. He works in Advertising. To hear him tell it, he's their new rising star." With a roll of her eyes, she sat back down. "Just keep in mind that ninety percent of what he says is bullshit, and you'll be fine."

"And he's your boyfriend?" He wasn't totally my type. Not enough muscles, for one thing, and he was maybe ten years older than me. Plus, he'd stolen my coffee. But all that aside, the look he'd given me had been enough to make me feel just a little weak in the knees.

"Pfft, hardly." Tracey took a sip of her coffee, then chuckled softly. "That man will never let himself get tied down by anyone. We date occasionally, then he does something outrageous, then I forgive him and we date again." She held up the cup in mock salute. "Nice coffee, by the way. You've gotten it just right."

"And he got mine just right," I grumbled.

She waved off my complaint airily. "Oh, he does that to everyone. Steals mine too, when he can get away with it. Go, make yourself another cup. The files aren't going anywhere."

I was beginning to see the funny side of it as I went to do what she'd said. He'd been polite to me, though (given what Tracey had said about the ninety percent bullshit) I was going to take what he'd said about Ms Harcourt with a large grain of salt. But even if he was Tracey's on-and-off boyfriend, I could still look at him as he walked past.

Interning at Medhall, I decided, was getting more interesting all the time.

<><>​

"Three o'clock!" sang out Tracey as she stood up from her desk. "Time's up, Taylor. You can go home now, unless you want to stay back with us wage slaves. Or you're bucking for overtime." She grinned at me. "Unpaid overtime, in your case."

"That's because I don't get paid in the first place," I agreed. "Double nothing is still nothing." I finished closing the laptop down, and gave the stack of folders—greatly reduced from when I'd started that morning—a proprietary pat.

I was actually getting pretty good at it, I figured. More to the point, I'd belatedly realised where I'd gone wrong with a couple of earlier files, so instead of bothering Tracey with it, I'd figured out how to get back into the system and fix my mistakes. I was also learning the laptop's quirks, such as how the OCR seemed to recognise words and letters more readily if the page was scanned on a very slight right-hand tilt.

"So, how did you enjoy your first day here?" asked Tracey as we headed along the corridor.

"Well, from here on in I'll only be doing half-days," I pointed out. "But yeah, it was fun. In an oh-god-work-work-work sort of way." It had definitely been far preferable to spending the same amount of time at Winslow. The three half-days per week, I decided, could not come fast enough for me.

"Good," decided Tracey. "It's amazing how much work I got done for Ms Harcourt, while you were taking care of those files."

We reached the elevators where a burly uniformed security guard stood, arms folded. "Ms Grimshaw," he acknowledged her with a nod. I couldn't help but notice his scarred knuckles. This was a man who knew how to handle himself.

"Bradley," she replied, and favoured him with a beaming smile. "Taylor here's just going home for the day."

"Sure thing," he said gruffly, and pressed the elevator button for me. The doors opened almost immediately.

"See you Monday, Taylor," said Tracey as I stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the lobby.

"See you then," I replied. Once the elevator doors had closed, I leaned back against the wall and closed my eyes briefly. A sigh escaped me. Tension began to unravel from my shoulders.

The elevator arrived at the lobby and the doors opened. I headed out past the security desk, through the sliding glass doors, into the afternoon sun.

It had been a fun day overall, but the whole time I'd been wondering when the other shoe was going to drop. Was I going to say or do something that got me kicked out of the internship? Were they going to suddenly realise that they'd made some mistake, and they were replacing me with one of Emma's friends? Would I be changing places with Greg?

But now I was done with the day, and nothing like that had happened. Sure, Ms Harcourt had done her best to put the fear of God into us, but Tracey had been sweet, and even Justin and Bradley had been polite to me. And I had a thousand dollars in my bag. My head came up. I had a thousand dollars in my bag!

"Taylor!"

I looked around, instinctively clutching my bag closer to my body. Greg had just emerged from the building, looking somewhat the worse for wear. His clothing had gone from bottom-of-the-laundry-hamper to something even Goodwill would've turned down. The expression on his face was one I'd only seen in veterans in war movies, or capes after Endbringer battles. In short, he looked like he'd been chewed up and spat out.

"Oh, hi, Greg," I said, wondering if I should smile or if he'd think I was laughing at him. "What … uh, what happened to you?"

"They're mean," he said feelingly. "They're mean, horrible and nasty, and I don't think I want to work there any more."

"Why, what did they do?" I wasn't sure if I wanted to know, then I decided that I did. Just in case.

"Well, after we cleaned all the restrooms, we started doing repairs around the building. And they kept sending me down to Stores to get stuff they had to know wasn't in stock."

I could guess the rest from his aggrieved expression, but I raised my eyebrows enquiringly anyway. "What sort of stuff?"

He began ticking off items on his fingers. "Well, they were fixing the automatic closer on a door, and it closed to the left, so they sent me down to get a can of left-handed elbow grease. I was halfway down to Stores before I realised they were joking with me."

"Well, duh." I'd first heard that old chestnut when I was about six years old, listening to Dad and Kurt talking about Dockworker pranks.

"Yeah," he said. "So I went back up and told them, there's no such thing as left-handed grease. So they said yeah, our mistake, and told me to get normal elbow grease. But when I got down there, the guy said he was fresh out of stock."

"I see." I didn't say anything more, because I didn't want to laugh in his face.

He didn't seem to notice the way I was pressing my lips tightly together. "So when I got back to where the guys were, they sent me down again. If they couldn't get the elbow grease, they needed to balance the closer somehow, so they told me to go down there for a short weight."

I did my best to disguise my chuckle as a cough. "And I'm guessing the guy didn't have any in stock?"

Greg looked disgusted. "No. He just had me sit there for a bit while he looked around, then he sent me back upstairs."

It was too much; I couldn't resist. "So he made you stay for a short wait."

He stared at me. "No. Weren't you listening? He didn't have any. He …."

I waited, watching with interest as the enlightenment dawned on him. He actually mumbled the words 'short wait' a couple of times, then he stared at me, eyes and mouth opening wide.

"What?" I asked innocently, only to totally spoil it by snorting with laughter.

"You knew!" he said accusingly. "You knew! You let me tell you all that, and you knew!"

I was giggling hard by then. Briefly, I managed to get it under control as I held up one finger. "Elbow grease …." I sputtered.

"What? What about elbow grease?"

"Doesn't come in cans!" It was lucky we were at the bus stop by then, because I was laughing so hard I had to sit down.

He sat beside me, rolling his eyes. "And I suppose there's no such thing as spray-cans of striped paint, either?"

At this point, tears were rolling down my cheeks. All I could do was shake my head.

"Arrgh!" He ran his hands through his hair for what must've been the fiftieth time that day. "I feel so stupid! How do you know stuff like this, Taylor?"

Asking me that question at that point was useless. It took me a good five minutes to calm down before I was able to answer him. "Dockworkers," I explained succinctly. "My Dad works in the office. I've heard chapter and verse on every prank they've ever played on each other. Including the time someone zip-tied an air-horn to the underside of his chair. When he sat down, the air-horn went off and he nearly went through the ceiling. Kurt said later that he spent ten minutes chasing the perpetrator around the site with the air-horn, vowing to shove it someplace unpleasant." Though Kurt had never actually revealed who the perpetrator was, which made me wonder.

The bus pulled up; it was the line I wanted, so I stood up. Greg came with me. "Okay, at least please tell me that it was legit when they made me get a steam sample with a garbage bag."

I raised both eyebrows and gave him a frank stare. "Do you really want me to answer that?" Climbing on board the bus, I flashed my pass.

"Wait." Greg got on behind me. "So you're telling me that everything they made me go and fetch was a prank?"

"Unless there's stuff that was actually in stock, pretty much, yeah," I said. I found a seat and sat down. Greg sat beside me. "So what are you going to be buying?"

"What?" He looked at me as if I'd just invented the word. "Buying?"

"I got on this bus so I could go and buy some proper office clothing," I said patiently. "So I can fit in better there. Why are you on this bus?"

"Oh. Uh." He looked around, startled, as the bus moved off with a jerk. "I was, uh, I was talking to you?"

"Well, now you're talking to me and you're on the wrong bus," I said with a certain amount of acerbity. "Well done."

"Um." He seemed to think about this. "Maybe I should buy something to wear at work, too …?"

"Well, that depends." I raised my eyebrows. "Are you going to keep on with the internship, or are they too mean and nasty for you?"

"Oh. Right." He shrugged, apparently over his irritation from before. "Sure, I can go back. I mean, they're not gonna catch me with those pranks the second time around."

I seriously doubted that they'd used all their pranks up on the first day. After all, I had no idea how long they'd gone without new blood to inflict their fun on, but learning curves were a thing. "Sure," I encouraged him. "And if you were a good enough sport the first day, they'll probably let up on you from now on."

The janitorial staff of the Medhall building, I reasoned, were unlikely to treat Greg as horrifically as Emma and her friends treated me. Sending him on a wild-goose chase around the building was nowhere near as nasty as what happened to me on a regular occasion at school. As safety-conscious as the building management seemed to be, I couldn't see the staff being permitted to do anything that might physically endanger a minor, or even threaten serious humiliation. Like I'd said to him earlier (albeit jokingly), he might even learn something about how the world worked.

We rode on in silence. Or at least, I was silent. Greg lasted for one stop, then he started chattering about Space Opera; the levels, the capabilities and the various cheats and tricks to level up faster. It really seemed like his bad mood from earlier was gone, as though it had never been. If I'd been at all into computer games, it might have even been interesting.

The bus pulled up at the Weymouth Mall, and I got off. Greg did as well, though by this time he was well into a convoluted tale of how he'd somehow 'owned' someone on the PHO boards with information about some obscure cape or other. I knew that PHO stood for ParaHumans Online, but I'd never spent more than five consecutive minutes on there. My account might even have lapsed; I had no idea, nor any desire to find out. After all, I was never going to be a superhero, so what was the point in looking?

Once we got into the mall proper, I planted myself in front of Greg and waited until he ran down. To his credit, it only took him a few seconds. "What?" he asked. "Why have we stopped?"

"Because I'm going shopping for women's clothing," I said patiently. "Including underwear." After all, I had a thousand dollars to spend now. I figured I may as well splurge on something that fitted me properly rather than 'eh, good enough'. "If you're going to buy something for yourself, I suggest you go find it. The mall will be closing soon." Mentioning underwear to him was a calculated gamble. With some boys, it would draw them on. No doubt Greg had his share of teenage hormones, but they weren't distributed in that fashion. When I mentioned the dreaded word, he visibly blanched.

"Oh, uh, right, yeah," he stammered. "I'll, uh, I'll see you later. Monday."

"See you then," I agreed, putting up my hand in a brief wave. Turning away from him, I headed off to find a store that catered for my wishes. I decided that I also needed new shoes; either sensible flats, or maybe something with just a little rise to them. Nothing too dramatic; I was already taller than Tracey, and I didn't want to look like I was trying to tower over her.

(Physically, I was taller than Ms Harcourt, but I'd never be able to prove it. With her presence alone, that woman would have King Kong whimpering in the corner in about ten seconds flat.)

First, however, I wanted to test the adage 'clothes maketh the man'; or in this case, woman. A selection of feminine businesswear in one window caught my attention, and I entered the shop. I was already wearing my best effort at business attire, so the saleslady came over immediately. Cynically, I wondered how long it would have taken her to 'notice' me, had I been wearing my preferred hoodie and jeans.

I was still riding a high from my first successful day as an intern, so I put my best face forward. "Hi," I said, trying to present myself as Tracey would. "I just started an internship with Medhall, so I was looking for something appropriate to wear to work …?"

"Oh, well done!" she said, her face lighting up. The name 'Medhall' was definitely one that opened doors, I decided. Then she must have realised that I was still only a teenager. "You do realise, our prices are in the upper range for business attire …." Thus giving me the option to gracefully slink out of her store with my dignity mostly intact.

I was slinking exactly nowhere. "Yes, that's why I'm here," I said, matching the steel in her smile with one of my own. "You see, they paid me an up-front cash bonus to get outfitted. And I'm choosing to spend it here."

None of which was actually a lie. They had paid me up front, and if I opted to use it to get outfitted, then that was what it was for. One glimpse at the envelope with the stack of cash inside, and I was ushered into the back rooms.

<><>​

An hour later, I exited the shop, a pair of bulging shopping bags in hand. Once the saleslady had determined that yes, I intended to spend serious money in her store, she'd gone all-out. I had tried on half a dozen different outfits before they were satisfied, and we settled on two. Serious consideration had gone into which colour went best with my hair and my eyes, and my feet had been poked and prodded by a woman who then sorted through no fewer than fifteen boxes for a single shoe.

In the end, however, all the effort had been worth it. I now knew what truly comfortable underwear—and truly comfortable footwear—felt like. Both, it had to be said, supported me in all the right places. My purchases included two sets of business attire—one to wear and one to wash—plus a pair of shoes and a few sets of underwear (no way was I walking away with just one set). My thousand dollar payout was now sadly depleted, and I was wearing my ordinary clothing again (over the new underwear, because duh) and my new shoes (double duh). I didn't quite break into a dance routine as I stepped out into the corridor, but it was a near thing.

Believe it or not, I'm walkin' on air/ I never thought I could feel so free-ee ….

Weymouth was now closing, so I made my way to the closest exit. Moving with a confident stride, I stepped out into the open air.

Right into trouble.

I hadn't seen them through the glass doors, mainly because I hadn't been looking out for them. But Emma, Sophia and Madison had obviously seen me, or perhaps they'd been shadowing me since I came out of the store. Because I couldn't imagine them noticing me going into the store and not figuring out some way of making trouble for me.

"Hello, Taylor." Emma's greeting was as sharp and bright and deadly as an unsheathed blade. Her teeth, as she smiled at me, were almost as sharp. "What have we told you about shoplifting? Really?" Her voice was pitched loudly enough that nearby people turned their heads.

"I haven't been shoplifting!" I protested.

"No sense denying it, Taylor," Madison spoke over me. "It's quite sad, really. You just keep doing it." She gestured at my bags; while I was distracted by the motion, Sophia darted in and snatched one from my hand.

"Hey!" Hampered by my need to hang on to the shoulder-bag and my other bag, I tried to grab it back, but failed. Madison 'blundered' into my way, while Sophia handed the bag off to Emma. "Give that back! It's mine!"

"As if," sneered Emma, lifting one of my two suit jackets from the bag. So of course Sophia had grabbed the bag that didn't have my original underwear and shoes in it. "You never owned something this classy in your life. You could never afford anything this classy. Why did you even bother stealing it?"

"I didn't steal it!" I was starting to get upset, my voice becoming more and more high-pitched. This made me sound guilty, even when I wasn't; even when I didn't feel guilty. Emma was a past master at manipulating matters so that she came off as the good guy. All she had to do was push me off balance just a little, emotionally speaking, and I was easy prey. "I've got a receipt!"

A second later, I regretted saying that; it would've been smarter to get the attention of security or the cops and show them the receipt. But that was why they'd waited till I came outside. All the security was inside, where they couldn't provide any kind of inconvenient assistance. The adults on the outside with me were all watching the show but the problem was, they were leaning toward support for Emma and her friends.

"Receipt?" Emma dived into the bag and came up with the slip of paper. Examining it, she shook her head. "It's not real. I could make a better one up in my sleep." Her tone was so convincing that even I was taken in for a split second. Did the store give me a fake receipt for some reason?

"Are we surprised?" Madison shook her head, so sweet and petite I could've strangled her. "That's Taylor all over. She never thinks things through." She gave me a pitying smile.

"Give me that!" I tried to reach forward and grab the receipt, but this time Sophia intercepted me. She knocked my hand up and away, then slugged me in the stomach when I tried to push past her. I doubled up, gagging. Madison tried to grab my other bags from me, but I clung to them.

"No getting rid of the evidence, Hebert," she growled, then turned to Emma. "I know people on the force. I think we should take this stolen property to them."

"Stolen property?" I wheezed. "You're the ones who're stealing my property." I turned to the people around us, trying to appeal to them. "Can't you see it? They've been doing this stuff to me for months."

"I'm sorry, folks," Emma said sweetly, once again stealing the initiative from me. "We try so hard, as her friends. It's so easy to believe her, unless you know what she's really like."

"If she's been shoplifting, as you say, maybe we should hold her for the the police," said one man uncertainly, taking his phone out.

Madison tried again for my bags. I pushed her away, but Sophia tripped me. As I put my hand down to catch myself, she grabbed the second one from the shop and yanked it out of my grasp. I clung to my shoulderbag and managed to hang on to that, at least.

"No, don't bother," Emma said with all the authority of someone with a lawyer for a father. "It won't help. She'll just get a slap on the wrist. We'll just turn these over to the authorities, and they can return them to the store tomorrow."

"They won't be wanting these," Sophia said, digging into the second bag and pulling out the shoes and underwear I'd been wearing when I walked in. I cringed as she tossed them to the ground beside me, but not for the reason everyone seemed to be assuming. I didn't need anyone to see my used underwear.

"Eww!" shrieked Madison delightedly. "How long have you been wearing those, Taylor? A week?"

I couldn't win here. Every time I opened my mouth, Emma or Madison overrode me. Everyone was looking at me as though I was the thief and they were the tolerant friends trying to the right thing by me. Grabbing my shoes and underwear, I scrambled to my feet and ran for it. A couple of people tried to grab me on the way through, but I pulled free and kept running.

"It's the drugs, you see …." Emma's voice, bright and piercing, faded into the distance behind me.

As comfortable as they were, my new office shoes weren't the best for running in. I stopped halfway down the block and changed shoes. As I walked, I tried not to cry, and failed.

I'd thought nothing could ruin the great day I'd been having. The first day of my internship had gone perfectly. I'd aced the induction, I'd impressed my boss, and I'd even met some nice people. Tracey was nice, and Ms Harcourt was scary but fair. And then, just as I thought everything was going just right and I'd be able to show up in clothing worthy of a Medhall internship, Emma had managed to fuck things up for me yet again.

So much for being able to get away from her and the others for three half-days a week. Even outside school, I can't avoid them.

I took the bus home, curled up around my own misery. The bruises from Sophia's manhandling were painful, but hardly a problem. What hurt more was the loss of the money; or rather, the clothing I'd bought with that money. The clothing wasn't even for me, as such. It was so that I'd feel more like I belonged at Medhall.

By the time I stopped crying, I had coldly decided that I wouldn't tell Dad about anything that had happened. I wouldn't tell him about the induction, which meant I didn't have to tell him about the thousand dollars, or about Emma stealing my clothes. One set of underwear and one pair of shoes had survived the debacle, and I would by God wear those shoes to my internship at Medhall.

If I told Dad … I had no idea how I would do it. I knew I was holding too much back from Dad these days, but … he had too much on his plate already. Even at his best, he still wasn't over Mom. And at his worst, he was barely functional. Not as bad as the first few weeks after Mom died, but not good either. If I dumped this on him as well, I had no idea how he'd handle it. Or if he'd be able to handle it.

<><>​

So I went home, and I said nothing. I carefully wiped down my new shoes, and put them away. Taking the Medhall safety manual from my shoulder-bag, I read it from cover to cover over the weekend. And I took all the anger and pain and hurt from the theft and I put it away in a box, because I would not and could not let Emma see it in my eyes, when she saw me next.

On Monday morning, I went to school. If I didn't go to school, Emma would win, and it would be easier to not go, the next day. I had my shoes in my backpack, along with my shoulder-bag and the clothing I'd worn on my first day at Medhall. If I wore them to Winslow, Emma and her crew would stop at nothing to ruin them by midday; knowing full-well where I'd be going after that.

Fortunately, it seemed that she thought she'd screwed me up sufficiently by stealing my office clothing. I saw her mocking expression as she looked over the ratty hoodie and jeans I was wearing. That wasn't enough to break through my reserve, but when I saw Madison wearing one of the tops I'd picked out to wear under my suit jacket—of the three, she was the only one petite enough to pull it off—I nearly lost it. Only the certain knowledge that they were waiting for me to react let me keep my cool.

I went to home room. Computer Studies followed on, and then World Issues. The first was no big deal, as I didn't share it with anyone who had a problem with me. The second was more of a problem, given that Julia and Madison were both interested in making my life all sorts of hell. There was juice on my chair, of course, so I took another one at the back of the room.

The trick to dealing with it was not dealing with it. I didn't open my book, because that would invite Madison to dump pencil shavings over it. When Mr Gladly spoke, I listened with half an ear, keeping the majority of my attention on Julia and Madison. I wouldn't have put it past them to open my bag and pour juice inside. What was in there was more important than my grades, right then.

Time crawled toward midday. With every minute that ticked by, there was less time for Madison and Julia to pull a prank on me. I watched them; they watched me. Mr Gladly blathered on, trying to interest us in his subject when he had to know that more than half the class was watching the clock. Half past eleven. Twenty-five before twelve. Twenty to twelve.

Finally, the bell rang for lunch. I was out of my seat, yanking my over-full backpack on to my desk to shove the World Issues textbook back inside. That done, I headed for the door.

" … Taylor Hebert to the principal's office … Taylor Hebert to the principal's office …"

Still heaving the backpack on to my shoulder, I froze and turned. Madison and Julia looked back at me, cruel triumph in their eyes. It was obvious that they were behind it; them, and Emma and Sophia. Equally obvious was the understanding that no matter what I said, no matter how I protested my innocence in whatever bullshit scenario they'd cooked up, I would not get away from Winslow before the next bus went. Maybe the next after that. It would be just like Blackwell to keep me waiting for twenty minutes, just because.

I would be late to my Medhall internship, on my second day. Depending on how long they drew it out, I might not even make it there at all.

That was Emma's plan. That was why Madison and Julia hadn't bothered fucking with me. They'd just let me sweat, knowing what was coming.

Fuck. That.

Pivoting on my heel, I plunged out through the classroom door. To get to Principal Blackwell's office, I would have to turn left.

I turned right.


End of Part Two

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern
Part Three: One of Us

[A/N: This chapter beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: Due to the large number of people left less than happy about the ending of the last chapter, here's the next one. Cheers.]


As I crossed the parking lot, I saw Sophia run around the corner of the building. She spotted me a moment later, and headed straight for me. I increased my pace; fortunately, I had a significant head start, and the bus was just pulling into the stop. Still, it was close. I climbed up the steps just before she arrived at the bus.

"Come on, Hebert," she said, following me in. "Get off the bus. Blackwell wants to see you."

I looked at her, and I looked at the bus driver. He gave me the same look the people outside the mall had given me on Friday evening; I don't want to get involved. It hadn't mattered that I'd been in the right, or that Emma and her friends were blatantly stealing my property. They'd loudly proclaimed that they had good reason to do it, and the people had accepted it, and so they got away with it. As they always did.

Sophia took hold of my arm. "Come on, I said."

The driver nodded toward the school. "Maybe you should go, kid. Whatever you're in trouble for, running away's not gonna help any."

I looked at him, then I looked at Sophia, and I decided, fuck it. If ever I was going to draw a line in the sand and say this far and no farther, now was the time. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the small canister of pepper spray Dad had given me a while back, just so I'd be safe while I was out and about. I hadn't had it on Friday because my denim skirt didn't have pockets.

When Sophia saw it, her eyes widened, which was the exact wrong thing to do. Maybe she expected me to flinch, or choke, or just fold and go meekly. Nine times out of ten, I would have. Scratch that; ninety-nine times out of a hundred. But this was that one percent of situations where I was not prepared to cut my losses and walk away. I had tasted something new with my internship; the chance to be in a situation where things could be better. Even as she was reaching for it, I gave her a half-second spray, full in the face.

Coughing and choking, she fell backward out of the bus and rolled on the ground, scrubbing at her eyes and mouth with the sleeve of her track suit. Inwardly, I winced; my reading on the subject had indicated that rubbing the afflicted area only made it worse. Well, it couldn't have happened to a nicer person. I turned to look at the driver as I put the spray back into my pocket. "Can we go, now?"

"Listen," he said. "Like I said, I don't know what sorta trouble you're in, but that ain't gonna help at all."

"And when I want your attention, I'll ask for it," I muttered, and dug in my backpack, reaching into my shoulderbag. My questing fingers found the Medhall pass-tag they'd issued me on Friday, and I pulled it out.

The driver looked at it, and his eyebrows rose. "Aren't you a bit young to be working there?" he asked.

"Who are you, the age police? I've got an internship," I explained. "I don't want to be late. Any other dumb questions?"

"Right, right." He pulled the lever to close the doors and hooked his head back to the seats behind him. "Siddown. You always pepper-spray your friends?"

"She's no friend," I explained tersely. "Anyway, who are you to care? Just shut up and drive the bus already, will you?"

"Right, right, fine." The driver shook his head and muttered something along the lines of 'fucking Winslow'. He'd just started the bus and put it into gear when I saw movement at the school doors. For a moment, I thought it was Emma or even Blackwell, looking to bodily drag me off the bus where Sophia had failed. Honestly, at this point I wouldn't have ruled out them calling the cops on me. Well, the pepper spray canister still had some of its contents. I wouldn't go down without a fight.

But then I recognised Greg. "Wait," I told the driver. "Can you hold up a moment?"

He looked dubiously back at me. "Is that another one of your not-friends? Because I don't want any more pepper spray in my damn bus, thanks."

"No, no, this one's an actual friend. He's doing an internship, too."

For the longest moment, I thought he was going to drive off anyway. But he pulled the lever to open the doors again, and waited. Sophia, writhing on the pavement outside, choked out dire threats in between fits of coughing. She was unable to stand, much less come into the bus and attack me again, but I was still relieved when Greg came puffing up.

"Th-thanks," he managed, clambering up the steps into the bus. "Thought you were gonna leave me behind."

"I was," said the driver laconically. "Thank your friend there that I didn't." He closed the doors and started the bus moving as Greg was just sitting down.

"Whoof!" grunted Greg, flopping into the seat. "Wow, that was close." He paused. "Wait, was that Sophia on the ground outside? She looked like she'd been maced."

"Sure was," I confirmed, not sure if I wanted to know how he knew what the effects of pepper-spray looked like. "She didn't want me to go to Medhall."

"But why not?" He looked confused. "She hates you. I mean, even I know that. I would've thought she'd be glad to see you out of Winslow, at least for a half-day."

I rolled my eyes. Greg was as oblivious as ever, it seemed. "Yeah, she hates me, just like Emma and Madison do. Me doing this internship is good for me. I might even get a great job out of it. They don't want me having anything nice. So they're going all-out to fuck it up for me." I slumped back in my seat, arms crossed. "You wouldn't believe how far they've gone already."

The metaphorical light-bulb that popped into existence above his head would've blinded me, if it were real. "Oh, so that's why you got called to the office! That was them!"

"That was them," I agreed sourly. "So I'm in the shit tomorrow. Especially since Sophia's gonna absolutely complain about me pepper-spraying her. But if I let them hold me back today, I wouldn't get to go anyway." It was beginning to dawn on me that as cathartic as pepper-spraying Sophia had been, I'd probably shot myself in the foot. Still, it was almost worth it.

"Yeah, no." He grimaced. "That's really, really sucky. I wish they'd just leave you alone."

"Trust me," I said, "I wish that every single damn day." I also wished he'd offer more than 'I wish this would happen', such as any kind of actual assistance, but I couldn't have everything. To take my mind off darker matters, I looked him over. His clothing looked more practical for janitorial work; less white collar and more blue collar. "Ready for a hard day fetching left-handed screwdrivers?"

He blinked at me. "Is that a thing?"

I snorted. "Not usually, no. If they send you down to get something and it sounds weird, look them in the eye and ask them if they want a DVD rewinder with that. If they're just hazing you, it'll clue them in that you're awake to it. If not, they'll say no, they actually want whatever it is. I'm not saying it'll fix the situation, but you might actually get to do some work instead of running around in circles."

Of course, they might just ignore his attempt to straighten things out and keep hazing him, but there was a limit to what they'd be allowed to do. Or at least, I hoped there was. In any case, it was the best advice I could give him.

Ironically, I'd actually seen a DVD rewinder once. Kurt had given one to Lacey as a gag gift, once upon a time, and I hadn't stopped laughing for two hours. From the look on his face, Greg must have thought I was pulling his leg. "Really?"

"Really." I shrugged and turned away to look out the window.

Though the sun was shining—it was actually a nice day outside—my thoughts insisted on going down a dark path. I had no idea what story Emma had spun to get Blackwell to call me to the office, but it must have sounded good on the surface. Momentarily, I wondered if she was pushing the 'shoplifting' scam all the way, attempting to get me in trouble with the police, but I discarded that notion due to the lack of cop cars outside Winslow when I left. Of course, there may have been plainclothes officers on site; I had no way of knowing.

Either way, between ignoring the bogus summons and pepper-spraying Sophia, I had no doubt that Blackwell was going to be seriously pissed with me when I got to school on Tuesday, and that would be without Emma and the others gleefully stoking the fire. Thinking about the police made me briefly wonder if I should reconsider my instinctive decision on Friday not to bother going to them. On the one hand, what Emma and the others had done constituted flat-out theft. If I'd had any support from the crowd at all, I could maybe have had the chance to contact mall security and have them take the receipt into the store I'd bought the clothing from. From there, I could maybe call the cops and report the theft.

But Emma was all too good at convincing people that her side of events was the only side that mattered. No matter what I said, she had plenty of practice at twisting my words, or making them seem inconsequential. Plus, her dad was a lawyer. If I called the cops on Emma, Mr Barnes would get involved and that meant Dad would find out. And while I knew he'd back me up, I honestly could not be certain if the cops would take my side over Emma and her father. It wasn't like any other authority figure I'd turned to had ever helped me in any meaningful way. And if it went bad, Dad would probably lose his temper at some point and then he'd get in trouble, all because of me.

At least Emma couldn't get me 'fired' from Medhall. It wasn't Winslow, so she couldn't bat her eyelashes at the security guards and get them to throw me out. (And if she tried it on Bradley, he would probably loom at her until she slunk away with her metaphorical tail between her legs). I was pretty sure her father had no influence there either, so he couldn't call Max Anders and have me dropped from the internship.

My train of thought skidded to a halt.

He wouldn't call Medhall … but Emma might. She'd already shown how intent she was to cost me my position there. A simple phone call, purporting to be me … once upon a time, she'd actually been pretty good at imitating my voice ….

"Shit!" I sat bolt upright, scanning the street ahead. Phone box, phone box, phone box … come on, where's a phone box when I need one?

"What's the matter?" asked Greg, looking at me with concern. "Is there a cape fight or something?"

"No, I just need to make a phone call, and if I stop the bus at a pay-phone, he'll probably drive on, and I'll be late to Medhall anyway." I scrubbed my hands over my face, trying to prevent myself from crying. No matter how hard I fucking tried, Emma was going to win. Because being me was suffering.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

"Use mine."

"What?" I didn't look around, too busy trying to scan both sides of the street at once.

"Use my phone." Something bumped my shoulder, and I looked around. Greg—beautiful, glorious, wonderful Greg—was holding out a cell-phone. It was already open to the main screen, the wallpaper portraying … well, okay, I hadn't known people had done artwork of Alexandria in a bikini. A very skimpy bikini. But right then, I didn't care.

"Thank you," I babbled. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" I may have taken the top layer of skin from his fingertips with the speed that I snatched the phone from his grip. Pulling my purse from my pocket, I found the contact card for Medhall and dialled the number with shaking hands.

"You have reached Medhall Corporation," an impersonal female voice answered. "How may I direct your call?"

"Uh, yes, my name is Taylor Hebert," I said rapidly. "I'm supposed to be interning for Tracey Grimshaw this afternoon. Could you please put me through to her?"

"Certainly. Ms … Herbert, was it?"

"Uh, Hebert." I spelled my name out as slowly as I dared. "She's expecting me to come in soon." I hope.

"May I ask the reason that you are calling?"

"I just need to talk to her. Please." I tried not to let the desperation strangling my chest through into my voice. The very last thing I wanted was for her to think I was a crazy and hang up.

"Contacting Ms Grimshaw now."

Then I heard the ring-tone of Tracey's phone. It rang once, then twice. Pick up, I silently urged. Please pick up.

On the third ring, it was picked up. I heard Tracey's voice. "Hello?"

"Tracey, it's me!" I said urgently. "I need to talk to …."

My voice trailed off as I realised she couldn't hear me. Instead, the anonymous lady on the switchboard was talking to her. "I have a Taylor Hebert on the line for you, Ms Grimshaw. She says that she is coming in for her internship, and insisted on being put through to you."

When Tracey answered, I heard honest puzzlement in her voice. "Taylor? She's coming in?"

My hand clenched on the phone until I could hear plastic creaking. Emma must've called and left a message. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.

The switchboard lady was as calm and professional as ever. "That is what she told me. Do you wish to speak with her?"

To my profound relief, Tracey didn't hesitate more than a second or so. "Sure, put her through."

"Hello?" My voice nearly failed me, but I managed to squeak out that one word.

"Hello, Taylor." If I wasn't much mistaken, Tracey's tone was somewhat on the cool side. "I'm a little surprised to hear your voice, after the message you left earlier."

Oh, God. "What did the message say—no, don't worry about that," I hastily amended. "That wasn't me. I'm coming in. I should be on time, but I'll just need to change and …." I grimaced, wondering exactly how well my blouse had survived (however carefully folded) in my backpack with my books and shoulder-bag. "Uh, do you have a place I could maybe iron my top?"

After a brief pause, during which time my heart began to plummet in the direction of the Earth's core (do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars) she chuckled. "Well, that's definitely the Taylor I recall from Friday. Sure, we've got an iron in the break room. I'll get the board set up and the iron hot for when you get here." Her voice became serious. "But I'm going to need you to tell me what's going on here. If that message wasn't from you, who left it and why?"

The massive knot of tension that had somehow replaced most of my internal organs was slowly dissipating. I felt tears of sheer relief standing in my eyes. "Trust me, I will fill you in on everything when I get there. I'm on a borrowed phone right now, you see. But we'll be there soon. Me and Greg."

She sounded bemused when she answered. "I'm definitely looking forward to it. See you then."

"See you soon," I said, and hung up. With a shaking hand—the amount of adrenaline that had been coursing through my bloodstream could probably have lifted a rocket into orbit—I handed the phone back to Greg. "Thank you," I said softly. "You have no idea how much that meant to me."

"Hey, we're friends," he said simply. "It's what friends do."

I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Yeah," I said. "It is." Greg, I decided, might come across like a barely housetrained puppy from time to time, but maybe that was because nobody had taken the time to housetrain him. He'd saved my bacon in no uncertain terms; being his friend in return was the least I could do.

<><>​

"Wow," Tracey said when I showed up at her office. "You look terrible, Taylor. What happened?"

I tried not to take offence. After all, I had been through a thoroughly crappy weekend and morning. "My life," I said simply, putting down my backpack so I could pull out my shoulder-bag and under it, my skirt and blouse. True to my expectations, the blouse was somewhat creased. The skirt was less so; denim was good like that. Last, I pulled out my new shoes.

"Ooh, those are nice. May I?" Tracey zoomed in on the footwear.

"Sure." I shook out the blouse and took it over to the ironing board that had been set up in the little break room. "Thank you so much for being so understanding. And for taking that call." Spreading the blouse over the board, I checked the settings on the iron then started to work it over the yoke. The act of ironing was calming, requiring care and attention, and deliberate movements. It helped settle me down.

"Well, to be honest, I nearly didn't," she confessed. "Your message—whoever left that message in your name—was mean and spiteful, and made it clear that you didn't want to work here. Whoever it was even sounded like you. I just …" She shook her head. "Deep down, I couldn't bring myself to believe that the smart, professional girl who was here on Friday could have such a drastic turnaround. So I held off on informing Ms Harcourt. And then you called, and I wasn't sure if you were back for more abuse, or … what. So I took the call." She put my shoes down on the bench and spread her hands with a smile. "And here we are."

I sighed. It had been a long time since Emma had pranked someone by impersonating me over the phone. The impression wasn't perfect—it wouldn't fool anyone who knew either of us at all well—but Tracey had only known me for one afternoon, two days previously. She could've been excused for accepting the act at face value, but she'd had her doubts. For which I was profoundly grateful. Also, she'd called me smart and professional, which put a tightness in my chest and my throat. To have such a compliment from someone who embodied those characteristics brought tears welling to my eyes.

I started on the sleeves, concentrating on getting the creases just right. Tracey moved to stand opposite me, across the board. "Okay, so what's going on?" she asked softly. "When you started here on Friday, you were so shy and withdrawn, it took me all my time to get you out of your shell. By the time you left, you were on top of the world. Today, you're ten times as bad as you were Friday morning. What happened over the weekend, and why did someone leave a message, pretending to be you?"

When I thought about burdening Tracey with my woes, I felt a sharp pang of disquiet. She was my friend now, but if she got any sort of hint of the absolute shit my life had become, there was a good chance she'd dump me like the hot mess I was. What if she decided Medhall didn't need an intern with my problems? I shook my head. "Can we not talk about this? It's just personal stuff."

"Nuh-uh." She crossed her arms. "I'm your supervisor. Anything that impacts the quality of your work here is my job to know about, and this most definitely threatens the quality of your work. So I want to know who has it in for you, and I want to know why. And most of all, I want to know whose ass to kick for making you show up here today on the verge of tears."

I took a deep breath. If I could talk to anyone, I could talk to Tracey, right? "You might want to sit down. This is gonna take a while."

"Now we're getting somewhere." She pulled out a chair and sat, then rested her elbows on the table and her chin on her interlinked fingers. "Spill all, and don't miss a detail."

I ran the iron over creased cloth, transforming it to a smooth expanse. "I once had a best friend called Emma Barnes …."

<><>​

By the time I was done talking, Tracey was leaning forward on her elbows, her eyes hot with indignation. I rounded it out by telling her how Greg had loaned me his phone, then I put my hands over my face—I'd long since finished ironing the blouse—and leaned back in the chair. "Now you know," I told her. "I'm sorry to put all this crap on you."

"How in God's name does this even happen?" she demanded. "If I didn't know better, I'd assume someone set up your life to garner the maximum amount of pain for the least amount of effort. I mean, seriously, when they stole your clothing bags, you didn't even try to get the cops?"

"Why bother?" My voice was hopeless. "It never helps. Every time I've had stuff stolen, I've complained to the teachers and I've complained to the principal. Nothing ever happened. If I told a cop that some girls stole my brand-new office clothing, along with the receipts—that I'd paid for with cash, so there was no card number in the shop to go off—would he even bother checking? All they have to do is say they didn't do it." It was how things had always turned out before.

"It really doesn't work that way." Her voice was firm. "Which shop did you go to in Weymouth, anyway?"

"Beautiful Me," I said. "They're amazing." I nodded toward the shoes, now on the floor. "That's where I got those."

"I thought so." Tracey smiled and brushed her hand across her own lapel. "That's where I shop."

I blinked. "I thought the cut of the clothing looked familiar. Wow. They're really, really nice."

"They are." Tracey paused, looking thoughtful. "So you spent nearly all the payout in that one store, just so you'd look more professional here?"

"Yeah." I nodded heavily. "I wanted to fit in better. See how well that worked."

"No, no, it was a good idea." She smiled brilliantly. "But we've spent enough time getting to the bottom of things. We might need to go and do some work before Ms Harcourt turns up and demands to know what she's paying us for." She rolled her eyes. "Well, me, anyway."

It was a fairly weak joke—I wasn't being paid, of course—but I managed a watery smile anyway. Getting up, I went and got changed into my office clothing; such as it was.

At least the shoes were as comfortable as I remembered them to be.

<><>​

It was almost a relief to get back into the routine of scanning documents and checking the OCR results. I was a little rusty with the first few, but I quickly got into my stride once more. Tracey had her own work to deal with, then she made a series of phone calls. At one point, she gave me a smile and a thumb's-up, which I took to mean that she was pleased she wasn't dealing with the scanning of dusty documents. Especially when silverfish and daddy-long-legs ran out from between the pages and across my hand. Eugh.

But random arthropods aside, I actually managed to lose myself in the work. Scan; check; fix. Scan; check; fix. It was amazing how a flyspeck in the wrong spot could change one letter to another. I actually found myself smirking once, as the OCR managed to translate a perfectly harmless word into quite a rude one. "Away with you," I muttered, changing it back.

"Taylor." A pause. "Earth Bet to Taylor. Come in, Taylor."

At last, I registered that Tracey was calling my name, and I looked up somewhat guiltily from my screen. "Sorry," I said. "I was in the zone."

"You certainly were." The speaker was a tall blond well-built man in his late twenties or early thirties. His very posture shouted out that he was someone of note. He smiled warmly at me and extended his hand. "Alexander Grayson. I'm from Legal."

"I, uh, I'm pleased to meet you," I said, as my hand was engulfed by his. The cut of his business suit could not disguise the fact that he was fit as hell, and I wondered what sports he played. Then I wondered if there were any he didn't. And if he'd teach me some. Bad Taylor! Down, girl! No ogling the hot guy from Legal! "Uh, is there a problem?"

"None for you," he assured me, his smile making the corners of his eyes crinkle. "I understand you've been having troubles of a criminal nature with other girls at your school. Winslow, wasn't it?"

I was beginning to feel a certain amount of envy toward Tracey, for being allowed to work at a firm with all these hot guys just dropping into her office whenever she needed a chat. I dismissed it as being unworthy; we needed to deal with the problem at hand. "Winslow, yeah. There's three ringleaders, and maybe a dozen hangers-on. And about three dozen who help out if they're asked." It put a certain thrill down my back to hear what they'd been doing to me described as 'criminal', but I figured he knew what he was talking about.

"Hmm." Slowly, he rubbed his chin with thumb and forefinger. It was probably a calculated move to make him look thoughtful, but god damn, it worked. I wondered if he did any work in the city as a lawyer, because if he did, he'd blow Alan Barnes out of the water. I could see him captivating a jury within thirty seconds, and have them voting whichever way he wanted inside of five minutes. "In your personal opinion, if the initial three were removed from the equation, so to speak, would their confederates continue this campaign of targeted harassment?"

Wow, he can get them expelled? I didn't doubt it for a second. "Uh, maybe? They pretty well don't do anything if Emma and her friends aren't there to see it. Except for the emails, of course."

"Emails?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Hate mail." I grimaced. "It gets pretty nasty."

"Can you log in and show me?" he asked, gesturing to the laptop I was using.

"Sorry." I shook my head. "I don't know how to get into the outside internet."

"That's because it's not set up for it," Tracey said briskly. "Here, use mine." She clicked her way through a few menus, then stood up from her chair to make way for me.

"Uh, wow, thanks." I stood up and made my way around to her desk. "Winslow's got its own proprietary email servers. Each address can only handle about a thousand messages before it clogs up, and you have to open a new one." As I spoke, I navigated my way to my email address. "I go through about one email address a month."

"What, because the school assigns you so much homework?" From the sound of her voice, Tracey didn't believe that. But she wanted to.

"Nope." I opened the latest email folder and got up to make way for Mr Grayson. He sat down with murmured thanks, and began to click on emails. Tracey, reading over his shoulder, went pale after the second one, and turned her head away after the sixth. Machine-like, Mr Grayson read each email at a glance, even the ones that covered a page with vituperation. He clicked his way through them, the only change in expression showing as a certain tightening in his jaw.

Finally, after he'd read over a hundred, he closed the folder down and swivelled Tracey's chair to face me. "I am satisfied that you're being unduly and unreasonably harassed for no fault of your own," he pronounced. "To an extent that we could prefer criminal charges, if you so wished."

"What?" I blinked. "You mean … they could go to prison?" I definitely hadn't thought that far ahead.

"Juvenile detention, certainly." He smiled broadly, showing an even expanse of gleaming teeth. "This sort of thing has been known to drive the victims to depression and even suicide. Coupled with the malicious and deliberate attempt to break you off from the internship, and the criminal assault which resulted in the theft of your clothing, just to name the most recent incidents, I could certainly make a case that would see all three of the ringleaders indicted and charged, and possibly tried as adults. If we can link them to any of the emails, that'll be icing on the cake. Jurors love the written word. It's so definite."

Tracey grinned. "And if the trial was loud enough, their hangers-on would evaporate like fog on a summer morning. Nobody wants to be linked to something like that."

Mr Grayson gave her a measured nod. "That would also be a desirable outcome. So, Taylor. If you can give me the names of the ringleaders, I can set proceedings in motion."

"Um, sure." I took a deep breath. "Emma Barnes. Her father's Alan Barnes, a divorce lawyer."

There was the faintest hint of a derisive snort from Mr Grayson. "So noted. The second one?"

"Sophia Hess. I think she gets away with stuff because she's a track star."

Mr Grayson's brows rose. "Interesting. Is there more than one Sophia Hess at Winslow? On or off the track?"

I shook my head at once. "I've never heard of one. Why, do you know her?"

"I personally do not." Mr Grayson looked mildly interested. "A young lady of my acquaintance, around your age, has mentioned the name. An African-American girl, as I recall. She's known among the high schools as quite the athlete. And the third one?"

"Madison Clements," I said. "Emma's the one who pulls out details from my life to hurt me, Sophia's the one who uses physical force, and Madison thinks up pranks."

"I believe I understand the dynamic. An unholy trinity, so to speak." Mr Grayson stood up. "Thank you for reaching out to me, Ms Grimshaw. I will be in touch with any developments." He favoured me with a brief nod. "Taylor." Turning, he strode from the room like a conquering hero.

"Wow," I breathed, once I was sure the door was closed behind him. "Is he married?"

Tracey snorted with laughter. "Unfortunately, yes. His wife's a lovely lady who subs as a nurse in the sickbay when needed. Just a word to the wise, though. Don't call him Alexander the Great."

"Why not?" The name had already popped up in my brain as a perfect nickname for him, especially given how he owned a room just by stepping into it. "Does it offend him?"

"No." She shook her head and chuckled. "He loves it, and he actually hams it up even more."

"Oh. I see." It was an interesting glimpse into Mr Grayson's personality. "Uh, should I have told him about how I left Winslow today? I don't want you guys being blindsided by any blowback from that."

"Don't sweat it," she advised me. "I already told him and Ms Harcourt about that, and the circumstances behind it. If there have been any calls from Winslow, they haven't trickled down this far yet. Which means that either your Principal Blackwell hasn't tried doing anything about it yet, or she has and Ms Harcourt pinned her ears back for her."

I would've loved to have been a fly on the wall for that, but there were still problems I was worried about. "I pepper-sprayed Sophia, though. That's criminal assault."

"You were assaulted and robbed by Sophia Hess, three days ago," Tracey pointed out accurately. "You knew you hadn't done anything to warrant being called to the principal's office, and the timing there is extremely suspicious. In fact, as of the end of that lesson, you were no longer officially part of the student body. You were leaving. Sophia laid hands on you, which is assault in and of itself, especially given that she's not an authorised truant officer, and tried to prevent you from attending a legitimate workplace experience. If anyone can spin all that into a case of 'not guilty due to fear of further assault, your Honor', it'll be Alexander Grayson."

"Okay, this is what I can't understand," I said helplessly. "Why me? I'm just a temp. An intern. I'm nobody. I'm eminently replaceable. Why are you all going to this effort for me?"

"For one thing, you're not nobody." Tracey put her hands on my shoulders. "You're Taylor Hebert. I've seen your induction scores, including the security footage of you filling out the form. Remember the trash can o' flames? We have a blooper reel of people reacting badly to it, and we have a training reel for how to do it right. You're on the second one. You've got the third best time ever of getting the fire put out, and that includes trained firefighters. Then you wanted to know how we worded the form rather than how much money you could gouge out of us. And then you went and spent the money on clothes to make you fit in with the rest of us."

I blinked. All of this praise coming from left field was making me dizzy. "I … I don't know what to say."

Tracey smiled and ruffled my hair, ignoring my half-hearted protest. "Say you'll stay. All of that aside, you're good company and you've definitely got an eye for detail." She leaned in close and lowered her voice. "Now, I wasn't going to spring this 'til later, but just between you and me and the inevitable listening bugs, at the end of the month, we're going to offer you a part-time salary to keep doing what you're doing. Now, at the time, you can act as surprised as you like, but what do you say?"

I stared at her. "B … b … bwah?" Salary? My brain gibbered and ran in circles. I could do this as a job?

Raising an eyebrow, she tilted her head as she looked at me. "Sorry, was that a good 'bwah' or a bad 'bwah'? I can never tell the difference."

"Um … um … um … can I think about it for a second?" My head was spinning so fast I was surprised I wasn't generating miniature tornadoes.

"Sure, take your time." She reclaimed her chair and spun idly in it, looking up at the ceiling. "You've got all month, after all."

There was a knock on the office door. Grateful for the opportunity to break my brain out of spin cycle, I headed over and opened it. A guy from a courier service, about eighteen years old or so, was standing there. "Taylor Herbert?" he asked in a nasal voice.

"Um, Hebert, but yes," I said. If I had a dollar for every time someone mispronounced my name … I'd have a few dollars. Just saying. "What's this?"

"This'z-f'you," he said, shoving a paper-wrapped object into my hands. "Sign-'ere." Off his belt, he pulled an electronic terminal.

Wondering what the hell I was getting at my workplace, by courier even, I precariously balanced the parcel on one hand and signed with a scribble that was almost but not quite entirely unlike my regular signature. The delivery guy didn't look, or even ask for ID to compare. He literally didn't care. "'Ave-a-nize-day," he said over his shoulder as he headed off down the corridor.

"Uh, thanks," I muttered. Stepping back inside with the parcel—about twice the size of a football, and even heavier—I bumped the door closed with my butt.

"So what is it?" asked Tracey, standing up and coming over with curiosity in her eyes.

"I have absolutely zero idea," I said. "Who even knew I was here?" A quick flash ran through my head, of Emma and the others devising some sort of prank like a stink bomb, and sending it to me. "Oh, shit. What if it's from Emma and her friends?" Because there was no way I could rule that out, and I didn't want Tracey getting hurt because of me.

"Nah." She shook her head definitively. "We've got pretty good security here. Nothing dangerous gets through." Producing a box-cutter, she handed it to me. "So open it. What's in it?"

My own curiosity was also nudging me, so I carefully slit the paper and pulled it back. Within was some very familiar-looking tissue paper, and within that ….

"Oh, my God," I gasped, putting the box cutter down on the desk, and taking the coat out of the scented tissue paper. On the inner wrapping was the logo of Beautiful Me, the store I'd originally bought my business wear from. A quick check ensured that yes, it was the same cut as before. Beneath it was the top I'd picked out for it. "How … I mean, how …?"

Tracey rubbed her finger over her lips. "Well, it may just be that someone had a word with Ms Harcourt about your dedication to Medhall. And we may have disbursed funds from petty cash to replace your stolen goods. Most of us shop there, after all, and they were quite happy to check your original order and replicate it. So what—oof!"

I had taken the time to lay the coat down carefully before I tackled her with a hug. "Thank you," I said fervently. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

She returned the hug. "That's all right." Gently, she touched her forehead to mine before we let each other go. "This is Medhall. We look after one another, here."

"Wow, yeah." I held up the coat, then impulsively pulled it on. It draped neatly on my shoulders, feeling like a second skin. "How do I look?"

A familiar smile spread across her face. "Professional. And smart."

I returned the smile. "Thanks." My cheeks were starting to hurt from all the smiling I was doing. It was a burden I could definitely bear. "So … you weren't joking about the part-time job?"

"Not in the slightest," she assured me. "Have you reached a decision yet?"

I whirled in place, so that my suit coat spun out from me. "Well, duh," I said, then paused.

She raised an interrogatory eyebrow, but from the incipient grin, she knew what I was going to say.

I spread my hands wide, to encompass the office. "I'll take it."


End of Part Three

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Four: Battle Lines; Drawn

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

I managed to hold out for a good half-hour before I finally gave in to temptation. "I'm gonna go change," I said, grabbing up the package that held the rest of my newly-replaced business attire.

"Well, finally," Tracey retorted with a grin. "I was beginning to think you were made of stone or something. Literally every other woman I know would've disappeared into the bathrooms in about three point two seconds to change into the new outfit."

I raised an eyebrow. "Every other woman? Are you including Ms. Harcourt in that? I can't see her giving in to temptation of any kind."

"True," she agreed. "She'd just glare at the package and the clothing would spontaneously dissolve and reform around her, out of pure fear of what she might do if it didn't."

"Oh, good," I said in tones of fake relief. "I'm not the only one who thinks she's the most terrifying person in the building, then. At least, among the ones I've met."

"Oh, no, no," she replied with a smirk. "Many people you haven't met are also of the opinion that she's a very bad person to cross. But she's not a total ogre." A gesture pointed out my suit jacket, which I was still wearing. "That, for instance. I mean, if you screw up, yes, she will tear you a number of brand-new orifices proportionate to the magnitude of your idiocy. But I've also seen her go to the mat with Mr. Anders himself if she thought one of her people was being unfairly treated."

"Ah. Right." It took me a few seconds to register her pleased expression. "Wait, she spoke to him about me?" To say I was startled would've been an understatement.

"Sure she did." Tracey snorted lightly. "You don't think she put all that together unilaterally, including getting Alexander in on the act, do you? Even a good sergeant-major knows when to punt a request up the line."

"But … Mr. Anders?" I was having trouble getting my head around that little tidbit. Before this day, I would've given long odds that Max Anders didn't even know I existed, let alone that I was interning in his company. But now he knew who I was, and he'd obviously given Ms Harcourt the go-ahead to repurchase my stolen clothing and bring the amazingly-fit Alexander Grayson into the deal.

Of course, Tracey's description of Ms. Harcourt as a sergeant-major definitely fit with my own observations of her. I wondered briefly why the woman wasn't in the military or the PRT, then decided she probably wouldn't find it challenging enough.

"Don't sound so surprised." Tracey put her arm around my shoulders in an unexpectedly welcome side-hug. "If I know her, she requested a meeting and laid it out for him. He's not a stupid man. I bet he had all the angles figured out before she even finished. Trust me, Medhall will be getting just as much in the way of PR benefit out of this as you'll be getting material benefits. They will not be the losers in this. Neither will you." She didn't have to explain who the losers would be.

"Wow." I shook my head. "Don't get me wrong, but … well, I've never had anyone step up for me like this before. It's entirely outside of my experience. If Medhall gets a bonus out of it too, I'm totally glad. I mean, you guys have been absolutely nothing but amazing to me. Even Ms. Harcourt was tough but fair about the induction. And you're going to be paying me to intern here?"

Tracey's laughter was high and clear. "I'll be honest with you. Internships are so we can look prospective hires over and decide if we want them in the company or not. That said, unpaid internships don't usually go anywhere, while over sixty percent of paid internships generally end up with an actual job offer. We started with the unpaid internship to weed out those who are just in it for the money and don't see a future with the company. But you've made your mark, so that's why we're transitioning you to a paying position. So, if we think you're worth giving you real money to work here, we're going to want to protect our investment. Does that sound too mercenary to you?"

I blinked. The idea of someone (apart from Dad) actually considering me of having real worth … I couldn't get my head around it. "I, uh … is it okay if I say I think it's pretty awesome that you think that much of me? Seriously, I don't think that much of me. Ever since you told me I'm gonna get paid, I've been worried that you're gonna change your minds as soon as I make my first screwup." There, I'd said it. It was out in the open. I knew Tracey wanted me to be honest, so that was as honest as I could get.

The reaction I got was not the one I'd expected. Either she'd brush it off or laugh about it; but she did neither one. Instead, she gave me a sober, serious look. "You ought to quit that sort of thinking right now, Taylor." Her voice was just as serious. "If you believe that of yourself, sooner or later, you start believing that you should fail. It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. And the moment you talk yourself into screwing up, you'll be telling yourself 'I told you so!' and you'll never try hard for anything again, because you'll already have yourself convinced you'll never be anything but a failure." She put both hands on my shoulders and looked me straight in the eye. "Gauging from the work ethic I've seen from you so far, the only way you could ever be a failure is if you deliberately set out to be one. And just between you and me, I don't think you're the type of person who chooses to fail."

There was literally nothing I could say to that. She'd seen my self-doubts, grabbed them, shredded them, and shot the shreds on a rocket into the sun. This was Tracey. She was not only my boss, but she was also the person who'd prised the confession out of me as to what had happened, and who'd actually done something about it. I so wanted to be like her. But even more so, I wanted to not disappoint her.

As I stared at her, not sure whether to flee into the bathroom and start crying or just hug her, she let a gentle smile cross her face. "Of course, it's up to you. Do you think you're a failure?"

Well, shit. I was going to have to answer her now. And of course, there was only one answer she'd be willing to accept. To tell the truth, after the lengths Medhall had gone to for me, there was only one answer I'd be willing to accept as well. "No. I don't. I'm not a failure." I didn't necessarily believe it, but I was willing to work hard enough to make it true.

From the look in her eye, I suspected that she'd read at least part of what I was thinking in my face. But she didn't call me on it, for which I was intensely grateful. Everyone needs some secrets in their life. "Well, good." Lifting one hand from my shoulder, she patted me on the cheek. "Now go on, get in the bathroom and change. Also, you might want to wipe your eyes. Just saying."

My eyes? I wasn't sure what she was talking about, until I realised tears were spilling down my cheeks. It looked like my 'flee into the bathroom and start crying' option had chosen to manifest anyway. But her expression wasn't mocking. It was sympathetic. "Thanks," I mumbled. Grabbing my business clothing, I … well, I fled into the bathroom.

I took the time to get it just right and run a brush through my hair. In the process, I stared myself down in the mirror and told my reflection firmly that I was smart, I was successful, and I did have a right to be there. My reflection looked dubious, but I told it to shut the fuck up. What did it know, anyway?

When I came out of the bathroom, Justin was there again. I nearly did a U-turn right then and there; I wasn't at all sure that my newly restored confidence was up to a real test yet. But as it happened, he saw me first. "Damn, Taylor," he said approvingly. "When Tracey told me you got yourself outfitted for Medhall, I thought maybe a nice hairband or a new top. But you've really gone all-out. That's what I call dressing for success."

I blushed to the roots of my hair at the compliment; Tracey elbowed him in the arm, not gently. "Leave her alone," she told him. "She's had a rough few days already. She doesn't need you making it worse with your idea of a sense of humour."

"I wasn't joking," he said plaintively. "I'm actually trying to be nice, here. You know how hard it is to give a teenage girl a compliment, especially about her clothes, without sounding like a creeper?"

"I'm not offended," I assured the both of them. "And thanks, Justin. I appreciate the compliment. It's just that …" I shook my head and stopped what I was saying. It's just that I don't get compliments, especially from nice-looking guys. There was no way I could finish that out loud without sounding both pathetic and like I was fishing for more compliments. It was startling to realise just how hungry I was for them.

"I'm not going to ask 'It's just what?' because I've got no desire to get dragged down that particular rabbit-hole." Justin grinned engagingly at me. "As far as I'm aware, girl code changes every time a guy figures it out, but I know enough that if you don't want to tell me, I'd be making an idiot of myself if I just tried asking you. So I'm gonna be happy you're okay with the compliment and leave it at that."

Startled into a smile, I decided I could see why Tracey liked the man. He was charming, irreverent and smart enough not to push things. The fact that he was an incurable rogue only added to his charm. "Thank you," I said. "Would you like some coffee before you go? I was just about to make some. Fair warning; you'll get it the same way I like it myself. You know, like the last cup you stole from me."

"Ooh, zing," he returned with a broad grin. "Tracey, have you been feeding her red meat? I like it. And sure, you make a pretty good cup of joe. Every time they transfer some poor idiot into my department, we have to train them how to make proper coffee all over again." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Hey, Taylor, would you be interested—"

"Don't you damn well dare, Justin!" Tracey's eyes flared in mock anger as she put her arm around my shoulders. "I am not about to let you poach my intern just so you can get a good cup of coffee."

"I give, I give," he said with a chuckle, putting his hands up in surrender. "I'll be good. No more poaching attempts. Besides, can you imagine what Harcourt would do to me? It doesn't bear thinking about."

"Fancy that," Tracey said with a smirk. "A woman in this company you can't wrap around your little finger with a charming smile and an empty promise? Wonders will never cease."

"Don't think I haven't tried." He shuddered theatrically. "Once, and once only. It was only a teensy favour, too. By the time she finished verbally flaying me alive—without raising her voice or using profanity even once, I might add—I was ready to ask Bradley to put me out of my misery."

"Bradley? The security guard? He doesn't wear a pistol," I said with a frown. At least, I hadn't seen one on his hip. Did he have one in a shoulder holster?

"Figure of speech," Justin assured me. "However Bradley chose to end me, it would've been a mercy after that godawful shellacking. I don't have many rules, but number one is now Don't mess with Ms. Harcourt. Just saying."

I shook my head with amusement as I went off to start the coffee going. "I made that my number-one rule about ten seconds after I met her," I said over my shoulder.

"Now you can see why I wanted to poach her," he said to Tracey. "She's capable and she's smart. And, not being a creeper here, but I like her dress sense."

"That's because she bought her outfit at the same shop I go to," Tracey said, gentle exasperation in her voice. She didn't go on to elaborate the troubles I'd had with that outfit, which I appreciated. Justin was funny and cool, and he didn't talk down to me like a lot of adults did, but I didn't need everyone in Medhall knowing about my problems.

"Oh, no wonder then," he said with an impressive recovery. "Because your dress sense is pretty amazing in its own right."

I was beginning to see why she dated him on an on-again-off-again basis. No matter how many times he put his foot in his mouth, the guy just never gave up.

<><>​

"Three o'clock, Taylor," Tracey said cheerfully. "Time for you to escape into the wilderness once more."

"Almost done here," I murmured. "Two more files and I'm finished. Which will give you until Wednesday to find some other way to keep me out of your hair." As I spoke, I readied the scanner, then positioned the sheet just so on the glass.

"Pfft, as if I need to keep you out of my hair," she chided me playfully. "You're good company, and you make great coffee. I'm beginning to wonder why we didn't do this intern thing years ago."

"I suspect the company did, and it flopped," I suggested absently, then hit the start button on the scanner. As it hummed through its process, I carefully watched as the image appeared on my screen. It seemed to be clear and sharp, but I didn't want to take my eye off it for a second. "This sort of thing isn't for everyone."

"You're probably right," she sighed. "Well, I'm glad it's working out for you. And as far as the internship program is concerned, your gain is our gain. So it's a win-win situation."

The OCR was just starting to do its magic, so I didn't answer, focusing intently on the screen instead. Taking the sheet from the scanner, I did a quick eyeball comparison, then nodded approvingly. "Okay, that one's good." Looking up at Tracey, I nodded again, this time in agreement with her words. "Oh, absolutely. I'm totally in favour of anything that gives Mr. Anders an incentive to let me keep working here."

We chatted while I ran the last file through the scanner. I made sure to check it as thoroughly as I had the rest of them. Tracey's words about my work ethic should've given me a sense of complacency, but they'd instead made me even more determined to prove that it wasn't just a fluke, that I deserved a place at Medhall. But finally, I was able to save the file and shut the terminal down. Standing up from the desk, I rotated my shoulders to crack my back. "Whew, that's a relief."

"I'm actually pretty impressed," Tracey confessed as she stood up as well. "Those files have been sitting around for longer than I've been working here. When I was starting out, we made a few stabs at digitising them, but the effort never lasted. There was always something with higher priority. It's very satisfying to see them finally put to rest."

"Well, I guess that's what I'm here for," I said. "Do the incidental stuff that frees you up to do the important stuff." I located my backpack and started getting ready for the trip home.

"True, though doing the incidental stuff is almost as important as the 'important' stuff," Tracey reminded me. "Someone's got to do it, and before you got here, it was me doing it. More importantly though, you got it done without needing supervision or wasting my time." At my blank look, she shook her head. "You have no idea how irritating it is to have someone who's supposed to be helping me do more work but who spends their time asking for help in doing their work. And how satisfying it is to have an assistant who can actually assist."

The warm feeling that spread up through my chest choked me up and brought tears to my eyes. Impulsively, I hugged her. She hugged me right back with a warm chuckle. "I just want to say," I told her. "These two days have been the best days I've had in years. Bar none. Thank you for that."

Gently separating us, she looked into my eyes with a smile. "Well, let's see if we can't keep that going on Wednesday, shall we? And, uh … if I get any more problematic phone calls, supposedly from you, perhaps we should have a code phrase or something, so I can make sure it's not from you?"

"Oh. Oh, yeah." It hadn't worked this time, but that didn't preclude Emma from trying again. "Um …" I tried to think of something that Emma wouldn't be able to second-guess. My eyes lit on her coffee cup and I nodded. "Got it. You challenge me with 'coffee', and I say 'Justin'." Because by now, the two words were linked in my mind.

She giggled. "That'll definitely work. Nobody outside this office would have the faintest idea of what we were talking about. Can you believe the nerve of that man, trying to poach you right out from under me?" Her tone was more amused than outraged.

"Oh, I can definitely believe his nerve," I said with a smirk. "I get the impression he does what he damn well pleases and gets away with it most times. But don't worry. He's nice to look at, but I'm happy right here."

"Which means he'll probably be dropping by more often, just to get coffee the way you brew it." She shook her head in fond exasperation.

I wiggled my eyebrows suggestively. "Which I've never heard you complain about."

A snort of laughter escaped her. "Oh, go on. Get out of here. We've corrupted you enough already."

"Yeah, but what a way to go." I picked up my backpack. "See you Wednesday."

"See you then, Taylor." She gave me a wave as I headed for the door.

After I signed out, I headed for the elevator. Bradley nodded politely to me as he pressed the button. "Did you get your package, Miss Hebert?"

"Yes, thanks, Bradley." I held down the urge to do a twirl in front of the beefy security guard to show off my business clothes; he probably didn't care, and I'd most likely turn an ankle. So I smiled at him instead. In return, his granite visage cracked very slightly. The elevator opened and I stepped inside.

Greg was waiting for me as I stepped out on the ground floor. He didn't quite have the same reek of cleaning products on him as he had on Friday, and his expression wasn't as haggard. "Hi, Greg!" I greeted him. "Thanks again for letting me borrow your phone. You're an absolute life-saver."

"So are you, Taylor," he said unexpectedly. Side by side, we walked out through the main doors onto the street. "They started in on me today, and I tried the DVD rewinder line. When they stared at me, I thought oh shit, now I'm for it, but then Frank laughed and slapped me on the shoulder and said I was all right." He rubbed his shoulder ruefully. "I think I've got a bruise there."

"Yeah, well, blue collar humour is a bit more physical than normal," I agreed. "So your day went okay?"

"Oh, yeah," he said enthusiastically. "I mean, they didn't let me slack off, and they made me read bits of the safety manual and then quote them back when I wasn't doing anything else, but I learned so much more than I did on Friday. We were doing maintenance all over the building, and I'm skinnier than the rest of the guys, so I could wriggle into places they couldn't get into comfortably." He held out his hands, and I could see skin missing off most of his knuckles. "I tightened so many screws and nuts today, in places you'd never think they'd have screws and nuts."

"It's a big building," I said helpfully. "I wouldn't be at all surprised what they've got up in there."

"Oh, trust me," he said with a confident chuckle, "there's a lot more to that building than meets the eye. Just for instance, did you know there's maintenance passageways all the way through it? I mean, you're playing a dungeon game and there's hidden doors and secret passages and you're wondering why would someone put stuff like that there, right?"

"I guess so," I said, vaguely figuring out what he meant from context. Trust Greg to relate everything back to video games.

"Exactly!" he replied enthusiastically. "But in Medhall, it all makes sense. I know why the doors are where they are, and where the passages go. They're not to get around without being seen, but to get to systems that aren't directly in public view. Like all the plant rooms. Did you know, every floor of that building's got a plant room?"

I blinked. My first mental image, of a room full of plants, seemed off somehow. Why would Medhall have even one room like that, much less one per floor? "Uh, plant room?"

"Oh, sorry." He visibly reined himself back in. "A plant room's where they keep the machinery for water pumping and air conditioning and stuff like that, for any given floor. Some of 'em can be really big and loud, but they soundproof them and design the buildings so nobody notices that there's a chunk of the floorplan that's just missing."

"Oh. Huh. I guess that makes sense." I gave him a smile. "You have been learning a lot today, haven't you?" I was kind of proud of him. He'd really grown up from the careless idiot who'd half-assed the induction on Friday.

"Oh, man. Have I ever." He looked at me. "Oh, hey, those clothes look really sharp. You weren't wearing those on the way in … were you?" A frown crossed his face. "Or am I missing something?"

"No, you're not missing anything." With great glee (it was far easier to feel it after the fact) I related the story of how Tracey had wormed everything out of me, then arranged for my entire outfit to be replaced on the spot. I didn't tell him of the visit from Alexander the Great (I was allowed to call him that in my own mind, surely?) because it was a lot easier for legal matters to go through if the other side wasn't forewarned. And while Greg was a lot better than he had been, I still didn't know if he could be trusted not to taunt Emma and her coterie with their impending comeuppance. I knew I was going to be seriously tempted.

"Whoa …" he breathed as I finished my tale. "Okay, that beats my stuff hands down. High-five!" He held up his hand and I slapped it. "Sounds like your boss is even cooler than mine."

"Nah, Frank sounds pretty straight-up for a maintenance guy," I disclaimed. "Tracey's pretty amazing, but her kinda-boyfriend loves to steal my coffee. So I gotta make two cups when he comes over."

"Really?" Greg burst out laughing. "Is he at least nice about it?" he asked, once he recovered. I had to give him that; it was kinda funny.

"Oh, he's a perfect charmer," I said expansively. "Eye candy for days." I related the story of how he'd tried to poach me from Tracey for my coffee-making skills, and how she'd reacted. By the time I was done, we were both laughing.

"Oh, hey, here's my bus," he said. "See you tomorrow, Taylor. Have a good night."

"See you, Greg." I gave his shoulder a squeeze. "And please don't tell anyone at Winslow about my new outfit. You know they'd only try to ruin or steal it."

"Yeah, nope," he said, his tone serious. "Screw that. Go, Medhall!" He held up his hand and I gave him another high-five.

I watched him get on the bus and waved as it drove away. As I sat waiting for mine, I couldn't help but wonder at how my life was turning around every time I went to work at Medhall. I had a great boss, friendly co-workers, and my one acquaintance from outside work was actually turning out to be a pretty cool guy, once I gave him a chance.

I could really get used to this.

<><>​

The next day on the bus to school, I was a lot less sanguine. It wasn't a day I'd be attending Medhall, which meant that I'd be stuck at school for the whole day, giving Emma and Sophia and Madison free rein to screw my life up any way they could manage. Sophia, I knew, would be apocalyptic over being pepper-sprayed like that; despite the assurances I'd gotten from Tracey and Mr. Grayson, I was not at all sure the school would see the law in the same way, or even apply the rules in a fair sense. It wasn't as if they had any track record of doing so in the past. And while Medhall was on my side, they were at Medhall and I was going to be at Winslow.

So it was with a certain sense of trepidation that I got off the bus and trailed my way toward the front entrance of the school. I'd wanted to wear my work shoes, but common sense told me that Emma and her crew would stop at nothing to scuff, scratch, or flat-out steal them before the day was out. So I was wearing sneakers, and my most-worn hoodie and jeans, on the principle that I could easily replace or clean any of it without fuss. The books in my locker were less replaceable, but at least they hadn't started vandalising that on a regular basis. Even though I still couldn't figure out how they were getting into it to steal stuff. I would've skipped school altogether, but I was fairly certain one of the terms of my internship was that I also kept my grades up, and I was not going to give them the opening to screw me out of the best job I'd ever held.

Not that I'd held many jobs at that point, but it was the principle of the thing.

As I reached the top of the steps and started into the school, my worst fears came true. Well, second worst. There were no police officers waiting for me (I had no doubt by this point that if Emma could've arranged for them, she would have) but all three of my nemeses were there instead. All looking at me, and it seemed I'd been correct. Sophia was pissed. Even a day later, her eyes seemed a little red and swollen, and the glare she gave me made me happy she wasn't a cape. If she'd had eyebeams right then, I would've been cut in half.

I gulped a little, and squeezed the canister in my pocket for reassurance. It was the one I'd used on Sophia, and I hoped it still had pressure in it; I had no idea how to tell Dad I needed a new one without telling him how I'd used the old one.

Seriously, the number of secrets I was holding from Dad was becoming ridiculous. We were going to have to sit down sometime and have a proper father-daughter chat. After which I'd probably be grounded for life, just for not telling him stuff that I should've. Which was technically fair, I figured. I just didn't want to do it.

Screw it, I decided. I wasn't going to let the Bitches Three intimidate me anymore. How would Ms. Harcourt do this?

She'd glare at them and they'd melt away into the woodwork. That wasn't going to work for me.

Going to Blackwell was out. I'd tried that before, and it had never worked.

Okay, let's try direct confrontation. I marched up to Emma. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Madison was wearing the other blouse she'd stolen from me, and I nearly faltered. Well, no, I nearly dived at her to force her to give it back. But I had a purpose in mind, and that purpose was to talk to Emma. Madison, I told myself, was inconsequential.

"Emma," I said firmly. "We've got to talk."

I figured she'd expected me to try to sneak around her, so walking straight up to her threw her off her stride a little. But she rallied and came out with a sickly-sweet smile that hid a sneer. "What would I want to talk to someone like you about?" she riposted.

"Normally, that would be my personal hygiene, my weight, my morals and whatever drugs you want to decide I was taking at the time," I shot back. "But we're done. I'm walking away. You're walking away. Find some other hobby, bec—"

My first mistake, I decided later, was taking my eyes off Sophia. My second mistake was not watching my back. Emma had more than a few followers and hangers-on, but the vast majority weren't in it for the possibility of violence. However, Sophia ran track, so it seemed she'd asked a few of the male track team members to show up to this meeting. They crowded in close, so that when Sophia hit me, nobody saw it. I barely saw it myself; she was just too fast. But I sure as hell felt it.

I was just getting into my stride in my rant at Emma when Sophia came in low and fast, burying her fist in my stomach. Pain exploded outward from the impact, doubling me over and sending a wave of nausea through my body. She buried her hands in my hair, then lifted my head up and brought it down again. Helpless from the blow, I couldn't raise my arms above my midsection. Her knee came up, hard and direct. It slammed into my cheekbone, blasting stars throughout my vision. She raised my head again. This time, I knew through the spinning in my head that it would be a direct hit. My nose, my lips, would all be destroyed.

"No!" Emma stopped her just before my face would've made contact. "Not like that. Facial injuries are sympathetic." She said it in a cloying tone. "Besides, she doesn't have any looks to fuck with. Keep it to body punches."

"No, I got a better idea." Sophia took hold of my arm and twisted it in a certain way. "Come on, Hebert. We're going for a little walk."

"Oh, hey, me and the guys gotta go," said a male voice. "See you in Track?"

"Yeah, yeah, see you in Track." Sophia's voice was distracted.

No, I wanted to say. Don't go. They'd stopped anyone from seeing what Sophia was doing, but surely with witnesses she couldn't intimidate, Emma wouldn't go too far? I tried to make eye contact, tried to call out. But the guys were looking away from me and the loudest noise I could make was a wheezing groan. They headed off down the corridor with not a single backward glance.

With Emma and Madison bunched around us for camouflage, so nobody could see how Sophia was holding me, we walked through the corridors of Winslow. Or rather, I stumbled, Sophia supported me, and the other two walked as if they had not a care in the world. As my head cleared, I looked around for anyone who might render assistance. But all I saw were gang members doing gang business. One and all, they glanced at me, then looked away, uninterested.

Then I saw Greg.

He saw me at the same time, and frowned, as if wondering why is she walking with them when they hate her? But then he looked more closely, and I saw the lightbulb go on over his head. Do something, I urged him silently with my eyes. Say something. Raise the alarm. Go to Blackwell. Get a teacher. Get someone!

But then we were past him, and he was still standing there. Doing nothing.

My heart sank. I thought I could depend on him.

At first I thought they were going to take me to the bathrooms where Sophia could work me over properly. Hopefully it wouldn't be so bad that I'd still be able to report to work on Wednesday. I was beginning to see those half-days at Medhall as a Promised Land, rewarding me for the crap I had to endure at Winslow. Maybe I'd even get Tracey to get pictures of the bruises or something, to prove that yes, Winslow sucked.

But we didn't go to the bathrooms. In fact, we ended up in a corridor alongside a familiar row of lockers. Not many kids were here; the few that were getting their books from their lockers gave me the same eh, who cares look and went back to what they were doing. I wanted to call out to them, but their probable response (nothing) and Sophia's reaction (twisting my arm) held me back. Besides, my breath was still a bit wheezy.

Sophia stopped me alongside my locker. "Combination," she demanded.

"What?" I managed. "No. Not having my combination." Handing that out to them was basically inviting them to steal me blind rather than take individual things.

"Suit yourself," Sophia murmured, then let go my arm and slugged me in the stomach again. Gagging, I doubled over, doing my best not to retch on the floor. Emma's shoes, that would be a different thing. For those, I'd shove my finger down my throat.

Sophia turned her back on me—and on the others—and fiddled with my lock. "Huh," she said. "It's almost open. I can feel it." With a few more rattles of metal on metal and the sounds of the combination on my lock turning, she said, "Bingo!" Stepping back from the locker, she slid the lock into her pocket and pulled the door open.

"Wow, you can pick locks too?" Madison sounded envious.

"I'm just good." Sophia sounded smug. I wanted to explain to Madison that guessing someone's combination was totally different from picking a lock, but now was not the time.

"Emma," I wheezed instead. "You really don't want to do this. You really don't." It was true, in that whatever they did would be likely added to the legal troubles being drafted for them by Alexander Grayson and his team, but what I really meant was that I didn't want them doing whatever they had in mind.

Now that there was just us to see it, the sneer came out in full force. "Taylor, how about you stop telling me what I want and don't want, huh?" She looked at Sophia. "What are we gonna do? Lock her in there?"

I was weak as a kitten from the repeated gut-punches, so I couldn't resist as Sophia turned me around and slammed me face-first into the next locker over. "Yeah, but first I wanna check something …" Brisk, professional hands searched me, and I felt the pepper-spray being pulled from my pocket. "Hah, yeah. Perfect."

Why didn't I spray them when I walked up to them? I raged in the quiet of my own mind. Sophia, at least. But I knew the answer. If I attacked them without provocation, I'd be in the wrong. It might screw the whole legal case. But now Sophia had the pepper spray, and I knew damn well she'd use it on me all day long if she got the chance.

"What're you gonna do, Sophia?" Madison's voice was bright and eager.

Sophia's chuckle was cruel. "Well, you know how stoners get in a car or a van and they wind the windows up and all light up and fill it with smoke? They call that hot-boxing. I've just invented something I'm calling 'pepper-boxing', and Taylor's gonna trial it for me."

Now I was really starting to panic. I started to struggle, but a sharp blow to my kidneys took the fight out of me yet again. I slumped against the locker, only supported by Sophia. "No …" I mumbled. "No … please …"

"Oh, hey," Madison suggested. "When it's empty, wipe the prints off it and put it in there with her. That way we can say she did it to herself."

"Whoa, damn," Sophia said admiringly. "I am fucking impressed, Mads. You come up with the best plans." Taking me under the arms, she hoisted me up and aimed me at the empty locker. "Time to try out your new accommodations, Hebert. Might be a bit cramped, but you'll have time to get used to it."

"Let her go!" The voice belonged to none other than Greg Veder. He strode toward us purposefully, finger up and pointing. "Emma Barnes! Madison Clements! Sophia Hess! Let Taylor go! Right now!"

"What the fuck?" That was Sophia. She sounded utterly baffled, and I didn't blame her. We'd walked right past him, and he hadn't done a thing. Had he been wrestling with his conscience all this time?

"What the fuck, Greg?" Emma didn't sound like she believed it either.

"Greg?" Madison shook her head. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Shut the fuck up." He pointed at Sophia. "Let her go right now, or you're in big trouble. I mean it!"

It was the 'I mean it' that broke the spell. Emma began to giggle and Madison started tittering. Even Sophia shook her head with a snort of laughter. "And what the fuck do you think you're going to do, Veder?" she asked derisively. "I don't see any teachers, and I don't see Blackwell. And who's gonna believe your word against ours?"

Greg was shaken, but he didn't pause from his advance. "It'll be Taylor and me, and they'll believe us! You'll all be in deep shit if you don't let her go right now!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, just spray him already," Emma snapped.

"No, I want to save it all for Hebert," Sophia growled stubbornly. "You two hold Hebert. I got this." She let me go; I slumped against the locker and tried to claw my way upright again, but Emma and Madison were there before I could do it.

"Where do you think you're going, Taylor?" asked Emma faux-sweetly, as Sophia advanced on Greg. Her nails dug into my arm.

"You're not going anywhere, except in your locker," Madison added. "Maybe after Sophia's finished beating the shit out of Greg, he can join you in there. He's obviously got the hots for you, after all."

"Fuck, Madison, I think he really does," Emma said, dropping the mocking tone. "He's not running away."

You idiot, Greg, I thought as loudly as I could. You should've brought back someone. Anyone. Not tried to take on Sophia yourself. I was already feeling the effects of Sophia's close and personal attention. Tomorrow, I was definitely going to have bruises.

Finally, as Sophia closed to within a few yards of him, Greg seemed to think better of his ill-advised venture, and began to back-pedal. She followed him about ten yards down the hallway, with him steadily retreating before her, before she stopped in disgust and turned away. "That's right, Veder," she said with a sneer. "Run and hide."

She started back toward us. I clenched my jaw in an effort to suppress my fear. I was going to be shoved in my own locker, and deluged in my own pepper-spray. This was going to suck far more than anything they'd ever done to me—

Whether Sophia was fixated on her delayed revenge with me, or had simply written Greg off as a potential opponent, I would never know. But she had totally turned her back on him, and he … he was running toward her!

Emma and Madison realised what was happening a second too late. Just as they opened their mouths to shout in warning, he collided with her solidly, and they both went over. My jaw honestly dropped open. I'd never thought Greg was suicidal before. But there it was; he'd just crash-tackled Sophia Hess and brought her to the ground.

Rolling apart, they both stood up. Greg was on the defensive, but it didn't matter. Sophia was beyond merely pissed, beyond angry. She was even more enraged at him than she was at me. Her first punch blasted through his feeble defence and collected the side of his face. He staggered up against a locker, nearly went down, then used it as a prop to stand up again. "I said, leave Taylor 'lone," he slurred.

She wasn't listening. One punch smashed into his stomach, and I reflexively winced—I knew how that felt—then again as she kneed him in the nose. I heard the crunch from where I was. He stood up, more from the impact of the knee than any real capability to keep fighting, and she kicked him between the legs. With a high-pitched shriek, he collapsed, clutching at himself.

I roused myself as Greg went down. Yanking my arm out of Madison's grip, I elbowed her in the jaw. Then, ignoring the searing pain from my elbow, I turned to Emma and punched her square in the mouth. She let me go and staggered back, then sat down hard, staring up at me as if I'd just grown horns and hooves. Madison was sprawled half in, half out of my locker. I didn't care.

As Sophia drew back her leg to kick Greg in the face, I yelled, "Leave him alone!" I still wasn't in the best of shape, but I managed a shamble toward her. She might still shove me in the locker, but I wasn't going to let her kick my friend's teeth in.

"Oh, you want some too, do you, Hebert?" Sophia's voice was as deadly as her fighting capability. Where a high-schooler learned to fight like that, I had no idea, but she'd utterly fucking demolished Greg Veder in about four hits.

I saw something behind her and blinked, then grinned savagely as I focused on her again. "Come get me, Sophia. You might find that one-on-one's a lot harder than three-on-one. It won't be as easy to shove me in the locker with just you, either."

"I can get you in there with just one hand," Sophia promised, sidling closer to me. "And I can always say you broke your hands on the inside of the locker. After you emptied your own pepper-spray canister in there with you." She took out the tube and shook it. "Hebert, you are so fucked. There's no way you can win against me. Why don't you just admit it?"

"Because she knows better." The voice from behind her made her spin around. Alexander Grayson was strolling down the corridor, one hand in his pocket and one holding his phone, as if he owned the entire building and was considering making it over into a mall or something similar. Behind him was the reassuring bulk of Bradley, the guard from the elevator. "Miss Hebert, are you all right?"

"I've been better," I admitted. "Greg might need medical attention, too. Did you get all that?"

Grayson turned his phone around, showing me a moving image on the screen. "Audio as well as video," he assured me. "Of course, if it wasn't for Mr. Veder's quick thinking, as well as his incredibly noble sacrifice play, we probably wouldn't have gotten here in time."

"What the hell?" burst out Sophia, eyeing Bradley very cautiously indeed. "Who the hell are you guys?"

"Oh, we're from Medhall. I'm Grayson, from Legal." Mr. Grayson gestured toward the big guy. "This is Fieldmark, from Security." He paused to chuckle, apparently finding the next words rather amusing. "I suppose you could call us the cavalry."


End of Part Four

 

[Ack]

YuffieK posted this up on SB and SV, and I made it into a canon omake,

So I figured I'd do the same here.

4.1 Omake
<<< Greg Veder >>>

When I saw Taylor coming toward me, those three bitches crowding around her like they were bosom buddies or something, I didn't know what to think. Then Taylor gave me that look that just screamed "Help me, PLEASE."

For a second, I froze. I didn't know what to do. The teachers, Blackwell, they wouldn't care. They hadn't before. I felt a lot of guilt over the fact that, until now, neither had I. I had to do something. Call the cops? No... Call Tracey. She'd know what to do.

*This is Tracey Grimshaw. How may I help you?*

"Miss Grimshaw! This is Greg, Taylor's friend? I'm at school right now and I think those girls are about to do something bad to Taylor!"

*Mr. Veder, calm down. Am I to understand you believe Miss Hebert to be under threat of immediate physical harm?*

"Yes ma'am!"

*Please stay on the line. I'm calling Mr. Grayson and emergency services right now. Grayson should be already en route there to discuss Miss Hebert's legal claims with Principal Blackwell.*

#Hello, this is Alex. What's going on Tracey?#

*I have Greg Veder on conference. He believes those girls from school are about to assault Taylor Hebert.*

#Shit. Brad and I are about five minutes away. Have you called 911?#

*Justin is on the other line with them now.*

#Are you recording this?#

*Yes.*

#Greg, are you still there?#

"Yes, sir."

#Greg, you need to stall those girls until we or the police arrive.#

"Sir? I... Shouldn't I try and get a teacher or..."

#You have reason to fear for Taylor's safety. Don't just stand back and let it happen. You are acting in defense of others. Be the Hero.#

"I... Yes, sir."

#Good, keep the line open. Clearly state those girl's names for the record. Where in the school are you?#

"Uh, third floor, go right from the main entrance."

I swallowed and steadied myself, fighting down my fear. 'Be the Hero', Mr. Grayson had said.

I turned the corner and saw Taylor being held up against the lockers. I strode toward them and did my best impression of Armsmaster. "Let her go! Emma Barnes! Madison Clements! Sophia Hess! Let Taylor go! Right now!"

Those bitches just looked at me like I'd grown a second head. I was too busy trying not to piss myself to hear what they said, but Taylor... I saw that look of HOPE in her eyes, and I couldn't back down now.

I pointed accusingly at Sophia. "Shut the fuck up. Let her go right now, or you're in big trouble. I mean it!"

Sophia gave me a snort of laughter at that. "And what the fuck do you think you're going to do, Veder? I don't see any teachers, and I don't see Blackwell. And who's gonna believe your word against ours?"

Stall. Just a couple more minutes. "It'll be Taylor and me, and they'll believe us! You'll all be in deep shit if you don't let her go right now!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake, just spray him already," Emma snapped.

"No, I want to save it all for Hebert. You two hold Hebert. I got this." Sophia growled as she started toward me, the look on her face promising nothing but PAIN. I started backing up. Make her think I'm going to run I thought.

"That's right, Veder," she said with a sneer. "Run and hide." and then she turned her back on me.

I MUSTN'T RUN AWAY was all I could think as I tackled Sophia from behind.

Click to shrink...

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Five: Glorious Schadenfreude

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


In far less time than I would've believed possible, we were arrayed in Principal Blackwell's office. Only three of us wanted to be there; me, Mr Grayson, and Bradley. Emma didn't want to be there, Madison didn't want to be there, Sophia didn't want to be there, and Blackwell definitely didn't want us to be there. We'd dropped Greg off to the school nurse on the way. With the mauling that Sophia had handed him, he probably needed medical attention. But he'd handed me his phone before we left him behind.

On the way, Mr Grayson had quietly advised me to let him do all the talking. I was not to let the others provoke me into an outburst; the only time I was to speak at all was to answer whatever questions he had for me, and to only answer those questions. Any questions from Blackwell were to be referred to him.

"What about Dad?" I'd asked.

"Ms Grimshaw will have already contacted him," he assured me. "I don't know the man personally, but everything I've heard about him tells me he'll be on the way."

That gave me a warm feeling; not only that he thought so highly of Dad, but that they'd bothered to contact him at all. Because although Mr Grayson was definitely the legal expert in the room, and Bradley looked like he could bend steel with his pecs, I wanted Dad there too. Partly because Emma had been surreptitiously texting all the way to the office, as had Sophia. Madison had just looked frightened. I felt a tiny spark of glee at that. Not so much fun now, is it?

As we trooped into Blackwell's office, Mr Grayson leading the way with me beside him and Bradley bringing up the rear, I could see the wheels spinning in her head. She was trying hard to decipher everything about the situation, and the presence of the Medhall people was severely throwing her off. But Emma and Sophia were there, and so she went on the attack.

Well, their presence might not have been the catalyst for her reaction, but I couldn't see much else that would have. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded. "Ms Barnes, who are these people?"

Mr Grayson smiled, giving off the impression of being a friendly shark. Well, friendly to me. "Good morning, Principal Blackwell," he said with impeccable timing, talking right over the top of what Emma tried to say. "I'm Alexander Grayson, with the Medhall legal department. This is Bradley Fieldmark, with the Medhall security department. We were already coming here to investigate an alleged ongoing bullying situation involving Taylor Hebert, one of our most promising interns. Imagine our surprise when we get a phone call on the way, alerting us to the fact that Taylor was in a potentially dangerous situation. And so it was when we arrived. Taylor was being held by these two students, under threat of being forced into her locker, while that one there performed serious bodily harm on our other promising young Winslow intern." Placing his hands on the desk, he leaned forward into her space. "I have to ask; is this how you run your school on a daily basis?"

Blackwell drew herself up. "Mr … Grayson, was it? You were not invited into this school, so I'm going to ask you to leave. Whatever was or was not going on between my students, I will be dealing with it, not you."

"That's perfectly reasonable," Mr Grayson said. "We'll be leaving now. If you won't address the explicit criminality of the actions of those three, especially that one," he indicated Sophia, "I'm sure the BBPD will be pleased to do it for you." He smiled winningly. "And of course, images of these three manhandling and assaulting Taylor and her friend Greg will go marvellously on the front page of the Bulletin." He held up his hands, fingers framing an imaginary headline. "Students savagely beaten; Winslow principal refuses to act." Theatrically, he turned to Bradley. "Do you think the seven o'clock news would like the audio we have of Principal Blackwell's prize track star planning to murder Miss Hebert?"

Deadpan, the massive security guard nodded. "Yeah. I figure they might." He gestured to me to follow, as all three of us headed for the door.

"Wait—wait, wait, wait!" The words were torn from Blackwell's throat as she half-rose and put her hand out toward us. "Murder? Audio? What are you talking about?"

We stopped, just short of the door. Mr Grayson turned and smiled at Blackwell, his expression cold instead of genial. He was really, really good at that. Just for a moment, I was able to see him as the bad guy in a movie, with Bradley as his hulking minion. "Mr Veder recorded his interaction with the three girls here. Miss Hebert, if you can play it back, please?"

"Certainly, Mr Grayson," I replied. Greg had confided his password to me (it was 1-9-8-2, the year capes first appeared) so I was able to access his phone and call up the sound file he'd recorded.

It started with his voice. From the echoes, he was hurrying along a corridor, panting slightly. "This is Greg Veder. I'm recording this because there are people who'll try to say it never happened. Well, it's happening all the time. Emma, Madison and Sophia keep picking on Taylor. I might be just one person, but I can't let it keep happening. Not anymore." There was a pause in his voice, but the background noise kept going unchecked. Then there was the sound of cloth sliding over the microphone. Things got a little muffled then, but the voices were still perfectly audible.

"Oh, hey." It was clearly Madison's voice. "When it's empty, wipe the prints off it and put it in there with her. That way we can say she did it to herself."

"Whoa, damn." We turned to look at Sophia. She glared at us. "I am fucking impressed, Mads. You come up with the best plans." There was a grunt of exertion. "Time to try out your new accommodations, Hebert. Might be a bit cramped, but you'll have time to get used to it."

Mr Grayson made a gesture, and I paused the recording. "What are these 'accommodations' Sophia was referring to, Ms Hebert?" he asked, because Principal Blackwell certainly didn't seem likely to do so. "And what was Madison referring to when she said 'wipe the prints off it'?" With a notepad in hand, he poised an elegant-looking pen expectantly.

"They were going to shove me in my locker," I said, glaring at Blackwell and silently daring her to ignore the evidence this time. "Then spray a pepper-spray canister in there with me."

He nodded and took notes. "Thank you. Please continue."

I hit the button on the phone. Almost immediately, we heard Greg's voice. "Let her go!" This was a lot closer than the others. "Emma Barnes! Madison Clements! Sophia Hess! Let Taylor go! Right now!"

"And there you have positive identification of everyone who was there," murmured Mr Grayson. Principal Blackwell looked more and more hunted.

"What the fuck?" That was Sophia's voice, sounding utterly baffled.

"What the fuck, Greg?" Emma's tone was equally disbelieving.

"Greg?" Madison's voice joined the chorus. "What do you think you're doing?"

Greg's voice wavered between outrage and 'what the hell am I doing'. "Shut the fuck up. Let her go right now, or you're in big trouble. I mean it!"

The only thing we heard for a few moments was laughter, then Sophia spoke. "And what the fuck do you think you're going to do, Veder?" she asked derisively. "I don't see any teachers, and I don't see Blackwell. And who's gonna believe your word against ours?"

"It'll be Taylor and me, and they'll believe us!" Greg maintained. "You'll all be in deep shit if you don't let her go right now!"

Mr Grayson gestured again, and I paused the playback. "That's three times the young man advised them to release her, I believe," he murmured. "At no time did anyone say anything to the effect that they weren't holding her."

"It's audio, not video—" Blackwell began.

"They were identified by name, Principal Blackwell," he interrupted her. "And I would be willing to run voice-prints on every voice on this recording, if I had to. We all know it's those three." Again, he nodded to me. "Continue."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, just spray him already." That was Emma, and she didn't sound happy.

"No, I want to save it all for Hebert." I glanced at Sophia, who sneered at me, but kept a cautious eye on Bradley. Her voice went on. "You two hold Hebert. I got this."

"Where do you think you're going, Taylor?" Emma's tone was sickly sweet.

"You're not going anywhere, except in your locker." Madison just sounded amused. "Maybe after Sophia's finished beating the shit out of Greg, he can join you in there. He's obviously got the hots for you, after all."

Emma didn't sound mocking anymore. "Fuck, Madison, I think he really does. He's not running away."

About ten seconds passed. I could hear Greg's quick breathing on the audio. There were footsteps, but it was impossible to tell what was happening; or it would've been if I hadn't already lived through it. Finally, Sophia's voice came up, a lot closer than before. "That's right, Veder. Run and hide."

Over her receding footsteps, I could hear Greg breathing. He seemed to almost be sobbing, then he took a deep breath. "Gotta do this," he muttered. "Gotta do this. Friends stand up for each other." He took another breath. "C'mon, Greg, don't be a wimp all your fucking life." His footsteps started accelerating. A few seconds later, there was a thud and a grunt, then more thuds and some panting. There were no words, but the sounds of exertion.

Mr Grayson held up a finger, and I paused the playback.

"What's going on there, Ms Hebert?" he asked, one eye on Blackwell.

"That would be the point when Greg tackled Sophia," I explained. "I have to say, I honestly didn't think he had it in him."

"I find myself impressed as well," he agreed, and flicked his fingers to signal me to continue.

Maybe thirty seconds went by, then there was a meaty thud and a metallic clang. Greg's breathing was harsh, then finally he managed to get some slurred words out. "I said, leave Taylor 'lone."

Sophia didn't say anything, but even Bradley seemed to wince at the sounds of fist striking flesh. Then there was a high-pitched scream, too close to be anyone but Greg. This time, Bradley did wince. I got the impression he knew exactly what had occasioned that noise.

More movement happened, then my voice came across the recording. It sounded weird to me. "Leave him alone!"

"Oh, you want some too, do you, Hebert?" Even when played back, Sophia's tone was nothing short of murderous.

"Come get me, Sophia." My voice sounded more confident. "You might find that one-on-one's a lot harder than three-on-one. It won't be as easy to shove me in the locker with just you, either."

"I can get you in there with just one hand." Sophia's voice moved away from Greg. "And I can always say you broke your hands on the inside of the locker. After you emptied your own pepper-spray canister in there with you." There was a pause. "Hebert, you are so fucked. There's no way you can win against me. Why don't you just admit it?"

"Because she knows better." Involuntarily, Blackwell looked at Mr Grayson as his voice intruded on the recording. "Miss Hebert, are you all right?"

"I've been better." My voice still sounded weird. "Greg might need medical attention, too. Did you get all that?"

"Audio as well as video," Mr Grayson's voice said on the recording. "Of course, if it wasn't for Mr. Veder's quick thinking, as well as his incredibly noble sacrifice play, we probably wouldn't have gotten here in time."

"We can cut it off there," Grayson himself said, nodding to me. Then he turned to Blackwell, whose face had the kind of expression borne by people facing a firing squad. "As you may have heard, Bradley and I showed up then, and I was recording video and audio. When Ms Hebert intervened, that one there had Mr Veder down on the ground, and was about to kick him in the face. She's quite athletic; the chance of permanent injury or even death would have been significant. My question to you is this: do you call the police and press charges on all three of them, or do I do it and throw you and the entire school under the bus at the same time?" His sunny smile never changed, but somehow it became a lot more menacing. "Because there's no way I'm letting this farce go on a moment longer."

"Taylor hit me!" Emma burst out, apparently unable to keep quiet for a moment longer. She pointed at her mouth, where my fist had disarranged her lipstick. "Right here! I think I've got a loose tooth! You should have her arrested too!"

"And she elbowed me in the head!" Madison blurted out. "She's a psycho!"

Bradley turned to look at me, his eyebrows raising slightly as he gave me a look of approval. "Damn, kid. You're a wild animal."

I ducked my head and blushed at the compliment, but Mr Grayson was already talking. He never looked away from Principal Blackwell as he answered Emma. "Ms Barnes, there is such a thing in law as 'self-defense'. Taylor was being mobbed three on one, she has a clearly obvious bruise on her cheekbone that I know she didn't have yesterday, and the audio recording has you and Ms Clements holding her against her will, while your friend performs grievous bodily harm on a boy who merely wished to help Taylor. No jury in the world would convict her. You two, on the other hand … well, neither one of you did more than hold Taylor, did you?" He smiled as Sophia twitched.

"We-we never hit Taylor," Emma said, then pointed at me. "Tell them, Taylor!"

I remembered Mr Grayson's advice and looked at him for guidance. He nodded, then gestured at Emma and Madison. "Did either one of these girls hit you, Taylor?"

"Emma dug her nails into my arm," I said, pulling up my sleeve to show him the red marks, "but no, neither one of them hit me." I looked at Sophia, who had somehow managed to refine her glare-of-death while we were talking. If she'd had eye-beam Blaster powers, she could've fried Behemoth with them. From orbit. "That was all Sophia, from beginning to end."

"That's a lie!" Sophia shouted. "She's lying!"

"Well, if she's lying," Mr Grayson said thoughtfully, "that means one of you two must have been the one to work Taylor over and give her the bruising she's already wearing. Which of you two is it, hmm?" Behind him, Bradley folded his arms ominously.

The brunette and the redhead flicked glances at each other, then at Sophia. With elegant unconcern, Mr Grayson wrote something else in his notepad. With a quiet snap, he closed it and put it away, then clicked his pen and tucked it into his pocket. "Very well, then—" he began, taking his phone out of his pocket.

"Sophia's the one who's lying!" Madison burst out. "She beat up Greg and Taylor! Emma and me never hit Taylor! It was all Sophia's idea! Her and Emma! I had nothing to do with it!"

"Madison, you idiot!" yelled Emma. "I—"

"You little fucking coward!" Sophia surged forward, her hands reaching for Madison. The petite brunette tried to jump back out of the way, but she was a day late and far more than a dollar short. They went down in a tumbling heap that I had to skip sideways to avoid. I'd known Sophia had a temper on her, but all of a sudden I was glad I'd never pushed her quite this far.

"Sophia Hess!" shrieked Principal Blackwell. "Stop that right this instant!" She hurried out from behind her desk and tried to prise the two of them apart; Sophia laying into Madison with over-the-shoulder punches, Madison desperately defending with everything she had, and failing badly.

A single muscular leg, dark-skinned, launched out of the melee. It struck Blackwell in the stomach, driving the wind went out of her. She staggered back and sat down hard on the floor with an oof.

"Well, as entertaining as it is to see idiots fall out …" Mr Grayson sighed. "Bradley, if you will?"

"Right." Moving forward, Bradley all of a sudden went from looking like a burly security guard who might smack intruders upside the head with his baton to … I didn't know what. Dangerous. Striking like a snake, he darted his arm into the shrieking tangle of arms and legs and hauled out Sophia, one huge hand tangled into her long flowing black hair.

She struggled and screeched swear-words I'd only heard hardened Dockworkers use before, and tried to turn to attack him. Swinging her around, he let her go as his arm reached full extension, hurling her across the room where she hit one of the uncomfortable chairs that Blackwell liked to inflict on visitors and folded into it. Almost immediately, she was up again, launching herself forward. I wasn't sure if she was going after Madison, Bradley or even me, but she ran straight into a crisp backhand that crossed her eyes and dropped her right back into the chair.

"Stay," growled Bradley. I blinked, surprised at how fast the big man could move. He continued to loom over Sophia, keeping her in the chair with his sheer presence.

"Ms Clements, are you all right?" asked Mr Grayson. He went to one knee beside Madison and began to help her up. "Are you having trouble breathing? Do you need the nurse?" He tilted his head toward Sophia. "Do you want to press charges? I witnessed the whole thing, and I'm willing to take the case pro bono."

Madison shook her head. "I'm fine," she said nasally, and not very truthfully. Her nose was busted and Sophia had messed the rest of her face up but good. She seemed to be hesitating over the second question the office door opened.

"I came as fast as I—" began Dad. He broke off at the sight of the scene; Emma huddled into the corner with her eyes wide and her hands covering her mouth, Sophia dazedly slumped into a chair, Madison looking like she'd gone ten rounds with Behemoth, and Principal Blackwell painfully climbing to her feet with the assistance of her desk.

"Oh, thank God you're here!" I wasn't usually this demonstrative with Dad, but I grabbed him and hugged him.

He reflexively hugged me back, but he was staring over my shoulder at the scene of violence behind me. "I'm glad I'm here too. What the hell's been going on here? I got a phone call saying you'd been attacked." With his hands on my shoulders, he pushed me back a couple of feet to examine me. "What happened to your face?" He paused, then looked down at Madison. "And what happened to her face?"

I took a breath to explain, decided against trying to get all the details right, and gestured at Mr Grayson, who was helping Madison stand up while she held her nose. I didn't have much in the way of sympathy. "Same person. Sophia Hess. That's Mr Grayson and Bradley. They saved me from her." Well, Greg had kind of saved me too, but that was a point of detail I'd get into later.

"Alexander Grayson, Medhall legal department," Mr Grayson said smoothly, offering his hand to Dad. "I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr Hebert. Your daughter has been impressing us all at Medhall." He indicated Bradley. "This is Bradley Fieldmark, a member of our security staff. We were on our way out here when we were contacted and told that Taylor was in trouble. So we got here as quickly as possible, and encountered these girls holding Taylor and announcing they were going to put her in her locker, while that one there severely beat a boy who'd attempted to come to her rescue." He pointed at Sophia. "We understand she's also the one who marked Taylor's face."

Dad blinked as he shook Mr Grayson's hand, apparently trying to unpack all that. Then he focused on the one detail that jumped out at him. "Emma? What are you doing here? Is this true?"

She stared defiantly at him, even as she reluctantly took her hands away from her mouth. "I'm saying nothing until my father gets here."

Dad looked at me questioningly. I sighed. "It's exactly what it looks like. Emma and Madison and Sophia have been bullying me for more than a year. When I started at Medhall, I went and bought business clothing. They grabbed me outside the mall and straight-up stole most of it from me."

"Bullshit." Sophia still looked a bit groggy, but she glared at me from where she was sitting. "No fuckin' way you afforded that. You shoplifted it for sure. You're a fuckin' thief, Hebert."

"On the contrary," Mr Grayson said. "Upon the commencement of her duties, Ms Hebert was given a cash advance which she used to purchase the clothing." Because as part of the legal department, he would've signed off on it.

"And Madison's wearing one of my blouses," I added. "In case anyone's wondering."

Everyone turned to look at her, and she stepped back defensively. "I wanna go home," she mumbled.

"That's a good idea," Mr Grayson said. "Though you really should see the school nurse first, just in case." He turned to Principal Blackwell and raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should summon a teacher to get her there?"

The subtle sarcasm in his tone—perhaps you should have thought of that before I told you to do it—clearly stung, but Principal Blackwell did as she was told, and lifted the phone on her desk. A short but very sharp conversation later, she put the phone down. "It's done," she said sullenly.

"Thank you," Mr Grayson said with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now, Madison, was it your idea to steal the clothing, or was it theirs?"

It took her a few seconds to get the message that she was being thrown a lifeline, then she nodded hastily. "Theirs. It was theirs. Emma and Sophia wanted to do it. They told me to wear the blouse 'cause I was the only one who could fit into it and they knew it would piss off Taylor."

"Who knew what would piss off Taylor?" With those words, the office door opened once more and the last player in our little drama strode onto the stage. Alan Barnes looked from side to side, and his eyebrows rose. "Taylor, Emma, what's going on here?"

"Dad, Taylor punched me in the mouth!" shouted Emma.

Predictably, Mr Barnes swung his whole bulk toward me and Dad. "Taylor, you'd better hope you've got a really good reason—"

"She does." Mr Grayson stepped forward, hand extended as though Mr Barnes were his best friend in all the world. "Hi, I think we've met a few times. Alexander Grayson. I'm with the Medhall legal department, representing Taylor Hebert. As I recall, you're a divorce lawyer? That's nice."

And there it was, laid out in black and white. You can't take me on your best day.

Mr Barnes blinked a couple of times as Mr Grayson shook his hand. "Representing Taylor? Why?"

The smile on Mr Grayson's face grew a little sharper. "Are you asking what matter I'm representing Taylor in, or the reason why I'm bothering to represent Taylor at all?"

"The, the first one." I was no expert in reading expressions, but I would've bet Alan Barnes wanted to say 'both'. "Is it about the assault on my daughter?"

Mr Grayson chuckled politely, as though Mr Barnes had made a joke that had fallen flat. "Hm, no. Though that will reach court in one way or another. I will be representing Taylor in the lawsuit against Winslow High School for ongoing negligence in that they allowed your daughter and her friends to carry on a protracted campaign of mental, physical and emotional abuse against her for more than a year. Bullying, in fact. There will probably also be criminal charges laid against your daughter and her two friends, especially that one—" He indicated Sophia. "—for attempting to murder her by trapping her in an enclosed space then filling that space with pepper spray."

"What, murder?" Mr Barnes' head came up. "Pepper spray is non-lethal. You'll never make it stick."

"It's an inflammatory," Mr Grayson explained patiently. "A brief exposure can leave a person helpless for minutes at a time, and cause breathing problems. How would you fare if I forced you to breathe a concentrated dose for an hour and a half? At the very least, it will be attempted manslaughter. Bradley, you have the canister, correct?"

"Yes, Mr Grayson." Bradley produced the canister, carefully wrapped in a handkerchief, from his pocket, then tucked it away again.

"And so." Mr Grayson indicated the canister. "That's got her fingerprints on it." He nodded toward Sophia. "I'd be interested to know where she got it from."

"Uh, it's mine," I said hastily. "Dad gave it to me for self-protection, and she stole it."

"You used it on me yesterday!" shouted Sophia.

"After you tried to stop me from getting on the bus so I could go to work at Medhall," I shot back. "And Emma rang my boss and pretended to be me quitting the internship."

"I'm going to need proof for that accusation." Mr Barnes looked at me severely. "Unsubstantiated allegations can lead to considerable legal trouble."

"Medhall records all incoming and outgoing phone calls," Mr Grayson announced, ruthlessly cutting him off at the knees. "I already have an extensive sample of Emma's voice for an analysis check. Would you like to bet money on the outcome, or just concede right now?"

"Recording inside a school, in an all-party consent state—"

Mr Grayson rolled his eyes. "Oh, do try to keep up, Mr Barnes." I couldn't blame him; he was utterly in control of the situation. "One, a school is not a place with a reasonable expectation of privacy. Two, even a technically illegal recording is admissible in court so long as the police did not make it." He paused. "And, talking about recordings." A nod in my direction. "I think Mr Barnes needs to know exactly who he's trying to defend, here."

"I know who I'm defending!" Mr Barnes blustered. "Emma's a good girl—!"

Just then, there was a knock on the office door, and none other than Mr Gladly leaned in. "I'm here to escort Madison Clements to the … good god, what's going on here?"

Mr Grayson waved his hand in a go-away gesture. "That's not your concern," he stated flatly. "Madison, go with him. Call your parents. Go home. And think very long and hard about who your friends really are. The police will be around to talk to you."

She gave him a frightened look, then left.

As the door closed behind her, Mr Grayson gestured to Greg's phone, which I still held. Taking the hint, I restarted the audio file. To give Mr Barnes credit, he listened all the way through without trying to interrupt. When Emma tried to speak over it, he waved her to silence. We both knew damn well he knew her voice as well as I did. I didn't know how well he knew Sophia and Madison, but from the way the colour left his face, I figured he recognised their voices as well.

When Mr Grayson's voice cut in at the end, Mr Barnes glanced sharply at him. The mention of video and audio didn't make him in any way happy.

"You have an interesting definition of 'good', Mr Barnes," Mr Grayson said after I stopped the playback. "What's your opinion of Sophia Hess?" Without giving the man a chance to reply, he started his phone playing; even from the angle I was at, I could see a razor-sharp image of Sophia brutalising Greg. Her voice was just as clear as it had been on Greg's phone, and even I could tell that the overlap in the recorded audio meant it would be very hard to discredit it in court. He ended the recording and studied Mr Barnes' face. "Did you have any questions? Would you like me to replay any part of that?"

Emma must have been still smarting from the punch in the mouth, because she chose this incredibly unwise moment to speak up. "Dad, are you going to let him talk to you like that? Taylor hit me!"

Drawing a deep breath, Mr Barnes spun around to her and pointed at one of the chairs. "You're in enough trouble right now, so sit down and shut up!" he bellowed. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and ran them through his thinning red hair.

Mr Grayson let him stew, even as he stepped aside to allow Emma to sit down. She was white in the face, possibly because her father had never shouted at her like that in my presence, ever. Dad didn't say a word, merely looking from Mr Grayson to Mr Barnes like a spectator in a tennis match. Principal Blackwell was back in her chair, but she wasn't saying a word, maybe hoping we'd forget she'd ever been in the room. I didn't really blame her. She'd repeatedly dropped the ball so hard it probably had a concussion.

"Sophia …" Mr Barnes began.

The dark-skinned girl stopped glaring at Bradley—who was still looming over her—long enough to look at him. "What?" she snapped, almost as though this was all his fault for not resolving it immediately in her favour.

"Have you called your … uh, Ms Bright?" I wasn't quite sure why he'd stumbled over the woman's name, but he was clearly rattled. Who Ms Bright was, I had no idea. Maybe her parents had split with each other, and Ms Bright was her father's new girlfriend?

"Yeah, I've called her." Sophia didn't quite sneer at us, but her expression hardened. "And you jack-offs are gonna be sorry you messed with me."

I frowned. That didn't exactly sound like Sophia's usual line of tough talk. And Mr Barnes also seemed to be taking her seriously. Glancing at Mr Grayson, I caught him and Bradley sharing a quick look. They didn't know either, which made me wonder who Ms Bright was. She couldn't be someone high up in the legal field, because Mr Grayson would've known the name. I'd thought everyone who was likely to show up, had. Apparently, I'd been wrong.

Sophia's phone buzzed, and she took it out. A vicious smile spread across her face. "She just got here. I'm not saying anything else."

Dad looked questioningly at me, and I shrugged in response. A glance at Principal Blackwell told me that she seemed to know who the enigmatic Ms Bright was; or at least, she wasn't as mystified as the rest of us.

Mr Barnes took another deep breath. "Emma, no matter what happens, no matter what gets said, you say nothing, do nothing. Do you understand? Anything she asks you goes through me."

I blinked. That was the exact advice Mr Grayson had given me … which made me wonder all over again who Ms Bright was that she could scare Mr Barnes like that. Mr Grayson murmured a question to Dad, who shrugged. Bradley looked as though he didn't care.

A minute or so later, the office door opened, and a woman in her late twenties entered. She was blonde, with a heart-shaped face, and looked more than a little taken aback by the tableau facing her. All in all, she did not seem to live up to Sophia's hype.

Eyebrows raised, she looked at Sophia. Then she glanced at Principal Blackwell, just as clearly dismissed her, and put her attention on Mr Grayson.

"Hello," she said, holding out her hand. "Kirsten Bright. I'm Sophia Hess' social worker. I understand there's been some sort of problem concerning her?"

Silence descended upon the room as we all did our best to digest her announcement. Bradley was the first to speak; or rather, he let out a bark of laughter. "That's it?" he asked. "We're all supposed to be scared of a social worker?"

"Now, now, let's not be rude, Bradley." Mr Grayson shook Ms Bright's hand firmly. "Social workers carry out a valuable role in society. No, Ms Bright, I don't consider the situation with your ward to be so trivial as to constitute a mere 'problem'. The phrases 'criminal charges' and 'attempted murder' are more of a correct fit. Also, 'aggravated assault', 'caught on camera' and 'tried as an adult'."

"Aggravated assault?" Ms Bright rallied hard and stared at me. "On her? If Sophia were indeed the perpetrator, I would hardly call it aggravated."

Mr Grayson spoke softly, but with deadly precision. "We stood right here in this office and witnessed your client savagely beating one of her friends who dared speak the truth about her. That person's name is Madison Clements, and she's just now been taken to the school nurse to wait for her parents to take her home. She will be joining another student, Greg Veder, who was also horrifically beaten by your client for the crime of saving Taylor there from being murdered. Again, by your client." He pointed at what I realised were drops of blood on the cheap linoleum. "That isn't tomato ketchup, Ms Bright."

I had to admire the woman's fortitude. Even with no leg to stand on, she pressed onward. "And this beating of the other boy? Did you personally witness that?"

"Funny you should ask that." Mr Grayson nodded to me. I hoped that there wouldn't be too many more people showing up, because this was getting a little tedious.

After she listened to Greg's recording and watched Mr Grayson's footage, Ms Bright looked as though she were clenching her jaw just a little harder than normal. She turned toward Principal Blackwell. "I presume she will be expelled for this?"

Some kind of message passed between them, and Blackwell nodded jerkily. I thought that was a little odd—Blackwell should've been the one pushing for expulsion, over the social worker's reluctance—but I didn't have much in the way of context. "Yes," she said. "I'll expedite the paperwork immediately."

"I thought you might." Ms Bright sighed, then addressed herself to Sophia. "I'll be taking you—"

"—nowhere," Mr Grayson said firmly. "Ms Bright, no disrespect intended, but I've never seen you at the courts, ever. I honestly do not know if you are who you say you are. Your client, if that's what she is, is a flight risk. I would be doing Taylor and Greg a grave disservice if I allowed an unknown person to walk out that door with someone I knew had committed a criminal act. You will wait with us for the police to arrive, and they will take her into custody." He turned to Principal Blackwell. "You have called the police, have you not?"

"Oh, uh …" Principal Blackwell hesitated for a fatal moment. "I thought Ms Bright would be able to sort matters out."

"And why in Heaven's name did you think that?" demanded Mr Grayson. "I mean, seriously, madam. I understand that social workers do good work, but there's a vast difference between scolding someone for skipping school and charging them with multiple cases of felony assault." He shook his head. "You've had your chance." Dismissing the video from his phone screen, he tapped in a number. "Hello, yes. My name is Alexander Grayson. I'm at Winslow High School, and I've just witnessed one of the students committing assault and battery on two other students. They are both in medical care, and at least one of them might require hospitalisation for assessment of his injuries. Yes, she's currently in custody. Please send someone to pick her up. Also, send a female officer. I believe she may need to be body-searched, and I'm not willing to do that. Yes, her name is Sophia Hess." He paused, glanced at me, then looked toward Emma with an unfriendly eye. "Also, there is another girl, named Emma Barnes. When you get here, you might want to talk to her about being an accessory before and during the fact. Yes, we will be in the principal's office."

As he ended the call, Alan Barnes stepped forward. "Do we really need to go this far with Emma?" he asked. "I'm sure we can come to some kind of arrangement without needing to bring the courts into it. Mediation …"

"Mr Barnes, you're showing your background." Mr Grayson shook his head with a slight smile. "When an actual crime has been committed, rather than a simple disagreement between two people, mediation just won't cut it. After all, what sort of mediated agreement would suffice to make up for …" He turned to me. "How long have you been suffering this mistreatment, Taylor?"

"Since school started in September of two thousand nine," I said steadily. "A bit over a year." I gave Principal Blackwell a glare at that point. "And they never listened to my complaints, even once."

"Oh, we're going to be addressing that as well," he observed, showing his teeth in a smile that gave me the distinct impression that he was enjoying this way too much. I didn't blame him; I was getting a kick out of it, too. "My only dilemma is whether I should stick to a civil suit against the school on your behalf, or if I should go so far as to push for charges against Principal Blackwell for her criminal negligence in this matter."

Dad spoke up then. "Which one would get Taylor the justice she needs?"

Mr Grayson nodded respectfully. "A salient point, Mr Hebert. Sometimes we allow our thirst for vengeance to guide our actions too far. But for Taylor's good … yes. The civil suit, I think." He turned back to Mr Barnes. "As for you, what reparations do you think would be worthwhile, considering what your daughter has been putting Taylor through for more than a year?"

The look on Mr Barnes' face almost made me smile, then and there. If he reached too low, Mr Grayson would go right ahead with prosecuting Emma. If he reached too high, Mr Grayson would let it happen. He was stuck very much between a rock and a hard place, and everyone knew it.

He took a deep breath. By the time he let it out again, I knew what his decision would be, by where he was looking. Or rather, where he wasn't looking. He looked at Emma, then at Mr Grayson, and shifted his body slightly so that his back was toward Sophia.

"Emma confesses to everything," he said tonelessly. "She returns everything she stole, and pays her back in full for what she can't return. She tells the full truth about Sophia's crimes against Taylor." The way he said Sophia's name sounded a little odd, but I didn't care. "She makes a complete public apology toward Taylor in any venue you consider appropriate. I withdraw all legal assistance and support from Sophia Hess. We'll cut all ties from her. I will personally recommend, from my knowledge of her, that she be remanded to juvenile detention, her sentence to be reviewed when she turns eighteen. In return, Emma gets immunity to prosecution for what's already happened. Is that sufficient, or would you like me to garnish her pocket money as well?"

"Well, I can't guarantee immunity," Mr Grayson noted. "That's up to the DA. But depending on the degree of cooperation from her and Madison, I can certainly recommend lenience in the matter. A suspended sentence, perhaps, or community service." He turned to Dad and me. "Do you have any thoughts on the matter?"

"Yes, I do." Dad frowned at Emma. "This sort of behaviour does not come out of nowhere. Emma gets therapy. She stays away from Taylor at all times. I'll insist on a restraining order if I have to." He turned his attention to me. "Taylor?"

"I want to go to Arcadia," I said impulsively. Clenching my fists, I stared at Mr Barnes and at Principal Blackwell. "If you really want to make this right, you can pull strings to have me transferred there. And ensure that Emma isn't even allowed to walk in the front gate."

"It'll get done," Mr Barnes assured me. Principal Blackwell began to open her mouth, but he spoke over the top of her. "I said, it will get done. Oh, and I'll be pulling Emma from Winslow as well."

"You can't send her to Arcadia," Dad said bluntly.

"No, I'm thinking I'll send her to boarding school in Boston," Mr Barnes decided. "It'll cost a bit, but she can do without the very latest in smartphones, and her first car will have to wait a few years. I'm sure it's a sacrifice she's willing to make if she wants to avoid getting into any more trouble than she's already in." He gave Emma a firm stare as she opened her mouth. After a long moment, she shut it again.

Mr Grayson smiled. "Well, that seems worthwhile so far. We'll thrash out the final details in a more salubrious atmosphere. For now, I believe I hear police sirens." His expression grew razor-edged as he looked at where Sophia glowered from her chair with Ms Bright beside her. I looked as well; her expression promised death to everyone in the room. "Once they take this little troublemaker away, we can get down to brass tacks."

"Before we do," I said, "I just want to say thank you. For everything you've done for me. I mean it. You and Bradley, you've gone above and beyond."

"Think nothing of it," he assured me. "You're a member of the Medhall family now. You're one of us. And we look out for each other."

Bradley nodded in agreement, though his eyes never left Sophia. "You got guts, kid," he said over his shoulder to me. "Sometime, I might show you and the Veder boy how to take care of yourselves in a fight. If you're interested."

"What do you think, Dad?" I asked, looking up at my father as the sirens got louder. "Should I give it a try?"

He shrugged, then put his arm over my shoulders. I leaned into him. "Couldn't hurt."



End of Part Five

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Six: Stepping Up

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

When the police got there, Mr Grayson handled most of the talking. He seemed to positively enjoy explaining the situation that had required his presence, while Bradley stood in the background and kept an eye on Sophia. Dad had no problem with that, especially given that everything seemed to be going our way for once.

Once Mr Grayson explained to the officers what Sophia had been doing (and boy, the glare of death he got from Principal Blackwell was nothing to the one he got from Sophia) and they'd viewed the footage of her kicking the shit out of Greg, they took her into custody readily enough. The social worker stayed glued to her side and only said one thing to her: "Don't say anything to anyone."

Good advice, I figured. Pity she hadn't been there earlier.

Dad and I, sitting to one side, were spectators to all this until a plainclothes female officer approached us. "Good morning," she said in a voice that seemed to convey a certain amount of doubt as to how good it was going to be. "I'm Detective Temple. I understand you're one of the injured parties here?"

"That's me," I confirmed. "Taylor Hebert."

"Danny Hebert," Dad said, holding out his hand. "I'm her father."

Detective Temple shook it, then took out a notepad. "Now, this is more a formality than anything else, but every detail is good to have in a case like this. How long have you known Sophia Hess and Emma Barnes?"

I glanced at Dad momentarily. "How long have I known Emma? First grade? Before that?"

"At least that," he agreed. He nodded toward where Mr Barnes was talking earnestly to another officer. "Alan Barnes and I have known each other for nearly twenty years. Our daughters were best friends since they could walk and talk."

"Hm." Detective Temple made a note. "And Sophia Hess?"

I took a deep breath. "I wouldn't say I know her. I've never had a polite conversation with her, or an interaction that turned out well for me. The first time I met her was at Emma's. Emma told me to go away, that she was bored with our friendship, and Sophia tripped me as I was going out the gate. And that set the tone from then on."

"And when was this?" Detective Temple's pen scribbled on the pad.

It took me a moment to think back. "Just before the beginning of school, last year. Late August, after I got back from summer camp. I went over to see Emma right away, and she just … rejected me. Like she was a totally different person from the one I left behind. Harder. Harsher."

Scribble, scribble went the pen. I waited for the next question.

Detective Temple looked up from the pad. "Did you do anything to cause this? I understand friendships can break up by saying something that sounds innocent."

"No." I shook my head. "I've been over it a million times in my head. She'd had a haircut, kind of a pixie cut thing. It was new on her, but she totally made it work. So I said something about it, told her that it looked good on her. But she just looked at me like … like I wasn't her friend. Like I was a piece of dog crap she was scraping off her shoe. Told me she should've cut me loose years ago. She told me to go away, and Sophia said something mean and stuck her foot in front of me when I was going out the gate. I went home and cried for about a day, then I told myself that I'd see her in school and it would be all better."

"And it wasn't." The tone of Detective Temple's voice made it a statement, rather than a question.

I shook my head again. "She's always been popular. I've always been … not. Once she had her in-group sorted out, they started on me. Teasing me, stealing my stuff, sabotaging my homework. It just never stopped."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" Dad looked stricken. "If I'd known …"

"I am somewhat curious myself," Detective Temple agreed. "Why didn't you report it? To a teacher, if not to your father?"

I snorted with dark humour. "I did. They barely got punished. Then they started accusing me of what they were doing. I was just me. They all had friends who backed up each other's stories. And if I did get someone in trouble, they came at me twice as hard." I looked at Dad sadly. "And you were still getting over Mom. I thought I could handle it. Then I thought I could just tough it out. Then … I was too used to just taking it. I couldn't make the effort to do anything different."

The interview went on for a little longer. Detective Temple teased out a few more details, and got me to confirm that the pepper spray that Bradley had handed over was indeed mine. She nodded when Dad pointed out that he'd gotten it for my self-protection.

We were wrapping things up when she said to let her know if I thought of anything else to tell her. That was when I remembered. "Uh, I do have detailed notes of everything they've been doing to me since school started this year. Would that help?"

Detective Temple's eyes widened slightly. "Definitely. Written testimony is still testimony. How quickly can you get it to me?"

Dad seemed to come to a decision. "Well, I'm taking Taylor out of school for the day. How about you follow us home and Taylor can get it for you?"

"That should work. Just excuse me for a moment, please." Detective Temple went and spoke to another officer.

"How are things going with you?" Mr Grayson asked, apparently materialising out of nowhere. "I'd advise you to be careful about speaking with the police, but I suspect you've got that well in hand."

"Pretty good. Taylor's just given her statement to the detective, and she's got some written notes about the bullying at home." Dad ran his hand through his thinning hair. "Detective Temple's going to follow us home and pick it up."

"That sounds fine to me." He smiled and lowered his voice slightly. "Just make sure not to let her in if there's anything in view you don't want her to see. She might be here about the Hess girl, but the police are never not on duty, if you get my meaning."

"I hear that." Dad nodded toward where Mr Barnes was talking quietly to Emma, who was doing a lot of nodding. "Alan always said much the same thing."

"His daughter might have been a bad friend, but that's still good advice," said Mr Grayson. "So, Taylor, see you at work tomorrow?"

"Totally," I said. "I still can't thank you and Bradley enough for showing up when you did."

He smirked. "Just between you and me, we'd been out and about collecting evidence on what's been happening to you, and the school was actually our next stop. But it was absolutely our pleasure to be able to nip that sort of thing in the bud and make sure troublemakers like the Hess girl get what they deserve. Is it true you pepper-sprayed her?"

I nodded. "Yeah. She was trying to drag me off the bus when I was going to Medhall that one day."

He shook his head. "She didn't know who she was messing with, obviously. See you tomorrow." He held out his hand, and I shook it.

"Thanks," I said, feeling a flush come over me at the praise. "See you then."

He nodded in reply and turned to Dad. "It's been good to meet you, Danny. Take care of Taylor. You've got a real firebrand here. I can definitely see her being an asset to Medhall in the future."

"I'll do my best." Dad shook his hand, then looked at me as Mr Grayson walked away. "In the future, huh? So you think this intern job might be going somewhere?"

I was still riding the high from the compliments from the very well-accomplished Mr Grayson, but I managed to lower my voice a bit. "Um, don't tell anyone, but they said they're definitely thinking about giving me an actual paid position at the end of the month. Basically, doing what I'm doing now, but getting money for it."

His eyebrows rose. "Well, now. You must have impressed them. Good for you." I watched the first genuine smile of the day spread across his face as Detective Temple rejoined us.

"You look like you've got good news," she observed. "Anything I need to know about?"

"Not specifically, no," Dad said. "Mr Grayson just made sure Taylor knew her internship was still ongoing, despite all this." Which was true, if not exactly informative. Apparently, he'd taken Mr Grayson's advice to heart. I didn't think that the news of me getting a paid position at Medhall would prejudice my case, but I supposed it didn't hurt the police not to know that.

While I was still musing about that, we went out to the car. I belted myself in and Dad drove us both home. We didn't talk much on the way there, but I could tell Dad was thinking deeply about stuff. That suited me; so was I.

We pulled up in the driveway at home, and Detective Temple parked on the side of the road. Dad gave me the house key and went to chat with her as I headed up to the front door and let myself in. The pages were held together with a bulldog clip, stashed in my room under a spare Christmas sweater that was way too garish for me to even consider wearing. It took me less than a minute to run up the stairs, get to my room, and retrieve them. I came back a little more slowly; Dad and Detective Temple both looked around as I exited the front door.

"So is this it?" she asked, reaching out for it.

"Jesus Christ, what's Emma been doing?" Dad blurted out at the same time, looking at the number of pages I had clipped together. He turned to the detective. "I'm going to need a receipt and a copy of that, as soon as you can make one. Whether Alan likes it or not, I need to show him exactly what Emma's been up to."

"I can give you a receipt right now." She was leafing through the pages as she spoke. "But I can't give you the copy until after the case goes through. This is material evidence of a whole series of crimes. Mr Barnes will be seeing it, but from our hands. As I understand it, his daughter has agreed to testify on Taylor's behalf. We're going to need to go through this with her to see if there's any she wishes to contest, and he's already stated he wants to be in the room."

"She won't contest a damn thing." Dad's tone was certain. "Alan will crawl over hot coals to protect his daughter. Any man would. Anything that'll give her a chance to walk away from this, he'll take. And with her and Madison singing a duet …" He shook his head. "I would not want to be in Sophia's shoes right now."

"Okay, so I get it that Emma gets to go to Boston and I never see her face again, and Madison probably gets some sort of deal in return for dropping a dime too, but will Sophia at least get punished?" I didn't want to sound like a sadist, but someone needed to pay for the shit I'd been through. "Juvenile detention or whatever?"

"That's very specifically not for me to say," Detective Temple said. "The courts handle that sort of thing. Depending on the level of cooperation and remorse shown, the other two might get suspended sentences, or they might end up serving a little juvey time. But yes, someone is going down, and my gut—and what's in here—says that Sophia Hess is not going to be able to avoid being in the line of fire."

She meticulously counted the pages, noting the email printouts I'd done, and wrote out a receipt for the sheets while I numbered and initialled each one in front of her. Then she handed over the receipt and I gave her the sheaf of pages.

"You know, I've seen people sink themselves before," she said conversationally as she got into her car. "There was this one guy who robbed a convenience store, then got mugged when he stopped in an alley to count his take. So he showed up at the local precinct to report the mugging, just as we were viewing the security footage and putting together a description of him. But between what's on the recordings, two separate people rolling over on her, several eyewitnesses to a violent assault and a written record of her misdeeds …" She laughed out loud. "The angel Gabriel himself couldn't get her out of this."

<><>​

PRT ENE

Director Emily Piggot

The first thing Emily knew about the new situation was the report that had been emailed to her. It was a standard arrangement with the Brockton Bay PD; if certain names came up, their systems automatically notified the PRT's systems. They didn't get to view the names, of course. It was all encrypted. But a name had come into the switch room, and police had been dispatched to the scene.

The name was Sophia Hess.

Emily still didn't know exactly what had happened—the initial call had only named names and mentioned a violent altercation, but given no more details—so she'd messaged the PRT officer who'd been assigned as Hess' handler. A message had come back to the effect that Bright was on the way, as Hess had already contacted her. More messages followed: that she was at Winslow; that Sophia was unharmed and her secret identity was intact; that some other girls had acted out and she'd been caught up in the situation, and finally that she was going to ride in a police car with Sophia to the precinct.

Some may have been lulled into thinking it wasn't a problem; after all, Hess' minder was right there and didn't seem to be concerned. But Emily had learned long ago that any sort of unexpected situation with a cape (especially a Ward) had the potential to blow out into a full-blown crisis at the drop of a domino mask. Which was why she was trying to ring Blackwell herself, if only to get the full picture. Unfortunately, Blackwell didn't seem to be picking up.

This still put it into the 'absence of news' category, rather than bad news, but Emily didn't trust it in the slightest. Once Bright was able to walk Hess out of the precinct station and get her back to the PRT building, they would both be conveyed directly to Emily's office, because the Director was supposed to be the first person in the know, not the last.

All she could do was hope that Hess didn't do anything stupid before then.

<><>​

In the Back of a Police Car

Undercover PRT Officer Kirsten Bright

"Not fuckin' fair."

Sophia's mumble might have gone unnoticed if it wasn't for the uncomfortable silence in the back of the car. However, Kirsten heard it loud and clear. Worse, she reacted by glancing at Sophia, who looked challengingly back at her. Which meant she now had to notice it.

"What do you mean by that, Sophia?" she asked quietly, hoping the girl would take the hint and keep her voice down. The last thing she wanted or needed was a spontaneous confession in front of a pair of police officers.

"It's bullshit, is what I mean." Sophia's voice was still low, but there was an edge of steel in it now. "They can't just set that shit up like that and get me arrested. That shit doesn't happen to me. I hope Piggy calls the Triumvirate on them. It's gotta be illegal."

"Now's not the time to debate legality." Kirsten hoped the cops weren't listening closely enough to catch the reference to Director Piggot. "That's for when you appear in court. If we can prove—"

"Court?" Sophia shook her head. "Fuck that. I do more to keep this city safe than any three other capes, and they're gonna put me on trial for this trivial shit? No way. Not an option."

"Sophia, calm down," whispered Kirsten. Don't be listening, don't be listening … "It looks bad, sure, but we're a lot better off keeping our heads and not doing anything—"

"No, you fuckin' calm down," Sophia retorted. "I'm sick of this shit. I'm done." Before Kirsten's disbelieving eyes, she misted through the cuffs just as the car slowed to perform a turn. Changing to her Breaker form, she dived out through the door, then changed back just in time to yank the back door of the police car open and slam it again.

"Hey, what the fuck?" yelled the cop riding shotgun as he craned his neck to stare into the back seat of the car, now minus Sophia. "The kid got out! How'd the kid get out?"

"Crap!" The driver reacted, screeching the car to a halt and throwing Kirsten into the back of his seat. "Get after her! She's in cuffs, she can't get far."

As the other one jumped out and ran back toward the corner, Kirsten knew they didn't have a chance in hell of catching up with Sophia. Even without her powers, it would've been doubtful. With them, she was in the wind the moment she got two yards away from the car. Opening and closing the door was a nice touch, drawing attention away from the fact that she'd used powers to get through it.

The driver got out and opened the door to let Kirsten out of the car. She hadn't been charged with anything, after all. "What happened?" he asked, his voice harsh. "How'd she get that damn door open?"

"Well, it was opened from the outside, obviously," Kirsten said. She'd already checked—as Sophia no doubt had as well—and the tiny camera lens that was supposed to record everything in the back seat was dull and dark, with no LED to show it was in service. A typical state of affairs for the Brockton Bay Police Department, all told. "Do you think maybe she had an accomplice?" Lying to the cops was an offence, but asking a hypothetical question was not the same as making a statement. Her actual statement to Director Piggot was going to be a lot more uncomfortable now, thanks in every way to Shadow Stalker and her amazing lack of self-control.

She wondered if it was too early to start dusting off her resumé …

<><>​

Hookwolf

"Y'know," mused Bradley as Alexander expertly guided the car through the late-morning traffic, "It was kinda lucky that the little cow went off the rails like she did, to make it an open-and-shut case." He shot the other man a suspicious glance. "But it wasn't just luck, was it?"

Alexander smirked as he speared the car through a gap that should by rights have been too small for it. "Well, lucky's one word for it. Personally, I've always believed a man should make his own luck."

"Fuckin' thought so," Bradley said accusingly. "You were workin' on all of 'em there, weren't you? Blackwell, that little brunette, the redhead …"

The smirk turned into a chuckle. "It can get so tedious waiting for your adversary to make a mistake, when it's the work of a few moments to draw down his or her critical thinking and their ability to make a reasoned judgement. They won't even lose them permanently, though that Hess girl won't be running on all cylinders for a while. After what she tried to pull, I hit her hard."

"Might be longer than you think," Bradley said thoughtfully. "She gimme the impression of someone who thinks with her fists. Sorta person who figures rules are for other people."

Alexander laughed out loud. "What, like you and me … Hookwolf?"

Bradley rolled his eyes. "Ha ha. Fuckin' smartass. No, I mean, she's someone who'll go against all the rules, even the ones we agree to between ourselves. I mean, there's gotta be rules at some point. She came across as the sort of little bitch who'd kick over the apple cart just to see shit going down, know what I mean?"

"Hm." Alexander rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You may be right. Still, it's not exactly our problem. She's going directly to juvenile detention, exactly where her kind belongs. We've done our good deed for the day and all is well with the world."

<><>​

The first Emily knew about the disappearance of Sophia Hess was when the automated email dropped into her inbox. She clicked on it, opened it and absorbed the header all in one smooth action. Then she actually took in the body of the email.

She froze.

Then she read the email again.

"What the fuck?"

More profanity was lining up to be spoken as she reached for her phone. It would have to wait; she had to talk to people, and while swearing at the top of her lungs was invariably cathartic, the signal-to-noise ratio was unacceptably low. But there were some choice utterances she was going to relish using later, especially when she got the chance to speak to those idiots who had convinced her to give Shadow Stalker a place on the team.

She went into her phone directory and selected Bright, Kirsten. Because she always made damn sure that her contacts list was properly formatted. And then she hit the little green icon.

"Answer my phone, you little weasel," she muttered. "Or I swear, I will activate the GPS and track you down—ah, Ms Bright! Just the person I wanted to talk to. No, I actually do not care where you are or who you were talking to. You are talking to me, right now. I want to know what the hell happened with Hess, post haste. You know what post haste means? No? It means drop what you're doing and be in my office FIVE FUCKING MINUTES AGO! Do I make myself absolutely clear? Good." She shut the call off with a vicious stab at the red icon, then sat back in her chair.

There was a very good chance that Shadow Stalker was no longer a Ward. She would make the final decision on that after she'd heard from the Bright woman (and from Blackwell, whenever she chose to answer her damn phone) about what was going on there.

The final question after that would be exactly how much in the way of resources Emily was prepared to dedicate toward recapturing Hess so that the little delinquent could be delivered safely to juvenile detention.

For that, she'd just have to wait and see what the Bright twit said.

<><>​

Wednesday Morning

Taylor

The next half-day at school was … different. There were several girls, and one or two guys, who normally had a habit of sneering at me or bumping me in the halls. They'd clearly heard something about what happened, but not all the details, or what the fallout had been. Having police come to the school was not exactly an unusual occurrence, but they rarely came for someone as prominent as Emma, or even Sophia or Madison. None of them had come back to Winslow, which only heightened the mystery for their cronies. Greg wasn't there either, but nobody else seemed to notice his absence.

After Mrs Knott's class was World Affairs. Madison wasn't there, of course, but Julia was. For the first half of the class, she shot me an occasional puzzled glance, but I could tell she was building up the nerve to act on her own. Finally, about an hour in, she cleared her throat and raised her hand.

"Mr G," she said. "I need to sharpen my pencil."

"Certainly, Julia," he said, then turned toward her. "You will not pass by Miss Hebert's desk. If you do anything whatsoever to interfere with her scholastic experience, I will be sending you to Principal Blackwell's office for immediate punishment. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

Julia stopped moving when she was still only halfway to her feet. Her mouth dropped open and she stared at him. "Mr G?"

"You heard me." I'd never heard that tone from him before. It was a welcome experience, like he was actually being a teacher for about the first time ever. "And it's Mr Gladly. Do you still need to sharpen your pencil?"

"Oooh," murmured some of the kids around me. "Burned," whispered others.

Julia heard them and her face turned red. "No," she mumbled, and sat down again.

"Good," he announced, and faced the class. "It's come to the attention of the faculty that some of you are in the habit of bullying others. That will cease immediately. Anyone violating this prohibition will find themselves in detention or even suspended from class. Does anyone not understand this?"

Nobody said a word, then to my surprise one hand went up. I was even more surprised when I saw who it was. So was Mr Gladly. "What is it, Sparky?" he asked. I was pretty sure this wasn't intended to be funny; it was indicative of the fact that nobody in the room could remember Sparky's real name. Quite possibly not even himself.

"Uh … I was wondering where Greg was," he mumbled. "Did he get sent to the office?" Did I miss something? was what he didn't say, but we all heard it anyway.

"No," Mr Gladly said curtly. "He's also been a victim of bullying. Yesterday, Sophia Hess beat him up in front of several witnesses. He's currently recuperating at home."

"Oh." Sparky put his hand down.

Mr Gladly raised his eyebrows. "Now, did anyone else have any questions? No? Good. As I was saying, it's a common misconception that the downtick in shipping trade is due to Leviathan attacking ships at sea. Can anyone point out the actual reason for this …?"

The class went on. Mr Gladly took a brief phone call outside the room, then came back and continued the lesson. Julia was looking at me, as though wondering how I'd suddenly acquired bulletproof status. I didn't acknowledge her because I didn't feel like explaining exactly what had happened, even if I'd been free to do just that.

When the bell rang for lunch, I picked up my backpack (which had my entire work outfit in it, carefully ironed and folded) and walked out of the classroom. I didn't know if he'd done that because of a sudden urge to be a competent human being for once, or if Blackwell had given the entire faculty a thorough reaming after what had happened the day before. My money was on column B, but to be honest I didn't care. I would be transferring to Arcadia just as soon as they could force it through, and I'd be free of this shithole forever, and everyone in it.

The bus ride into the city was almost peaceful. I was able to shake off the mild depression that even thinking about Winslow got me into as I wondered what work Tracey would have for me today. I'd finally eighty-sixed the last of those paper files (much to her genuine satisfaction) so I was looking forward to a new challenge. Mr Grayson and Bradley had stepped up for me. I wanted to give something back.

When I got off at the bus stop, I encountered a welcome surprise. Greg, looking a little bruised and banged up but still on his feet, was waiting for me. "Oh, hey," I said. "Wow, you look like the quarterback in our last game against Arcadia after the entire team ran over him."

"Yeah, I kinda feel that way too," he agreed. "My bruises have got bruises, but there's no way I'm gonna risk losing this internship. How'd it go yesterday, with Mr Grayson and Bradley? I went home after the nurse checked me over and said I probably didn't have a concussion. Mom went apeshit and refused to let me come to school today." He mimed a tear trickling down his cheek. "I was totally cut up about that, let me tell you."

I snorted and punched him lightly on the shoulder, trying for someplace without a bruise. He winced anyway, the wuss. "I just bet. Yeah, they totally took charge. But thanks for showing up when you did. You saved me from something really nasty." Leaning in, I gave him another kiss on the cheek. "You should've seen it. Mr Grayson did sneaky lawyer shit and Madison totally caved. Then Sophia jumped her and beat the living shit out of her, and Bradley hauled her off then gave her a smack in the mouth when she wouldn't stay put. It was amazing."

"Aw, damn it," he complained. "I miss out on all the good stuff." But he rubbed at where I'd kissed him, and the tiny little smile on his face said he was pretty happy about that bit. "So give me all the details. What happened after you guys dropped me at the nurse?"

"Well, you should've seen Blackwell's face …" I began as we headed in through the front doors of Medhall. We paused briefly while we swiped ourselves in using our cards, then kept going after we got through, heading for the elevators.

"Uh, Mr Veder?" That was Burt, one of the guys on security at the front desk.

He stopped and turned around. I paused as well, wanting to see what was going on. "Uh, yeah, what's up? Did I do something wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong," Burt assured him. "I was instructed to tell you to go to Miss Hebert's floor before you report for work, that's all." He gave us both a nod and a tight smile, then went back to watching the screens.

"Okay, sure, thanks." Greg glanced at me. "What's that about?"

I shrugged. "No idea. Let's go see."

We got in the elevator and rode up to my floor. Bradley was standing at his post nearby when we stepped out; he nodded toward us both. "Miss Hebert. Mr Veder."

"Good afternoon, Bradley," I said with a smile. "Thanks again for yesterday."

"Yeah," Greg said. "That was really great, what you did."

Bradley snorted slightly, giving the (probably accurate) impression that the whole thing hadn't even amounted to light exercise for him. "You're the one who took the lumps, kid, not me. Gotta say, you got guts. I mean, you got your ass handed to you, but you got guts to jump in there anyway."

"The worst thing is, I got beat up by a girl," Greg said morosely. "I mean, jocks push me around anyway, and I guess she's a jock and all, but still, a girl."

"Hey, don't go thinking girls aren't all that," Bradley pointed out. "Friend of mine called Melody, she's one of the toughest people I know. Girls can kick ass too."

"Thanks, Bradley." I gave him another smile. "Well, we gotta go and see what's up."

We found out about a minute later. As I entered the workspace I shared with Tracey, I saw that Justin was there, along with Mr Grayson and a young woman only a few years older than me. They all turned and started clapping, which caused Greg and me to both stop in our tracks.

"Hail the conquering heroes," Justin said with a cheesy grin. Tracey elbowed him in the side, which he ignored. "Nicely done, both of you."

"Greg did all the 'doing'," I protested. "I just stood there and watched."

"Not so," Mr Grayson corrected me. "As I understand it, you got in a few licks yourself. A punch in the mouth and an elbow to the head?"

"I guess, but …" I pointed at Greg. "He's the real hero."

"I got my ass kicked," Greg said. "Some hero I am. Mr Grayson and Bradley were the ones who saved the day."

"We can kick the credit around all day," Mr Grayson said with a chuckle. "Let's just agree that it was a team effort and go with that. Taylor, Greg, you haven't met my wife Diane, have you?"

"Uh, no," I said. Stepping forward, I held out my hand. "Taylor Hebert. I'm really pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," she said, shaking my hand and then Greg's. "I'm usually in the nurse's station in the infirmary. If either of you start feeling problems from the beating you were in yesterday, don't hesitate to come see me. Okay?"

"Totally," I said. "But I didn't get much of a beating. Greg suffered the worst of it."

Greg shook his head. "I'm not gonna lie. Last night I wanted to curl up in a hole. It still hurts, so I'll keep that in mind."

"Good idea," declared Justin. "Well, I've got to jet. I'll be back to steal your coffee, Taylor."

"Yeah, I just bet." I shook my head. The man was incorrigible, but I couldn't help liking him.

Mr Grayson turned to me. "Before I go as well, were there any problems at school today?"

"None at all," I assured him. "Someone went to try, but Mr Gladly shut her down. For the first time ever. I think she was in shock."

He assumed a totally evil expression and steepled his fingers. "Excellent," he purred.

I stifled a giggle and shook my head. "Wow, all you need is a Bond villain base and a fluffy white Persian cat to stroke, and you'd be a classic movie villain."

"And that's never happening," Diane noted. "Not unless he wants to sleep on the couch in his Bond villain base. Nice meeting you two."

"Ah, the one who wears the pants has spoken," Mr Grayson said with all good cheer. "I'll see you at another time, Taylor. Take care, Gregory."

It was kind of quiet in the office after they'd left. Greg looked at me and I looked at him. "Well, I suppose I should go and get some work done," he said a little awkwardly. "Those plant rooms aren't going to inspect themselves, after all."

"Yeah, good point," I said. "See you later, Greg."

"See you later, Taylor."

I watched him go, then went into the little break room, got out the iron and took the few creases out of my prepacked work clothing. With a quick splash of water on my face to freshen up, I changed in the restroom.

"Nice," Tracey said as I came out. "You're looking very chipper today, even with that bruise on your cheek. Alexander told me what went down at that ridiculous school you attend. How are you feeling about it?"

"I'm doing great," I assured her, and I didn't have to lie even a little bit. "I think yesterday was their all-out attempt to stick it to me. I've got this internship, they know they can't take it away from me, so they were doubling down at school. But in a way, they did me a huge favour. Because of what Emma did, her dad is now pressuring the school hard to get me transferred to Arcadia. Sophia's been arrested, and Madison's off sick and testifying against Sophia, like Emma is. So everything's looking up."

She smiled brilliantly. "That's really good to hear. I was shocked and surprised to get the phone call from Greg yesterday, and I'm glad it all turned out well. He really thinks a lot of you; you know that, don't you?"

"Who, Greg?" That was something I hadn't ever spent much time thinking about. Greg was just there, part of the furniture. More recently, I'd started thinking of him as a friend. But she had a point; he'd really been stepping up for me recently. "Yeah, I guess. He's a nice guy, once you get past the un-housebroken puppy aspect."

She stifled a snort of amusement. "You'll find that many teenage boys have much the same issue. He had a bad start, but he seems to be finding his feet and learning responsibility. I think you might be being just a little harsh on the boy."

"I'll keep that in mind," I decided. "So, what's on the docket for today?"

"Well, seeing as you finished off our usual make-work project, I found something else for you to do. It's an employee audit. Sometimes, glitches creep into the system and people get transferred into two different departments at once, or the details of their security clearances fall through the cracks. It's actually not unknown for a department to be dissolved, and someone to not be transferred to a new one. They show up, sit at their desk, and go home. Pay comes through, but they never do any work, because nobody's actually in charge of them."

"I could name people who would consider that their dream job," I said dryly. "But sure, I can do that." I went to sit at my desk, and saw the scanner still beside me. A sinking feeling developed in my stomach. "Oh, wait. Are these files …"

"On paper, yes." Tracey might or might not have had a smirk on her face as she went and got a cardboard carton of yet more manila folders. "This is why we can't just ask the system to arrange them all by hair colour or whatever. You need to enter them, and see where they slot into the system, and make sure the current system isn't being problematic due to a misplaced comma or something."

"Okay, then." It was a little more open-ended than my last task, but I supposed Tracey had learned she could trust me to work until I got it done. Which, of course, I intended to. Medhall had been nothing but good to me, and I wanted it to succeed. And if scanning in employee records and then cross-checking them against existing records was going to be my part of that, then that was what I was going to do. "Let's get this going. But first … coffee."

While the scanner was warming up, I went and made three cups of coffee. One for Tracey, the way she liked it, one for me and one for Justin when he mysteriously appeared in the doorway mere seconds after I'd poured it for him. Either he had a parahuman power that allowed him to detect when coffee was being made, or he was in the habit of waiting around just near our office space until the smell of fresh coffee came wafting down the corridor. Neither one would've surprised me overmuch.

Thus fortified, I tuned out Justin's flirting with Tracey and examined the setup Tracey had sent to my terminal. I could see how the files were entered; checking the first manila folder, it was easy to see that the paper files were laid out in the same way. It took a little experimentation, but I found I could scan the pages and then overlay that on the employee database input section. The scanner still had a tiny bias to the right, but I just had to allow for that. After a few minor hiccups, I found myself going smoothly, setting aside each folder as I finished with it.

We stopped for lunch, and I chatted with Tracey over my pita bread wrap and juice-box. She listened to my first-hand account of what had happened in the school, and agreed that I really did need to get out of there as soon as possible.

After lunch, I finished the last of the employee files. Tracey had given me a checklist to cover, and I started going through with it. I found I could sort and check people by employee number and Social Security number, as well as any other data that could be applied to a sorting algorithm. As I went through, I learned to access the dates they started at Medhall, and other information about their security clearances. It was thoroughly fascinating, and I learned a lot about how databases worked.

I was totally immersed in the work when Tracey said my name. Shaking my head, I looked around at her. "Sorry, I was just trying to chase something down. What's up?"

She grinned at me, clearly used to my little ways by now. "Ten to three, Taylor. You might want to start packing things up so you can go home."

"Okay, sure. I'll just do a few more, then call it quits for the day." I settled back down in front of the terminal and resumed my study of the current employee on my screen. His attendance record was up to date, there were no black marks against his name, he'd joined Medhall on that date …

I paused. Something was tapping at my brain. I was missing an important detail.

Carefully, I went back through the last few ones I'd done. When I spotted what had been bothering me, I did a quick sort, and looked at the result.

"Tracey," I said hesitantly. "I don't know if this is a thing, but I just found something that looks weird to me."

"Well, tell me what it is and I'll let you know if it's a thing or not," she said immediately. Getting up, she came around to where I was sitting.

"I nearly missed this," I confessed. "But I did a sort based on social security, and this guy and a few others …" I pointed at the screen. "Their numbers are consecutive."

She blinked. "That can't be right. And if it's right, it can't be good."

"Also, some of them are down as having provided security clearance for some of the others," I ventured.

That definitely got her attention. "That's a big tick on the 'not good' column." She waved me out of the chair, so I went and made her a cup of coffee while she worked. When I brought it back, she looked up at me, her expression serious. "This is huge, Taylor. Can you wait back a while? I need to go up the chain for this."

I nodded. "Totally."

We weren't kept waiting long. Ms Harcourt arrived in less than two minutes, sweeping into the office space like a battleship into enemy waters. She gave me a very brief nod of acknowledgement, then turned to Tracey. "Talk to me."

Tracey made way for Ms Harcourt, then talked her through what I'd discovered. Ms Harcourt checked a few of the numbers and examined the details of the employees thus uncovered, then looked up at me. "This is how you found them?" she asked bluntly.

"Absolutely, ma'am," I confirmed. "As soon as I saw they were in sequence, I told Tracey."

"Good work, both of you," she said, then took out her phone.

Tracey and I stepped away while she made a call. "Does that mean what I think it does?" I asked in a whispered undertone, pointing at the computer terminal.

"That you just found a bunch of moles and probably saved Medhall hundreds of thousands of dollars? Yeah, absolutely." Tracey put her arm around my shoulders and hugged me tightly. "I'm totally proud of you, Taylor."

"Wow," I said. "I can't believe it."

Inside, I felt amazing. Medhall had stepped up for me, and now I had the chance to step up for Medhall.

I love my job.



End of Part Six

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Seven: From Strength to Strength

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Coil

Thomas Calvert didn't often engage in the habit of gloating, but this was one such time. Not only did he have a series of people embedded within Medhall, but there had recently been a corporate reorganisation. His men had been able to consolidate themselves within their departments, creating enclaves with their comrades so they didn't have to worry about being caught doing things they shouldn't. Not all of them knew of each other, of course, but opsec was something he was familiar with.

It wasn't that he thought Medhall had any particularly damaging secrets, but all companies had information they wanted to keep out of the hands of ambitious competitors. And Calvert was nothing if not an extremely adept opportunist. So whatever they had to hide, he would find it out. Their secrets would become his secrets. And they didn't suspect a thing.

Steepling his fingers before him, he experimented with a satisfied chuckle, but only one. There were standards to uphold, after all.

<><>​

Kaiser

Max put down the report. "So, it's definitely Coil?"

Leaning back in his chair, looking supremely relaxed, Victor nodded. "He's the only one who ticks all the boxes. Out of town mercenaries are his thing, after all. It doesn't look like they're there for sabotage or assassination, just corporate espionage. And now that we've reorganised things slightly, we can control the flow of information to each little group and let them spy on each other to their hearts' content."

Max nodded, maintaining the façade of confidence. Inside, he was more than a little shaken. Until Ms Harcourt came to him with the Hebert girl's findings, he hadn't had the least suspicion of the infiltration of Medhall. With the right clearances, they could've gone almost anywhere in the computer systems. They may even have been able to hack into areas normally off-limits. They could have outed me.

Krieg rubbed at his lips. "And this is all down to that girl who you and Hookwolf helped out, the one whose office attire was stolen?"

"That's the one," Victor confirmed. "She's a sharp cookie, but she was in a bad place. Harcourt speaks highly of her."

Max nodded. Time for a gesture, he decided. Such a thing would cost him little in material terms, but it would mean the world to the girl. And besides, she had done him a huge favour, and rewarding loyalty always paid off. "I think we should do something nice for her."

<><>​

Taylor

Thursday passed by in a haze of impatience. I was pretty sure I went to class, and I may have even taken notes, but I couldn't prove it by any kind of recollection. However, I did notice that my can't-touch-this status seemed to be holding steady, for which I was profoundly grateful. Gladly didn't even have to repeat the stern warning, and in the absence of Sophia and Emma, nobody seemed quite willing to take a shot at me outside the classrooms.

Paradoxically, even in the absence of the familiar bullying, Friday morning was even worse. Now I was aware of the classes I was in, and impatient for them to be over, so I could escape from the dreary crawl that was life at Winslow.

For World Affairs, Mr Gladly announced a group project where he proposed a hypothetical re-seeding of the Sahara. Each group was supposed to work out a feasible plan for doing so, while using as few capes as possible to make it happen. As he laid out the details, I could see he had one eye on me; whether to make sure nobody bothered me, or maybe to check to see if I was okay with his teaching technique, I wasn't sure. I just ignored his manner and paid attention to what he was saying.

Greg was there, bruises and all, and we immediately picked each other as group partners. Mr Gladly directed Sparky to join us as well, which was neither here nor there. We spent about five minutes commiserating with each other on just how long the last two days had been, then we got down to work. Sparky roused himself occasionally to make a comment, which I incorporated when I could, but for the most part we worked around him.

I found myself wondering something, but I didn't know how to ask the question. Finally, Greg turned to me. "What?"

"What what?" I asked, flustered.

"You've been staring at me for the last thirty seconds. What's on your mind?"

I had totally not realised I was staring. With anyone else I would've been horribly embarrassed, but Greg and I knew each other better than that. He'd literally tackled Sophia and taken a beating for me. So I just came out and said it. "Nothing, it's just … before we started at Medhall, I always thought you were a clueless dork. Now, you're a lot more switched on. I mean, was I wrong? Have I been misjudging you all this time?"

To his credit, he stopped and thought about the question, instead of just answering off the bat.

"No," he said slowly. "The last week or two, I've learned a lot. About me, about life, about everything. On Wednesday I was having a break with the guys and Bradley dropped by. We had a good conversation about how sometimes a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do."

"Damn," I mused. "That sounds like something I would've liked to hear." Bradley looked like he could be scary without really trying, but he'd been nothing but nice to me.

Greg nodded. "The funny thing is, I probably needed to get beat up to really understand it. I mean, that first day at Medhall when I totally fluffed Ms Harcourt's test? That was a huge wake-up call for me. I thought I had it all figured out, and that you were being a wuss. You were right, I was wrong, and you kept being right and I kept being wrong. I mean, I had to figure out where I was screwing up sometime." He shook his head in wonder. "Getting that internship was the best thing that ever happened to me."

I smiled. "Me too. And you know something? I'm glad you're doing it with me. Because you deserve it."

We beamed at each other in perfect agreement, right up until Sparky stirred and muttered something about 'just kiss her already'. Then he grunted, because Greg had kicked him in the shin.

"Seriously," Greg said, shaking his head. "I like you, man, but sometimes you just don't know when to shut up."

I snorted softly with amusement. "The number of times I wanted to say that to you, back before Medhall …"

"What, you liked me then?" Greg raised his eyebrows, making it clear that he was joking. "Or should I go with 'tolerate'? The amount of shit the others were putting you through was intense, and I wasn't doing anything to help. Sometimes I seem to recall making it worse."

I couldn't disagree. "Well, all that is kinda true, but you made up for some of it last week, and a lot of it on Tuesday. But I have to say, this is a whole new level of self-awareness." I briefly put my hand on his, where it rested on the desk. "In case I haven't made it clear, I do like it."

His cheeks went a little pink but he nodded. "Yeah, I had a lot of time to think while I was laid up at home. It's a bit of a wrench to come to the conclusion that you're not the centre of the universe, and a bigger wrench to realise that everyone around you already knew that." He shook his head in self-deprecation. "But I'm not gonna make a big announcement that this is the new Greg Veder, not just yet. A work in progress, that's me." He glanced down at what we'd done so far. "And talking about works in progress, we've still got some to do here."

"Absolutely." I was impressed all over again. I'd been ready to pull the conversation back to our project anyway, but he'd subverted expectations and done it for me. "So, what do you think about my idea of using mass-produced automated solar-and-wind-powered moisture precipitators to enlarge existing oases?"

"Hmm …" He tapped his pencil on the desk, thinking. "If I've learned anything from doing building maintenance, it's that automation works great but when it breaks, it breaks hard. The tighter the tolerances, the bigger the chance something will jump the tracks. Not many Tinkers can mass-produce, and their tech usually needs constant maintenance. So we'd need a good solid R&D company to build one with mundane tech and then thrash the design until it'll stand up to the worst conditions before rolling it out …"

I listened intently and made notes, and the class period rolled on.

<><>​

"So, what's this I hear about you finding moles in the building?" Greg asked an hour or so later as our bus came in toward the stop outside the Medhall building. "You trying to take Bradley's job away from him now?"

"Yeah, right. As if." I had to laugh at the idea. "No, I just found some irregularities in an employee records audit, and brought it to Tracey's attention. She called Ms Harcourt, and it was all out of my hands. I don't know how it turned out, but I got the impression everyone was really pleased. That we found them, not that they were there in the first place."

The bus squealed to a halt and we got up, packs over our shoulders. My business outfit was already ironed but I'd be touching it up again once I got upstairs, just to be sure. We didn't speak as we got off the bus.

"Yeah, I bet Bradley was all kinds of pissed that they'd snuck in under his nose," Greg said with a smirk as we started toward the glass doors. "I wouldn't want to be those guys once he catches up with them. That man has muscles on his muscles."

"He really does. You should've seen Sophia's face after he gave her a smack in the mouth." The cool air conditioning enfolded us as we stepped inside. "She was like, oh-em-gee, I can't believe you did that."

"I bet Emma was the same after you did the same thing to her." Greg and I tapped our cards at the turnstiles and stepped through. By this time, I was getting to recognise the guys on the front counter, and I essayed a polite wave. One of them nodded back, and we kept going.

"I was a little preoccupied, but yeah," I agreed. We stepped up to the lifts and I hit the button. "It was even better watching her realise that Sophia and her dad weren't going to get her out of the shit she'd put herself into. I've never seen anyone shrink like that."

"Well, she's needed deflating for the last year," Greg decided. The elevator doors opened and we went to step inside, but realised at the last moment that there were people in there.

Nudging Greg, I stepped aside as a tall, spare man stepped out with one of the middle managers trailing along behind. I recognised him as James Fleischer, the head of one of Medhall's affiliated pharmaceutical companies. "Good afternoon, sir," I murmured as he passed us.

To my surprise, he stopped and turned toward me. "Good afternoon to yourself, miss. You would be the young prodigy working under Ms Harcourt who found the problem, yes?"

I cleared my throat, refusing to let my voice betray me now. "Y-yes, Mr Fleischer. I'm Taylor Hebert, sir."

"Yes. I know." His face took on a wintry smile as he held out his hand. As if in a dream, I shook it. "It has been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Hebert. Keep up the good work."

More than a little stunned, I watched him walk away. Once he had rounded the corner, I turned to Greg. "Did … did that just happen?"

"Uh huh. Wow." He slapped me on the shoulder. "Just gonna say, those moles must've been in some really sensitive positions if one of the top guys shakes your hand over it."

The elevator doors had shut behind us, so I pressed the button again to open them. "No shit. I thought the most he'd do would be to say hello, but … wow. That was different."

We stepped inside and I hit my floor on one set of buttons while he hit his on another. That important task completed, he turned to me. "Joking aside, Taylor, you're gonna be something in this company."

"I guess." I wasn't really comfortable with talking myself up like that, so I gave him a light shoulder punch. "And I know who's gonna be my number one maintenance guy."

He nodded, perfectly serious. "I'm down with that. You and me, we make a pretty good team, yeah?"

It gave me a warm feeling inside. "Yeah. Yeah, we do."

The lift stopped on his floor and he got out, then I rode the rest of the way humming to the elevator music. I didn't know the tune, but it had a real beat to it. Bradley nodded to me as I got out of the elevator and I greeted him warmly.

"I just want to thank you again," I said. "Everything's really good at Winslow now. Well, as good as school can get."

"I'm pleased to hear that, miss," he said. "Any word about the Hess girl?"

"Uh, you know she escaped from police custody?" That had not been welcome news at all, but a police cruiser had been parked on our street for the past two nights. Not that Dad and I thought she'd do anything stupid like come to our house.

"Mm-hmm." He nodded once. "Some people are too stupid to know when they should just give it up. If she comes sniffin' around here, we'll hand her over to the cops with a few extra bruises an' maybe a broken bone or two on top of that. Given the mess she made of young Veder, I figure she's earned it, don't you?"

I lowered my glasses and gave him as serious a stare as I could muster while trying not to smile. "Now, now, Bradley. She's the victim here. Didn't you know?"

He cracked a smile of his own. "Heh. Good one, Miss Hebert."

My own smile came out in return. "I thought so. I'll see you later, Bradley. Gotta get to work before they send out a search party."

I was humming the elevator tune again as I entered Tracey's workspace to find none other than the inestimable Justin leaning his (admittedly well-toned) butt on Tracey's desk, chatting nineteen to the dozen to Tracey herself. They both looked up as I arrived, and Tracey smiled.

"Okay," she said. "Now that's the Taylor I like to see. You're looking good. How's Greg doing?"

"A lot better than Tuesday," I said. "He's still got some bruising, but I get the impression he'd have to be wheelchair-bound to not come in to work, and even then he'd be seriously thinking about it. He's really starting to enjoy working here, I think." They both already knew my opinion of the job, so I didn't bother gilding the lily there.

Tracey nodded. "Ms Harcourt hasn't said anything disapproving about him recently, so I think he's learning to fit in. Which is good; he's a nice boy."

I took a deep breath. "So, talking about Ms Harcourt … what happened? With the employee records I found, I mean?" I'd been itching to know about that for two days straight.

Tracy grinned at Justin. "Pay up."

He wrinkled his nose at her. "Unfair advantage. You know her better than I do." But he pulled his wallet out anyway and passed a five across to her. She smirked as she tucked it into her purse.

"What's going on?" I asked. "What was that for?"

Justin let out a put-upon sigh. "I bet her that you'd be asking that as soon as you walked in the door. I can't believe you actually talked about something else first."

"What, about her friend who was hurt by those bullies? Now, I wonder why I brought that topic up." Tracey's tone was teasing.

Justin's face transformed into an expression of mock outrage. "You … that's cheating!" Pointing dramatically at Tracey, he appealed to me. "Tell her she's cheating! The bet should be null and void!"

I couldn't help but giggle. "Coming from the guy who steals my coffee on the regular, that's a bit on the nose, isn't it? Anyway, she didn't force you to make a bet with someone you knew had an unfair advantage. Did she?"

"I'm being ganged up on!" declaimed Justin, pressing the back of his wrist to his forehead in a gesture that (in my personal opinion) was totally overblown. "It's the feminist conspiracy! The world is doomed, I tell you, doomed!"

"Oh, quit it with the drama queen antics," Tracey told him with an eye-roll. "You're just here for the free coffee. It's about time you paid for it."

"On that note," I said with a smirk, "I'll get the coffee started, then iron my outfit." Still smiling from the idiocy, I went through to the kitchenette and set up the coffee machine. Taking the iron and folding out the small board, I pulled my blouse and skirt from my pack and began to deal with the creases that had crept in.

While I worked, I listened with half an ear to the ongoing banter between Tracey and Justin, hoping to glean anything more about what had happened with the personnel records, but no such luck. By the time the coffee was ready, I'd finished and ducked into the small bathroom to change. Pouring three cups, I conveyed them out to Tracey's desk.

"Aha!" Justin scooped up the one I offered him. "The ambrosia of the gods, to heal a wounded soul!" He sipped at it, then a beatific smile crossed his face. "You have a natural talent for this, Taylor. I'd promote you to vice-president just on the strength of your coffee."

"Totally ignoring her natural talents in pattern recognition and other areas," Tracey said dryly.

"Well, that too, of course," Justin conceded. "But I was talking about the important talents."

Tracey gave him a look that was less than impressed. "Unless she's got a burning desire to be a barista, I imagine coffee-making would be a fair way down the list of what's important."

"Ah, but counterintelligence agents would also require a source of good coffee," he retorted triumphantly.

"But I don't want to be a counterintelligence agent," I reminded him. "I want to work right here in Medhall. You guys have turned my life right around in just a couple of weeks, and I want to give some of that back."

"And that's what I like to hear," a voice spoke from behind me when I wasn't expecting it. From the widening of Tracey's eyes as she looked past me, I got a hint as to who it might be, so when I turned around I didn't drop my coffee. It was still a near thing, my brain gibbering and running in circles, but I managed to only suffer the embarrassment of being tongue-tied rather than splashing coffee on my boss' boss' boss' shoes.

Max Anders himself beamed at me, every inch the corporate mogul that the news made him out to be. He was tall and handsome and fit and rich, and his personality filled the room to capacity. Carefully, I put my coffee down on Tracey's desk so I wouldn't drop it anyway. "Good afternoon, sir," I said once I was sure my throat wouldn't clench up and make my voice into a high-pitched squeak.

"Good afternoon, Taylor," he said, an amused smile on his lips. Well, why shouldn't he be amused? I was more or less babbling like an idiot in front of him. "May I call you Taylor? Thanks."

I nodded without speaking. He could call me anything he liked. He was, after all, the man whose company had utterly turned my life around in a matter of days.

Maybe he saw something of that in my eyes, because the smile left his expression. "Excuse me, Taylor. I wasn't laughing at you. I'm very pleased to make your acquaintance. From what Ms Harcourt has told me, your attention to detail saved Medhall more money and problems than I would've been comfortable dealing with." As Mr Fleischer had done before him, he held out his hand. "You have my thanks, and the thanks of all of our shareholders."

I rubbed suddenly-damp palms against my skirt then shook his hand once, quickly. "So it was moles, like Tracey and I thought, sir?"

"Indeed it was, Taylor." He nodded once in confirmation, then he smiled again, this time wryly. "Let me tell you, it was quite a nasty shock to find out just how far they'd spread through the company. It took a team of my most trusted people hours to root out every last one of them, and you'd uncovered at least half of them before you went home for the afternoon."

"Oh," I said. "That's … that's good. That you found them all, I mean. Is your team able to make sure it doesn't happen again?"

His smile turned into a smirk. "At the moment, I'm holding you over their heads as a hypothetical 'expert' who's come in to check their security over for any flaws. While you've been attending school, they've been going through the system with a fine-tooth comb, trying to beat their imaginary idea of you to any new discoveries. Let's just say, it's been considerably amusing to watch them go from 'we got this' to 'what else have we missed?'. Best motivation in the world, if you ask me. And I owe it all to you."

That felt very weird and just a little funny, all at the same time. "Uh, thank you, sir. I'm just pleased that I've been able to help so far."

"Well, I've got faith in you to keep it up," he said warmly. "So much so that I've taken it upon myself to push forward your signing date. As of Monday, you'll be a salaried employee of Medhall. Not that an intern's pay is all that much, but it's a start, correct?"

I blinked, shocked. Going from you get paid from the end of the month to you get paid from Monday was a huge jolt. "I … uh … thank you sir," I said. "I'll, uh, I'll try not to disappoint."

"That's all we can really ask for." His smile broadened, showing off gleaming white teeth. Even knowing he was just being nice to the new intern who'd accidentally done him a favour, I still felt a little weak at the knees. Then he spotted the coffee I had set down. As if in a dream, I watched him pick it up and take a sip. "Mmm, that's perfect. Thank you, Taylor. And well done once more for finding those moles."

Vaguely disbelieving, I watched him walk out again with my coffee. I could make another one in short order, but that wasn't the damn point. "What is it with the men who work in this company?" I demanded, though I didn't raise my voice too loudly. "Do I have 'please steal my coffee' tattooed on my forehead or something?"

"Your face …" gasped Justin, clearly trying hard not to laugh. "When you realised he was just going to walk out with it, and you couldn't say a thing …" At that point, he lost it altogether.

Tracey hugged me, though she was snickering too. "You have to admit, it was kind of funny. I mean, how do you ask the boss not to steal the cup you just made for yourself?"

"Gee, I have no idea," I grumped. "Given that everyone in the building except for Greg is technically my boss right now, is there going to be a queue that I'll have to make coffee for when I get in to work? Because, just saying, that's gonna cut into my productivity." I may have been overstating it just a little, but my point was still valid.

Tracey nodded soberly. Justin was still chuckling, but he got serious when she gave him a hard glare. "Okay, yes," she conceded. "Justin, please don't spread it around, okay? We're putting Taylor on salary so she has an incentive to continue being my extremely able assistant, not a barista to half the building. Understood?"

I was pleased at the 'extremely able assistant' line, but even more so when Justin nodded. "Yeah, sorry, Taylor," he said. "I shouldn't have laughed like that. That was a bit mean of me."

"It's okay," I assured him. And it really was. I knew malice and mean-spiritedness when I saw it, and that wasn't it. Besides, Tracey was on my side, and he'd apologised of his own free will.

In short, this was light-years removed from what I'd been experiencing at Winslow. It wasn't even as stringent as the hazing Greg had been getting from the guys in the maintenance crew.

Tracey smirked at him. "Besides, I still won our bet."

"And I still think you had an unfair advantage," he pretended to gripe.

"Actually, that's a point," I said with a grin. "Where's my cut?"

Tracey nodded to me. "Sure. How does fifty-fifty sound?"

I shrugged. "Ahhh … okay." In all honesty, I'd said it as a joke, but she seemed happy to go along with it.

Reaching into her purse, she sorted out some money, then pulled out two one-dollar coins and two quarters. "Here you go."

"Oh, uh, thanks." A little awkwardly, I accepted the money. Rummaging through my pack, I found my coin purse and dropped the change into it. "So, what did you want me to do today?"

Tracey looked pensive. "Well, the records you were supposed to be doing got finished off yesterday, by Mr Anders' security team. However, we both know what they were looking for, so I think it might be an idea to go through the files and double-check to make sure they didn't half-ass it when entering the data they didn't think was significant."

"Sure, I can do that." I turned back toward my desk and my elbow caught my pack where I'd left it sitting open. Of course, it toppled off and crashed to the floor, my books and homework assignments spilling out haphazardly. "Oh, crap. Okay, I can clean this up."

"Here, let me help you." Justin got down and started grabbing the stuff that had fallen farther away, handing it back to me. He stopped with the last homework assignment in his hand, his eyebrows raised. "A plan to reseed the Sahara? Really?"

I felt my cheeks heat slightly. "It's a World Affairs project. We're supposed to be doing it in groups of three or four, but it's essentially just me and Greg. It's to be presented and handed in on Monday."

"Huh." He skimmed his way down the pages of notes Greg and I had worked up. "This is actually pretty good. Is this all your idea, or Greg's as well?"

"Both of us, really." I shrugged. "I'm presenting ideas, and he's refining them. We're supposed to collaborate over the weekend and come in Monday with a finished product."

"Hmm." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "What are the rules on outside assistance?"

I knew this one, because several people had asked. "Okay … first, we're allowed to ask adults for help, but we've got to come up with the core idea, and we've got to understand the finished product well enough to present it in front of the class on Monday. And it can't be a previously published presentation."

"Really." Justin smiled slowly. "Can I borrow this? I promise I'll bring it back to you before it's time to go."

Tracey looked at him oddly. "Justin? What are you up to?"

"Nothing." His beatific expression wouldn't have fooled a blind man in a dark cellar at midnight … in Australia. "I just wanted to touch base with someone I know. He might just have ideas to beef this little presentation up a notch."

"Someone you know?" Tracey tilted her head slightly. "One of your Medhall drinking buddies?"

"Nah, babe." Justin gave her a carefree grin. "He's not in Medhall. More of an acquaintance than a buddy. Works out of Boston."

I shrugged. "Um, okay. If he doesn't mind, I guess?"

"Nah. He loves a challenge." Whistling, he folded the paper into a more manageable size and strolled off, coffee cup in hand.

I looked at Tracey. "Do you have any idea of what that's all about?"

"Not a clue." She leaned sideways and looked in the direction he'd gone. "He does like to play the international man of mystery sometimes. It's irritating but endearing. In small doses, anyway."

"Well, so long as he doesn't forget to get it back to me, I'll be interested in seeing what his friend can add to it." I headed into the kitchenette to brew myself another cup of coffee.

<><>​

Victor

Alexander Grayson frowned. "You want me to do what again?" This was more a delaying tactic than a real query, but he also did want to know if his teammate was sure.

"You heard me." Justin waved his hand negligently. "You get along with Accord better than I do. Every time I talk to him, I get the distinct impression he wants to murder me and dispose of my body in a shallow grave."

"That's probably because he does." Alex sighed. "I keep telling you, the man takes the concept of OCD and turns it up to eleven. Using that to get a rise out of people is a dick move at the best of times, but when it comes to him, it's also suicidal."

"Which is why I'm asking you to make the call." Justin unfolded the pages of notes and held them out. "I've seen his plans. If anyone can take this and make something amazing from it, it'll be him."

"Okay, but why?" Alex gave Justin a cynical stare. "Taylor's a sweet kid and she found those moles for us and all, but Max is already pushing her paid start date forward to Monday." He paused for a moment, then his expression cleared. "Ah, right. It's not Taylor you're trying to get in good with. It's Tracey."

Justin didn't even try to deny the charge. "What can I say? One, I want to imagine the looks of shock on the faces of those idiots who call themselves teachers at that dumpster fire they call a school. Two, she makes a damn fine cup of joe. And three; yes, if I pull this off, Tracey will love me forever. She's really taken Taylor under her wing."

"Fine." Alex accepted the folded notes and looked them over, easily absorbing the information within. Taking out his phone, he tapped in a number from memory.

It rang precisely once, then a woman answered. "You have reached the offices of Designated Projections, Incorporated. Who is speaking, please?" Her diction was precise and measured, as he'd known it would be.

"My name is Victor. We've spoken before. Could you please make an appointment for me to speak with Mr Cord about the August numbers, please?"

"Yes, of course, sir." As he had figured, Accord's assistant was competent enough to recognise the code phrase intended to get him past the front name of 'Designated Projections' to the man behind the curtain. "He will not be available until one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Is that acceptable, sir?"

"Certainly," he said at once. Accord didn't make power plays. If the man had decided that his first available timeslot was one o'clock on Saturday afternoon, that was when it would happen.

"Thank you." He could hear the faint rattle of keys as she typed in the details. "May I inquire as to the nature of the request you have for Mr Cord?"

"Of course." He smiled. Now to set the hook. "It involves an existing plan that needs to be expanded and improved upon." There was nobody he knew who could do that better than Accord.

"I will pass that on to him, sir. Thank you for calling Designated Projections." The phone went dead in his ear.

"Well?" asked Justin as Alex put the phone back in his pocket. "Did he say he'd do it?"

Alex rolled his eyes. "Cool your jets. He wasn't in on the call, though he may have been listening. We've at least got his attention. Now, he may still refuse to do it, because he can be a cranky little git when he gets in that mood, but if I present it just right and offer extra to get it done before Monday, we should be golden."

"Dude." Justin punched him lightly on the shoulder. Alex let it happen, though he knew of at least three ways to stop the blow. "You are the man. Let me know what it costs, and I'll cover it for you."

"Yes. You will." Alex had already made up his mind on that one. Justin was a teammate and a friend, but there was a difference between doing a simple favour and actually putting down good money to further Justin's romantic designs. He looked down at the notes again and frowned. "But he's not going to react well to some schoolkid's scribbled notes. I'm going to have to take the time to write this up properly for when I email it to him."

"Uh, sure?" Justin looked dubious. "I told Taylor I'd get it back to her before three."

Alex shook his head and sighed. "One of these days, your mouth is going to write you a check that the rest of you won't be able to cash. Let me run it through the copy machine, and you can take it on back. Then do me a favour and don't bother me about it. I'll get it done. Okay?"

"Okay, cool."

"You're gonna owe me big-time for this. Just saying." Alex lifted the cover to the copier and placed the first page of notes neatly on the glass screen.

"I'll buy you a six-pack of that Swedish beer that you like."

Satisfied, Alex closed the copier and pressed the green button. "Make it a carton."

Justin nodded. "You got it."

<><>​

Taylor

"Ohh boy."

At my half-sighed utterance, Tracey turned to me. "Problems?"

"Nothing I can't fix." As I spoke, I opened the scanner lid. "The guys who did this weren't paying attention to anything but a few identifiers. Some of the data a little farther down the page just came out wrong. Gonna have to rescan it, because I have no idea what 'hash ampersand at-sign backwards-R' is supposed to mean."

"Ooh, ouch." She winced. "Well, good thing I've got my best person on it."

I grinned and raised my eyebrows. "You mean, good thing you don't have to deal with it?"

She returned the grin. "Well, I wasn't going to put it that way … but yes."

"Trust me, I get it." I carefully aligned the page on the scanner, then gave it the slightest twist to the right. It made no sense for the OCR to work best like that, but I wasn't arguing. Just so long as it worked like that consistently, I wouldn't care. I lowered the lid and hit the button. "Besides, I was going to be doing this anyway, remember?"

"Very true." Her grin went back to a smile. "I'm still just thrilled that you're going on salary about three weeks early. Not that you haven't earned it."

The scanner hummed, and built an image on the screen. This time, the OCR worked perfectly, slotting the correct information into the right places. I kept half an eye on it while I talked to Tracey. "Well, you guys are all right. I think I'll keep coming to work here for as long as you're willing to let me."

"What's this I hear?" It was Justin, wandering in with my notes in hand. "The sound of a wild work ethic?" He held his hand to his ear. "Quick, we much hunt it down and cage it, before it infects anyone!"

"You're an idiot," Tracey told him fondly. "Don't you actually have work of your own to do? I'm pretty sure those ads won't make themselves."

"Ah, but I'm your idiot," he reminded her. "Your project notes, Taylor. My acquaintance won't be able to start on it until tomorrow, but we should have something by Sunday." He grinned down at Tracey. "We could make a day of it, drop the finished piece over at Taylor's place, then go driving up Captain's Hill or something. What do you say?"

I wasn't going to lie. That sounded like a pretty nice way to spend a Sunday to me. Tracey looked torn, then she glanced at me and I nodded encouragingly. "Okay," she said. "You two talked me into it."

"Excellent," he said. "I'll give you a call. Later, ladies." Out he strolled once more, leaving the pair of us sitting bemusedly in his wake.

"Well, that happened," Tracey said, once he was gone.

I smirked. "I can't help wondering exactly how much coffee he's had today. He did seem to be very full of energy right now."

"Full of something, anyway," she said with a snort, and I giggled.

"Well," I said with a sigh and a stretch. "This is fun, but it isn't getting the work done." I took a drink from my still-warm coffee and checked the file over. It looked to be on the up-and-up, so I saved it, then brought up the next one. Three seconds in, and I groaned.

"That one's worse, huh?" Tracey gave me a sympathetic look.

"You know it." But I knew how to fix it, so I got to work.

It might not have been the most fulfilling, interesting task I'd ever taken on, but who cared? I was working at Medhall.

<><>​

Taylor

Later in the Afternoon

I exited the elevator into the lobby with a jaunty step. Greg was waiting just up ahead, chatting to the guys on the security desk. He seemed to know them by name, which would've surprised me a week previously but the new Greg was beginning to grow on me. Glancing around, he saw me and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hey," he said happily as he came to meet me. "I got out a couple of minutes early, and decided to hang about and wait for you. You'll never guess what happened!"

Whatever it was, he was pleased about it, so I figured 'the guys' hadn't ramped up their hazing efforts. "I have no idea," I confessed.

"Ms Harcourt came to me and said that due to my efforts in 'defending a work colleague', they'd be putting me on salary at the end of the month!" Greg seemed to be almost fizzing with happiness. "Salary! Can you believe it? I thought for sure they were gonna can me after the internship was up, because of that huge screwup at the beginning."

"Oh, wow, that's amazing." And it was. It really was. "I'm totally glad for you, Greg."

"That means we'll both be going on salary." His grin nearly split his face. I'd filled him in on what Tracey had told me about going on salary at the end of the month, but of course he didn't know that Max Anders himself had paid me a visit and pushed it up to Monday. And, to be honest, I didn't think I wanted to tell him. It would feel too much like I was topping his huge triumphant moment, and I really didn't want to do that.

"Absolutely," I agreed. "Also, Justin's said he's going to help with our project. He knows somebody who can write something like that up really good. So I'll get it back Sunday, maybe?"

"I think we should still work on it ourselves, just in case," he said seriously. "You never know, after all."

"Why, Greg." I tilted my head and looked at him curiously. "Responsibility and forward thinking? I'm getting more impressed by the day."

"Yeah, yeah." As we emerged from the Medhall building, he rolled his eyes, but I could tell he was pleased at the compliment. "So maybe I could come over to yours tomorrow and Sunday, and we could work on it?"

"Now that sounds like a plan." I headed for the bus stop with Greg alongside me. "Do you have my address? Because I don't think I ever gave it to you."

"No, I'm pretty sure I don't." He fished out a pen and notepad. "Shoot."

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Sophia, suitably anonymous in a hoodie, watched Hebert and the Veder asshole make their way to the bus. They were dressed totally different from their normal school attire, which made her snort in derision. Medhall had swallowed them whole and made them into good little corporate puppets.

She had a bone to pick with them, but first she wanted to settle matters with the Medhall assholes who had come to her school, filmed her actions, and smacked her in the face. Then, once they were unable to protect Hebert (and maybe the building was on fire, because that was always an option) she'd go after those two and show them why they should never have crossed her.

Turning, she headed off down the street, just another teenager in Brockton Bay.

<><>​

Accord

The Next Day

He opened the email and studied the file. A brief, neat precis of the plan requirements, and a series of notes regarding what had been already sketched out.

"Is this person serious?" he asked. "To reseed the Sahara?" It wasn't something he'd considered before, given that it would take up resources and time, drawing them away from his grand Plan.

Still, a Sahara that was no longer a desert, able to be farmed, producing food and reducing conflict in the region … hmm. This bore thinking about.

"That's the idea," Victor said over the phone. "They may or may not implement this any time soon. They just wanted to know it was possible, and to have the plan in hand."

"Factors change, Victor. We both know that." But already his agile mind was taking apart the problem and rearranging the pieces to form a solution. "Today's warlord will be tomorrow's nonentity. The plan for bringing one person on board will not necessarily work for another." This was broadly true, though 'give them a lot of money' was always a semi-reliable fallback.

"They know this. Call it a proof of concept."

"Very well, but I will require the option to keep a copy for myself." If someone else was willing to pay for a plan to be created, and the plan could potentially shift some of the factors in his plans to improve the overall quality of life on the African continent … then why not? After all, the guidelines and requirements were trivially easy to accommodate.

"Excellent. One more thing. They want it by Monday morning. Sunday evening would be better."

"That will cost you extra." The majority of the time would be spent typing up the plan and formatting it to his exacting specifications, but he was a firm believer in the principle that people valued things they paid more to get.

"Of course. I expected as much. I'll send you the payment as soon as you've mailed me the completed document."

"We have an agreement." He hung up and began work at once. Victor wouldn't stiff him, he knew; the man was almost as punctilious about obligation and the payment of debts owing as he himself was.

Besides, it was an interesting problem.



End of Part Seven

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Eight: Plans and Schemes

[This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Accord
Sunday Morning

The plan had come together like clockwork. If he was being honest with himself, they were all easy to construct, but this particular one had been more than usually satisfying to create. Perhaps because he had not originated the idea in the first place?

No matter the reason, he had finished it and it was ready to send. In giving it a final polish, he noted that (as he had earlier suspected) there were aspects about it that could slot very easily into his ongoing planning efforts. In fact, looking more closely, if he took that plan and that plan and that plan, and moved those elements around, this plan could drop into place as if it had been intended that way all along.

… which would, he ascertained after going through the numbers in his head, improve the efficiency and efficacy of all the associated plans by a good seven to ten percent, perhaps a little more if the tolerances were tweaked. This would increase the cost of implementation a little, but the back-end gains would be more than sufficient to offset that by a wide margin. And given that the automated water collectors were specified to be based on mundane technology rather than Tinkertech, there was no single part of the plan that could bring the rest to a screeching halt due to an unrecoverable failure. Also, there was nothing stopping him from using those same water collectors in some other sections of his plan, where clean water was hard to come by.

Collating the finished plan into its final format, he opened an email tab and sent it through, along with a note informing Victor of a five percent discount in his fee. Moments later, he received the verification ping from the other end, then the notification that Victor had paid the adjusted fee. Satisfied, he set to work adjusting his other plans to integrate the new one into the overall tapestry. He wondered if the person who had come up with the original plan had other ideas of the same sort; while he'd had to do significant work to bring it together, the core concept had been solid.

If Victor happened to bring any more plans of this type to his attention, he would most definitely be interested.

<><>​

Taylor
Hebert Household
Late Sunday Morning

I tapped the open atlas with the eraser end of my pencil. "Wouldn't it be a better idea to stage the whole thing out of Alexandria? Large city, lots of infrastructure already in place. And the prevailing winds are more or less going in the correct direction to carry seeds onward."

Greg shook his head. "'More or less' isn't exactly correct. Setting up multiple staging points along the north African coast allows for easier recovery if one or another runs into an obstacle." He showed me a map on his phone, with wind direction arrows marked out. "Also, the wind actually comes down from the north and northeast for the most part."

I studied the image. "Damn it, you're right. Okay, multiple staging points it is. And what about north of thirty degrees? The wind goes back the other way. We'd have to stage that one out of Morocco."

"Hmm, yeah—" Greg broke off at a knock on the door. "You expecting anyone, Taylor?"

"Not exactly," I said before my brain caught up with my mouth. "Unless it's Justin. He said he'd bring his friend's work on our assignment around today."

"Awesome." Greg jumped up and followed me through the living room, where Dad was perusing the paper, into the entrance hall.

I opened the door to find that yes, Justin was indeed waiting on the porch, along with Tracey. Justin's car sat at the curb; I was no good at telling what make a car was, but it was bright red and looked fast.

"Hey, guys!" I said brightly. "How are you? Come on in, Dad wants to meet you both."

Well, that wasn't totally true. Dad had expressed happiness that I was in a good work environment, but he hadn't actually stated that he wanted to meet the people I worked with. But I wanted him to meet them, to show … I wasn't sure what I wanted to show. That I could make connections outside of home that didn't totally suck? Greg had made a good start with that—he and Dad had gotten off on the right foot straight away—but Tracey was my boss, and a really nice person besides.

I thought Justin's eyes flickered for half a second on the verge of 'we've really got to get going', then Tracey said happily, "Sure, we'd love to!"

And just like that, Justin went along with it. He followed Tracey into the house and handed me the bulky Manila envelope he was carrying. "All yours, kid," he said. "You've earned it."

Whoa, I thought, hefting it in my hands. What is this? I just wanted a few pointers, not a whole novel. But I couldn't look at it right then, not with Tracey and Justin in the house. So I passed it to Greg, who carried it back into the kitchen where we'd been sitting at the table.

Dad got up from the sofa and shook their hands. "Danny Hebert, pleased to meet you," he said. "And you'd be Taylor's work colleagues?"

"Yeah, this is Tracey," I said. "She's my boss. Justin's in the department of advertising and stealing my coffee."

"I see." Dad's eyes twinkled as his lips twitched. "Is the coffee she makes really that good?"

"Absolutely," Justin declared boldly. "Did she tell you about Mr Anders?"

"She did not," Dad said with interest, and all three adults looked sideways at me. I blushed involuntarily. "This is Max Anders, correct? The big boss himself?"

"It is, yes." Tracey giggled. "So Taylor's managed to impress Mr Anders himself and save the company hundreds of thousands of dollars … she did tell you about that at least, right?"

Dad folded his arms and gave me a look. "Strangely enough, she didn't. I hear chapter and verse about how much she's enjoying working there, and how she's going to be actually paid to intern with you, but nothing about her saving the company money. Please, go on."

It was weird. Knowing what I'd done was just fine, and even having Greg know about it was cool too because we'd been beat up by the same people. We had each other's backs and we knew it. But I'd hesitated to tell Dad about … well, any of the stuff that I got praised for at Medhall because …

… I didn't know why.

Maybe because it didn't feel real once I left the building, or maybe I didn't feel like I'd earned it. Whatever the reason, I hadn't told Dad anything more than the fact that I was enjoying it and that everyone I worked with was really cool. Just like I hadn't told him about the work clothing, or the fact that the first batch had been stolen.

Secrets. Once you start keeping them, it's really hard to stop. And I'd been keeping secrets, about Emma and how badly things were going for me at Winslow, for far too long.

"So she's just come out with coffee and she put it down to shake Mr Anders' hand," Justin narrated cheerfully. "And he saw the cup and he's like for me? Thank you very much. Picks it up and walks out with it."

"It's a little mean of us to laugh about it," Tracey conceded, giving my hand a supportive squeeze. "But seriously, your face, Taylor. It was amazing."

"I'm certain," I said, trying not to sound too grumpy. "But if you can make sure nobody else shows up to steal my coffee, I'll be fine."

"Hey, I already said I was dealing with that," Justin said, his hands up in an 'I surrender' pose. "Your coffee is safe. Except from me."

"And no more attempts to poach her," Tracey reminded him. "Those so-called 'experts' who went through the files screwed up the scanning and OCR so badly that she had to redo about half the ones they'd supposedly completed. She's the first competent assistant I've had in too long, and I saw her first."

"Better do as she says, son," Dad advised with some amusement. "I learned a long time ago that when a lady uses that tone of voice, it's best to say 'yes, dear' and stop arguing. Otherwise, you'll be in for a world of suffering."

Justin sighed. "I'm not gonna win this, am I?"

"No, dear, you are not." Tracey, I could tell, was enjoying this hugely.

Justin looked to Greg. "Help a guy out here? Medhall bro and all?"

"Sorry." Greg raised his hands and backed off. "I might be clueless, but I know not to get in the middle of that sort of situation."

"Fine." Justin let out a huge put-upon sigh and spoke in a sing-song tone. "Yes, dear. You're right. I have no idea what I was thinking."

Tracey smirked and raised her eyebrows. "That'll do … for now." She gave me a smile, which I returned. "It was good seeing you, Taylor. Looking forward to Monday?"

"Absolutely." I still felt uncomfortable about the knowledge that I was going to start getting paid before Greg, so I hoped she wouldn't mention it. "Getting to work at Medhall is the best part of my week, and I'm not even saying that because I get time off from school."

"Totally," Greg agreed. "Of course, when people from work show up to save you from being beat up, it's even better."

"Let's hope that doesn't become necessary again," Tracey said. "Have you heard anything about that one girl who got away from the police?"

Dad frowned. "Sophia Hess? No. Do you think she's likely to do anything stupid?"

"I really hope not," I said, though some deep dark part of me was saying, I have a bad feeling about this, and not in a movie-quote kind of way.

Sophia was a violent person; I had bruises to attest to that. She was also stubborn as hell, or maybe just persistent. I'd done my best to be as boring as wallpaper so that she and Emma would leave me alone, but she just kept coming back. Which meant that she either personally hated me for some unfathomable reason, or she'd fixed her sights on me because Emma had decided she didn't like me, and wasn't backing off for anything.

In all honesty, I didn't know which scenario was more worrying.

On the upside, of course, she was just one teenage girl whose face and name were known to the cops. Her choices at the moment had to be an equal match between 'leave town', 'join a criminal gang' and 'get arrested'. I was personally hoping for number three, but I could handle number one just fine as well. Either one would suit me, so long as she went away.

"Well anyway, I was just taking Tracey out for a picnic lunch," Justin declared. "Because my girlfriend is the sweetest, kindest, most wonderful woman in the world and she totally deserves it."

I had to chuckle at this blatant manipulation, and even Greg got a smirk on his face. "Yes, yes, I get it," Tracey said with a tolerant smile. "You want to get going. See you Monday, Taylor."

"Yeah, see you Monday." Justin nodded to me. "Good luck with that assignment."

"Thanks," I said. "And thanks for getting your friend to look at it for us. Have fun on your picnic."

With another round of handshakes (from Justin) and hugs (from Tracey) they left the house. Justin gallantly opened the passenger door of the convertible for Tracey, then performed an action-hero slide over the hood of the car before vaulting over the door into the driver's seat. As they drove off he hit the horn, which apparently played a silly tune (because of course it did).

"Well, that was interesting," Dad noted. "So what was it they were delivering again?"

"Oh, uh, Justin's got a friend in Boston that he said could look our assignment over and offer suggestions," I said. "Though with what he gave me, I'm wondering if his friend didn't just download and print out everything from the internet that's got anything at all to do with the assignment."

"Hm." Dad raised his eyebrows slightly. "Well, it's nice of them to offer assistance. You're still going to hand in your own work, I hope?"

"Yeah, totally," Greg said. "The rules say we're allowed to ask for outside help, but we can't just get someone to do it all for us."

"Good." He went back to the sofa and picked up the remote. "Do you have any problem with me watching some TV? I'll keep the volume down."

"No, we're good." I led the way back into the kitchen and grabbed the Manila envelope. It was only lightly sealed, and the heavy contents slid out onto the table with an audible thud.

Greg and I stared at it. "Is it just me," he asked plaintively, "or is that an actual book?"

I shook my head. "It's not just you," I said, and picked it up.

It was letter-sized, with a heavy bound spine and grey cardstock covers. On the front was printed in severely plain type: GREENING THE SAHARA: A COMPREHENSIVE OVERVIEW. I met Greg's eyes and saw the same uncertainty in his face as I felt within myself. Just the cover looked professional as hell. Who the crap writes something like this up in two days with zero notice?

Taking a deep breath, I opened the front cover. There was no title page, no author name, no copyright information, just a contents page. No hint at all as to who this might belong to.

The contents page was blunt and to the point. Merely from reading the headings, I could grasp the intent behind it, how the plan would lay itself out. There were things there, details that Greg and I hadn't even thought about or even realised that they needed to be taken into account.

"There." Greg was clearly looking down the contents listing along with me; his finger tapped the last line. "Summary. I think we need to look at that first."

"A summary sounds like a good idea to me, too," I agreed. I had no idea whose PhD thesis Justin had managed to snag, but I really wanted to break this thing down into bite-sized chunks if we were going to understand it well enough to use for reference material.

We turned to that page—thank God, the unknown writer had included page numbers—and started to read, side by side. It was simple. It was brilliant. About one paragraph in, Greg grabbed his notepad and started scribbling in it. I did the same. Whoever had put this together was a pure genius.

When I'd finished reading the summary, I leaned back in my chair to let the concepts percolate in my head. A moment later, Greg joined me. "Wow," he muttered. "That's everything we need, right there."

"Uh huh," I agreed, then chuckled. "Can you imagine the look on Gladly's face if we walked up and presented that to him like it was our own work?"

"Well, technically, we started it, but …" He shook his head. We both knew there was no way we could pass this off as ours, even if we'd been inclined to try. "I think his brain would implode about halfway through the summary."

"If he got that far." I picked up the book again. "I'm going to have a quick read-through. Use your notes and start marking up the assignment for where we've got to upgrade it with the new stuff."

"Gotcha," he said. He went back to the first of his notes and bent over the work we'd done so far, putting little annotations to the side to refer to things we had to change.

Once we were finished, I figured I could type up the final copy on my computer and print it out. It still wouldn't hold a candle to the impressive tome sitting on the table, but it should be good for an A minus or even an A plus, depending on how well we presented it.

The text was easy to read, using language that was simple and clear. Even the formatting, which I hadn't even considered to this point, was simple and consistent. There were headings. There were references to other sections of the text. And there were actual diagrams of the solar-powered water-collectors that had heretofore only existed in our—Greg's and my—heads. Also, maps of the Sahara, indicating optimal routes for the greening crews to travel. (Greg had been right, we needed multiple crews.)

Slowly, I put the book down. "This could really happen," I said softly. "It could actually be done. It's all here. Everything. Costs. Manpower. Risk assessments. It even covers how much fuel per day a Jeep will use up over specific types of terrain."

"You know what this means, don't you, Taylor?" Greg looked up from the thoroughly annotated assignment.

I grinned at him. "That we're gonna blow Gladly's socks clean off with this assignment?"

He bared his teeth in reply. "Damn straight."

We set to work.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

As the car went over its third bump in as many minutes, Sophia resisted the urge to curse, and nudged the tyre iron out from under her ribs.

She'd been lurking in the basement of Hebert's house, looking to pick up any information she could, when the Veder asshole had arrived. Despite her earlier decision to hit Medhall first, the possibility of nailing two targets at once had been too much to ignore, so she'd waited around to see if Hebert's father would go out or not. He hadn't, but then two more people had shown up. It was getting to be a regular party house, with far too many people to silence at once and make it all look like an accident or something.

Sophia had been about to go, when she overheard something from where she was lurking in the kitchen, about how the two newcomers worked for Medhall as well. That made up her mind; ghosting out through the basement window, she'd worked her way through the grass to the curb, then jumped straight into the closed trunk. If she'd delayed much longer, they would've caught her at it. As it was, she'd only just gotten settled when they came back to the car.

She didn't know where they were going, or what she was going to do when they got there, but the tyre iron was giving her ideas. Any friend of Taylor Hebert was an enemy of hers by default; the fact that they worked for Medhall just put the icing on the cake.

<><>​

Taylor

Greg and I worked well into the evening, drawing ideas from the Book (as we had taken to calling it). There were layers of detail that we couldn't possibly begin to address in our assignment, so we were basically just skimming the surface. The unknown writer had even written a section on potential regime changes over the next five years, and how to adjust the plan to account for any specific outcome. I wasn't ready to deal with potential regime changes, so we decided to skip that section altogether.

What we ended up with, though, was ten times as good as what we could've come up with just on our own. We used as much detail as we agreed we could deal with, though we cheated slightly by tracing over the maps that were included in the Book. Greg studied the diagram for the solar water collector and managed to sketch it fairly well, labelling it as neatly as he could.

By the time his mom came to pick him up, we'd agreed that I would type it up and print it out. I was faster at typing than he was anyway, though he was pretty good at sketching. When I praised him on his skill, he mumbled something about 'anime babes' and refused to say more on the subject. I didn't press him; if he didn't want to talk about it, that was his option. Besides, I had an idea what he was referring to.

After I'd eaten dinner and had a shower, I sat down at the computer and started to type. The notes were easy to read, and I'd already been over the material multiple times, so it went quickly. Page after page went by as I transcribed our collected notes into the new version of the assignment. I finished by about nine-thirty, then spent the next half-hour checking that I had actually typed up everything and fixing a few minor typos. At ten sharp, I started printing out the assignment, turned out the light and went to bed. I knew the computer would go to sleep after it was done printing, so I did my best to do the same.

<><>​

Early the Next Morning

"Taylor!" There was a heavy knocking on my bedroom door. "Are you awake?"

I sat up in bed and rubbed bleary eyes. Had I slept through my alarm and missed school? Squinting at my alarm clock, I read it as a bit after five. The predawn dimness outside my window backed me up on that. "I'm awake, yeah," I called out. "What's wrong? Is the house on fire?"

"No." Dad opened the door and leaned in. "That Medhall lawyer, Mr Grayson, is on the phone. It's something about your friends Justin and Tracey. They've gone missing."

"Missing?" That one word sent a burst of adrenaline through me. Clumsily, I scrambled out of bed then ducked past Dad and ran the length of the hallway to the top of the stairs. I was a little more careful going downstairs, but I was still concerned that Mr Grayson would hang up before I got there.

I needn't have worried. When I picked up the receiver, the line was still open. "It's me, Taylor," I panted.

"Taylor." His voice was absolutely serious. "Your father says that Justin and Tracey dropped the envelope at your house, then went off for a picnic lunch. Do you have any idea where they might have been? Neither one of them has been home, and they're not answering their phones."

For a moment, my mind went totally blank, then I remembered. "Yes, yes, yes," I panted. "I know where. Justin said they were going up Captain's Hill."

There was silence on his end for a moment, then he came back again. "Captain's Hill?" His voice was intent. "Are you absolutely certain about that?"

I found myself nodding. "Yeah—yes," I said. "He said it on Friday, and I remember thinking that was a nice place to take Tracey. Captain's Hill. I'm certain of it."

"That damn car of his," he muttered. I supposed I wasn't intended to hear that bit. "Thank you, Taylor." I heard his voice, as he moved the phone away from his face, "She says she's certain about it. Capt—"

Slowly, I hung the phone up, then turned to look at Dad's worried face. "What was that about Captain's Hill?" he asked. "Was that where they were going?"

I nodded. "That's what Justin said, anyway. I'm just worried that he might've been driving fast to impress Tracey and had an accident or something."

"That doesn't sound good," he agreed, grimacing. "Look, did you want to get dressed and we can go out there in the car and help look for them?"

I stared at him. "Yeah—uh, definitely, yes!" Turning, I dashed for the stairs.

<><>​

All things considered, we were reasonably quick getting away. It was only ten minutes later that Dad carefully backed the car out of the driveway. I'd collected the printed-out assignment which was now residing (along with my work clothing) in my backpack. For myself, I was wearing my sturdiest sneakers, jeans and a heavy jacket (it got cold up on Captain's Hill).

Dad had thrown a heavy-duty first-aid kit that technically belonged to the Dockworkers' Association into the back seat, and he'd handed me a high-powered flashlight when I got into the car. For breakfast we each had an orange; I peeled his, and he ate it on the drive.

The streets of Brockton Bay were almost eerily quiet at half after five in the morning; all of the night people had either gone home or were on the way there, and the day shift had yet to take over. As we cruised through one green light after another, I couldn't stop thinking of Tracey and Justin. She'd been nothing but nice to me, and he was goofy but fun to be around, not even considering the favour he'd done to get us the Book.

When we started up the initial slope of Captain's Hill, it was still half an hour to sunrise. Dad slowed down and I fixed my eyes on the road, looking for wheelmarks or crushed undergrowth as he concentrated on driving. Every time I thought I saw something, I leaned out the window with the flashlight and trained the beam on the trees and bushes. But each time, it was nothing.

We drove on. My eyes ached from trying to get more detail out of what I was seeing than what was really there. Dad quickened his pace as much as he dared, but slowed whenever I leaned forward.

Tracey, I silently prayed. Please be okay. And Justin, too.

And then Dad slowed again. Wordlessly, he pointed forward, through the windshield. There were lights on the road up ahead, of more than one car. There were no flashing police or ambulance lights, so there was only one thing it could be. The people from Medhall.

Medhall looks after its own.

As Dad pulled around the last corner and came to a stop, I saw people silhouetted against the vehicle headlights. One person came forward, moving with a fast, confident stride. Even before our headlights illuminated him, I recognised him just from his walk. Mr Grayson; Alexander the Great himself.

"Excuse me, sir," he said as he came up to the driver's side window. "There's been an accident—oh. Mr Hebert, isn't it?"

"We came to help," Dad said. "Is there anything we can do? Direct traffic? I've got a first aid kit in the back."

"That's very thoughtful of you, sir," Mr Grayson said. "If you could … wait. You said 'we'. Is Taylor with you?"

"Yes, I'm here," I said, switching on the internal light so he could see me. "What can I do?"

He looked at me and rubbed his finger over his lips, as though thinking very hard. "Tell me, Taylor. Are you afraid of heights?"

I stared him straight in the eye. I had no particular terror of heights, but I did have a healthy regard for them. "No," I said. Whatever fear I had, I would just have to get over it if it meant helping Tracey.

I got the impression he knew what I was thinking, but he nodded anyway. "We found her, but we can't get to her," he said. "Perhaps you can."

That sounded ominous, but I scrambled out of the car anyway. I trotted alongside Mr Grayson as we headed for the main group of people; even silhouetted, I recognised Bradley from his bulk and the aristocratic profile of Mr Anders himself. The others I didn't know, but I figured they were all Medhall employees who knew Justin and each other.

"Tammi—" I heard as I came up to them, then someone shushed the speaker. I didn't know what that was about, and I didn't care. If I could help save Tracey, that was all that mattered.

Mr Anders turned and saw me. "Taylor," he said, sounding pleased and surprised. "You came to help. That's very forward-thinking of you."

"I was thinking that Taylor could get to Tracey where we couldn't," Mr Grayson said. "She is very slender."

Bradley nodded. "Damn right. Kid's got the right stuff." He turned to face me. "You up for this? Might get a bit scary."

"Oh, please," I said, trying to sound off-hand. "I go to Winslow. I can do scary."

That got me a snort of amusement, then Bradley nodded. "Okay, then. How are you with heights?"

Why do they keep asking me how I am with heights?

<><>​

Moments later, I found out. They had a rope that had been tied in a loop and padded with cloth. This wasn't for me, but for Tracey. The reason it was for Tracey was because she was still in Justin's car, hanging halfway off a cliff with a whole lot of nothing underneath.

They could get to her, or at least they could get to the car. But because it was hanging sideways off a rocky outcrop, they couldn't get into the car and fit Tracey with the rescue loop. Also, Tracey was still strapped in, and couldn't reach the buckle because her left arm was broken.

To my immense relief, I didn't have to go down alone in the dark. That would've been too scary for words. Bradley went with me, holding onto me with one brawny hand and the rope with the other. Me, I was hanging onto the rope for dear life with both hands.

"If shit goes sideways, you get into the loop and we'll pull you up," Bradley assured me. "But assuming it doesn't, you skinny your way into there, get the seatbelt undone and the loop under Tracey's shoulders, then open the passenger-side door."

"Why that door?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.

"'Cause the whole damn car is hanging on that door. It opens, the whole thing goes. This is why you and Tracey need to be on the rope when it does."

"Uh …" I paused. "What about Justin? Isn't he in the car too?" Why wasn't I rescuing him too, I wanted to know.

Bradley paused in his steady downward pace. "Nope. Far as we can see, he's at the bottom of the damn cliff." From the tone of his voice, he was inches away from either punching something or shedding a tear. I wasn't sure if I wanted to find out.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly.

"Not your fault," he said roughly. "And you showed up to help. You're part of the Medhall family now." He slowed his pace again. Ahead of us, illuminated by the earliest rays of dawn and some kind of high-powered spotlight from the road, I could see the battered and twisted remains of what had once been Justin's pride and joy. "Here we are."

"Okay," I said. The cliff edge was right there; in fact, most of the car was past the cliff edge. Beyond was a vast yawning abyss of endless night. Part of me abruptly decided that I was actually not okay with heights. The rest of me told that part to woman up and do the job we'd come there to do. "What do I do?"

"Just wait a second." He raised his voice. "Hey, Trace. You still with us, girlie?"

From within the car came a familiar voice. For all that it was filled with pain, I felt tears of relief come to my eyes. "I'm still here, Bradley. But I think the car's starting to move again. Can we maybe hurry things up a little?"

"That's what we're here for, darlin'," he said. "Just hold tight. You'll be out of there in a hot Brockton Bay minute."

Slapping me on the shoulder, he pointed at a gap between the car and the rock. It was narrow, but I figured I could handle it if I took my jacket off. Shrugging out of the garment one arm at a time, I handed it to him, then took hold of the rope and went down to all fours.

If someone had told me even twenty-four hours earlier that I would be crawling on my belly over a rough granite outcrop with wild undergrowth clawing at my skin and clothing, I would've first laughed at them and then asked what they were smoking. The chilly rock abraded my skin and sucked the heat out of my body, but I didn't care. I just kept moving forward.

Wriggling through the gap between the car and the rock was an adventure in itself. I could make it, barely, but I had to exhale each time before I could move forward. And all the time, I had to hold onto the rock so that I didn't fall, and onto the rope because that was the only thing that would save Tracey. But I made it into the car, which was even darker than the outside had been. The only thing between me and nothing, I discovered, was a perilously narrow ledge.

"What—who's that?" asked Tracey. "I thought you couldn't get in that way?"

"They can't. I can." I grunted as I squeezed around a particularly intrusive bit of rock. "Hi. Just thought I'd swing by."

"Taylor!" Her exclamation came with a gasp of pain. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving my favourite boss from certain death?" I tried to make a joke of it. "Okay, where's your seat belt?"

"It's right here," she said with a touch of asperity. "Where are you?"

"Um, here." I reached out toward her voice, and accidentally touched her face. "Oh, sorry."

"Don't be." She grabbed my hand and pushed it toward where she seemed to be hanging sideways from her seatbelt. "I remember hearing something about a rope?"

"I have it right here." As I spoke, I tugged more of it through the gap. "We've got a loop that's supposed to go under your arms. I guess I'm supposed to undo your seatbelt first?"

"If you unclip my seatbelt, I'm going to fall right out of this car," she said firmly. "We need a better plan."

I closed my eyes (not that I could see anything in the dark anyway) and tried to visualise her position in the dark. "Okay, I think I've got it," I said. "Your right leg. Can you move it?"

"I'll do the can-can if it'll get me out of here. What do you have in mind?"

"I can't take your belt off because you'll fall out of the car. But what if you get your leg through the loop and hang on with your good arm? I mean, sure it'll be uncomfortable, but—"

"Uncomfortable, I'll take all day long. Taylor, you're a genius. Just hold on a moment."

She grunted and twisted, and in that moment I heard a scrape of metal over rock. I froze. So did she.

"That didn't sound good," I said, trying not to sound too terrified.

"No, it didn't," she agreed, sounding just as unhappy as I felt.

"Let's get your leg through that loop."

"Really, really good idea."

Holding onto the rope with one hand, I held out the loop in the darkness. "Here."

"Where?" A moment later, it moved. "Ah, found it. Okay, then …"

The car moved again. The grating sound was more pronounced.

"Taylor!" That was Bradley. "It's going!"

"We know!" we both shouted from the inside. A second later, she gasped, "Got it!"

The car was still moving. For a split second it caught; on what, I didn't know. I lunged forward, sliding my hand up her seatbelt to the clip. I felt her arm wrap around my waist. My thumb plunged the clip open and it released. At the same time, I reached behind me with my other hand—the grating loud in my ears—and flicked the door catch open.

A lot of things happened in a very short time. The seatbelt unclipped and whipped across from between us. Tracey fell sideways from her seat, her right arm wrapped around me and grasping the rope. I grabbed her as the seatbelt came away, then as the door came open I wrapped my other arm around her.

There was a solid thud on my shoulder that I figured would leave me bruised for days, and then with one last malevolent scrape and a whoosh of air, the car was gone, falling free. Long seconds later we heard it hit, smashing over and over in the detritus at the bottom of the cliff. Slowly, we swung back and forth at the end of the rope.

In the silence that followed, I heard Bradley's voice clearly. "Shit."

"It's okay," I called. "We're here. Pull us up. Night-time rock climbing has lost all its charm for me."

As Tracey clung to me, I felt her chest heaving and knew that tears were running down her face because it was pressed next to mine. But for the life of me, I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying.

<><>​

When we reached the top of the rocky slope, two police cars were on site and the officers were talking to Mr Anders and Mr Grayson. I didn't care in the slightest, as Dad was there to greet me. He wrapped me in a hug like he never wanted to let me go, even as Diane Grayson began to look Tracey over for injuries.

"Are you alright, Taylor?" Dad's eyes were worried behind his glasses. "I should never have let you go down there."

"Dad, it was Tracey's life, and my choice to go down. If I hadn't, she'd be dead by now." I tried to make my voice firm, but wobbles kept creeping in.

"And you could've ended up dead with her," he insisted.

That was the last straw. Turning away from him, I leaned against a convenient rock and threw up. Fortunately, I hadn't had more than an orange, but that was nasty enough coming back up. When I finished, he handed me a bottle of water and stood watching as I flushed my mouth out.

"Yeah, I know," I said, sitting down on another rock. It was hard and cold and uncomfortable, but my scrapes and bruises were starting to really smart by now, and my knees didn't want to hold me up anymore. "I could've died. I get it. I just … I didn't want to let her die without actually trying to save her, you know?"

He put his hand on my shoulder. "Yes, I know. I just … can't help remembering how your mother died."

In a car crash. Damn it, me. "I'm sorry," I said meekly.

He nodded slowly. "I know. And I died a thousand deaths while you were down there at the end of that rope. But I'm glad you saved her."

"Me, too."

"Want a hand up?"

I considered getting up, and didn't like the idea. "I'm good for now, thanks."

In the gradually increasing light, I didn't need headlights to identify Mr Anders as he strode over to see us. "And how's the hero of the hour?" His voice was upbeat, but with a serious note—we'd only saved one of two, after all.

"Not feeling real heroic right now, I gotta say." I gestured at where I'd thrown up, and he stepped around it.

"I beg to differ." His tone became firm, no-nonsense. "You didn't have to go down there and yet you did anyway. You had a near-impossible job in front of you, and you carried it through with style and panache. Afterward? Nobody's going to think any the less of you for reacting that way." He extended his hand down to me. "Well done, young Taylor."

In a daze, I shook it. "Uh, thanks?"

But he wasn't done yet. "Tracey may be in the hospital for a few days until they're sure she's alright. If you want, Mr Hebert, I can have Taylor booked into our in-house clinic to make sure she's okay as well?"

I didn't know if Dad had ever met Mr Anders before, but he was definitely taken aback by the man's charm. "Well, uh …"

"Say no more," Mr Anders said warmly. "The offer will remain open until you indicate otherwise. I bid you good day. And once more, Miss Hebert; well done."

We watched as he went back toward his limousine. Before he got there, a couple of hefty 4x4s, bigger and more imposing than the one that was already on site (I suspected that one belonged to Bradley) came rumbling up the road past us. It looked to me like they were outfitted to do what we'd just been doing, but properly.

"Well," Dad observed as Mr Anders went and started talking to the driver of one of the trucks. "It looks like the professionals are here."

"Good," I said. "I think I can get up now."

Slowly, I climbed to my feet, and we walked back to the car. As I climbed in, we could see that the Medhall vehicles and the police cars had pulled back out of the way, and the 4x4s had lined up side by side at the road's edge. Huge winches were starting to unspool, allowing climbers to make their way down the rocky slope with a lot more safety than I'd been feeling.

I hoped they'd find Justin alive, but I wasn't holding my breath. Tracey had only survived by the sheerest of flukes and the fact that I'd turned up, after all. I was just happy she was alive.

Dad turned the car around, and we started back down Captain's Hill.

"Wow," I said softly. "Look at that sunrise."

It really was a very nice sunrise.



End of Part Eight

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Nine: Showing Respect

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

"Are you sure you want to go to school today?" Dad looked seriously over his glasses at me. We were parked off the road while Dad disinfected my cuts and scrapes and applied dressings to them from the first aid kit. I hadn't noticed most of them at the time, but boy howdy, the disinfectant certainly found them all for me. "I'm willing to call in a sick day for you if you'd rather do that."

"Ow," I said, in response to a particularly deep scrape being cleaned out. "I'd love to, but … the assignment. I don't want to let Greg down. We both put a lot of work into it."

"Okay." He capped the disinfectant and took out another dressing. "Hold still. How's your shoulder?"
I held still while he applied it. "Sore. Feels bruised. Still works, though."

"Well, that's good." He crumpled up the packaging for the last dressing and looked me over critically. "I can't fault your work ethic, or your dedication to your friends. Still not thrilled about you putting your life in danger like that, though."

"If I hadn't, Tracey would've died." Even as I said it, I was aware that we both knew it. "Justin is dead." I teared up, just thinking about it. I hadn't known him all that well, but he'd been fun to banter with, even if he did steal my coffee. Tracey would be absolutely heartbroken, once she got over the shock of the accident.

He moved the first aid kit out of the way and gave me a brief side-hug. "Well, it's lucky they told you where they were going, and that you remembered. That car was just waiting to go over the side."
"I know," I said quietly. "Tracey told me she could feel it moving. I felt it moving, while I was under there. Another half hour, it would've gone, no matter how still Tracey kept."

"Yeah, well. At least she gets to go home at the end of the day because of you." He heaved a deep sigh. "I was terrified every second you were down there. If it happened again, I'd probably forbid you to go. But I'm immensely proud of you for doing it anyway. You know that, right?"

I ducked my head, blushing. "I just couldn't not do it. I don't know if that makes me an idiot or a hero." Pulling my sleeves down, I checked to make sure the dressings weren't catching on the cloth. "Can we get something before you drop me off at Winslow?"

"What, to eat? Sure." He started the car. "Anything you want. Just name it."

"Oh, uh, I had something else in mind, but food will be good too." If I could eat at all; the aftermath of the fear was still twisting up my stomach something fierce.

"Something else?" He looked quizzically at me.

"You'll see."

<><>​

I was waiting on the front steps of the school when Greg arrived. He looked at me quizzically; while the dressings on my arms were all hidden under my sleeves, even my best efforts at cleaning up afterward had left a few marks on my jeans and shoes. My hair could've been tidier, too.

Of course, the old Greg wouldn't have noticed. But the new and improved version not only saw the outward signs but also saw some of what was going on inside. "Hey, Taylor, what's up?" he asked. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Not here," I said, grabbing his arm and dragging him inside. We headed for the library; I figured we had about ten minutes before we had to be in home room, so I had enough time to fill him in.

The first thing I did when we got there was hand him his part of the assignment, so I wouldn't forget for later. Then I sat down in one of the chairs and motioned for him to sit as well. The hardest bit was still to come. I actually had to talk about this.

"What's going on?" he asked, sitting down and sliding the assignment into his backpack. "Taylor, you're starting to worry me."

I took a deep breath as tears started to well in my eyes. "Tracey and Justin … when they left my place yesterday … they had an accident on the Captain's Hill road. Tracey's in the hospital." I stopped. Each time I tried to keep going, my throat locked up.

"And Justin?" he asked, his expression intense.

I sniffled and pulled out a handkerchief, then shook my head. Tears made tracks down my cheeks as I blew my nose. "I don't … they say … he …"

"Aw fuck," he groaned. "He was a good guy. I'm really sorry, Taylor."

Doubling my handkerchief over, I wiped my eyes, but it didn't stop the tears, then I needed to blow my nose again. I felt him put his arm around my shoulders and pull me close to his chest. It didn't even cross my mind about how weird that would've been, six months ago. He was different now, and I needed the comfort.

It took me until the bell rang to get myself together, and even then I was certain my eyes were puffy and my nose wasn't much better. At least I wasn't crying anymore. Greg's eyes were a little red as well, but he was making a fair try at 'a man's gotta do what a man's gotta do'.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked, his hands on my shoulders. "Because you know, after all the shit that happened last week, all you have to do is look hard in Blackwell's direction and she'll give you the day off, no questions asked."

"Yeah, I know." It wasn't really a joke, but I gave him a watery smile anyway. "I'm not about to leave you to present the assignment with Sparky as your backup. Besides, Jus—uh, he went above and beyond to get us the Book." I was still having trouble saying Justin's name. "I'm not going to let that go to waste."

"Okay." He took a deep breath. "If it gets too much for you anyway, just let me know and I'll cover for you."

And I knew he would, too. "You're a good friend, Greg." Remembering the errand Dad and I had gone on before he dropped me at school, I dug into my pocket. "Here, this is for you."

He took the length of black cloth I'd snipped out of the black souvenir T-shirt Dad had bought from a convenience store, and frowned. "What's this for?"

"Armband," I explained briefly. "For when we go in to Medhall today. I don't know if we'll be asked to come to the funeral, but we need to show respect anyway."

"Ah. Right. Absolutely." He tucked the cloth carefully into his pocket. "Thanks, Taylor. I probably wouldn't have even thought of that."

"I nearly didn't," I confessed. "It was very much a last-minute thing." I hugged him this time, taking comfort in his support, then we went to class.

When Mrs Knott saw my face, she immediately took on an expression of concern, and pulled me aside to ask me if everything was alright. I knew what she was really asking, of course. Blackwell had almost certainly impressed on every teacher there that under no circumstances was any student permitted to even have the appearance of bullying me.

As far as Dad and I were concerned, it was the ultimate case of 'too little, too late'.

"No, I'm fine," I told her, even though I really wasn't. "This isn't connected to the school."

"Oh." She hesitated. "If you need to go to the ladies' room, feel free. I'll keep the class assignment for you."

Going to the bathrooms and straightening myself up sounded very attractive about then, but I shook my head. "No, I'll be fine." I couldn't wimp out every ten minutes. If I had to cry, I'd cry on the bus.

More than a few people gave me odd looks during class, which I found a bit irritating. I'd been coming to Winslow for more than a year, getting bullied for almost all of that time, and now they were paying attention, when it wasn't even about me? Whatever. I breathed deeply and pushed through it.

I'd always found computers relatively easy to use, so when Mrs Knott handed out the class project, I blazed through it in about fifteen minutes. Then I pulled out the World Issues assignment and started going through it, re-familiarising myself with the talking points. Justin and Tracey had gotten me the Book, and I was damned if I was going to waste their time and effort by running off and crying in the bathroom.

By the time the bell rang and it was time to hand in the Computer project, I had a structure in mind for the presentation. All I had to do now was coordinate with Greg, and hope that Sparky didn't do anything to mess it up. I had to wonder once more exactly who had written the Book, and why the details in it weren't already being used. Also, did the solar-powered water collectors Greg and I had envisaged already exist, or had someone designed them from our brief description?

I hustled on to World Issues class; quite possibly the first time I'd ever been eager to get there. Greg was already waiting at the door when I arrived, and his gaze communicated the same thing I was thinking: We gotta get this right.

Once inside the classroom, we huddled together at our shared desk space, deciding who was going to present which part of the assignment. Greg, as the artist, would handle the visual aspect of drawing on the board, while I would explain what he was illustrating. We both would've preferred an overhead projector with transparencies, but to be honest, this was supposed to be a five minute presentation. Emphasis on 'supposed to be'.

Sparky arrived about thirty seconds after the bell rang for start of class, and dropped into his seat next to us. I could smell the marijuana smell from where I was. "Hey," he mumbled. "Weren't we working on an assignment or something?"

"It's okay, man." Greg patted him on the shoulder. "We got this. Just sit back and enjoy the show."
I nodded approvingly. While it would be slightly annoying for Sparky to share whatever mark we got while doing essentially nothing, it would be far better than him trying to do something and dragging us all down.

"You say so, man." Sparky put his head down on the desk. I was almost sure that he was snoring within ten seconds.

We went back to strategizing in low tones while Mr Gladly pottered around at the head of the classroom, but when he started talking, we sat up and paid attention.

"Well, guys," he said brightly, "did you all have a great weekend?" The response was mediocre at best, and I wanted to throw something at him, but he didn't seem to notice either way. "Great! So, I'm sure you all buckled down and did a fantastic job on your assignments. So, who wants to present theirs first?"

Greg and I had talked about this. If we came out of the gate strong, some of the others might try to crib our talking points. Julia and her cronies, especially. I noticed Madison was back in that group, though she was still showing signs of the beating Sophia had handed her in Blackwell's office. Good.

Likewise, if we held it last, everyone else would be so fatigued that nobody would be paying attention. So we'd decided to wait until Julia and Madison's group went through, then we'd go up. That way, nobody could accuse us of cribbing from them.

The first few assignments were presented. They talked for less than five minutes apiece, usually reading word for word from the assignments. The concepts presented were, in my newly informed worldview, less than impressive. Shortsighted at best, and doomed to failure at worst. The Book had actually covered these ideas in an appendix, explaining why they wouldn't work or how to make them work.

Julia and Madison, and some other girl whose name I'd never bothered to learn, put up a slightly better show than most. They even had a paper map of Africa that they'd taped together, which they stuck temporarily on the board. But they'd made my mistake of assuming a single approach instead of multiple prongs of attack. They also made several other rookie errors, but they managed to gloss over most of them. Overall, they went for about eight minutes. There was a desultory scattering of applause as they finished, and I saw Mr Gladly making notes in his pad.

"Who's next?" asked Mr Gladly. Greg and I put our hands up at the same time. "Okay, then. Taylor and Greg. Uh, Sparky …?"

"He's, uh, tired out from doing all the work," Greg extemporised as we got up, drawing a round of laughter. "Taylor and me will do the presentation."

We went up to the front and I dropped the finished assignment onto the stack that was already there. Mr Gladly raised his eyebrows when he saw how thick it was, and he picked it up immediately and started leafing through it. I ignored him, as Greg was already drawing on the board.

"Greening the Sahara is a tremendous project," I began. "But if successful, it would draw prosperity to the region, and allow many of the bordering nations to upscale their infrastructure to join the twenty-first century."

As Greg drew the map on the board, referencing the sheet he held in his hand, I explained what he was illustrating. How teams of workers would stage out of various cities, aided and abetted by the prevailing winds. He paused to sketch out a water collector, and I described how it would operate once installed, both shading and irrigating an area to create a tiny man-made oasis.

Once the drawing was complete, I stepped aside and Greg spoke about the preparation behind such a monumental project. Overall, we spoke for a little over fifteen minutes. Greg put up illustrations on the board, and we covered the concept in detail. On the way, I managed to carefully explain how and why a single-pronged approach was liable to fail, and why supply caches in the desert were an essential part of the plan.

Neither Julia nor Madison missed that aspect of the presentation, and while Madison didn't seem to want to make anything of it, Julia was apparently still smarting from being shut down on Wednesday. As it gradually became clear that our presentation was head and shoulders above the others, I could see her working herself up to saying something.

"Mr Gladly, it's not fair!" she burst out the moment we'd concluded. "They cheated!"

He frowned, looking at her quizzically. "Their presentation was a lot more thorough than the rest, but I'd hardly call it 'cheating'."

"But theirs is better than everyone else's! I bet they got someone else to do it for them!" Her face was red from righteous indignation. "And that's cheating!"

Greg opened his mouth to rebut her words, but I patted his arm. Then I cleared my throat, drawing everyone's attention. "That's a pretty strong accusation. Are you saying we just copied someone else's work?"

Put on the spot, she hesitated, then powered on. "It sure looks like it! Mads and me and Carrie worked all weekend on ours, and you've got ten times the stuff in yours! And we didn't find anything in the library like you've got!"

I tilted my head. "So, if I copied the work, I'd only know it word for word, right? So go ahead. Ask me details."

It was like a tennis match. When I challenged her outright, everyone's attention switched to her again. "Uh … why are the fuel caches so big? You won't need so much gasoline for a truck."
"It's diesel, and yes, you do. Greg, do you remember the fuel usage stats for a two and a half ton truck over rough ground?"

Greg nodded, and rattled off the figures. I was pleased; he'd spent more time going over those numbers than I had. "Sand is a totally different thing as well," he added. "But it's not just diesel. There's oil as well. And you have to take contamination and evaporation into account."

Julia looked frustrated. "And what if one of the local governments decides to swoop in and take it all? You didn't think of that!"

"Yeah, we actually did," I said. "Remember when we put up the expenditures sheet? The 'incidentals' line involved bribes to local government officials to keep them away from the area. I can give you a detailed breakdown if you want." It was another thing that had been in the Book that we'd decided would take up too much time in the finished product.

"But—" Julia began, then stopped as Mr Gladly stood up.

"Julia," he said sternly. "Taylor has answered your questions to my personal satisfaction. You had a good presentation, but just because someone else has a better one, it doesn't mean that they cheated. Now be quiet. Everyone else, what did you think of that presentation?"

I blinked at the applause that we got. Greg and I nodded to each other, he erased the board, and we took ourselves back to our desks. As we sat down, Sparky roused himself.

"Oh, hey," he mumbled. "How'd we do?"

"I think we got a passing grade," I said cheerfully. "What do you think, Greg?"

Greg snorted. "I think that if we don't get snacks from the vending machine, I'm gonna complain to Blackwell."

"I doubt it'll come to that." I leaned back in my chair. "Let's see what the rest of them have got."

The rest of the period passed by in relative peace. I was aware of the occasional poisonous glances Julia sent my way, though I was pretty sure Mr Gladly was aware of them too, so I wasn't overly worried. We watched as the rest of the assignments got presented, and while one or two tried to draw on the wealth of detail we'd presented, they just didn't have the heart to try to push it as hard as we had.

The last one trailed off with, "Uh, and that's all we've got," and the three kids awkwardly walked back to their seats.

Mr Gladly got up and cleared his throat. "Thank you for that," he said. "Well, I think we all know whose presentation was the best there, am I right?" He gestured toward where I sat with Greg. "Let's have a round of applause for Taylor and Greg, and, uh, Sparky, for that stunning presentation."

Everyone dutifully clapped; well, except for Julia and her group. In the lull afterward, I heard her saying to Madison, "Well, I still think she cheated."

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Greg start to burr up. "Settle," I murmured. "I've had a lot worse said about me."

"Yeah, but she's gotta know we didn't cheat," he insisted. "She's just butthurt because our assignment beat hers hollow." He sighed. "I can't believe I ever thought she was hot."

I decided to ignore the 'hot' comment. "Yeah," I said. "It did. And that's why she's pissed at us. There's nothing I can say that'll make her my friend, so I'll settle for her not being able to pull shit on me. Besides, you see Madison there?"

"Well, yeah," he said. "What about her? And man, how bad did she look once Sophia finished with her?"

"Like someone fed her face-first into a combine harvester," I said, only slightly exaggerating. "But you see the way she hasn't said boo the whole lesson?"

"Yeah." He frowned. "What's with that, anyway?"

I lowered my voice even further. "There's a shit-ton of legal trouble coming down on the school, and on Emma and Madison both. Madison's trying not to make it worse on herself. Julia clearly thinks she's outside the splash radius."

He tilted his head. "Is she?"

I bared my teeth. "Not hardly."

Mr Gladly told us to get out our books then, and the period went on.

<><>​

"Taylor, Greg, could you wait back a moment?" asked Mr Gladly as the other students streamed from the room.

"We can't stay long," I said. "We've got a bus to catch. Work experience."

"Oh, okay." His tone was that of someone who'd been reminded of something they'd been told about but forgotten. "I'll make it brief, then." He tapped our assignment. "This is good. This is really good. Now, I'm not going to take Julia's accusations blindly, but it's clearly far beyond what everyone else has done. Where did you get the material to put it all together over the weekend?"

I glanced at Greg. Should we show him the Book?

He shrugged. May as well.

"Okay," I said, and opened my backpack. "I asked around at work, and one of the guys got in touch with someone who'd written something about it. So we studied it and paraphrased the work." Reaching into the pack, I pulled out the Book and let it thud onto the desk. "We didn't copy any part of it word for word, and we augmented it with stuff we got online and in the library, but for the most part we did follow the outline of what's here."

Mr Gladly picked it up and leafed through it. "Huh. Wow. I'm impressed. So who wrote it?"

"That's what we don't know," I confessed. "I talked to my friend, and he talked to his friend, and he talked to his friend, who supplied the Book." If I spoke in generalities, I found, I didn't have to think about Justin.

"I can totally see where you got your material from, but yes, you seem to have put your own spin on it," he said. Turning to the summary, he started reading, but his eyes glazed over about a third of the way in. "I can't believe something like this hasn't been professionally published. It might not take the world by storm, but it would certainly draw a lot of attention."

"We thought much the same thing," I said, then glanced meaningfully at the clock. "We really have to go."

"Right, right." He stared again at the Book. "Uh, could I borrow this? To read, I mean?"

I took a deep breath, and slung the bag over my shoulder. "Okay, but I am gonna want it back. C'mon, Greg, let's go."

We left Mr Gladly leafing through the Book as we hustled through the school. The bus wasn't really supposed to leave for another five minutes, but it had been known to pull away early if the driver didn't see anyone waiting. So I pushed myself to hurry, though I didn't want to arrive at Medhall smelling of sweat either.

The bus was still sitting at the stop as we got out of the school. Greg hurried ahead while I followed along—apparently being sent up and down the stairs on bogus errands was good for fitness, who knew?—and made sure the bus wouldn't leave before I got there. I panted my way up the stairs, flashed my bus pass and settled into my seat beside Greg as the bus started up.

"We made it," he said with a grin, and offered a high-five. I returned it, then went back to catching my breath.

"I need to get fit," I decided. "I don't want to lose my internship over not being able to catch the bus on time."

Greg nodded. "I've heard of worse reasons." His face lit up. "But did you see their faces when we owned them all with our assignment? Even Julia, when she was trying to poke holes."

"I'm just glad the Book had all that detail in it." I shook my head. "I can't believe she's still out to get me."

"Take it from me, bad habits are really hard to break." The tone of Greg's voice told me that he knew what he was talking about. "I mean, when it's a bad habit you know is bad, you only keep doing it because you get something out of it. Some sort of thrill or guilty pleasure, know what I mean?"

I gave him the side-eye. "Greg, you're a good friend and we've been through a lot together, but right now I don't think I'm up to hearing about your guilty pleasures."

He went bright red, almost on the spot. "But—I wasn't—I mean—I wouldn't—"

Snickering, I elbowed him gently in the ribs. "Kidding."

It took him a couple of seconds to realise what I'd said. "What? Did you just seriously punk me?"

"You're a teenage boy. It's not like it was difficult or anything." I grinned at his discomfiture. "Ninety percent of what you guys do in private is embarrassing."

"Well …" But he was grinning now, too. "Eighty-five, tops."

I settled back into my seat. "That's about what I thought. So, what sort of mark do you think Gladly will give us on the assignment?"

He rolled his eyes. "At least eighty-five percent. Maybe ninety-five. A hundred, even?"

"Pfft, yeah, as if." I shook my head. "He'll probably take off five or ten percent because Sparky never contributed."

"Maybe he can take it off Sparky's mark?" He had a point, but I'd be happy with ninety percent. I knew that was the best assignment I'd ever handed in, bar none, and even Julia's attempts to undermine it still didn't take away from the fact that it had been awesome.

All due to the Book, of course. Greg and I owed so much to whoever wrote it, as well as Justin for …

The emotions that I'd been successfully keeping tamped down out of sight chose that moment to blindside me. I gave a stuttering sob and dragged out my handkerchief as my eyes filled with tears again. Greg, bless him, recognised the signs and put his arm around me. I pressed my face into his shoulder as I cried.

<><>​

Fortunately, I managed to get control of myself again by the time we reached Medhall. I was trying to figure out what I looked like as I got off the bus, and it took me a few moments to realise that Greg was offering me his phone … with the camera set to 'selfie'. Gratefully, I took it and fixed my appearance as best I could. I had a few basic makeup items in my bag that should deal with the worst effects once I had the chance to apply it, and a brush that I ran through my hair right there on the sidewalk.

"Thanks," I said, handing the phone back. Those things were really handy.

"No problem." He tucked it away in his pocket and hitched his backpack onto his shoulder. "Let's go in."

"Wait one." I pulled my armband out of my pocket. "We need to put these on first."

"Oh. Right. Geez, I'd forget my own head next." He got his out, and we spent about thirty seconds trying to fumble them into place one-handed before I gave up.

"Oh, for crying out loud!" I shoved mine back in my pocket. "Here, I'll do yours and you do mine."

"… that's a better idea, yeah." He held still while I tied the strip of black cloth around his upper arm, then I gave him my cloth to do the same for me. It wasn't too tight, and the stretchy cloth meant that I'd be able to slip it off and on when changing into my work clothes.

Thus attired, we headed into the Medhall building. The guards behind the desk glanced us over, their eyes lingering on the armbands, then let us swipe on through. They didn't seem nearly as upbeat as normal; I figured Justin must have been pretty popular at all levels of the company.

We went up in the lift in silence, and he got off on his floor. I stepped out on mine, and encountered Bradley almost immediately. "Hi, Bradley," I said with a weak attempt at a smile.

"Hey, kid. How you doing?" He looked me up and down, and I saw a slight nod as he registered the armband. "You sure you're good to be here? I don't think anyone'd blame you for taking a day."

I shook my head. "No, I figure I owe it to Tracey to show up at least. Even if they've got nothing for me to do. I didn't know Justin that well," —I could just about say his name without breaking down right there on the spot— "but he was my friend, too. Even if he did steal my coffee all the time."

It was the right answer. Bradley slapped me on the shoulder, hard enough to make me stagger a little. I was grateful he'd picked my unbruised shoulder, or I might've let out some kind of undignified yelp. "Yeah, he was a smartass little prick like that. Okay, you go see Ms Harcourt, and she'll let you know what you'll be doing today."

I dutifully reported to Ms Harcourt's office—Bradley hadn't asked me if I knew where her office was, but I'd made sure that was the first thing I learned when I started working with Tracey—and tapped on her door. From the stories Tracey had told me, the phrase 'report to Ms Harcourt' was up there with 'firing squad at dawn' and 'save the last bullet for yourself' for levels of existential horror on that floor.

"Enter," she called out. I opened the dread portal and stepped within.

Ms Harcourt looked … the same as normal. Severe office wear, hair tied up in a bun that could probably be used to hammer in nails. Her expression was unforgiving as ever, but as she looked me over it became … not softer, but slightly less harsh.

"Ms Hebert," she said at length. "I will admit that I did not expect you to come in today. From what I understand, you have every excuse to request an absence."

I nodded. "I wanted to come in anyway, ma'am. I'm not sure what use I can be, but if there's anything I can do to ease your workload, I'll be happy to take it on."

She tilted her head very slightly as she took that in. "I will admit that your performance under Ms Grimshaw has been exemplary. Very well; you have fifteen minutes to make yourself presentable then report to Ms Grimshaw's office. In between your other duties, if her phone should ring, you will identify yourself as her assistant, take a message, and refer it on to myself if it is urgent. Do you understand?"
"Yes, ma'am," I said. "Fifteen minutes, answer her phone, refer urgent calls on to you."

"Good." She looked away from me, back to the screen of her computer, a clear dismissal. "Close the door on your way out."

Stepping back out of her office (and carefully closing the door), I headed back to Tracey's workspace. I started the coffee machine first, followed by the iron. Once I'd freshened up in the small washroom, I changed into my work clothes, after spending a precious few minutes ironing the worst creases out first.

I made it out into Tracey's office with about one minute to spare, bearing two cups of coffee. One I placed in a convenient space for me, and the other on the corner of the desk, right where Justin would normally come by and perch. It might be a waste of coffee, I told myself, but it was the right thing to do.

Right on cue, Tracey's phone rang. I snatched it up, juggled it to my ear, then gasped, "Tracey Grimshaw's office, T-Taylor speaking. How may I help you?"

"Barely acceptable," growled Ms Harcourt in my ear. "Do better next time. I need some papers hand-carried down to the fifth floor."

"Yes, ma'am," I said, as a general answer to everything she'd said. "I'll be right there."

Hanging the phone up, I hustled to Ms Harcourt's office, accepted the papers and the door number of the office they needed to go to, and hurried off. I'd wanted to bring my coffee, but I didn't feel confident enough in my position to drink it on the way. It would keep, I reasoned.

I'd never physically been on the fifth floor before, but I'd studied the floor plans during my induction, and there was a handy "You are here" map on the wall right next to the elevator. Checking it, I refreshed my memory, got my bearings, and headed off in the correct direction.

With luck, I'd be back upstairs before my coffee had time to cool.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Medhall, Sophia decided, had something funky going on with it. If there was anything she'd learned since she got powers, it was that every building had areas where they were strong on security and other areas where they were weak. Underground garage areas had roller-doors—weak—but they also usually had cameras, which balanced them out. But this place had every entrance covered, like it was Fort Knox or whatever that place was with all the gold.

She could kind of understand it if they had a huge store of pharmaceuticals, but as far as she knew, they didn't. The Medhall building apparently had an in-house clinic and an R&D lab, but nothing that would even get a Merchant's attention. So what was all the extra security about? Was Max Anders all that paranoid?

If she was being absolutely honest with herself, she didn't much care about the answer to that question. It was just really irritating because she'd been trying for the last few hours to sneak inside without being spotted, and they had a lot of ways to spot her. But she was gonna get in somehow, and she figured she'd just seen the way.

Medhall was a big enough corporation that it had its own mail delivery entrance (albeit with its own cameras). She was lurking across the alley from there, wondering if she could get away with disabling a camera or if she'd just have to wait until night to duck in through a wall, when a truck with USPS on the side came trundling along. This was her only chance; she knew that for a fact.

Waiting until the truck obscured the cameras, she darted out, went to shadow, and dived under the truck. Reforming, she grabbed the chassis of the truck and hung on as it rolled down a short ramp. It stopped and she heard the roller-door rumbling upward, then drove on in.

She maintained her position, uncomfortably aware of the dirty, stained concrete passing by just six inches under her back. The truck drove in a curve, stopped, then reversed in another curve. When it contacted the loading dock, it stopped with a shudder; jolted free, Sophia fell to the oil-stained floor.

Muttering curses in the general direction of the driver, she looked around and then went to shadow and flitted out from beneath the truck, on the passenger side. As she did so, the back doors of the truck opened and they began to unload the mail. With attention thus elsewhere, she moved to a corner that was mostly in shadow, behind a pallet of stacked boxes.

Okay, I'm in. What was the next part of the plan, again?

She took a deep breath, reminding herself of what she intended to do. Of what needed to happen. Medhall was fucking her over. It needed to learn that Sophia Hess was not someone whom it was safe to fuck over. Alexander Grayson and Bradley Fieldmark. Lawyer and security guard. She had grudges against both of them; Grayson for interfering with her perfectly legitimate chastisement of Hebert and Veder for existing, and Fieldmark for manhandling her like a rag doll and smacking her in the mouth like that. And maybe Max Anders, for employing them both.

Nobody puts me on my ass and lives.

Of course, now that she was inside the building, the plan was beginning to look a lot hazier than it had from outside. She'd somehow expected to see a row of office doors with her potential victims' names spelled out on them, but it looked like she was actually going to have to go looking for them.

Well, nobody had ever said that Sophia Hess lacked in resourcefulness. Or if they did, they hadn't done so in her hearing, which was much the same thing.

She eased her way sideways, taking a chance and ducking through a wall into what turned out to be a locker room of sorts. Opening one locker revealed a high-visibility vest hanging on a hook, as well as a set of utility coveralls. On one of the shelves sat an ID card lanyard and a baseball cap with the Medhall logo on the front.

Well, well, well. Sophia smiled. Just what the doctor ordered.

<><>​

Taylor

It appeared I'd underestimated the amount of workload that Ms Harcourt had decided needed to be handed off to me. On reaching the office on the fifth floor, I'd been held up when Ms Harcourt had relayed a message through for me to go to the seventh floor and pick up some other documents and bring them back to her.

I'd done this, then immediately been sent to make a cup of coffee to her exacting standards and bring it back to her. While making it—and sipping at my own coffee while I waited—I wondered if she was testing me, in much the same way as she had when I first started at Medhall.

No, I decided. It wasn't her way. The initial testing had been to see if Greg and I were able to follow the rules enough to work at Medhall. Greg had screwed up—massively—but I suspected my performance had brought up our average 'grade' enough that he squeaked through. Since then, he'd smartened up a lot and proved that he could indeed learn. And of course his performance at Winslow, defending me from Sophia, had gotten him a gold star or three.

Coffee freshly made, I conveyed it back to Ms Harcourt, who sipped it and afforded me a nod of approval. "I can see why Ms Grimshaw prefers you to make her coffee," she said, which from her was equivalent to a standing ovation and a twenty-one gun salute. "How are you holding up?"

I took a deep breath. "I'll get there, ma'am. Thank you for asking."

"Good." She handed me an envelope. "This needs to go to Alexander Grayson. If I need you for anything else, I will contact you on Ms Grimshaw's phone line. And do work on your phone greeting."
"Thank you, ma'am. I will." I escaped her office again, wondering if she actually had a heart under that granite exterior, or if the whole thing had been an act on her part. I'd probably never figure that out, and I was damn certain she'd never tell.

I was still musing over that when I stepped out of the elevator on Mr Grayson's floor. Once more, I'd never actually been up this way, but I knew the layout from checking the floorplan.

Just as I got to the office door itself, it opened and one of the mail room crew pushed a mail cart out. I was a little puzzled—the big carts only usually got used on the lower floors where larger packages were delivered—but stood aside anyway. I got an impression of a high-visibility vest, a coverall, dark skin and a baseball cap pulled low over the eyes as they hustled past … then they stopped dead and turned.

I found myself looking Sophia Hess right in the face.

"Fuck," we both said, at the same time.

Everything seemed to be happening in static jolts of experience, disjointed. I saw her hand coming up from inside the mail cart, holding some sort of weapon. What it was, I couldn't make out. More or less by instinct, I flicked the envelope I was holding at her face. She recoiled, bringing up her hand to deflect it. In that instant, I reached out and yanked the fire alarm handle that was right beside every damn office door.

Immediately, the fire alarms went off with a deafening racket. The sprinklers didn't go off, but that was okay. I kicked the cart, shoving it into her, then lunged sideways through Mr Grayson's doorway. Something twanged and something else whiffed past me, so close I felt the wind next to my neck. I grabbed the door and slammed it shut, then clicked the lock closed.

When I turned around, Mr Grayson was still sitting behind his desk. He hadn't gotten up, or even raised his voice to ask me what the hell I was doing. I moved closer and realised that he wasn't getting up because he was slumped in the chair, either unconscious or dead, I wasn't sure. There was something sticking out of his chest, with a huge bloodstain around it.

I got behind the desk and dredged up the little I knew about first aid to determine whether he had a pulse or not. At first I couldn't find one in his wrist, then I tried again and got a weak one. Okay, I told myself. He's alive. For now.

There was a loud thump from the direction of the door and I nearly screamed, but kept myself under control. The door's locked, she can't get in. The door's locked, she can't get in.

Grabbing the desk phone, I rang the security station while I kept one eye on the door. I had no idea why Sophia might be shooting arrows at people, but if she could do that, she could probably pick a lock. It seemed a natural conclusion at the time.

"Security, Fieldmark speaking. Please clear the line and evacuate the building. We have a fire emergency."

"Bradley, it's me," I babbled. "I pulled the alarm. Sophia Hess is in the building. She shot Mr Grayson and tried to shoot me. He's hurt really badly."

There was silence on the line, apart from the echo of the fire alarm at the other end. Then Bradley spoke again. "Confirm Sophia Hess, and Mr Grayson is shot and badly injured."

"Yes, that's all true," I said. "She shot him with an arrow." What the fuck was that about, I wondered.

Another moment of silence. "Understood. Are you in danger now?"

"I locked the door," I told him uncertainly. "Mr Grayson's got a pulse, but it doesn't feel very strong. I can't tell if he's breathing."

"If he's got a pulse, assume that he's breathing." He paused. "Whatever you do, do not pull that arrow out. It's probably the only thing keeping him alive right now. Don't open that door unless it's me on the other side."

"Okay." I was near tears, but the strength in his voice reassured me that everything was somehow going to be alright. "I can do that."

"You're a good kid. Stronger than you think. You'll get through this. Hang tight. I'm bringing a team to you right now."

There was another thud on the door. "I think she's trying to break the door down."

"We've got her on camera. That's exactly what she's doing. But she's not going to succeed. Just hold on." He hung up.

"You might as well open the door now, Hebert," Sophia sang out from the far side of the door. Somehow, I could hear her over the din of the fire alarm. "I can get to you any time I want. But if you make it difficult for me, I'll make it hurt."

A dozen retorts arose in the back of my mind, but I squashed them all. The last thing I needed to do was let her know where I was. I found myself holding a letter-opener from Mr Grayson's desk, shaped like a sword. A pitiful weapon, but it was the only one I had.

The wait was eternal. I checked Mr Grayson's pulse twice more. It was still there, but getting weaker. The bloodstain around the arrow was larger. I clutched the letter-opener until my hand ached.

And then the fire alarm cut out. In the silence, hollowly, came a sharp rapping at the door. "Taylor!"

It was Bradley.

I opened the door, and in came Bradley plus three armed security guards, as well as two medical techs with a rolling stretcher. As the techs got Mr Grayson onto the stretcher, I got a good look at the outside of the door. It was dented fairly heavily, and there were cracks around the lock. I began to shudder, from delayed reaction.

Bradley put his hand on my shoulder. "There you go, kid. Let it out. You're safe now."

I wasn't so sure.

With Sophia Hess on the loose, I'd never be safe again.



End of Part Nine

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Ten: Unlikely Heroes

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

"This is a Code Yellow. I say again, this is a Code Yellow. There is an armed assailant in the building. If you are on the first floor, make your way to the lobby immediately. All other personnel, lock yourself into a safe place and await security to escort you out. This is a Code Yellow …"

After the second repetition of the message over the PA system, I managed to tune it out as I jogged along behind the gurney. The medical techs weren't slowing down for anything, even as one held an IV bag in the air, replenishing Mr Grayson's lost blood. "How often does this happen that you need a code for it?" I asked Bradley, trying not to sound too much like I was out of breath.

"Not often, but it's not the first time." He never stopped looking around as he spoke, his voice as grim and harsh as I'd ever heard it. I almost felt sorry for whoever he got to unleash his wrath on. "Last time was a bunch of Merchants looking for a fix. Nobody got hurt that time, though. Nobody who mattered, anyway."

By which I figured the Merchants got their asses kicked nine ways from Sunday. I was perfectly fine with that. Of course, we had bigger problems than a bunch of strung-out Merchants right now. "You think she's still in the building?"

"Yeah. We've got the place locked down. That vest she was wearing was from the mail room loading dock, which has gotta be where she came in by. She's cunning enough to spot and avoid security cameras, but she can't get out without being seen. Soon as Grayson's in medical care, we're going on the hunt. Room by room if we have to."

That was the longest speech I'd ever heard from the taciturn security guard. He'd clearly taken the attack on Mr Grayson on a personal level, and if I were reading him correctly, he would move heaven and earth to capture Sophia now. Not that I blamed him; she'd made my life hell for far too long for me to see her in any kind of friendly light.

"I wish I could help," I said frankly. "I know I can't, but I wish I could."

"You've already done more'n most," he said, surprising me. "Grayson woulda bled out if you hadn't been there and raised the alarm. You got guts, kid. She got in, you were gonna take her on with a letter opener. But there's one thing you can do for me."

"Name it," I said immediately. With the respect and consideration he was showing me, even in this stressful time, I was willing to go the extra mile and beyond for him and Medhall both.

"Stay with him," he said, indicating Mr Grayson. "The clinic's already under guard, but everyone there will be busy trying to save his life. I want you in the room with a radio, so if something goes sideways that I need to know about, you can tell me right then. Got me?"

I nodded, knowing he was basically putting me out of harm's way, but fully intending to do the job he'd given me. "I can do that."

We were at the elevator by now, and he smacked the call button with the heel of his hand. The security guards kept a lookout both ways down the corridor while we waited, but when the doors opened two of them immediately pointed their pistols that way. "Clear," each of them said in turn, then the medical techs hustled the gurney into the elevator.

I went in as well, and Bradley followed me. He put a key into some sort of locking mechanism and turned it, then handed me a radio from his belt. "Stay frosty, kid," he said, then slapped me on the shoulder and stepped out of the elevator. I wasn't sure what he'd done until one of the medical techs pressed a button and the word "EXPRESS" started flashing at the top of the panel. We dropped—fast.

I had just enough time to figure out that he'd made sure Sophia couldn't hit the button on a lower floor and catch us on the way down, before the elevator came to a spine-compressing halt. The doors sprang open, and I stepped out of the way just before they would've run me down with the gurney. I followed them, fully aware of the armed guards eyeballing me. The inspection didn't last long; they nodded and gestured for me to follow the gurney. Bradley, I figured, had called ahead.

But I hadn't heard it, which meant that my radio wasn't on, or I was using it wrongly.

Meekly, I approached one of the guards and showed him my radio. "Bradley said to keep in touch with him using this," I said. "How do I use it?"

"Let me see that," he said briskly. "You're Harcourt's up-and-comer, right? We heard about you and the car."

I blinked, wondering what else they'd been saying about me. It was weird, finding out that people were saying nice things behind my back instead of the usual. "I, uh, yes," I stammered.

"Good." He turned a knob on top, and I heard a burst of static. "On-off switch and volume control in one. See this press-button on the side? If you want to talk, hold it in for a second, say what you gotta say, then wait another second to let go. If it's held in, you can't hear anyone else, but they can all hear you. Got it?"

I accepted the radio back from him. "On-off and volume, press to talk. Got it, thanks."

"You're welcome. Clinic's down that way." He took up his guarding stance again, and I moved on.

The job I'd been given wasn't exactly the most glamorous or important, but I was going to do it to the very best of my ability.

Unfortunately, as the doctors started work on Mr Grayson, it also left me with plenty of time to worry.

I hope Greg made it out okay.

<><>​

Director Piggot's Office

PRT ENE

When Emily heard the tap on the door, she somehow knew it was bad news. She didn't get this feeling often, and it was always in conjunction with bad news she'd already gotten, so she didn't entertain any ideas about being a Thinker. She preferred to put it down to excellent pattern recognition; or to put it another way, why would the world choose to stop shitting on her?

"Enter," she called out, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her.

The door opened, and Renick stepped inside. "Director …" he began. His face said it all. She'd been right from the get-go.

"Let me guess," she interrupted. No Endbringers were encroaching on the city at the moment, so she went with her current worst-case scenario. "Shadow Stalker's done something even more egregiously stupid than before." She wasn't quite sure what that could possibly be, but capes had never let her down in that regard to date.

He didn't even bother looking surprised. "Yes. She's invaded the Medhall building in her civilian identity, presumably looking for revenge. So far, she's attacked and critically wounded the lawyer who showed up at Winslow. The Hebert girl had a close call, but she's reportedly unhurt. They've locked the building down and they're about to start searching, floor to floor."

"In her civilian identity." That was the only faint spark of hope in a heaping helping of shittiness. It was quickly extinguished by her own common sense; if Hess found herself cornered, she would absolutely use her powers to get out of it. Then another question occurred to her. "You said he was critically 'wounded'. Not 'injured'. That implies a weapon was used." She wouldn't have been that stupid. Would she?

His expression became even more drawn than before. "Yes. One of her old Shadow Stalker crossbows."

Her internal thought process shuddered to a halt, and she trembled on the verge of red rage. I am going to fucking murder that little …

Drawing in a deep breath, she tamped down the explosion that desperately wanted to happen. No matter how ardently she lobbied for it, the Chief Director would not sign off on a hearing for a kill order, and even the Birdcage was only an outside chance. Though, depending on the body count Hess was likely to leave behind on this little jaunt, it might become more probable as the day went on.

"Is she trying to out herself?" she gritted, those words being the only ones she trusted herself to say without screaming at the top of her lungs.

"The thought certainly crossed my mind," he admitted. "Ever since she was arrested at Winslow, it's like she's decided she's got nothing to lose, and is going all-out to get revenge on everyone she perceives as responsible for her downfall." He glanced at her briefly, and she read his meaning with no trouble at all.

Yeah, I'm probably on her list too.

Her mind flicked through the branching possibilities. There were none that actually had a good outcome, and few that had an acceptable one. Sometimes, the only way to avoid gangrene was to amputate the entire limb and cauterise the stump. "Okay, we're launching damage control as of right now."

"Director?" She'd caught Renick on the back foot.

"Send a squad to Mrs Hess's place of work, another one to her son's work, and a third one to her child's daycare. Take the whole family into protective custody. Send another couple of squads, plus whatever capes we have who can no-sell Stalker the best, to Medhall. But hold them back until the Hess family is under guard. As soon as they're secure, we open a line to Max Anders. Tell him who Hess is, and get him to pull his men back. If she's going for blood, they don't stand a chance." She set her jaw. "We're going to have to dig her out of there."

As she spoke, she could feel the yawning pit under her feet. If she could spin events just right, she might even get to keep her job, but one death too many and she'd be for the high jump. But she couldn't see any other way to rein Stalker in and save the innocents.

Renick didn't argue, for which she was grateful. However, instead of immediately leaving her office, he paused. "One suggestion, ma'am?"

"Talk to me." She'd take any lifeline right now.

"Send Velocity to the daycare, with troopers following along to there and the other two places. We ring the mother and son and tell them to shelter in place until the troopers get there. He can get there a lot faster and secure the child, then the troopers can relieve him and convey her back here while he goes on to Medhall to back up the other capes. This lets us get our people to Medhall now, rather than waiting for the troopers to get to the kid."

She nodded. "Good plan. Make it happen. Let me know the instant Velocity gets to the daycare and the other two have been notified."

"Will do, ma'am." He left, closing her office door behind him.

She glared at it for a moment, in lieu of Shadow Stalker. Her fingers itched for the touch of a firearm. Right then, right there, she would have happily shot the rampaging ex-Ward if the girl had been there in front of her.

But of course, her life could not allow for such simple solutions. One hand hovering near the phone, she began to mentally compose her words to Max Anders.

This was not going to be a fun conversation.

<><>​

Greg Veder

If anyone had told Greg before he started at Medhall that cleaning toilets was kind of fun, he would've … well, he probably would have ignored them. Or assumed they were punking him. But that had been him then versus him now. In his time doing maintenance work in the Medhall building, he'd learned over and over that doing the job meant doing it right, and getting all your ducks in a row the first time around.

Now? He was in the groove. He'd struggled to get it right the first day, and even the first week was a trial. Taylor's words of encouragement had been about the only thing that got him to stick it out, but now? He could see where he'd been going wrong from the start. They'd okayed him wearing headphones while doing this sort of thing, so long as he kept the music low enough to hear someone talking to him, so he was bopping along to his favourite tunes while making that porcelain sparkle.

Going along the row of cubicles, he applied toilet bowl cleaner to each commode in turn, then went back along the row to the beginning. He'd learned that this particular brand worked best when given a little time to settle in; just about the same amount of time that it took to dose each toilet in a row, in fact. On the second pass, he sprayed an anti-bacterial cleanser over the seats with one hand while pressing the flush buttons with the other. It's all about getting the job done as efficiently as possible.

The sound of flushing toilets filled the echoing space, almost drowning out the music in his headphones. Fortunately, he'd made personal use of them before starting to clean (another trick he'd been taught) so the gurgling of water didn't make him want to stop and take a leak. However, this meant that he was back at the first toilet and starting to wipe down the seat before he finally heard the recorded announcement over the PA system.

"… lock yourself into a safe place and await security to escort you out. This is a Code Yellow. I say again, this is a Code Yellow. There is an armed assailant in the building …"

He stopped dead still, his mind racing in circles, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. One hand came up, hooked through the headphone cords, and pulled the earbuds free to make sure it wasn't a set of lyrics he was mishearing. The announcement cycled through again. It was real.

This was real.

Just for a moment, he was the old Greg Veder again, jittering in place, wondering what to do. Then he took a deep breath, inhaling the clear sharp smells of the cleaning products, and centred his mind. Okay. I've got to be smart. Armed people means Taylor's in danger.

Hooking the spray bottle of cleaning product into the holder on his belt, he took his phone out. The earphones came free and he shoved them into his pocket, then he turned it to silent. No way was he going to end up like a victim in those movies where a phone goes off at the wrong time and alerts the gunman. Shoving the phone back into his pocket, he went to the end of the washbasins and took out the ring of keys he'd been issued when he showed up that day.

He could lock the bathroom door, but that would only delay matters if the shooter or shooters really wanted to get in. What he had to do was go where they wouldn't think to look. The maintenance door even had tiles over it to better resemble the wall, with just one tile missing to make way for the keyhole. The correct key came readily to hand, and he opened the door. Stepping inside, he pulled it closed behind him.

He didn't have a flashlight—these were only issued if he had a job to be crawling around in the interspaces of the building—but his phone would work well enough. There were cramped little staircases (and sometimes just ladders) connecting one floor to another, so he didn't have a problem there. He just needed to remember which maintenance door let out closest to Taylor's workspace.

Making his way up to the correct floor gave him time to mull the question over in his mind. There was one in each of the bathrooms, but that wasn't close enough for safety. Then he recalled a third one; in the kitchenette, where the coffee machine was. Okay, then. That's where I'm headed.

As he crept through the dark, dank passageway, he recalled his enthusiasm when he was telling Taylor about the maintenance spaces. 'Secret passages', he'd called them. God, I sounded like an idiot.

And then he was at the door in question. It was narrow, about half the width of an ordinary door; he recalled that it was wedged in beside where the fridge was situated. All of a sudden, he was glad he was skinnier than the average. Turning the handle, he carefully disengaged the tongue from the strike plate (before he'd started here, he wouldn't have known what they were called) and then pulled the door open, inch by inch.

He couldn't see or hear anyone moving around in the kitchenette or nearby. This didn't mean that they weren't there; just that they were being quiet if they were. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a dime and flicked it out into the kitchenette, then waited. It made a distinct noise on the floor, but there was no answering sound of footsteps or even a voice.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Okay, then.

He wanted more than almost anything to remain in the safe dark spaces of the maintenance corridor, but that wasn't what he'd come here to do. If Taylor was up here, she was unsafe. She'd come through for him so many times since they'd started this internship; hell, she'd tried to warn him that his slacking off was going to bite him on the ass, just as it had. When Ms Harcourt had given them the thousand dollars after he'd spectacularly failed the fire drill, she had once more explained how it was going to go, and she'd been right … again.

But even after all that, after he'd been relegated to learning how to clean toilets the right way, and she'd ended doing stuff that sounded fun and cool and interesting, she still hadn't looked down at him or told him to stop bothering her. She'd tried to show him where he was going wrong, and she'd even been nice about it. Her advice had really helped him, and when he'd had the chance to help her in return, it had been the best feeling in the world. (The kiss on the cheek had definitely been worth it too, just saying).

He suspected he might be crushing harder on her than he'd previously thought. Not that he had any particular illusions anymore about how girls saw him, not anymore. He was just another guy, working in a menial internship because he'd been too stupid to see through the basic tests they'd thrown his way.

But this thing he was doing right now, this had nothing to do with any feelings he might hold for her. This was all about doing what was right, and making sure she didn't get hurt by whoever had invaded their workplace. He was Greg Veder, Medhall Maintenance; and they were in his house now.

Greg Veder, Medhall Maintenance, crept out and peered into the corridor. Left, then right, then pulled his head back fast while he thought about what he'd seen.

Nothing, either way. But there was an unattended coffee cup on the desk where he was pretty sure Taylor worked. Someone had to have put it down just before the alarm went out. He highly doubted she or her boss were the type to just leave an empty coffee cup sitting around.

"Taylor!" he called out in the loudest whisper he dared. "Taylor! Are you there?"

There was no answer, but he hadn't really expected one. Taylor was smart. She'd be laying low and staying silent. If she was hiding around here, it would be someplace where she could lock the door. Now, where would that be? He also wondered if he should grab something to use as a weapon, like the fire extinguisher he'd seen hanging up in the kitchenette. Too late now.

Ducking into the next cubicle bay, getting farther away from the maintenance door than he really liked, he looked around for potential hiding spaces. There was a row of offices across the way, but after a moment of thought, he shook his head. Way too obvious, plus they had big windows to allow them to survey the working peons. The shooters would look there right away.

Looking around, he darted back the other way. He was a lot more exposed here than he liked, but he had to make sure she'd made it to safety. Frantically, he kept looking. Then his eyes fell on another door. A supply closet, one of the big ones. Shelves all around, with room in the middle for people.

With another nervous glance down the corridor, he ducked down that way and tried the handle. Locked.

They never lock these things.

He didn't have time to knock and call out; Taylor might not recognise his voice through the door, and the real shooters might be lurking around somewhere. Getting the keys out again, he located the one for the supply closets and slid it into the lock. The door clicked open … and something large and heavy-looking swung down at his head.

With an undignified scream, he flailed back out of the way. The broom swung down and smashed into the floor, then came up again; a second later, Greg recognised the face behind it. "Ms Harcourt!" he gasped. "It's me! Greg Veder, from Maintenance! I'm here to help!"

"Mr Veder?" Ms Harcourt seemed to refocus, seeing Greg properly for the first time. "What do you have to do with this?" Her fingers flexed on the broom. Greg had no doubt she was fully capable of beating him to death with it.

"Nothing, nothing!" He pointed down the corridor toward the kitchenette. "I'm here to get you to safety. Is, uh, Taylor with you?"

Slowly, she lowered the broom. "No. The last I saw Ms Hebert, she was hand-carrying an envelope up to Mr Grayson's office. I received a phone call saying that Mr Grayson had been targeted by a teenager with a crossbow, and to seek shelter. There was no word that Ms Hebert had been injured."

"The shooter's a teenager with a crossbow?" That made absolutely no sense to Greg. He shook his head; it was something he could worry about later. "Listen, come on. I have a place where you can be safer than in there."

"We were supposed to shelter in place and wait for security to escort us out," someone said from behind Ms Harcourt; it sounded like one of the secretaries.

"On the other hand, Mr Veder located us within minutes," Ms Harcourt said, and put the broom down. Her attention focused on Greg again. "You say this place of yours is safe?"

"Safer than—" Greg began, then turned his head. "Did you just hear footsteps?" He hadn't so much heard the original steps as the echoes between the ongoing warning on the PA system.

"This safe place," Ms Harcourt snapped. "Take us there, now!"

"Yes, ma'am!" He led the way at a fast trot, trying to keep his footsteps quiet. When he got to the kitchenette, he gestured them all into the alcove; apart from Ms Harcourt, there were four women in their early twenties.

"We can't hide here!" one of them protested.

"Shhh!" hissed Greg, patting the air frantically. He pointed at the still-open maintenance door beside the refrigerator. "In there!"

"What's in there?" The woman looked suspiciously at the open doorway, then back at Greg. She looked on the verge of refusing to go in, on general principle.

Ms Harcourt, on the other hand, had the expression of someone who has just experienced an epiphany. "It has the supreme advantage of not being out here," she snapped. "In there, ladies! Immediately!"

Greg knew full well that he could have had sat the women down to a presentation like he and Taylor had put on for the World Affairs class, and given the most persuasive talk of his life, and they would have refused to enter. Begging and pleading would have failed to move them. He could have shouted, threatened, or even offered violence; they'd probably gang up to kick his ass. At the end of the day, nothing he could have said or done would've convinced them to skootch in through that narrow doorway.

Ms Harcourt achieved it with four words.

<><>​

Taylor

The Medhall clinic was a mini-hospital in and of itself. I was reasonably sure it didn't have an MRI machine, but it was pretty well-equipped apart from that. Not wanting to be the source of any difficulties, I stayed well out of the way as the doctors worked on Mr Grayson. Not that I knew how well they were doing, but their murmured voices were calm rather than urgent, so I had to have hopes that they were winning the race with death.

I'd fiddled with the radio until I worked out how to turn the sound down, so as not to disturb anyone. From what I could hear, they were clearing the floors one by one, getting the personnel out of their hiding places and bringing them down to the lobby. Nobody had mentioned encountering Sophia Hess, so she'd either managed to slip out (which I doubted, given Bradley's assurances in that regard) or was sneaking farther up the building to keep ahead of them.

I kind of wished I could be there when Bradley caught up with her. She might have a crossbow (I mean, what the hell was with that?) but I had every faith in his ability to kick her ass across the building and back again. I'd make popcorn, just for the occasion.

"Taylor!"

I spun around at the familiar voice to see none other than Tracey. She was wearing pajamas and her arm was in a sling, but she was upright and walking. Behind her, I could see a few beds set up in what looked like a recovery area.

"Tracey!" I said, restraining myself from hugging her. "I thought you were in the actual hospital!"

"Pfft, as if," she retorted. "Have you seen the cost of a hospital stay, these days? Insurance barely covers it."

I nodded. "I'll take your word for it. Dad and I are generally healthy. How are you feeling?"

"Better than I was when you had to crawl into a crashed car after me," she said, then the smile fell off her face. "But what's going on? They've got a shooter in the building? Nobody's telling me anything."

"It's Sophia Hess," I said. "You know, one of my bullies? She's always been the violent one, but now she's gone over the top."

Tracey frowned. "What does she look like?"

I shrugged. "Track star, dark skin, black hair, surly expression, extreme willingness to go straight to violence. Why?"

"Because that's who caused the crash." Tracey looked at me soberly. "She killed Justin."

"What?" I stared at her. "Please tell me you're joking." Tracey looked back at me, not a flicker of a smile on her face. "You're not joking. How'd she even get in the car?"

"I have no idea," she confessed. "All I remember is seeing something smash him in the side of the head from behind. I looked around and saw her in the back seat. Pretty sure she unclipped his seatbelt about then, but the car went off the side of the road and she bailed out." She frowned. "I must've hit my head then, because I could've sworn she vanished like mist or fog."

I blinked. A lot of jigsaw puzzle pieces came together all at once. All the different questions suddenly started acquiring the same answer. Black teenager, excessively violent, turns to mist.

It explained why she got away with so much at Winslow.

It explained how she was so good at fighting.

It explained how she got away from the police.

It explained where she got the crossbow from.

It explained how she got into Justin's car.

It explained how she got into Medhall.

It explained so very much.

Well, it didn't explain why she was being such an idiot about all this, but I couldn't have everything.

I lifted the radio and jammed the talk button closed.

<><>​

Hookwolf

Bradley's radio earpiece crackled. "Taylor calling Bradley. Taylor calling Bradley. Bradley, can you hear me?"

He glanced around one more time before hitting the pressel down by his neck. "I hear you, Taylor. What's up?"

Even with the electronic distortion, he could hear the strain in her voice. "You're all in danger. It's not just Sophia Hess you're looking for. She's Shadow Stalker. Sophia is Shadow Stalker. It's how she got in the building."

He blinked. It made sense. It made so much sense. Still, he had to make sure. "You're sure of this?"

"Sure as I can be. She was in the car and hit Justin with something to make them crash, then bailed out and went to shadow. Tracey saw her, but didn't know what she was seeing."

That was good enough for him. "Good catch, kid. Thanks." Letting up on the pressel, he glanced at the rest of the security squad. "Okay, that changes things."

"So what do we—" began Melody, but he cut her off with a raised hand as his phone rang. He took it out and checked the number, then swiped to answer when he saw it was Max's personal phone.

"Fieldmark," he answered, keeping his voice down and his eyes moving. Everyone was looking all the way around now, including at the walls, floor and ceiling; having an adversary who could ignore simple barriers was a lot more problematic.

"Bradley, I'm going to need you to pull back to the lobby," Kaiser said as a preamble.

"Let me guess." Hookwolf didn't normally do the smartass thing, but this time he couldn't resist. "Shadow Stalker's in the building."

Not much managed to surprise Max Anders, but he sounded more than a little astonished when he answered. "Well, yes. Director Piggot just contacted me. How did you find out?"

Bradley grinned tightly. "The Hebert girl put the pieces together and warned me."

"Oh, she did, did she?" Max sounded very thoughtful indeed. "I'm going to have to think about giving her an extra incentive for staying on in Medhall after this. However; the PRT is inbound. They'll be taking over once they get here. Searching the building from top to bottom, getting the staff out and tracking down Shadow Stalker."

Bradley turned away from the squad and lowered his voice; some of them weren't all the way in on the entire story at Medhall. "The entire building, sir? What about the, ah, classified areas?" He meant the places that the Empire Eighty-Eight made exclusive use of; not on the official building plans, they could still be discovered by a thorough enough search of the building.

Max didn't sound very happy about matters. "We're going to have to hope that they locate and secure Stalker before they reach those areas. Refusing entry would look far more suspicious. Pull back to the lobby now. That's an order."

"I copy. Pulling back now." Bradley closed off the call and turned to the squad. "Orders from above. We're pulling back to the lobby. PRT's going to take over the search."

Cricket and Stormtiger both stared at him, and he shook his head fractionally. It's out of our hands.

Carefully, they backed off down the corridor, weapons still at the ready.

Let's just hope Max made the right call.

<><>​

Shadow Stalker

Sophia was frustrated and angry.

She was good at what she did. Scratch that; she was real good at what she did. Pound for pound, she was the most effective, most badass superhero in Brockton Bay, bar none. Nobody kicked more ass than she did. Nobody got the results that she did.

It was obvious that Pigface and the rest of the washouts at the PRT building were jealous of her. So what if she chose to use her spare time keeping Hebert right where the sad little queef belonged; down in the dirt. Seriously, what she did outside the Wards in her off-time was none of their goddamn fucking business.

People like Hebert didn't deserve to get ahead. The world belonged to the strong, while the weak got out of the way or died. And by coming to Winslow; hell, just by existing, Hebert kept on getting in her way.

Which made it all the more aggravating to her, Emma and Madison when Hebert landed that internship. Not only would it take the undeserving bitch away from Winslow where Sophia could explain to her how much of a nothing she was, it could also be a gateway into a good job, even a career. A better career than Sophia could ever hope for (not that she was jealous, just fully aware that Hebert didn't deserve it) so it had clearly been their designated duty to ensure that Hebert failed at that, just as she was a failure in everything else.

Which was all well and good, until those Medhall outsiders started making legal noises at Blackwell over a couple of perfectly innocent pranks, and the PRT had to take notice. Without those interfering assholes to spoil her fun, she could've kept on handing Hebert her needings for the foreseeable future. But instead she'd been physically assaulted and fucking arrested, all for something the PRT should've swept under the rug like they had everything else.

After all, she was a superhero. She was strong. They had to know that; otherwise, they wouldn't have gone to the trouble of pulling her into the Wards program (as irritating and frustrating as having to play nice with others was) and given her new gear. So she was at an absolute fucking loss as to why they were rolling over for these Medhall fucks.

Which made her next moves clear. Medhall, or whatever part of it that tolerated Hebert's existence, had to go. Once that was done, the pressure would be lifted off the PRT, and they could go back to letting her kick ass her own way.

Once she evaded the cops yesterday, she'd been hiding in Hebert's basement with the intent of fucking up Hebert and Veder both, and forcing them to tell Medhall to drop the legal bullshit, but then the pair of assholes from Medhall dropped by, and she'd seized the opportunity. Her strategy, as she'd formulated it, was simple; whoever helped Hebert was her enemy. Her job was to fuck them up as hard as she could, until they stopped helping Hebert. The tyre iron from the trunk had gotten the guy, and the car had gone over the edge so the girl had to be a goner too.

It had been a long walk back into the city from Captain's Hill, but so worth it.

Grayson had been easy; served the asshole right. Running into Hebert was something she hadn't expected, especially in the new outfit. She'd thought they'd taken all that shit away from the skanky little whore, so to see her dressed professionally, looking like she belonged in that hot-shit office environment, had taken Sophia by surprise and slowed her reactions just a little too much. When Hebert barricaded herself in Grayson's office, she'd been tempted to just phase through the door and deal with Hebert then and there, but there were too many security cameras and she wasn't sure if her arrows could even bust open the protective glass domes. Besides, she didn't have all that many arrows.

When the security team had come on site and gotten Grayson out of there, she'd retreated to another floor. Every exit was probably being watched twice as hard now, which meant she almost certainly couldn't just walk out the fire exit and ditch the high-vis vest once she was away. If she was going to get out without revealing her secret identity, she'd need to borrow a villain tactic.

She was going to have to take a hostage.

Which was why she was prowling the building now, floor by floor, looking for someone who fit the bill. "Heeeere, hostage, hostage, hostage," she crooned under her breath. "Come out, come out, wherever you are …"

She wasn't going to take just anyone hostage, of course. It would have to be someone young and agile, so they didn't do something stupid like tripping at the wrong moment. Preferably a chick, because a guy would probably get all testosterone in her face and she'd have to shoot him. The more she thought about it, the more she realised Hebert would've been ideal. Walk her out of the building, then finish her off before making a clean getaway.

Now, of course, she'd just have to hunt down Hebert and Veder and show the world why little shits like that had no business fucking with her, in any way. Ever.

After that, she was going to have to move to another city, but that was fine. Brockton Bay had been getting to be a bit of a drag, anyway—

A high-pitched scream echoed down the hallway, followed by a clatter as something hit the floor. Sophia grinned wickedly, then started in that direction at a fast trot, crossbow up and ready. Whoever made that sound had just volunteered to get her out of the building.

As she neared the place where she'd heard it—there was an open supply closet up ahead, with a broom laying nearby—she could hear muffled voices. Between the echoes and the ongoing PA announcement, she couldn't make out the words, but there were definitely people there. Exactly what she needed, if she was going to get out of here without going through that bullshit arrest procedure again.

There was a click and a metallic clatter that she couldn't quite place, then the quite familiar sound of a refrigerator door opening. Are they actually hiding in the fridge? Really?

Rounding the corner into a kitchenette, Sophia quickly scanned the area. There stood the fridge in question, door wide open … and a pair of sneaker toes peeping out from underneath.

"Really?" she asked out loud, shaking her head. "I can see your feet, you fucking moron. Come out of there."

Silence from behind the fridge door. Cold air rolled across the linoleum. The sneakers edged backward slightly, but not all the way out of sight.

With a huff of irritation, Sophia switched the crossbow to her left hand and strode forward. Grabbing the open door with her right, she pulled it closed.

That was when everything went wrong.

<><>​

Greg

The first two girls were in through the door, with the third trying to squeeze past without touching any part of the doorframe, when Greg heard the footsteps coming closer and closer, not just the echoes. They sounded far too close for comfort; there was no way they were going to get the fourth girl, Ms Harcourt and himself into the maintenance space and close the door before the shooter was on them.

"Go, go, go, go!" he whispered urgently, and darted across the kitchenette. Two items caught his view and he grabbed them up, then hooked the third from his belt. Ms Harcourt ducked past the fridge and out of sight, and he heard the door click shut. As the footsteps came up to the kitchenette, he pulled the fridge door open and ducked down behind it. His sneakers were in plain view, he knew, but that couldn't be helped. It was more important that what was resting on top of them stayed out of sight.

"Really?" The voice was all too familiar. Sophia? What the fuck? "I can see your feet, you fucking moron. Come out of there." Yeah, that's definitely her.

He had little to no room back there, but he tried to shuffle his feet back anyway. From the sound he heard, it hadn't worked.

Her footsteps strode across the kitchenette, then one strong hand wrapped around the corner of the fridge door and yanked it shut. Screaming what was partly a war-cry and partly pure terror, Greg shot to his feet like a jack-in-the-box, clutching the ironing-board to his chest with his forearms. Sophia recoiled backward, and the crossbow went off. There was a clash of metal on metal and Greg felt a sudden pain in the middle of his chest, but he straightened both arms and squeezed the triggers on what he held in each hand.

In his left hand, he held a spray-bottle of bleach-based cleaner, which he squirted repeatedly at Sophia's face and eyes. But in his right hand was the small fire extinguisher that had been hanging on the wall. His fingers clamped convulsively on the trigger, playing it over her left hand and body, dousing her with freezing carbon dioxide.

Letting out her own scream of pain and anger, Sophia stumbled backward, clawing at her face. Before his eyes, even as the fire extinguisher continued to blast the chilled gas over her body, she flickered and changed to a shadow form. Letting the ironing board clatter to the floor, Greg stumbled forward, staring in disbelief. What the fuck? Sophia's a cape?

And then she became solid again. Falling to her knees, she dropped the crossbow, clutching at her throat. For a moment, she seemed to rally; baring her teeth as her eyes turned toward him, she scrabbled for the crossbow again.

He didn't hesitate; stepping forward, he swung the fire extinguisher. It was smaller than normal, but it was still heavy enough. There was a hollow clunk as it bounced off her head. This proved to be the last straw; her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she collapsed bonelessly to the floor.

Breathing heavily, Greg dropped the fire extinguisher and pulled his shirt open. There was a little bit of blood, but the cut was only shallow. Looking back at the ironing board, he could see how it had trapped the arrow. That could've killed me.

He dug his phone out of his pocket and dialled the front desk. "Hello? It's Greg Veder here. Could you please tell Mr Anders that I've just knocked out the shooter?"

There was a babbling in his ear, but he wasn't listening. Leaning up against the bench, he slid down to sit on the floor.

I can not believe I just did that.

<><>​

Taylor, Later

Greg winced as I hugged him, but he didn't protest. Ms Harcourt was nearby, talking to Mr Anders. Both of them were glancing our way, making Greg look nervous.

"I wonder what they're saying," he said quietly. "I totally ignored the order to shelter in place or go downstairs. She could've killed me."

I shook my head. "You saved Ms Harcourt and the others, and you took down Sophia herself. You're totally a hero."

"Damn right," Bradley said from behind me. "Veder, if you ever get tired of working for Maintenance, we've got a spot for you in security."

It was telling that neither Greg nor I jumped or yelped; we were just too worn out from the day's tribulations. We turned and looked at the burly security guy, looking for any sign that he was joking. There was not even the hint of a smirk on his face. On the contrary, he looked totally serious.

"What, for real?" Greg shook his head. "I'm not … I mean, I just … I fix air-conditioning ducts and clean bathrooms."

Bradley clamped his hand on Greg's shoulder and shook him slightly. Now there was a grin on the big man's face. "And you did something me and the rest of the team couldn't. You fuckin' wrecked that little bitch. You got the right stuff, kid. Come see me if you ever want to talk about it."

"Uh, yeah. I will." Greg watched him walk off, then turned to me. "Am I dreaming? You'd tell me if I was dreaming, right?"

I grinned at him. "You're not dreaming, Greg. Oh, here comes Mr Anders."

We both stood up straighter as the CEO of Medhall strode over to us. As always, he carried with him the air of always being totally in control of the situation. I wanted to learn how to do that.

"Well done, Mr Veder," he said firmly, offering his hand for Greg to shake. Looking slightly stunned, Greg did so. "Sophia Hess has been handed over to the PRT, and with any luck her shadow will never darken our door again." He paused to allow us to chuckle politely at the pun. "Alexander Grayson is still in serious condition, though the doctors assure me the way is clear for him to make a complete recovery. Thanks mainly to you, Ms Hebert."

Again, he held out his hand, this time to me. I shook it, trying not to look as awe-struck as I felt. "Uh, thank you, sir. I just did my best."

"And your best is clearly very impressive, as we have noted several times since you began your internship at Medhall." Mr Anders nodded toward me appreciatively, and then to Greg. "You are also apparently an inspiration to your fellow intern; Mr Veder may have had a rocky start at Medhall, but his showing today is a credit to you both."

Greg resembled nothing more than a bobble-head doll as he nodded wordlessly, his throat working but no sound coming out. I cleared my throat discreetly. "Uh, thank you, Mr Anders."

He gifted us both with a genial smile. "Oh, I intend to do more than say nice things about you. Ms Harcourt will be speaking with Legal. Your internship contracts will be redrawn and presented to your parents. As of next month, should you accept, you will be each drawing a full adult salary for the hours that you work here."

Turning, he strode away. Greg's wondering eyes met mine, and I wordlessly nodded. Yeah, he just said that.

Working at Medhall was interesting, to say the least. Dangerous sometimes, certainly.

But right then, I wouldn't have given it up for the world.

<><>​

PRT ENE

Director Piggot's Office

"Shadow Stalker's been captured," Renick reported, leaning in through Emily's door. "Would you believe it, one of the interns clocked her with a fire extinguisher. No other casualties."

"Well, that's about the only good thing to come from all this." Emily was still smarting from the conversation she'd had with Anders, and then with the Chief Director. "The PRT's going to be paying damages to Medhall for not keeping control over our little walking fuckup, and it's going to be coming out of our budget. On the upside, there's a chance we can get her put away permanently into psychiatric holding. From all indications, there's something seriously wrong with that girl."

Renick's eyebrows rose. "How did she even get into the Wards program again, ma'am?"

Emily grimaced. "Because the powers that be have decreed that we needed every warm body on the streets. And some asshole lawyer provided a character reference." She made a show of checking some information on her computer. "Interestingly enough, the father of one of Hess's accomplices at Winslow."

"Definitely interesting, ma'am." Renick smiled; he knew her well enough to predict what was coming next.

Emily bared her teeth in return. "There's definitely going to be an inquiry as to who fucked up here, and how badly. I don't feel like being thrown under the bus. Find out everything you can about this Alan Barnes, and why he might have provided Shadow Stalker with that character reference. Also, Anders suggested that Hess might have caused the car crash on Captain's Hill yesterday, the one with the fatality. Look into that. We might get her into the asylum yet."

Renick nodded. "Yes, ma'am." Stepping back, he closed the door.

Emily turned her chair and looked out through the polycarbonate window at Brockton Bay, sprawling in all its fractured glory. She rarely had good days here; most were average at best. But as crappy as this day had been, she took bleak solace in the fact that someone out there was having a worse day than her.

Turning back to her desk with a cold, hard smile, she took up where she had left off.



End of Part Ten

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Eleven: Moving Forward

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Tuesday Morning
Winslow

As I entered the school, people seemed to ease away from me, unwilling to present the appearance of bullying me or even getting in my way. For some, this may have felt like being a social pariah. I'd been there, so this was nothing. In fact, it was rather welcome.

I went to my locker and opened it, not without a quick glance around, but my zone of privacy was operating at full strength. It seemed the downfall of Emma's clique, plus the determined efforts of the teachers to make me untouchable, had put the message out. Taylor Hebert is no longer an acceptable target.

I was just fine with that. Collecting my books, I closed my locker and locked it, then turned my head as I heard a familiar footstep.

"Hey, Taylor." Greg looked happy to see me. "How are you doing?" After yesterday, he meant. It was a valid question. A lot had happened yesterday.

"I'm fine," I said, and it was true for a given definition of the word. I was feeling better, though Justin's death was still a body blow whenever I thought about it. "How's the Two-Gun Kid?"

His expression morphed from a grin to confusion in the space of half a second. "The what again now?"

It was my turn to grin teasingly. "Thought you might not have heard that one. Someone got security footage of how you took down Sophia, so Bradley and the others were calling you that when I left yesterday afternoon." I elbowed him gently in the ribs. "It suits you. I'm just glad you took note of where the fire extinguishers were."

He rolled his eyes. "Trust you to bring that one up. They made me go through and count every single extinguisher on every floor, and what type was where. It took me three attempts to get it right. I still think they moved some around on my second try."

"Well, you got it right in the end." I glanced at the slight bulge of the dressing under his shirt. "I'm also glad you thought to use the ironing board for protection."

"Trust me, me too." He touched the spot gingerly. "If I hadn't, I'd be in surgery alongside Mr. Grayson." Or dead, he didn't have to say.

"Yeah." I nodded in agreement, with both what he had and hadn't said. "When's that gonna be okay?"

He half-shrugged. "The nurse who cleaned and dressed it said there was no sign of foreign substances. So I guess I should be glad Sophia didn't dip her arrows in shit or something. It should be okay by Saturday or Sunday. I might even get a cool scar out of it, to impress the chicks." With the old Greg, I might've thought he was being serious, but his self-effacing grin told me he was kidding.

"None of that, buster," I told him with a chuckle. "There's only one girl around here you need to worry about impressing, and I'm already impressed."

Was it just me, or did he blush slightly when I said that? There was a lot about teenage boys I still didn't know, even though Greg and I were getting to be pretty good friends by now.

I slugged him lightly on the shoulder as the first bell went. "See you in World Affairs."

"See you there, Taylor." Grinning all the way across his face, he turned and strode away, a whole new level of confidence in his stride.

Which was, to be fair, kind of justified. After he'd gone off to be treated by the nurse, I'd heard how he'd rescued Ms. Harcourt and the other women, and stayed out to confront Sophia when he could've just run away. I wasn't kidding when I said I was impressed by all that. Hell, Ms. Harcourt almost smiled when she spoke of him.

I headed to Mrs. Knott's home room and settled down behind my computer. While we were waiting for everyone else to trickle in, I booted it up and looked for articles on what had happened at Medhall on Monday. It appeared Mr. Anders was putting the screws to the PRT for not doing anything to rein in Sophia from her continued attacks on me and for not warning the police about her status as a cape, which had allowed her to escape from custody. This had allowed her to murder Justin, and nearly murder Tracey, Mr. Grayson, Greg and of course me. Not to mention whoever else would've died or been injured if Greg hadn't stepped up and done their damn jobs for them.

I blinked as I saw the announcement that a lawsuit had been filed against the PRT on behalf of those harmed by Sophia, to the tune of ten million dollars. This wasn't just for the benefit of me and Greg; Tracey and Mr. Grayson were also in line to be recipients of the payout, as well as Justin's family, wherever they happened to be. Director Piggot of the local branch of the PRT had been reported as responding to questions about this with what I suspected to be the most pissed-off 'no comment' in the history of that phrase.

It wasn't entirely her fault; I was willing to admit that, at least. Which wasn't to say she was totally, or even mostly, without fault in the matter. In Brockton Bay (I'd checked this up) the Wards were administered by the PRT, not by the Protectorate. Something about there not being enough room for them on the converted oil rig the adult team used for a base, or maybe it wasn't safe enough.

Anyway, I was perfectly okay with accepting that Sophia had been a psycho from the beginning; joining the Wards hadn't actually been the reason for her going off the rails. But she hadn't wanted to join voluntarily (I'd checked that up too) and had only been shoehorned into the Wards after bending the rules pretty hard on what vigilantes could and could not do.

It was amazing what someone could dig up if they were really willing to go looking online.

So Director Piggot hadn't turned Sophia into a raving sociopath, which meant she'd accepted Shadow Stalker into the Wards, knowing that she was there because she'd committed crimes, and promptly ceased to invest in any kind of effective oversight on her actions. She could be as pissed off as she liked; an ounce of prevention (Sophia Hess straight off to cape juvey) would've been far preferable to the shit I'd gone through, though the thought of Sophia's expression when she realized she'd been taken down by Greg Veder was almost worth it.

No, when I considered all Sophia had done while basically being protected by the PRT, I had very little sympathy in my heart for Director Piggot.

The bell to actually start class rang, and I settled down to pay attention. It was a little hard to concentrate with everything I had to think about, but I managed. After I dealt with the day's project—a spreadsheet that would calculate the differences in tide times over a month—I went onto PHO and browsed the threads there. Medhall wasn't involved with the cape scene, of course, but an impressive number of people had found out about Greg's takedown of Sophia.

Fortunately, nobody had linked him to his online persona of Void Cowboy, at least yet—I had laughed my ass off when he confessed to being the idiot behind that username—but it had to be at least as bad for an unpowered intern to have been the one to take her down. The authorities were trying to keep his name quiet—apparently some people get upset if a normal takes down a cape, who knew?—and for the most part this was holding. In the few places where it wasn't, all they had was his first name.

After Computers came World Affairs. I waved to Greg when I saw him, and took a desk next to his. This was not my usual practice—normally I'd be snagging a seat right next to the door, so as to make a fast getaway—but I was doing a lot of things these days that weren't 'normal' for me. Crawling into cars teetering on cliffs to save my boss, among other things. Madison and Julia might still be attending the class, but Mr. Gladly was finally doing his job and ensuring they couldn't bully me unhindered, which made life so much easier for me. I'd have to go and speak to Principal Blackwell about the massive amount of vitriol that was still piling up in my school email account—it seemed some people never learned—but at least I was pretty sure I'd get a fair hearing this time.

"Hey, you." He gave me a nod and a smile. "How'd things go in Computers?"

I shrugged. "They're still hitting my email. I'll go talk to Blackwell in lunch period."

He winced. "Ooh, ouch. Being made to actually do her job? That's going to have to sting."

"Yeah." I chuckled. "Couldn't happen to a nicer person. So hey, did you hear about the lawsuit?"

He looked attentive; a new thing for him, but one that I approved of. "I'm listening."

His expression started at amusement when I told him who was suing the PRT, and his eyes widened when he learned about the amount and who were the intended recipients. "Wow, really? Think we'll actually get any of that?"

This was another change in his aspect. The previous Greg would've been mentally rubbing his hands and considering exactly what he was going to spend it on. This one was actually utilising forethought and not assuming everything would turn out okay just because he wanted to.

"Dunno." I'd seen this sort of thing before, with the Dockworkers. "They might not win the case, but given the situation, that's unlikely. It might be knocked down to a lower figure, even to just a symbolic win. The PRT might make the local Director fall on her sword as a gesture to make everyone happy. This is all intended to score political points, not to specifically benefit us."

"Ahh." He looked enlightened. "I can kinda see it, yeah. So what we should be doing is sitting back with popcorn, and if we actually get anything material out of it, that's just a bonus."

"Bingo." It seemed we were definitely on the same page. He didn't even protest the concept of the PRT and Medhall as political entities, which of course they were; just not traditional ones.

"Good morning, everyone!" Mr. Gladly entered the classroom, full of vim and vigour as usual. Or like Greg had confided once, full of wind and bullshit. I couldn't actually argue with him on that. "How are we on this wonderful Tuesday morning?"

The response, as could be expected, was lacklustre in the extreme. I grunted along with the rest. It wasn't that I didn't share his enthusiasm—well, okay, I didn't—but going into life-and-death situations twice in one day had dulled my already-minimal appreciation of basic classroom banter. Greg went one better; he produced an amazingly realistic snoring sound.

Of all the responses, that was apparently the one Mr. Gladly took issue with. He walked down the rows of desks, carefully not looking at me, and planted himself in front of Greg's desk. "I'm sorry, Mr. Veder," he said. "Am I boring you?"

I took a second to feel mild surprise about Mr. Gladly dropping his 'Mr. G' persona—Greg wasn't the only one displaying atypical behaviour, it seemed—before clearing my throat to get his attention. "Mr. Gladly, maybe you haven't heard? Yesterday, Greg took on an armed intruder in the Medhall building and beat them unconscious. That person is now in police custody. You might have read about it in the news." You're really going to have to up your game if you want to top that shit, I didn't have to say.

The room went so quiet, I almost heard it when Mr. Gladly blinked. I was pretty sure I did hear a few jaws dropping around the room. Greg gave me a pained sideways glance as if to say, Really?

I returned him a half-shrug and a quick grin. At least I didn't mention the Two-Gun Kid part.

"Ah. Isn't that kind of … dangerous? Foolhardy, even?" Mr. Gladly puffed himself up into some variation of The Responsible Adult. "He should really have waited for the police."

"True, but he was in the process of getting my supervisor's boss and several members of her staff out of the line of fire when the intruder showed up, so he didn't really have a choice in the matter." I smiled slightly. "There's no doubt he saved lives. I was right there when Max Anders personally congratulated him." Chew on that, you pompous ass.

"I see." He visibly stopped himself from directly asking me if I were telling the truth, and stepped away from Greg's desk. "Well, uh, moving along. Yesterday, you all gave your presentations regarding a hypothetical project to green the Sahara. It will come as not very much of a surprise that one of your presentations was far and away better than everyone else's. Specifically, Taylor and Greg." He didn't mention Sparky, which surprised nobody. I hoped the guy would get at least a passing grade for not wrecking our presentation.

"I still say that's not fair," Julia said, just loudly enough to be audible. "Just because Taylor's the new teacher's pet …"

"Miss Morrow!" Wonder of wonders, it turned out Mr. Gladly could raise his voice when needed. "One more outburst from you, and I will be sending you to see Principal Blackwell. I have perused the source material Taylor and Greg used, and it is clear that they've studied it and made exemplary use of the material without actually copying it word for word. Your presentation was also good, but I'm not going to penalize them for using the resources at their disposal. Now, do you have anything more to say?"

Julia looked over at me, then at Madison. When Madison said nothing—even now, the marks of the beating Sophia had given her were barely visible under her makeup—and hunched down in her chair, Julia huffed out a sigh. It was clear there wasn't going to be any support from that direction. "No, Mr. G."

"Good." He went back to his desk and took up the stack of assignments. "All of you passed, though I will say some of you could have honestly put a little more effort into it." Walking around the classroom, he handed us back the papers we'd put in on Monday. As I'd already seen, ours was a lot thicker than everyone else's, with the one by Madison and Julia coming second.

The moment my copy landed on my desk, I snatched it up and looked for the mark. In his familiar scrawl, Mr. Gladly had written 97% - Very good! Please see me after class.

Frowning slightly, I turned to Greg, who was looking at an identical message on his, down to the percentage Mr. Gladly had awarded us. Sparky lifted his head briefly to glance at his own mark; twisting my neck, I made it out to be 51%. Could do better.

Well, that answered that. Mr. Gladly was totally aware of who'd done the work and who slept through basically every class he had. Leaning across toward Greg, I tapped the 97% with my fingertip. "Wonder how we lost the three percent?" I asked quietly.

"No idea. Maybe it's his way of balancing the fact that we got access to the Book when nobody else even had the chance to?" He shrugged. "Hey, this is the highest mark I ever got in this class. Not gonna jinx it by whining about three lousy percentage points."

When he put it that way, it made sense. "Yeah, true. So I wonder why he wants to see us?"

That, I couldn't answer. It was probably about the Book, but exactly what Mr. Gladly wanted to talk to us about regarding the Book, I had no idea. As with most questions in life, we were going to just have to wait and see.

<><>​

Whatever it was, Mr. Gladly didn't see fit to touch on it during the lesson. He waxed lyrical about how Gesellschaft and the Three Blasphemies had altered the European political landscape just by the very fact of their existence, and how they'd had much more effect than similar sized groups of heroes. Greg put up his hand after a while and asked about the Simurgh's attack on Switzerland, and if that couldn't also be seen as a political terror attack.

Half the class nodded and murmured in agreement, while the other half, led by Julia and her cronies, tried to mock him. "The Simurgh isn't a supervillain!" she said out loud.

"Why not?" I asked boldly. "She uses powers to mess people around. There's a kill order out on her. Why can't she be defined as a supervillain for this situation?"

"Because supervillains rob banks, doofus!" That was one of the boys who hung around Madison. "You ever see the Simurgh do that? Endbringers are different."

Greg cleared his throat. "I'm pretty sure 'must rob banks' isn't down anywhere in the job description of a supervillain. Have the Slaughterhouse Nine ever robbed a bank? I bet Crawler couldn't even fit through the doors. Doofus."

Silence fell briefly as everyone there tried to recall if America's most hated villain gang had ever stooped to that supervillain staple. I was reasonably sure they hadn't, if only because every single one of them was so notorious that they'd never be able to spend a dime without someone calling the PRT on them.

Mr. Gladly broke up the impending argument before it could start again. "Good points on both sides, people. Julia, you're right in that the Simurgh isn't usually seen as a supervillain. Endbringers are considered more to be something you evacuate cities for rather than a mere human committing a crime. However," he continued, raising his voice slightly when people on both sides of the argument started putting their two cents' worth in, "Greg is also correct that the Simurgh's influence on the people of Lausanne did indeed alter the political situation, just as if she were a normal supervillain. The main difference is that her influence happened all at once and we've been dealing with the aftermath ever since, while the others have had to work at it to stay relevant on the scene."

Dang, I thought. Mr. Gladly's really stepping up. I didn't know he had it in him. The cynical side of me suggested he was only making the effort so I couldn't say he'd let Julia bully me. I wasn't so jaded that I was going to refuse the assistance, though. It was, as Dad was fond of saying, about damn time.

With Mr. Gladly's interjection, everything settled down again. Greg seemed very pleased with himself, and I was quite happy we'd had each other's backs. The number of times I'd been in situations where anything I said or did was shouted down immediately, and I was mocked for even opening my mouth, compared to this time … the contrast was stunning. Was this how ordinary people got to live? I'd take it.

The lesson rolled on. Julia looked like she was seething, but lacking her accustomed support from Madison and the wilful blindness from Mr. Gladly, she had no outlet for her bile. When the lunch bell rang, Greg and I packed up our books but waited to see what Mr. Gladly wanted with us. Julia lingered also, drawing out her departure as long as possible.

"Julia, did you want something?" asked Mr. Gladly, still straightening up his desk.

It was clear to me what Julia wanted: us, outside the classroom where no interfering teacher would be able to see what was going on. She looked around as Madison slipped out the door along with the last of her cronies. Apparently realizing that her will held no sway inside the room where none of us actually wanted her there, she pushed her hair back from her face in a nervous gesture. "Uh, not really?"

I gave her a brief wave. "See you later then, Julia." Better later than sooner, that's for sure.

Shooting me another poisonous glance, she grabbed her bag and headed for the classroom door. Mr. Gladly watched it close behind her, then quite clearly put her out of his mind as he took the Book out of his desk drawer and turned to us.

"I've been reading this." He shook his head. "I haven't gotten even halfway through it, and it's absolutely brilliant. Every time I turn the page, the author covers another detail I wasn't even aware of. Your presentation made me think it might be possible, and the book utterly convinced me in every way."

"That's nice, Mr. Gladly," I said neutrally, trying not to think of Justin's cheerful face as he handed the envelope holding the Book over to me. "Is that what you wanted to tell us?"

He frowned and shook his head. "No. Well, yes, but I would really, really like to get in touch with the author. Whoever it is, they're brilliant beyond words. I've got a few contacts in the publishing industry, and if they're struggling to get their ideas put into print, I could definitely make that happen. These ideas need to see the light of day. If you could put me in touch …"

I shook my head as he trailed off expectantly. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Gladly. I don't know who the author is, just that they were willing to loan this to me as a favour to a friend of mine."

"So can you ask your friend …?" His voice had the tone that clearly conveyed, this is an obvious idea, why aren't you doing it already?

I shook my head again, my throat closing up. Greg put his hand on my shoulder for support. "She can't," he said quietly. "He's dead. It was very sudden. I can ask around at work, but I don't know if anyone else there knows the other person."

"Ah." Mr. Gladly's whole expression slumped. "Could you do that for me? Please? This, right here, has the potential to change the world. There are people out there with the resources to get this done, who just don't know it can be done."

"We can try." Greg seemed to have taken over the conversation, which was just fine with me. "But we're not due back at Medhall until tomorrow afternoon, so we won't be able to get an answer to you until Thursday. C'mon, Taylor, let's go."

I headed out the door with him, not sure what I was going to do if Julia had decided to hang about anyway. But the hallway was clear; my best guess was that her coterie had gone ahead and she hadn't felt like trying to confront us on her own. "Thanks for that, just now," I said after the door had closed. "I … it was too …"

"Hey, I get it," he said sincerely. "I miss him too. Anyways, we're a team. Medhall interns stick together, right?"

"Damn right." I grinned weakly, and high-fived him. "So, um, I'm gonna go see Blackwell now, if you wanted to head to the cafeteria …"

"Pfft, as if I'd risk going in there alone and getting ambushed by a bunch of Julia clones." He rolled his eyes. "I'm going with safety in numbers, thanks."

I was pretty sure he was sticking around to make sure I got to the office safely, but I didn't call him out on the lie. Besides, it felt nice to have someone watching my back. Someone who was actually competent and could think ahead, as opposed to the version of Greg who'd stepped out of the elevator with me on my first day at Medhall. That Greg, I'd tolerated. This Greg, I liked.

"Yeah, probably a good idea." I didn't have to specify why I thought it was a good idea. We both knew. "So, uh, is it just me or is Julia still rabid about trying to mess with me?"

"Absolutely frothing at the mouth, yeah." Greg seemed a little relieved at the change in topic. "I think I've got it figured. Emma was queen bee of our year, but she's been taken out of Winslow. Sophia was her enforcer, Madison was basically her court jester, yeah?"

I giggled involuntarily, imagining Madison wearing garish red and yellow with the weird hat. The image was so wrong and yet so right. "That's definitely one way to put it, yes."

Greg's smirk told me he had the same mental image I did. "So yeah, I'm thinking she's angling for the top job herself. Ems and Soph are out of the picture, and Mads is basically trying to pretend she never even heard of you, much less met you, but Julia's got it into her brain that the way to becoming queen bee is to push you down into the dirt again, just like Emma had you. So she's trying to recreate what Emma did back when we started at Winslow, but …" He gestured eloquently.

"But she doesn't have the support structure to do it, not like Emma did," I finished. "And she can't ambush me by pretending to be my friend until it's time to sink the knife in. Also, she totally doesn't have any little secrets from my past that she can dig up and throw in my face, like Emma used to."

"And of course, you've got me," he pointed out. "Emma was able to chase away anyone who even looked like backing you up. That shit isn't gonna fly with me."

"Well, duh, I've got you." I bumped my shoulder against his. "And I really, really appreciate it. Also, you need to see the security footage of you putting Sophia on the floor. Bradley says your form needs work and your follow-through lacked finesse, but he was smiling when he said it. Me, I think you looked totally badass."

Greg flushed a little, but recovered quickly. "Bradley? Smiling? Surely you jest. I'm pretty sure that man had his sense of humour surgically removed at birth."

I laughed out loud and dredged up a line I'd seen in an old comedy show. "I'm not jesting, and don't call me Shirley."

Greg's laughter joined mine, echoing down the hallway.

<><>​

Principal's Office, Winslow High

Carrie Blackwell looked down as her intercom buzzed. She glanced at the two suited people who sat on the guest chairs before her desk. Despite the fact that the chairs were lower-set than her own, they dominated the room. "I need to take this."

The male member of the pair gestured smoothly. "Go right ahead. We need to see how you conduct business, anyway."

That's what I'm afraid of. She pressed the button. "Yes?"

Her secretary's voice came through loud and clear. "I have Taylor Hebert here. She says she has a complaint to report to you."

Carrie's eyes widened. She didn't miss the two people leaning forward, their interest suddenly heightened. What she wanted to do was send the Hebert girl away until later, but these days she rarely got what she wanted. "Send her in."

"Yes, ma'am."

A moment later, the door opened and Taylor Hebert stepped into her office. Immediately, Carrie ran her eye over the girl, trying to figure out what was occasioning the complaint. Her clothes were clean and tidy, her hair neatly brushed, and the scrape on her cheekbone was more than a day old.

"Miss Hebert." Carrie saw the girl's eyes stray toward the two suited people, and did her best to regain her attention. "What appears to be the problem?"

"My email account." The girl took a sheet of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. When she slid it over the desk, Carrie's eyebrows rose at the insults being offered toward Taylor. Some of them were both disgusting and inventive, all at the same time. "It seems some people haven't gotten the message, or think throwaway email accounts make them anonymous enough to keep attacking me." Her gaze, when Carrie looked at her face, was forthright and steady. "This is just a small sample."

"I see." And Carrie did see. Oh, for fuck's sake. How hard is it to stop bullying one teenage girl? "I will have this dealt with as soon as possible."

"Thank you." To her credit, Taylor Hebert didn't show any overt signs of skepticism at Carrie's statement. "I appreciate it." Turning, she left the office. The damning sheet of paper lay in the middle of the desk.

Following the click of the door latch engaging, the suited woman stood up. "May I see that?"

Though worded as a request, it was anything but, and Carrie knew it. She handed the sheet over to the representative from the school board, and watched as the pair of them discussed it in low tones. Somehow, she knew, she would get the blame for this too, even though she was trying to stop the bullying once and for all.

It was just the way her luck was going at the moment.

<><>​

Taylor

Greg, who'd been waiting in the outer office, exited with me. I waited until the door closed behind us both and we were a ways down the corridor before I spoke again. "Think she'll do something about it?"

"I can almost guarantee it." Greg spoke with the confidence of newfound experience. "Right now, after the Emma and Sophia shit-show, she'll be off balance. If you keep pushing, she'll have no choice but to do her job, especially when you have actual evidence to back you up."

"And of course it helps that there's nobody to give her an excuse to sweep it under the carpet. Emma's facing legal charges, and Sophia's … well, where Sophia is." I had to be careful about what I said in public, but Greg and I both knew what I meant. Especially since he'd helped put her there. Two-Gun Kid, hah.

"Yup." He'd definitely caught the inference, from the pleased look on his face. "So, lunch now?"

"Lunch sounds good."

We'd started eating lunch together in the cafeteria after the locker incident; I'd bought his lunch the first time around as a thank you, and now we just bought our own and sat at the same table. It was friendly and companionable and we got to talk about our respective days at Medhall, and what we expected to be doing next. The best thing was, wonder of wonders, without Emma and Sophia to stir people up (and with Blackwell's strictures from on high) people didn't actually bother us.

I gave Greg my money and he went through the lunch line while I snagged a table and sat down. He was familiar enough with my preferences by now that I knew I'd like whatever he got me. Sure enough, he came back with a pita wrap, a banana and a cranberry juice.

Julia was across the room, eating with Madison and the others, and I knew they'd seen us. But these days it seemed a teacher was always wandering through the cafeteria, so she didn't have the chance to bring them over en masse and start anything. Besides, if she did? I was about done with rolling over for that shit, and I knew Greg was too. We wouldn't start anything, but we sure as hell wouldn't back down either.

Just as we were about to get up and head off—the bell would be ringing shortly, and I had Art class to go to—a few guys came past our table, laughing and joking with each other. I tensed, but it didn't look like they were part of Julia's crew. One of them brushed past our table, which I thought nothing of until I spotted the folded note that had been dropped on Greg's tray.

"What the hell's that about?" I asked, turning my head to look at them. They were all pretending the brush-pass had never happened, joining up with some buddies of theirs and heading out of the cafeteria. Not one of them looked back.

"I dunno." Greg picked up the note and unfolded it under the table. Curious, I leaned over and looked for myself.

Veder, Hebert, you seem to be strong, right-thinking people. Are you interested in joining a club where you can meet other people like you, who can see what's wrong in the world and are interested in fixing it? Call this number if you are.

I met Greg's eyes; he looked as confused as I felt. "What the fuck?" he asked. "Did we just get asked out of the blue if we want to join the Illuminati or some shit?"

"Search me." I held out my hand for the note and turned it over a few times. The writing was the only thing on it. "I didn't even know Winslow had clubs. I mean, apart from the sports teams." I'd heard there'd been a photography club up until a just few years ago, until someone stole all the cameras.

"So, a secret society then." Greg rolled his eyes sarcastically. "Oooh. Spoooky. Mysteeerious."

I had to chuckle at that. "Definitely pretentious as fuck. Are you gonna call the number?"

He shrugged. "Not all that interested, to be honest. I've got school work and Medhall stuff, and this just sounds pointless to me. High schoolers sitting around making big plans about how they're gonna fix things once they're old enough to do anything about it? Pass."

"Yeah, me too." I frowned, thinking back. "Weird thing is, they didn't look all that nerdy to me. I mean, did they have the vibe of someone who'd be into that sort of thing?"

Greg hunched one shoulder in a half-shrug. "Not … really? I guess? I mean, I used to be a total dweeb. We both know it. Back then, I would've jumped into something like this feet-first, and honestly believed I was making a difference in the world even while everyone else made fun of me. But you're right. Those guys didn't look like that."

"Oh, well." I got up from the table. "Takes all kinds to make a secret society, am I right?"

"Guess so." Greg stood up as well. "See you when I see you."

"See you then." We headed off toward our respective lockers, to get our books for the next class.

School went on.

<><>​

Later
Hebert Household

I had the ironing board out, making sure my work blouse was crease-free for tomorrow, when Dad came in the back door. "Hey, Taylor," he called out. "Did you have a good day?"

"Better than yesterday, that's for sure." I put down the iron and headed into the kitchen to give him a hug. "Greg and me got ninety-seven percent on that assignment. How cool is that?"

"That's pretty damn good, yes." He hugged me back, then ruffled my hair playfully. "So how's the boyfriend?"

"Da-ad!" I squawked, scandalised. "Greg's my friend, and he's a boy, but he's not my boyfriend. He's just … you know … Greg."

"Oh, sorry, my bad." He seemed far more amused at the error than he should've been. "It's just that you two hang around a lot together, and you talk about him all the time. Honest mistake."

I rolled my eyes in the best teenage-prescribed manner. "Seriously. I'm allowed to have a friend who's a boy without him being my boyfriend. Sheesh."

"Never said you weren't." Dad was barely hiding a smirk now. Parents sucked. "So how's the not-boyfriend, anyway?"

"Oh, he's fine. He's a lot less of a doofus than he used to be back before we started working at Medhall, which is totally a good thing." I tilted my head, remembering. "Actually, funny thing. Someone dropped a note on the table when we were having lunch. An honest to goodness invitation for both of us to join a secret society. How weird's that?"

The smirk was replaced with a frown. "A secret society? In Winslow? That does sound strange. Did they say what they get up to in their secret society meetings? Smoke pot? Play Dungeons and Dragons? Smoke pot and then play Dungeons and Dragons?"

I gave him an irritated look. "No, it said something totally different. Where are you getting all that stuff from, anyway?"

He put his hands up placatingly. "Hey, your stodgy old dad might've done a few silly things in his youth. It was a fair question. But I hope you're not thinking of walking into this sort of thing blind."

"No, me and Greg weren't even going to call the number." One of the phrases cropped up in my mind, mainly because I'd been thinking over it. "Part of it said that me and Greg, uh, looked like strong, right-thinking people, and asked us if we wanted to join a club where we could learn how to fix what was wrong with the world, or something like that."

All humour dropped away from Dad's expression. "Did it actually say that? Right-thinking? Fix what's wrong with the world?"

I blinked. "Uh, yeah. That's basically what it said, yes. Why?"

He shook his head definitively. "Then you're doing the right thing by staying away from them. Far away. Don't talk to them, and most of all don't give them any reason to think you're interested."

"Dad, you're worrying me." I was understating the matter. His tone was deadly serious, and it was putting chills down my spine. "What is it? Who are these guys?"

He heaved a sigh. "I always worried that this day would come. That sort of phrasing is used by white supremacist groups, like the Empire Eighty-Eight. You and Greg have shown that you've got backbone, and you've both clashed with the Hess girl, so someone's decided to try to recruit you."

"Shit." If chills had been running down my spine before, now they were having a full-on track meet. "Someone thinks I should be a Nazi?"

"Not so much 'should be' as they'd like you to join because you did something they approve of." Dad spread his hands. "People like that interpret behaviour the way they want to see it."

I facepalmed. "So because Greg tackled Sophia after getting beat up by her, they think we hate black people?"

"Well, from the sounds of that note, they certainly hope you do." He shrugged. "The trick is to say 'thanks but no thanks' in a way that doesn't offend them."

"Gotcha." I took a deep breath. "Okay, right now I think I'll call Greg and let him know what's up. Then tomorrow at Winslow we'll just be oblivious." I swept my hand above my head. "All the hints—whee!"

"Yeah, that should work." Dad sounded hopeful, which was a good sign. "Give him my best, while you're at it."

"Sure thing." Feeling more certain about things, I went back into the living room. The last thing I wanted was to get mixed up with the largest gang in the city. Hell, if I had a total brain meltdown and joined, and Mr. Anders found out, I might end up losing my spot at Medhall. There was no way I wanted to risk that.

Picking up the phone, I dialled Greg's number. His mom answered, but that was okay. She was a sweet lady, who only wanted the best for Greg. "Hi, Mrs Veder. Yes, it's Taylor. Is Greg there, please?"

<><>​

Later That Night

As I lay in bed on the edge of sleep, my drowsy brain kicked up random snippets of things that I'd seen and heard through the day.

… Two-Gun Kid …

… why can't the Simurgh be a supervillain …

… Mysteeerious …

… how's the boyfriend …

That one jolted my mind a little, and I lay there turning it over in my head.

I hadn't pushed back so hard because I disliked Greg. In fact, I liked him just fine.

It was more the surprise factor. The idea of Greg being my boyfriend had simply never crossed my mind before.

Now that it had, I needed time to get used to the idea before I could think it over properly.

In any case, did Greg even see me as a romantic interest, or just as a friend?

If he was interested, surely he would've sent me a signal by now. Asked me out on a date, or given me flowers, or something.

My last thought, as I slid away into sleep, went along the lines of, At least I'd always know what he was thinking.

<><>​

Winslow
The Next Morning

When I got off the bus, Greg was waiting for me in the parking lot. "Hey, Taylor!"

"Oh, hey, Greg. How you doing this morning?" I went over and gave him a side-hug. The revelation about who the note was from had been somewhat of a shock to him.

"A bit better now that I've had time to sleep on it," he assured me. "I mean, what are they gonna do? Beat me up if I don't wanna join? Pfft, Bradley's gonna be teaching us how to handle ourselves, and I'll take anything he can hand out to us over what those jerks can do."

"Yeah, but don't raise your voice about it too much, okay?" I didn't think anyone was listening in, but I glanced around just to make sure. "All we've gotta do is pretend we've got no idea what they're talking about. And if they start talking about black people, just say something like, 'Oh, like my neighbour Ryan', or whatever. Once they get the idea that we've got no problems with minorities, they should give us up and start trying to recruit elsewhere."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea." He nodded seriously. "Your Dad's pretty smart. Where'd he learn about stuff like that?"

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, the Empire tries to get their hooks into the Dockworkers every now and again. Dad is beginning to think it's more of an initiation ritual for the enthusiastic new bloods than an actual serious attempt to infiltrate anymore. They show up with the spiel, and Dad politely tells them that the Dockworkers aren't interested."

"Huh. Yeah. I can just see that." Greg grimaced. "But you know, I was just thinking. Sophia … the way she was getting around attacking people, is it just me, or was she about the best recruiter for the Empire out there?"

The idea came as a bit of a shock, but the more I thought about it, the more it made a twisted kind of sense. "Actually, I hate to say it, but you're right. If I didn't have Medhall and you, and if one of those guys had come up to me and said they'd protect me from Sophia and all I had to do was show up at a meeting or two …" I paused, thinking it through. "Would I be a bad person if I said I'd be tempted?"

Greg put his arm around my shoulder, returning my side-hug from before. "You'll never be a bad person, Taylor. And we're never going to have to find the answer to that one, thank God."

"Yeah." I snuggled into the hug, finding it comfortable. "I like things the way they are right now, thank you very much."

He squeezed my shoulders. "Me, too."



End of Part Eleven

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Twelve: A New Player

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Wednesday
Taylor

"… so there we were, in that little kitchen area, yeah?" Greg gestured for emphasis as the bus rolled through the city on the way to Medhall. "They're going we can't hide in here, so I point at the maintenance door I'd left open. In there, I said."

Today, for the first time, we were each wearing our Medhall working clothes on the bus. In the absence of Emma and Sophia's particular brand of vitriol, we'd changed in the bathrooms just before walking out the door. He'd helped me tie the black armband on my sleeve, and I'd done the same for him.

Julia might have tried to stop us, but she didn't have Emma's network of tattletales to keep an eye on my every move. So we were gone before she ever realised I wasn't going to be in the cafeteria.

I nodded, visualising the scene. I knew the kitchenette well by now. The funny thing was, until I'd first heard about how Greg got there, I hadn't even thought about the maintenance access door. "What'd they say?"

Greg put such a profound look of disgust and distaste into his expression and voice, I had to giggle. "What's in there? Like I'd just asked them to go swimming in sewage or something."

Somehow, I wasn't surprised. "How'd you get them to go in there anyway?"

"Wasn't me." Greg shook his head. "Ms. Harcourt did that. She took one look at it and said it has the supreme advantage of not being out here. In there, ladies, immediately! … and you know, I coulda begged and pleaded all day and not moved them. She said it once, and they went in, meek as you please. Just in time, too. Sophia showed up just after Ms. Harcourt got in and closed the door."

"Yeah, she's pretty cool," I said. "Scary, but cool. I want to learn how to do that thing where she can glare at you even when her back's turned."

Greg snorted. "I just want to learn how to be able to say, do this and not have people look at me like I'm stupid and ask whyyyy?" For the last word, he tacked on the most obnoxious nasal whine I'd ever heard.

"Hahaha, yes," I agreed. "That would also be amazing to learn. So, what's it like back there in those maintenance spaces, anyway? You said one time it was like secret passages."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like a nerd. It's not actually that cool. Basically, it's unlit for the most part, but if you're supposed to be going in there you get a headlamp. They don't bother painting the walls, so it's raw brick or concrete or wood, and it's not nearly as wide as the corridors in the public areas." He waved his hand over his head. "Also, some of the spaces are a little bit low. You don't get elevators or even full-on staircases to go from floor to floor, just little cramped affairs or even ladders. And if it's been a while since the pest control guys have been through, you get spiders and spiderwebs, and the occasional rat. We're supposed to report rat droppings and stuff."

I nodded to show I was paying attention. "Wouldn't you get lost? I mean, you went from a set of bathrooms on one level to right next to Tracey's workspace on my level, all in a couple of minutes."

He chuckled hollowly. "Yeah, you can thank the guys for that. They deliberately got me lost in there a couple of times, then left me to wander aimlessly with the weakest light they had until I learned to find my way around. It wasn't fun at the time, but it did the job."

"Throwing you in at the deep end, huh?" I nudged his shoulder with mine sympathetically.

"Eh, I survived." He chuckled. "They were trying to spook me by telling horror stories about The Lost Intern, who went in there twenty years ago and was still wandering around trying to find his way out, subsisting on rats and spiders. For a while there, that felt like me. But now? I'm good."

"Yeah, nobody can argue with that." I grinned. "Especially not Sophia."

<><>​

PRT Building ENE
Holding Cells

Emily Piggot rarely came down this far into the building, and never without a good reason. She had far too much on her plate to go wandering at random through the building, and anyone she normally wanted to talk to got escorted to her office. But she was here this time because she wanted to be.

The guard put a key—an actual metal key—into the oversized lock and turned it all the way around twice, to the accompaniment of clicks and clacks within the mechanism. Finally, the lock opened, and the guard waved her through. Her escort—nobody came down here without an escort—followed her in.

She moved along the row until she saw Stalker, hunched on her bunk. The girl wasn't wearing the specialized cuffs Armsmaster had developed, mainly because the cell itself had been set up to contain her. There was enough electricity running through the walls, floor, ceiling and bars to fry a medium-sized cow.

"Miss Hess," she said curtly.

Sophia looked up. Her eyes were still inflamed by whatever the Veder kid had sprayed in her face, but at least she could still see. "What the fuck do you want, Piggy?" she sneered.

Her escort opened his mouth to say something, but Emily shook her head. Hess had so much shit hanging over her right now that disciplining her for something the other Wards almost certainly did on a daily basis wasn't the slightest bit fair or equitable. "Just here to pass on some news. Something I heard, earlier. I thought you might be interested. About the boy called Greg Veder."

"What, Veder died already?" Hess shook her head, a superior look on her face. "He got me but I got him too. Little shit shouldn't have fucked with me. None of them should've fucked with me."

It was too much. Emily laughed out loud, something she hadn't done in … years, maybe? Far too long, anyway. She finished up by chuckling and shaking her head. "Oh, no. Didn't you notice? He had an ironing board up against his chest. Your arrow only gave him a flesh wound. That whole little murder spree of yours only managed to kill one person." She showed her teeth. "And for that one, you are going down. But that's not even what I'm here for."

Hess looked confused. "But the woman in the car … it went over the cliff, didn't it?"

"Hung up on the edge," Piggot explained with relish. "Remember the girl called Taylor Hebert? According to Medhall, she volunteered to climb into that car with a rescue sling and got Ms. Grimshaw to safety, just before it went all the way over. And Grayson survived too, because Ms. Hebert kept her head and called security, and they got him to medical attention in time. She also reportedly figured out you were Shadow Stalker and had the security team pull back before I ever contacted Max Anders with that same information."

"Fucking Hebert," growled Hess. "Why couldn't she just lie down and die already?"

"Because as far as I can see, she's ten times the hero you'll ever be, even without powers," Emily said bluntly. "I've never even met the girl, but I'd offer her a spot interning for the PRT in a heartbeat if she ever chose to leave Medhall, and if we had such a position open. And that's still not what I'm here to tell you about."

Emily was momentarily glad that Hess' powers didn't extend to destructive eye-beams, from the glare the girl was throwing her way. "So what the fuck did you come down here to waste my time about?"

The moment was delicious. "Do you read the ParaHumans Online site?" Emily prompted gently.

"Yeah, so what? Did someone out me on it?" Hess leaned forward. "Because that's fifty kinds of bullshit if they did."

"No, no." Emily shook her head. "We've managed to keep that particular aspect out of the public eye. Your family's safe. No, it's one particular username you might be familiar with. Void Cowboy?"

"Yeah, what about him?" Hess shook her head dismissively. "He's a total loser and a waste of space. Comes up with ten times as many stupid ideas as anyone else."

Emily smiled; a rare expression for her, but this occasion demanded it. "You might know him better as Greg Veder. That's who took you down."

Finally, she'd managed to puncture the look of sneering superiority that Hess had managed to maintain almost all the way through the conversation. Hess' look of total shock and disgust made up for all the verbal barbs. "What the fuck? That can't be right! There's no fucking way!"

"I assure you, it's true." Emily turned away from the cell and started back down the corridor. "I learned about it first thing this morning. And that's what's all over PHO. How Void Cowboy took down Shadow Stalker. Assault is still laughing about it. So are the Wards." She paused and looked back to where Hess' face was pressed against the bars. "Everyone on the internet is laughing at you. Personally. Shadow Stalker is a joke."

As the guard let Emily back through the barred gate, Hess' screams of frustrated rage continued to echo along the corridor.

The ride back up in the elevator was … pleasant. Enjoyable, even.

Screw my life over? I'll return the favour in ways you can't even imagine.

She had very few pleasures in life, but it turned out schadenfreude was one of them.

<><>​

Taylor

The bus pulled up outside Medhall and we got off. Along with Greg, I stepped to the side to let the other passengers move along while I took a moment to look up at the building and heave a sigh of satisfaction. Winslow was a lot less unpleasant than it used to be, but there were still a lot of bad memories wherever I went in that place. Short of home itself, Medhall was where I could go to be … me.

"Ready to go and make the world a better place?" I asked Greg. The question was rhetorical; I already knew the answer.

"Hell yeah," he agreed enthusiastically, as predicted. "Let's—whoa!"

Later, security camera footage would show that the bunch of Merchants had been lurking around the far side of the bus shelter; as I went to walk across to the steps leading up to the main entrance of Medhall, they surged past us. Greg, with his backpack half over his shoulder, was pulled around off-balance when one of them grabbed it and yanked hard. Another snared my shoulder-bag and gave me a hard shove. I went staggering back as the bag came free of my arm, and the muggers started to run off.

They got all of three yards before they had to detour around a tall, muscular black guy who was coming the other direction. Dressed neatly in a button-down shirt and jeans, he was inches taller than me, with his hair in neat cornrows, but he couldn't have been more than seventeen or eighteen. Still, he had moves.

The one with Greg's backpack tried to jink to the left around the big guy but copped a clothesline to the neck for his trouble. His feet went out from under him and he landed on his back; meanwhile, Tall Dark and Handsome caught Greg's bag out of mid-air and tossed it to his other hand. Seeing this, the Merchant who'd grabbed my bag went to go to the right, cutting farther out around him. It didn't help much; swung like a club, the backpack extended the big guy's reach, slamming into the bag-snatcher's gut and putting him on the ground as well.

If they'd just accepted their losses and run off at this point, it would've all been fine from my point of view. But they'd apparently decided my bag and Greg's backpack were their property now, and that was that. Three of them crowded the ad hoc Good Samaritan, shouting and grabbing at the backpack, while one went to scoop up my bag from where it'd been dropped. All this had happened so fast, I was still recovering from being shoved, steadying myself against the side of the bus shelter.

The big guy demonstrated why it was a bad idea to get in close to him; he kicked one under the kneecap and elbowed another in the head, more or less in the same move. They both went down, one screaming obscenities while his fellow just crumpled like a rag doll. Mr T-D-H went to fend off the third one with his right hand while swinging Greg's backpack a second time at the one trying to grab my bag. The backpack collected with a solid thud, sending that guy over backward, but the other one flicked out a switchblade and slashed at him with it.

Too late, I saw the glint of silver. "Look out!" I called. The blade came around, parting the big guy's sleeve as he tried to pull back, and drawing red behind it. The guy with the knife moved in, swinging it aggressively.

Which was when Greg crash-tackled the knife-guy from behind. The big black guy stepped neatly out of the way and they both hit the ground hard. Greg had learned from his previous experience though; he got up fast and kicked the knife out of reach, while his opponent was still trying to catch his breath.

And that was when the guards came bolting out of Medhall, waving tasers and yelling at everyone to stay the hell where they were.

<><>​

A Few Minutes Later
Greg

"How's your arm?" asked Taylor of the guy—he'd introduced himself as Brian—who'd saved their bags. A couple of the medical staff from the clinic had come outside and patched his arm up. Stitches apparently weren't required, but the wound would need to be kept clean.

Fortunately, the security cameras in the lobby had captured the whole scene, and the guards were talking to the cops who'd shown up. One of the Merchants had made a run for it, but the others were all too stunned from the fight to get away. The officers had spoken to Greg and Taylor briefly, mainly to get their details in case more information was needed later.

Bradley, Greg knew, would also be interested in what had happened. Greg intended to give him chapter and verse. He hoped there'd be some sort of reward in it for Brian.

"It'll be fine," Brian said, moving his fingers carefully. "I'll just get out of your hair now."

"No, no, seriously, no." Taylor got that adorably stern look she used when she was putting her foot down. "Hey, Bradley!" She waved over the burly guard, who'd just exited the main doors.

"Taylor, Greg," Bradley acknowledged, moving to stand in front of them. "I'm Bradley Fieldmark, head of security. I didn't catch your name."

"Brian Laborn, sir." He was taller than Bradley by a couple of inches, but in muscle mass they seemed to be pretty even. It looked to Greg like they were each sizing the other up. The can I take him? glances were pretty obvious when a guy knew what to look for. Carefully, Brian shook Bradley's hand. "I don't want to cause any inconvenience."

"Inconvenience, hah!" Taylor forged onward. "Bradley, Brian here just stopped a bunch of lowlives from stealing our stuff right outside the building, and he got hurt doing it. Can we do something nice for him?"

Greg had seen Bradley impassive, and he'd seen him angry. But he'd never actually seen him amused before. An eyebrow raised, and one corner of Bradley's mouth crooked upward. "I'll see what Mr. Anders has to say about it," he finally said. "Just wait here a moment." Moving off, he took his phone out of his pocket.

"He'll say yes, you'll see," Greg said. "Mr. Anders is a great guy."

"Yeah," Taylor agreed. "And you saved our stuff. Thank you so much for that, by the way. Do you do martial arts? Because the way you kicked their asses was amazing."

Brian nodded reluctantly. "I, uh, started out with boxing, but I've done MMA for a couple of years, yeah." He looked from Taylor to Greg and back again. "Aren't you two a little young to be working here?"

"We're interns," Greg explained proudly. "Taylor there's basically been their fair-haired child since she uncovered some of Coil's moles in the building."

Taylor flushed. "Hey, that's not fair. You've done your bit too." She turned to Brian. "Greg here took on Shadow Stalker and knocked her out with a fire extinguisher when she went villain and invaded the building."

Brian stared at Greg. "You did what again now?"

"Oh, it's all over PHO by now," Greg said, ducking his head. "And someone leaked my online username, so everyone's melting down all over the place. People are actually, literally, calling for the PRT to enact Master/Stranger protocols on me, personally. Because apparently Void Cowboy couldn't get it right even if someone cut off my left hand."

"But … why did Shadow Stalker invade the Medhall building?" Brian couldn't seem to get his head around that part.

Greg met Taylor's eye, and she shook her head slightly. They both looked back at Brian. "Sorry, we're not actually allowed to say," Taylor told him.

"But let's just say it's linked to how Stalker's a spiteful, hateful psycho bitch," Greg added. "Unless you're a Stalker fan, in which case I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

Brian shook his head slowly. "Nope. I'm … well, I'm not exactly a fan of hers, either. The opposite, really. She, uh, she really hurt a friend of mine one time. Shot him with a broad-head arrow. Nearly killed him."

"That's what she shot Mr Grayson with," Taylor said with a nod. "And Greg, too. Though Greg came prepared."

"Ironing board," Greg said in answer to Brian's querying glance. "Best I could do at short notice."

"And your best is pretty good, these days," Bradley said, coming back over. "Mr Anders has approved a personal reward as a thank-you from Medhall, Mr Laborn. He's signing the forms right now. Taylor, Tracey called to say she's waiting on you, and to get your purse snatched on your own time."

"Oh, ha ha." Taylor grinned. "Thanks again, Brian. I'll see you around sometime. Later, Greg." She paused and turned to Bradley. "Hey, do you think you'd have an opening in security for someone like Brian? You saw how he cleaned those guys' clocks."

"I, uh, I don't think—" began Brian.

"Hey, yeah," Greg chimed in enthusiastically. "I mean, you were going to try to train me how to do security work when I got in a lucky fluke against Shadow Stalker. Brian here's way more qualified than I am."

Bradley rubbed his chin and looked at Taylor with his eyebrows raised. She didn't say anything more, but she looked as though she thought it was a great idea. "… give me your contact details," he said eventually. "I'll speak to Mr. Anders about it."

Taylor beamed as she headed for the front doors, bag slung over her shoulder, and Greg didn't blame her. It was turning out to be a good day.

<><>​

Grue
An Hour Later
The Undersiders' Base

Brian let himself in through the metal door, then locked it behind him. Several grocery bags dangled from his hand, but the dressing on his arm didn't hamper him too much as he climbed the spiral staircase. No dogs barked, so he figured Rachel was out.

"What happened?" Lisa called out before he even got to the top. "You're fifteen minutes later than usual."

"So he had a second chai latte extra pretentious with almond yak milk," Alec drawled over the sound of his latest first-person shooter. "No big. Unless it gives him gas like it did that one time."

Shaking his head, Brian entered the common area and dumped the bags on the table. Lisa spotted the dressing and her eyebrows raised. "You've been in a fight, Brian? That's not like you."

"Not really a fight. More like a scuffle." He collapsed on the sofa. "A bunch of Merchants decided to bag-snatch a pair of Medhall interns just when I was heading to my favourite coffee place. They went to run past me, and I chose not to let 'em. One of them got all blade-happy with me. I just got cut the once, then one of the interns tackled him. Skinny kid, too. Wouldn't have thought he had it in him."

"And Medhall patched you up themselves on the spot," guessed Lisa. "Well, I guess it saves you ruining another couch."

"I liked that couch," Alec said, right on cue.

Brian waved off the interruption. "But that's not the weirdest thing. It was just a couple of interns, right? Fifteen, sixteen? He was dressed like every maintenance worker I've ever seen, down to the boots. She had on some pretty sharp business wear. And just on their say-so, Max Anders himself had this couriered down to me." He pulled the now-unsealed envelope out of his pocket. "Also, I may just get a job offer, working security there."

Lisa took the envelope and read out the handwritten inscription on the side. "'To Mr Brian Laborn, in Deepest Appreciation'. Huh." Opening it, she fanned out the twenties she found inside along with the copy of the signed receipt, and whistled softly. "Damn," she muttered. "Five hundred bucks from the desk of Max Anders, just for saving a couple of interns from being mugged?"

Alec put his controller down. "What, really? We're in the wrong business. I'll be back soon." He made to get up from the couch.

"Don't even think about it," Brian said tiredly. "And that's not even the weirdest part. Has anyone been on PHO today?" Looking from Alec to Lisa, he knew immediately the answer was 'no'.

"Why?" asked Lisa suspiciously. "What have you done?"

Brian shook his head, the grin breaking out on his face again. He'd checked briefly on the way home, but he'd wanted to be comfortably situated on the couch in order to properly appreciate it. "Not me. You'll see."

"Now I really do want to see." Lisa took her laptop from the chair arm and opened the screen. She started clicking through the tabs, then blinked. "You're shitting me."

He had his phone out by that time, scrolling through the same messages she was obviously finding. "I shit you not."

Alec paused his game and used the controller to call up PHO on his game screen. "Void Cowboy took down Shadow Stalker? I don't fucking believe it."

Brian's grin was now so wide he couldn't control it. "Believe it. I spoke to the kid himself. He's the one who tackled the Merchant off me. Nice guy, pretty well switched on. Name's Greg. Interns for Medhall."

Lisa wasn't talking anymore; instead, she was giggling as she clicked onto different threads and read them through at a glance. "Holy shit, it's real. It's really real."

Alec's voice was disbelieving. "The biggest fucking dork on the east coast took down the shadow bitch. And there's footage." A moment later, his face fell. "Aww, they blurred out her face."

"Secret identity shit." Lisa shook her head. "Doesn't matter. The PRT's not saying much about it, but what they are saying is very informative. Shadow Stalker just torched her last bridge, after loading it down with drums of napalm. She could've taken a dump in the middle of Piggot's desk and not gotten into this much trouble. This is bye-bye from Brockton Bay, and the hero scene, forever." Reaching over, she high-fived Brian without even looking.

"Oh shit, oh shit." Alec had actual glee in his voice now, for about the first time ever. "Someone put the takedown to music. They overlaid her face with a sad-face clown emoji." He set it to play on the big screen, and Brian leaned over to watch.

He lost count of how many times they played it back through, but when Rachel came back from her walk, she grumpily asked why they were still laughing.

<><>​

Taylor

The day was passing uneventfully. Because Tracey still had her arm in a sling, I was delegated to do anything that required more than a few lines of typing, while she handled the tasks that just required point-and-click. I was perfectly happy to help her out like that, and she mentioned a few times how pleased she was that I could actually type (unlike some people she'd seen in the office environment, who embodied the classic Hunt and Peck style).

Having finished one particular document and shot it back over to her, I got up, stretched, and left my desk to go make some more coffee. Tracey handed me her cup without even looking up, and I grinned as I went over to the sink and rinsed it out. Not a word had passed between us, and yet we were working like a well-oiled machine.

As the water was boiling, I wandered back to where she was working, then waited for a pause in her mouse-clicking. "Tracey … I was wondering if you could answer a question about Justin for me?"

Slowly, she looked around in my direction. We knew each other well enough that she was aware I'd never bring up his name without good reason, but I could still see the pain in her eyes and hear it in her voice. "What about him?"

I grimaced, realising far too late that this was probably going to sound stupid and self-serving. But I'd already brought him up. The damage was done. "That book he got for me and Greg for our class assignment … uh, who would he have gone to for that? Our teacher really wants to get in touch with them."

She blinked already red-rimmed eyes. "Book? Oh, that book." A frown crossed her face as she thought about it. "I think he might have said something about talking to Mr Grayson about it, but I'm not sure."

Mr Grayson, who was still on the critical list. Well, Gladly's gonna have to wait a little longer. "Thanks, I appreciate it." I turned to go back into the kitchenette.

"Wait." Her voice was almost pleading. I turned back, raising my eyes questioningly. "That book. He was really pleased about it. Like he'd played a huge practical joke on someone. Did it actually help you?"

"Help us?" I nodded firmly. "Everyone else in the class got seventies and eighties for their presentations. Greg and I got ninety-seven percent. We didn't just win; we blew them clear out of the water and into orbit. And all because of that book."

"Good." She nodded firmly. "I'm glad. And I think he'd be glad too. He thought a lot of you, you know? Especially after you discovered those moles."

"Thought a lot of me, or just of my coffee?" I asked with a smirk to show I was kidding.

Her grin was watery, but it was there. "A little bit of column A, a little bit of column B," she decided, waggling her good hand from side to side. She took a deep breath. "The funeral's next Saturday, if you wanted to attend. It's not mandatory, but we'd certainly appreciate the support. There'll be a wake afterward at the Augustus Country Club."

"Of course I'll attend," I said at once. "I'll tell Greg, too. He'll want to be there."

This time, her smile was a little less watery and a little more genuine. "That would be amazing, Taylor. And I'm sure he would. You're lucky to have a boyfriend like him."

I blinked. What was it with adults and assumptions? "Uh … Greg's not my boyfriend. I mean, we're friends, but not like that." At least, I don't think so?

"Oh, sorry. My bad." Her smile turned rueful. "I didn't mean to put my foot in it."

"No, no, it's okay." I rolled my eyes and chuckled. "Dad made the same mistake. Apparently, teenagers can't come over and study at each other's houses without magically ending up in a relationship with each other."

She nodded to acknowledge this. "Well, I'll just amend what I was saying to 'you're lucky to have a friend like Greg'. Better?"

"It's okay, and yeah, I know I'm lucky." The coffee machine burbled audibly, and I held up my hand. "Back in a sec."

"Go," she said with a genuine grin, and a flick of the fingers from her be-slinged arm. "Return with the speed of a thousand baristas!"

Giggling, I went.

<><>​

Greg

"Okay, kid, you ready?"

Greg took a deep breath and looked across the impromptu ring at Bradley. "Not really, but let's do this anyway."

The older man grinned briefly. "Good to see you're being realistic about this." He shook his arms out, still clad in his security-guard shirt. "You did good today, just like you did against Shadow Stalker, but you gotta know you were lucky both times. If you're gonna keep getting into situations like that, defending Taylor against assholes or even just fighting your own battles, skill lets you make your own luck."

That made a whole lot of sense. "Okay, so what do I do?"

Bradley tilted his head slightly, apparently thinking. "You've kinda got a knack for body checks, so let's start with that, and get you good with them before moving on to more complicated stuff."

Greg nodded, swallowing nervously. "So … you want me to try to knock you down?" His brain, entirely unbidden, started doing calculations about exactly how unlikely that was going to be.

He hadn't known his brain was capable of cackling madly in terror, and wished it would stop.

"Nah, not me. I'm the advanced class." Bradley stepped back, and one of the other security guards stepped forward. Greg had been introduced to Melody a little while ago, and had immediately decided he didn't want to get on her bad side, ever. She didn't talk much—well, she hadn't said anything to him at all—but a twitch of expression could go a long way toward covering that. "Go ahead. Knock her down."

Greg stared at the blonde security guard. "Oh, boy," he muttered, then raised his voice. "Okay, just saying, I'll be trying to keep my hands from going anywhere inappropriate." He had zero doubt that if she even suspected him of trying to grope her, his life expectancy would be dramatically shortened.

In reply, she pulled the classic move of extending her arm and making a come-at-me gesture. Her eyes bored into his.

Well, shit, he thought. This is not going to end well.

He charged.

Two minutes later, as he stared up at the ceiling for the fifth time, he wished he could be this correct when it came to his exams.

<><>​

Taylor
Later

I stepped out of the elevator and into the Medhall lobby at just after three, a spring in my step. Tracey and I had gotten past the mention of Justin with barely a sniffle, and I'd dived right back into taking written reports and typing them up, then correlating them with existing data.

Fully aware of the potential consequences to Medhall and to my own budding career as a paid intern if I missed anything important, I'd made sure not to just skim over the data as I entered it. As such, any time I found any outliers, I made sure to check with Tracey about it. This resulted in a few queries being sent up the line to be double-checked. I'd expressed concern about wasting people's time, but Tracey had shaken her head. "Given your previous performance, they'd rather we raised half a dozen false alarms than skip over something that's real."

My fears allayed, I'd gone back to it, and gotten all the way to the end of my working day without any alarms going off or other untoward event. (Crazed ex-Wards attacking the building were the exception rather than the rule, Tracey assured me. I had yet to be convinced.)

"Hey, Taylor." Greg came limping over to meet me. "You look happy."

"It's been a good day," I said, then looked him over. Nothing else seemed to be wrong with him except for the limp. "What happened? Did you fall badly when you tackled that guy?"

"Well, no," he admitted. "But Bradley said I could've done it better. So after two, he borrowed me from the maintenance crew, and him and a couple of the others started giving me lessons in how to really put someone on the ground. And the mat wasn't exactly soft. So yeah, I got a few more bruises." Ruefully, he rubbed his butt.

"Aww, I wish I could've been there," I said immediately. "I want to learn how to kick ass too."

He rolled his eyes as we headed for the exit. "Well, I mainly got my ass kicked but yeah, I can see where I was going wrong before. They showed me how to do body checks, basic throws and locks. Really simple stuff, but it works like a charm if you do it right."

"That's really cool." I jabbed him gently with my elbow. "What's not cool is how you got to do that stuff while I was doing boring office work."

He ducked aside from the prod. "Okay, okay. I'll tell Bradley you want in on it, too. Maybe we can make a time on the weekend, after work, so he can teach us both."

I nodded. "We can bring our folks along to meet him and the others. I know Dad would probably like to meet him. He got along with Justin and Tracey." I blinked as I recalled what she'd told me. "Oh, uh, talking about the weekend, Justin's funeral is on Saturday. Can you make it?"

"Sure." Greg nodded. "I didn't know him all that well, but he was a pretty cool guy."

"Good." I grabbed his hand and squeezed it, then let go as the bus pulled up and we got on board. We settled into our seats—he let me have the window, as always—and I looked out at the imposing building we'd just left. "I'm glad you're the one who's interning at Medhall with me, and not someone else."

"Yeah, me too." He chuckled. "Can you imagine Emma trying to do the work you're doing?"

"Oh, god." I rolled my eyes as the bus started off. "I was sorting out files that had bugs in them. Real live ones. The first time one ran over her hand, she would've screamed so loud, Mr Anders would've thought the fire alarm had gone off. And all the typing I was doing today? Have you seen how proud she is of her nails?"

"Yeah." Greg shook his head. "Every time I saw her in class, she was getting someone else to do her work for her." His grin widened. "If she was learning maintenance … wow. That attitude would've made her no friends at all."

I pursed my lips thoughtfully. "I don't think she ever had friends, not since me. Just people it was advantageous for her to talk to, and people who thought they owed her loyalty. Not anyone who liked her for her."

Greg snorted. "Is there really a 'her' there anymore?"

"I have no idea, and I don't really care." I smirked. "But wherever the cops have got her, I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to be there right now."

"Damn right."

<><>​

The Barnes Household
Alan Barnes

"Da-ad," whined Emma, wandering out into the living room. "Can I go to the mall for an hour?"

Her father turned to look at her. "No." That one word was cold and harsh. "When I say you're grounded, young lady, I mean you're grounded. You've already been expelled from Winslow, and Immaculata has refused to accept you on the very reasonable grounds that you're facing an upcoming criminal trial. The police have accepted my word that you're not going to run off somewhere. I'm not going to take the risk of you wandering about and adding to the number of lawsuits already hanging over my head."

"But I'm bored."

"Which makes me even less likely to let you go out," he snapped back. "If you'd chosen to alleviate your boredom by doing literally anything else other than bully your previous best friend, we wouldn't be in this mess. Go and read a book or something."

"Reading's stupid. I want to go and see my friends."

Yes, your friends. Who at least enabled you, and probably encouraged you, in tormenting Taylor. Not on my watch.

He drew a deep breath and let it out, trying for a reasonable tone. "You have a TV in your room. Go and watch that."

"There's nothing good on." She punctuated her words by stamping her foot on the carpet. Once, it might have been cute. Right now, it didn't serve to alleviate his mood much, or at all.

"Then go online." He huffed in irritation. "I thought teenagers were supposed to be the Internet Generation. Feel free to window-shop at online outlets but remember, I'll stop any purchase you don't run past me first." He hadn't destroyed her credit card—yet—but he'd arranged matters so any purchase popped up on his phone for him to okay first.

"Fine." She flounced upstairs, a good trick for someone wearing T-shirt and jeans. He heard her bedroom door open, then slam shut again.

One thing he knew she wouldn't do was sneak out her bedroom window. While it was designed to be easily opened in case of a fire, he'd arranged for a very loud fire alarm to be set up on all the upstairs windows, that triggered if they were opened more than four inches. She'd tested it exactly once; the ringing in his ears had taken an hour to go away, and he hadn't even been in the room at the time.

Sighing to himself, he settled down to re-read the letter from his firm. When stripped of the legal verbiage, it stated that his role in Shadow Stalker becoming a Ward in the first place did not reflect well on their good name, and that if he quietly resigned there wouldn't need to be any kind of unpleasant scene about it. In terms of aggravating his ulcers—he'd only had one before all this blew up, but now they were breeding—this came in right behind the other letter from the Bar, requesting that he show cause to retain his position as a lawyer in good standing, considering that very same character reference.

"What the fuck?" Emma's outraged squawk easily reached his ears through the thickness of her door and the distance between them. "Greg beat Sophia? Void Cowboy beat Sophia?"

His ulcers chose that moment to flare up, and he reached for the bottle of antacid.

I don't even want to know.

<><>​

Hookwolf

"So, what about the kid who stopped those bag-snatchers?" asked Max idly, holding his glass up to the light and swirling the ice gently. "I know he's black, but I don't like making an outlay without the chance of getting a return on it. Think he could work out? Maybe on the front desk?"

Bradley frowned. Laborn had definitely been husky enough, and the kid had solid training behind him. Taking on a bunch of degenerate lowlives just to save the property of two people he'd never met before, that was something Bradley could understand, intellectually at least. In his old cage-fighting days, it would've been called a 'face' move. And smacking that one guy around with the backpack … yeah, that showed style.

But Max had put his finger on the problem. Laborn was black. While Bradley didn't have as much of an issue with that as he would've if the kid had been a rag-head or some other type of Middle Easterner, it was definitely a thing. Still … "Didn't you say the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission was giving you flack for not showing enough diversity or some bullshit like that?"

"Yes, they're sniffing around us again." Max grimaced, then took a sip of his drink. "We've never been able to hire an Asian in any capacity without them either being an ABB mole from the beginning, or being pressured into being one by them after the fact. If we're going to fly under the radar, we need to have someone visible on board who we can point at and say, 'See? We hire minorities too!' Not just someone whose great-grandfather might've been black. Whoever they send to check us out needs to be able to know it without us telling them."

Bradley slugged back about half of his own drink, then fixed Max with a steady gaze. "So if I'm understanding you right, you want me to actually hire this guy?" This black guy, he didn't have to say out loud. "There's going to be some places in the building he just won't be able to go. And some of the others might get seriously pissy about it. You do realise this."

"It'll take a lot of outside pressure off us," Max pointed out. "I'll square it with the rest of the team. If you keep him on the front desk, maybe walking the floor where he's visible, the EEOC'll back off and go find someone else to make misery for. Of course, we're going to need a solid background check first, just in case. And if he fails that, you don't hire him."

Bradley shook his head. The things we do for the Hebert kid.

"Oh, and by the way." Max finished his glass and put it down. "Harcourt said Grimshaw and Hebert were sending reports of discrepancies back most of the afternoon. Most of them were fine, but there were a few hiding in the pack that aren't so fine. Not sure what's going on there, but it could be someone's got sticky fingers. I've got people looking into it."

"Huh." Bradley shook his head again, this time in admiration. "She's definitely got a nose for that sort of thing."

Max nodded. "She certainly does."



End of Part Twelve

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Thirteen: Ongoing Developments

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]
[A/N 2: Racial slurs and attitudes appear in this fic. You have been warned.]


PRT ENE HQ
Brockton Bay
Thursday Morning

Gillian Hapworth, Youth Guard representative, strode out of the elevator and down the corridor like she owned the building. She loved confronting the PRT and Protectorate about their misdeeds; the look of panic on the faces of the bureaucrats when she lowered the boom was something she lived for. And from the rumours she'd been hearing about Brockton Bay, this visit was long overdue.

Barely giving her PRT escort a chance to get to the door in front of her—seriously, are they trying to intimidate me with those faceless helmets?—she swept into the office she'd been brought to. However, instead of the overweight figure of the Director, she was confronted with a gray-haired older man. The nameplate on his desk read DEPUTY DIRECTOR RENICK.

"Good morning—" he began, rising to his feet.

He didn't get any further than that. "What's going on here?" demanded Gillian. "I've got an appointment with the Director." She wasn't going to let these power-hungry bureaucrats push her around, no sir!

"Correction," Renick said mildly. "You made an appointment with the office of the Director. She did not consider it more important than her other current duties, so I have been delegated to speak to you in her stead." He stepped around the desk and held out his hand. "I'm pleased to meet you, and I hope we can work this matter out to our mutual satisfaction."

She ignored the proffered olive branch. "I demand to speak to the Director immediately!"

Renick raised one eyebrow. "You may demand all you like, but the Director is currently busy, and will be so for the foreseeable future. Or you can speak to me right now; I still have fourteen minutes free before I need to attend to other matters."

Gillian pressed her lips together. Didn't he know who—or rather what—she was? By rights, he should be babbling apologies and moving heaven and earth to accede to her wishes. The Youth Guard was not an organisation to be lightly ignored. By the time she was finished here, they'd have a representative permanently installed in the building, perhaps even at this very desk!

"Perhaps you aren't aware of who I represent," she said, when glaring didn't work. "The Youth Guard—"

"Yes, I know," he said, cutting her off before she could get properly started. "Director Piggot briefed me comprehensively when she passed this one on to me. What I'm unaware of, because this was not specified when the appointment was made, is exactly which one of our Wards you're here to speak to me about. If you could fill in that blank, we might yet be able to have a mutually beneficial conversation. If not, then this is merely a fishing expedition, and I have explicit orders to cover that case as well. Specifically, it will involve me indicating the existence of the door behind you, and inviting you to leave the building until you have something concrete to bring to our attention." He raised an eyebrow, silently telegraphing that it was her move.

Fishing expedition? Fishing expedition? How dare he …?

Gillian could feel the righteous indignation building up within her. The Youth Guard did not embark on fishing expeditions. The very nerve of the man. Certainly, it was one of her favourite tactics to keep things vague and see what touched a nerve, but that wasn't anything so tawdry as a 'fishing expedition'. It was good, solid, common-sense negotiation.

Once more, he failed to crumble under her glare. Ostentatiously, he checked his watch. "As entertaining as this is," he said, "I am not actually being paid to stand here and attempt to guess your motives without any clues. So, if you're not actually going to speak to me—"

"Shadow Stalker!" she snapped. She was irritated that none of her other ploys had worked, so now she had to name names. Renick would pay dearly for this, she decided, and so would Piggot for snubbing her like this. "I'm here about Shadow Stalker."

"I'm aware of the person in question." Renick, Gillian decided, must play a masterclass hand of poker. His expression did not so much as flicker as he moved back around behind his desk, and took a seat. "What about her?"

She noticed that he didn't ask her to be seated also, but she took a chair anyway. "We got a report that she's being railroaded into leaving the Wards with racial motivations, and framed for a crime so that she's going straight into juvenile detention once she leaves here." Which was unconscionable. By the time she was finished, this PRT building would be a figurative smoking crater, and Shadow Stalker would be reinstated with all privileges intact.

To her distinct pleasure, she saw him frown and take off his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Really?" he murmured.

"Really," she confirmed acidly. "Now, I'm going to want to see—"

He held up his hand to stop her, then replaced his glasses on his face. "Let me see if I can guess at the sequence of events. First, you got the call from Shadow Stalker, yes? Then you didn't bother checking any of her wild allegations, or even going on social media to see if there's anything solid behind them. Instead, you booked the first flight to Brockton Bay, and called through to make the appointment with Director Piggot. That's how anxious you were to get here, and blow the lid off the whole thing. Am I close?"

She considered his words, then nodded. "Yes, that's essentially how it happened, but I take exception to the tone of your statement. Anyone can say anything on social media; it is an inherently unreliable source of information." Except when she found information that she could use on there; but of course, that was different.

"Indeed." He narrowed his eyes slightly, as though he'd picked up on the thread of her thoughts. "I, too, find that anyone can say anything on social media. But when many people are saying the same thing, it is usually worth looking into."

"Echo chambers are also a thing." It wasn't a sneer—she didn't sneer—but she did her best to express her distaste for his deflection. "So, do you have anything to excuse your execrable conduct in this matter?"

He didn't have anything concrete; that, she was sure of. She looked forward to dismantling his feeble excuses and transparent lies. Shadow Stalker was as good as reinstated.

Opening his desk drawer, Renick took out a single sheet of paper and wrote briefly on it, then slid it across the desk to her. "You are going to need to sign this before we go any further," he said almost nonchalantly, as though her presence didn't bother him.

She knew his attitude was a lie, so she drew the paper to her, eyeing it suspiciously. After a moment, she realised it was a standard government NDA form. Renick had filled in a few spots, indicating that the form would constrain her from revealing any incriminating information about the upcoming trial of Shadow Stalker to the public or prospective jurors. He'd even signed it, leaving an 'x' next to where she needed to append her own signature.

"What's this for?" she asked. "There's going to be no trial. We both know this."

He spread his hands. "In which case you should have no problem with signing it."

She tightened her lips. Logic was on his side, but she hated signing anything that might restrict her actions or activities as a member of Youth Guard. "And if I say no?"

"Then this interview is over." His tone was still bland; however, a glint in his eye told her that he would like nothing more than to kick her out of his office. She wouldn't even be able to complain about it; NDAs were exceedingly commonplace when it came to anything regarding superheroes.

"Fine." She snubbed the proffered pen and took one from her inner jacket pocket to sign it. As NDAs tended to be, it was remarkably short on detail about what this 'incriminating evidence' might be. Affidavits from her putative superiors? Please. She could dismantle those in her sleep.

"Thank you." He reclaimed the document and separated the layers, handing one to her. "Now, if you will bear with me just for one moment …" Taking his place in front of his computer once more, he focused on the screen and clicked the mouse a few times. In the corner of the office, his copy machine started humming as it printed something out.

"You don't really think this will stand, do you?" She had to say something; otherwise, the only noise in the office was sheet after sheet of paper being printed out. Those seemed like a lot of pages to make it seem like Shadow Stalker was a troublemaker.

Perhaps they'd gone the extra mile to make it seem they weren't being racist about it, and gotten statements from her supposed teammates at the same time. Children were so gullible. They could be convinced to say almost anything, given enough coaxing. She'd made use of that herself, more than once. For their own good, of course.

"Oh, I think it will stand quite well," Renick said in an irritatingly unconcerned tone. He didn't say any more, and the bzzzt-humm bzzzt-humm of the printer took over the office once more.

"Look, just what do you have against Shadow Stalker, anyway?" asked Gillian, trying to push for any kind of admission that they'd been unfair to the girl. Even the most innocent comments could be used for the right purpose.

"Nothing," Renick told her. "I encountered her from time to time in the course of my duties, but I wasn't the one who had a problem with her. Neither was anyone else at this level. She did that, all by herself."

Gillian frowned. What sort of an admission was that? Was he trying to imply she'd somehow self-harmed?

The printer's noise came to an end, and Renick got up to collect the sheets. The machine was one of the more sophisticated models, Gillian saw, given that it had sorted the sheets and even stapled them into sections.

"Once I give you the verbal run-down, I'll show you the supporting evidence. All to save time with he-said-she-said." He settled back in the chair. "When you're ready?"

She eyed the papers in his hand. "One moment. What's that?"

"The supporting evidence," he repeated; a little patronisingly, she felt. "You see, Shadow Stalker has been bullying one of her fellow high school students for more than a year. That student, a Ms. Hebert, recently began working as an unpaid intern at Medhall, one of our local corporations. Shadow Stalker apparently took offence to that, and made several attempts to dissuade her from attending her prescribed working hours. At one point, she made a false statement to the school authorities to force her to miss the bus, and when Ms. Hebert left the school anyway, she attempted to drag Ms. Hebert off the bus again. Ms. Hebert then pepper-sprayed her in self-defence. Are you with me so far?"

Gillian blinked, scrambling for verbal footing. "I … if that happened in her secret identity, it doesn't apply to her Wards membership."

Renick lowered his glasses and looked severely at her over them. "She still attacked Ms. Hebert with the specific intent of preventing her from performing worthwhile, career-improving extracurricular activities. In addition, she and two of her friends maliciously stole the work attire which Ms. Hebert purchased with a bonus she was given by the corporation. We know this for a fact, because one of those friends was still wearing some of the work attire when the authorities were eventually called in on this … the first time."

"The first time?" That didn't sound right to Gillian. "Is this all you have on her?"

He chuckled mirthlessly. "Hardly. Not long after, she attacked Ms. Hebert and another member of the internship program, a Mr. Veder, at school, with the help of her friends. She attempted to force Ms. Hebert into her own locker, and was going to empty the contents of a pepper spray canister in there before locking her in. I personally consider this to be attempted murder. We have audio of her discussing this with her friends, and video footage of her physically assaulting Mr. Veder when he attempted to save Ms. Hebert from them."

Gillian took a deep breath. "This … this is no more than high school hazing. Normal school discipline should handle it. It should not impact her Wards career, and certainly not mandate criminal charges. Attempted murder? Ludicrous."

Even in the face of her patent disbelief, Renick didn't so much as waver. "I'm not sure where you attended school, ma'am, but I would consider that to be far more than mere 'hazing'. However, that's nothing to what came next. You see, Mr. Veder had contacted Medhall before attempting to rescue Ms. Hebert. As luck would have it, Alexander Grayson, the head of the Medhall legal department, was already on the way to Winslow to speak to them about the previous incidents. He arrived just in time to record the assaults and prevent any further harm. When Shadow Stalker was taken to the principal's office and one of her cronies began to confess to everything, she physically attacked the other girl and injured the principal when she tried to interfere."

"Were you there?" Gillian shot back. At Renick's head-shake, she pounced. "So how do you know that this other girl wasn't merely trying to throw Shadow Stalker under the bus? This whole narrative is starting to sound remarkably fishy to me. You speak of these 'friends' doing things and implicating her by inference, but how do you even know she was there?"

"Because we have footage of her punching and kicking Mr. Veder, along with audio proving that he was trying to rescue Ms. Hebert from her," he replied imperturbably. "Also, independent witness statements from everyone in the office at the time. But we haven't gotten to the impressive part yet."

"'Proof' is a very slippery concept," she stated. "But continue." She needed the whole narrative laid out before she could dismantle it, after all.

Renick smiled slightly. "The police arrived, as did her PRT liaison. However, while they were being transported to the precinct house, Shadow Stalker used her powers to slip the cuffs and escape from the police car. We have tentative evidence that she may have been involved in a car crash on Captain's Hill, resulting in the death of one Medhall employee—with whom Ms. Hebert was friendly—and the injury of another. And we have actual hard evidence that she then invaded the Medhall building using her powers, then employed her signature weapon—using broadhead arrows—in a very definite murder attempt on both Mr. Grayson and Mr. Veder."

"It—it may not have been her." Gillian was determined not to give an inch. "Anyone could have acquired those crossbows, especially if a frame job was in the works. A lookalike—"

"She was subdued and knocked unconscious by Mr. Veder." Renick's voice was implacable. "The security camera footage is continuous. The Shadow Stalker taken into custody by the PRT is the same one who nearly murdered Mr. Grayson. Her fingerprints match the ones we have on file." He stood up behind his desk as his voice grew in volume. "Look at the evidence before you, madam! This is not a poor misunderstood child! She has maliciously and repeatedly flouted the rules and regulations placed upon her, and when she was finally called to account for it, she resorted to murder! And then, when we gave her a single unmonitored phone call, she called you and spun a ludicrous tale to get you to bail her out!" Seating himself once more, he appeared to regain his composure, then slid the papers over to her. "Read this. I've given you the overview; that is the truth of the matter."

Shaken by the story he had spun, she began to look through the pages. Every image, every phrase, chipped away at her remaining certainty. Shadow Stalker, roaming through an office building with a hand crossbow. Shadow Stalker, viciously assaulting a teenage boy. The notarised audio transcript, with Sophia Hess' name featuring prominently. Witness statements. Police reports. Photographs. All laid out in black and white, with not a single crack or crevice of doubt left to lever open.

A dozen different approaches occurred to her, but she knew they were all weak at best. Her training had emphasised the need to search out every possible avenue to beat the PRT at their own game, but this little fool had managed to close them all by herself. The PRT had both independent witnesses and physical evidence.

Shadow Stalker, she reluctantly decided, was a lost cause. But there was no point in broadcasting defeat. She would go out on a high note.

"After reviewing all the evidence," she announced as she stood, "I have decided that there are more deserving cases at the moment. But keep your files current; we will return if we see fit."

"Of course," he replied, so readily that she almost suspected he might be able to see through her bluff. "Have a pleasant day."

She would not; she knew that much. Ahead of her was a phone call where she would have to justify why she was pulling Youth Guard from the case, without violating the NDA.

Some days, life just wasn't fair.

Silently, she rose from the seat and headed for the door.

"Ms. Hapworth?" It was Renick, standing again.

"Yes?" She tried not to snarl the word. It would fail to impress him, and would not fit the image of the Youth Guard.

"When you're explaining this to your superiors, I suggest you make use of a phrase I've found handy from time to time." He paused for a beat. "She lied to me."

"Hmph." She opened the door and left. Still striding along, but there was no joy in it anymore for her.

After that humiliating episode, she sincerely hoped they threw the book at that little moron.

Whatever else happened, Shadow Stalker wasn't the Youth Guard's problem anymore.

And good riddance.

<><>​

Thursday Afternoon
Undersiders' Base
Tattletale

When Brian's phone rang, Lisa looked around with interest. She knew it wouldn't be the boss calling him (she was the only one who knew that aspect of their employment) and he rarely got calls from anyone apart from her or Alec. From the expression on his face as he answered, he was equally puzzled.

"Hello, Brian Laborn speaking," he said cautiously.

She couldn't hear enough of the voice on the other end to tell what they were saying without exerting her power, and she was already on the verge of a Thinker headache from hacking the PRT servers earlier. But from the way he sat up, she could tell it was important.

"Yes, I can certainly come in tomorrow." That was Brian's 'respectable citizen' voice. "What time should I be there by? Yes … yes, of course. Thank you, sir. Yes, I'll be there."

After a few more minor platitudes, he ended the call then sat there, staring at the phone. "Well, I'll be damned," he said at last.

Even without her powers active, Lisa could connect the dots when they were outlined in flashing neon. "You got the job at Medhall?"

"An interview and a tryout, at least," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "I never thought …"

"… that doing something good would actually get you something good back?" Lisa smirked and shook her head. "I will admit, that's pretty damn unusual, especially for Brockton Bay."

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," he muttered, then turned to face Lisa fully. "Is the boss even going to be okay with me having an outside job, if I get it?"

She frowned. That was a good point; his working hours had the potential to clash with his availability for the Undersiders. "Give me a second." Taking out her own phone, she dialled a specific number.

It only rang twice before the boss answered. "Yes?"

"Hi," she said briskly. "Due to a series of unlikely events, Grue may end up being employed as a security guard at the Medhall building. He's due in for his interview and tryout tomorrow morning. Is this likely to be a problem for our other operations, moving forward?"

There was a long pause, then Coil replied. "No. No problem. Let me know how he goes." The call ended.

Lisa blinked as she put her phone away. "Well, that was direct and to the point, even for him."

"Crap," said Brian with a frown. "He doesn't want me to do it, does he?"

"On the contrary, my dear Watson." Lisa gave him a full-wattage smug grin. "He says it's no problem and he wants to hear how you go with it."

"Well, shit." Brian rubbed the back of his head again. "Security guard? Should I even show up? I've got no qualifications."

"Incorrect." She shook her head, still grinning. "You're big and strong, you can think on your feet, and you can fight. If anything, you're overqualified. And don't forget the other aspect."

"Other aspect?" He tilted his head. "You've lost me."

She ticked off words on her fingers. "Respectable paying job. Just what you need when you're trying to get custody of someone, y'know?"

"Right." He blinked, his head coming up as he realised what she was talking about. "Right. Hell, yes!"

"That's the spirit." Lisa left him to his ruminations, and turned to her own thoughts.

Coil really wants an inside man in Medhall. Is there a reason, or is he just getting his fingers into all the pies he can?

Only time would tell.

<><>​

At the Same Time
Coil

Calvert put the phone down, a smile crossing his face (hidden under his mask, of course). He already had men inside Medhall, but only so many ex-military types could apply for work there before someone would start to wonder. Having one of his capes get a position purely because of chance and luck was an opportunity he didn't want to miss out on.

It was also a useful fallback, in case someone managed to stumble onto his other moles. Unlikely to happen, of course, but Calvert had learned long ago that 'never' was a really big word.

<><>​

Medhall Building
Early Friday Afternoon
Taylor

I jumped down the last few steps of the bus with Greg right behind me. This time, we kept an eye out for Merchant assholes, each of us covering the other's back. It wasn' something we'd spoken about. We just did it.

This hyperawareness got us up the steps and in through the front doors of the building, whereupon we both laughed and exchanged a high-five. "We made it," I said.

"At least until we leave this afternoon," Greg reminded me. "Hey, you want to go hang out someplace, after?"

I nodded without even thinking about it. "Yeah, sure. Sounds like fun."

We got up to the turnstiles and I swiped my card for entry before I realised there was a new face on the desk, one that I recognised. "Oh, hey. Uh … Brian, wasn't it?"

He looked up and frowned momentarily before his face lit up with a smile. "Yeah, hi, uh … Taylor? Sorry, I'm just learning how to do this, so I can't stop and talk."

"Sure, no problem. I know how that goes. See you around." I gave him a smile and wave and kept going.

Greg fell into step beside me. "That was the guy from the other day, right? He got the job, it looks like. Mega cool."

"Yeah." I glanced back once, pleased. Brian had done Greg and me a huge favour, and gotten hurt in the process. It was nice that Medhall was willing to give him a chance like that. "So, where d'you want to go after work?"

The elevator doors dinged and opened, and we stepped inside. I hit the button for my floor, and he did the same for his. "Oh, uh, how about Fugly's?"

I considered that briefly. "Sure. But I am not trying the Challenger. That thing weighs as much as I do."

"Both of us put together," Greg amended. "Nope, not the Challenger. But their curly fries are amaze-balls."

"Yeah, I'll grant you that." The elevator stopped on his floor, and he stepped out. "See you then."

The doors closed on his "Bye!", and I proceeded upward again. This was looking like a good day, of which I seemed to be getting more and more, entirely in opposition to previous trends.

It was Friday, nothing of note had happened at Winslow (after the locker debacle and subsequent events, nobody dared do anything that might so much as resemble bullying, so I was treated with … entirely welcome peace and quiet). Greg and I hung out between classes, and we compared homework. We even ate in the cafeteria, and nobody did anything. The Empire guys who had left the note on our table had yet to come back about it. It seemed 'pretend it never happened' was a workable course of action.

Plus, Mr. Anders and Bradley had clearly decided to give Brian a chance, and why not? He was definitely competent at the whole 'kicking ass' part of security guarding. Although it had been their decision, I was still quietly proud of my part in it.

I was still smiling when I reached Tracey's desk. She looked up, and beamed at seeing me. "Hi, Taylor! At last, we can actually get some work done around here."

Going to her desk, I gave her a quick shoulder-hug. "It's good to see you, too. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged carefully; her arm was still in a sling, of course. "Well, every day is another step upward, I guess. But it's nice to have friends like you around to make my day brighter."

I rolled my eyes and grinned. "You're just saying that because I know how you like your coffee."

This time, she actually laughed out loud. "Well, that doesn't hurt in the slightest. And now that you mention it …"

I took the hint (any broader, and she could've landed jets on it) and her proffered cup, and went into the kitchenette. We bantered a little longer while I made the coffee, then I settled down at my desk to see what new tasks awaited me. Thankfully, it wasn't more piles of paperwork with bugs (eww) in them. Instead, I was apparently going to be looking over a whole bunch of expense accounts, to see if I could spot any irregularities.

While I was pretty sure I didn't have any formal training for this sort of thing, it seemed word of my little exploits had been getting around. Tracey informed me that apparently I was to be familiarised with all manner of Medhall's paperwork that I had the clearance to see, so that in future when they did have something they thought was hinky, I could be part of the team to check it over. Personally, I thought they were making far too much of a few minor lucky breaks, but what Mr. Anders wanted, Mr. Anders got.

And so, I brought up expense accounts. One after the other, studying them from all angles, seeing if I could figure how they ticked. I suspected that quite a lot of personal habits could be derived from the correct sort of analysis, but I also knew I wasn't anywhere near capable of knowing how to do that.

It wasn't the most exciting job in the world, but I had good company and I knew I was being helpful to Tracey (and Medhall) so I buckled down to earn my salary. Time passed, the clock ticked on, and I learned about expense accounts.

<><>​

Augustus Country Club
Saturday

The funeral for Justin had been … fitting. A lot of people from Medhall showed up, far more than I'd met up until that point. From Mr. Anders on down, they were all immaculately clad. Greg and I had done our best to emulate this; Tracey seemed to approve of the modest black dress I was wearing, and Greg somehow managed to be much neater and tidier than he had on the first day, despite wearing almost exactly the same outfit.

Some of them had looked puzzled when I placed a to-go coffee cup on the coffin before it was lowered into the grave, but a few quiet words from the people in the know had them nodding their heads. Mr. Anders made a stirring speech about friendship and brotherhood over the grave. While he didn't mention Greg or me by name, he made allusions to how I'd saved Tracey and Greg took down Sophia, which garnered us more approving nods.

Dad had taken the day off work, and once we got to the Country Club for the wake, he was greeted by more than a few Medhall staff. Apparently, he was well-known in certain circles for his efforts in keeping the Association up and running, not to mention gang-free. He seemed a little bemused to be recognised as "Taylor's father", until they regaled him with a few more stories of my supposed exploits.

"Whoa," murmured Greg as we strolled along the huge patio at the back of the Country Club. It was getting on to sunset, and the shadows of trees were cast wide across the enormous expanse of the golf course behind the club. "This place is amazing."

"I know, right?" I shook my head. "I think I've been here about once before, but that was when I was five or six. Mr. Barnes invited Mom and Dad along to some sort of party, and they couldn't get a sitter. I'm pretty sure I ate way too much ice cream, and threw up."

He snorted with amusement. "I bet I could've done something even more embarrassing, given half a chance."

I gave him an appraising glance. "Well, I will concede the possibility, but you've really come a long way since we started working for Medhall. I mean, would the old Greg have taken on Sophia Hess not once but twice? On purpose, I mean?"

He rolled his eyes. "If you will recall, I got my ass well and truly kicked, the first time around. That wasn't me taking her on, that was me throwing my sorry butt in the way of the whirlwind."

"Same result, in the end." I took his hand and squeezed it. "You held on long enough for the cavalry to come over the hill. Cavalry that you'd called in the first place. And the second time around, that was all you."

"I guess." He sounded uncomfortable, talking about himself like this. "You got to beat up Emma the first time, and you made the connection about Shadow Stalker the second time. You probably saved lives right there … well, you would have, if Director Piggot hadn't called it through herself."

"I didn't do anything special." Well, to me it wasn't. "Tracey just told me what she'd seen, and I put the pieces together."

"Which I understand is rather a specialty of yours." A new voice intruded on our conversation, and we turned to see a petite lady with mousy hair and a distinct pregnancy bulge. She wore a gray dress and black armband, the latter mimicking the ones Greg and I were wearing. A pudgy teenage boy about my age, or maybe a little younger, slouched along with her. "Hello, Ms. Hebert, Mr. Veder. Max has said nice things about both of you."

My head came up as I recognised her face. She'd been in the Who's Who of important people I'd be likely to encounter within Medhall, and I'd done my best to memorise the faces. "Hello, Mrs. Anders," I said, holding out my hand. "It's nice to meet you, though the circumstances could be a lot better."

To Greg's credit, he caught on very quickly, carefully shaking her hand as well and mumbling something polite. Mrs. Anders gave us each an appraising look, then nodded. "You're not wrong, there," she said sadly. "Justin was … a character."

"He certainly was," I agreed. "He even helped Greg and me out with a school project, just before … you know."

"Really?" She raised her eyebrows, apparently interested. "I hadn't heard that one."

So, Greg and I told her the story about the Book, and she nodded and smiled sadly. "Yes, that does sound like Justin." Looking past my shoulder, she raised her head slightly. "Oh, it appears I'm wanted elsewhere. It's been very nice to meet you." Apparently coming to a decision, she glanced back at the teenage boy. "Theo, would you like to talk to Taylor and Greg for the time being? That way, you don't have to listen to the boring adult chatter if you don't want to."

His shrug managed to neatly pass along the idea that he didn't care where he was left, but that talking to me and Greg was possibly not the worst idea in the world. If he really had to. Looking at Theo, I got the impression of someone with very few fucks left to give.

"Oh, good," she said with a beaming smile, probably having picked up about one-tenth of his body language. "I'll be around somewhere if you need me." With a last nod for Greg and me, she moved off again.

"Well, that was smoother than her usual." Theo had a slightly petulant way of talking which I suspected could become grating to the ear if he kept it up. For now, as he was clearly related to the boss in some way, I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

"What do you mean?" asked Greg, beating me by a second or so. "She seemed nice."

Theo shrugged again. "Sure, she's nice. She doesn't mean anything by it, but she's prepping so hard to be a mom once she has the baby that she isn't sure how to be a mom to me. Usually at things like this, she rescues me from my father, then dumps me with someone else once she realises she has no idea how to talk to me."

I blinked. Someone had their filters turned off today. "Sorry, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I'm Taylor Hebert and this is Greg Veder. We're interning at Medhall. You're Theo …?"

"Anders. My father is Max Anders." He squinted at me. "Are you gonna be telling him what we said? Because it doesn't matter if you do. Nothing I ever do is good enough for him anyway."

I caught a whiff of alcohol on his breath. "We're not gonna say anything, are we, Greg?"

On cue, Greg shook his head. "Nope. Not a word. I didn't hear a thing."

"Also on the topic of not hearing or seeing a thing … have you been drinking?" I peered closely at Theo. "Because if he catches you doing that, you're likely to get in a lot more trouble than if you just say stuff."

Not that I was totally comfortable with what he'd been saying. Mr. Anders had always come across as an understanding and generous boss … well, even if he had stolen my coffee, that one time. I understood that workplace interactions were different to home life, but it shouldn't be that different, should it? Maybe he was trying to get Theo to shape up with tough love, like they'd done with Greg?

"Doesn't matter." He made a throwaway gesture. "I didn't want to be here. Didn't get a choice. The servers know who my father is, so they gave me some booze before Kayden caught up with me."

And that explained the other thing that had been bothering me. Mrs. Anders had looked to be in her late twenties, far too young to have a teenage son. Referring to her by her first name was the final piece in the puzzle. "She's, uh, not his first wife, is she?" Saying she's not your real mom would be insensitive at best and horrifically crass at worst.

"Nope." He shook his head. "Mom got killed by a supervillain. One of the Teeth, I think. Back when I was just a baby."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said at once. I'd been older than that when Dad and I lost Mom, but it was never easy to lose someone you were close to.

"'s not a problem. I never really knew her, anyway. Just my father. And he's always trying to toughen me up so I can take over someday. When I'm ready." He didn't sound thrilled at the idea.

"Yeah, that would suck if you're not into it." Greg's tone was understanding. I silently agreed; while running a company like Medhall was probably second nature to someone with an outgoing personality like Mr. Anders, it would be hell for someone who didn't want to do that.

"I know, right?" Theo gestured for emphasis. "I don't want to do it, and he can't make me."

"Have you ever said that to his face?" I asked. "I mean, if he doesn't know, and he personally can't imagine not wanting to be in charge, he might not have ever considered that you don't actually want it."

He blinked slowly, as though he'd never looked at it that way before. "I … dunno if I ever have. I mean, just come out and said it like that. I just thought he knew, y'know?"

Greg and I shared a glance, then chuckled ruefully at the same time. "Trust me," Greg said. "You might think someone knows what you want, but unless they come right out and say it? Don't ever take that as given."

"Yeah," I agreed. "What he said. Though if I was you, I'd wait until you don't smell like you've been drinking, or your message will get totally lost in translation. You want him focusing on you, not what you've been doing."

Theo nodded. "Yeah, good point. Thanks." He wandered off across the patio, discontent evident in every line.

I waited until he was out of sight, then turned to Greg. "The perils of being the boss' son, I guess."

"Yeah, good point." He tilted his head slightly. "So, what's your dad think about you working at Medhall instead of at the Dockworkers?"

It was my turn to shrug. "He's fine with it. I mean, it's just an internship, and I am picking up valuable experience."

"True dat." He leaned on the rail and looked out at the golf course, now almost hidden in the gathering dusk. "In twenty years' time, can you see us down there, playing golf and hobnobbing with the rich and famous of Brockton Bay?"

I shuddered. "God, I hope not. I can't see the point in golf, can you?"

Greg chuckled. "I think the point is the exercise you get, not the actual part where you hit the ball."

Equally amused, I nodded. "You may have something there."

"Of course I've got something there." Greg turned to look back at me and tilted his head. "Hey, are you doing anything important tomorrow?"

I thought for a moment. "No, not really. Why? Did you want to come over?"

"Well, yeah, I could. Or we could go out somewhere. Window-shop at the mall, or go down to the Boardwalk. Whatever you want to do." His tone left the options open.

This was different, but it was a good kind of different. Friday afternoon was the first time we'd actually gone and hung out together, and it had been fun. The same sort of fun I'd had with Emma, years before, when we'd still been friends.

"Yeah," I agreed. "I'd like that."

<><>​

Medhall Building Front Desk
Monday Morning
Grue

"Okay, you know what you're doing?" Tarrant eyed Brian closely. He'd handled the induction and introductory training on Friday, and seemed tough but fair. Less standoffish than some of the other guards, anyway.

Brian was used to people not being totally comfortable in his presence. He was tall and muscular—and a guy, of course—and some people saw that as potentially threatening. Others reacted to the colour of his skin, some apparently not even realising that was what they were doing. He could've called people out on it, but in a town with an active neo-Nazi gang backed by capes, that was a potential recipe for disaster.

So, he did what minorities throughout history had learned to do; he kept his head down, didn't make waves, and worked at just surviving from day to day. Showing attitude at his new workplace on day one was the best way he knew to ensure there wouldn't be a day two. In any case, nobody had thrown any slurs or left nasty surprises in the locker he'd been assigned—both of which he'd heard of in other places—so he settled down to do his job and learn the unwritten customs.

There were always unwritten customs; things 'we always do' but sometimes didn't get communicated to the new guys until after they'd breached them. As a form of hazing, he supposed it was relatively harmless.

"I think so," he replied to Tarrant's question. He knew how to answer the phone, and what code represented what emergency—there was a handy cheat sheet anyway, just in case—and how to switch the security monitors from one camera to another.

"Good." Tarrant leaned back in his chair. "You're in charge. Let's see how you do."

Brian tried not to show his nervousness. He had no illusions of actually being in charge; if something serious came up, Tarrant would take over in a heartbeat. But it still felt like being thrown in at the deep end, which was probably the intention.

People entered and left the building, and Brian weathered the curious stares. He knew he was probably the youngest guard in the building, as well as a new face, so there were inevitably going to be some odd looks. But the only real way to prove he could do the job was to actually do the job, so that was what he did.

After about half an hour, after the foot traffic had died off, he began to relax very slightly. Nothing had come up that he'd actually screwed up with, though he'd stumbled a few times on phone calls and the like. At all times, he'd felt Tarrant's gaze on the back of his neck, but the older man never said a word.

"Well, you're doing okay so far," Tarrant decided. Getting up, he stretched briefly. "Gonna hit the head then grab a cup of joe. Want some?"

Brian thought quickly. He knew he had to be on the lookout for hazing and other 'get the new guy' pranks, and dosing his coffee with a mild laxative might just fall into that category. "Thanks anyway," he said with a slight shake of the head for emphasis. "I'm fine for now, though I might get one later."

"Suit yourself." Tarrant tapped his lapel mic with one finger. "Anything comes up, you call me, y'hear?"

"I hear you." Brian watched as Tarrant headed back into the building, then returned his attention to the desk. If he could maintain this job, it would be a solid plus toward his chances of getting (and keeping) sole custody of Aisha.

Flicking through the various cameras on the desk monitors, he determined that nothing untoward was happening. Settling back in his chair, he glanced around the (still empty) lobby, then out through the massive glass doors to the street outside.

Which was when he saw the girl being attacked by two guys.

"Oh, hell no," he murmured. Even though they were outside, he was pretty sure they were on the Medhall footprint, and thus they fell under his jurisdiction. Grabbing his lapel mic as he stood up, he spoke quickly. "This is Laborn, front desk! Girl being assaulted, outside! Going to assist!"

It would take too long to go around through the little doorway they used to get into the lobby, so he vaulted over the desk and hit the floor at a dead run. He made it across the lobby in record time; as he reached the doors, they whooshed open. "Hey!"

<><>​

Thirty Seconds Before
Rune

Tammi grinned as she stepped off the bus. She knew she'd catch some flak from Max about ditching the afternoon classes, but who needed history and physical education and stuff like that anyway? It was hella more fun to come over to Medhall and chill with her cousin down in the clinic until it was time to go out and about as the Empire Eighty-Eight.

Heading across the sidewalk toward the Medhall doors, she nearly ran into a pair of ABB baby gangers, about her age but wearing the red and green. She sneered at them as she passed by; if the government could just reach down and find a pair, and deport every one of those—

"Who the fuck you think you're looking at, bitch?" A hand grabbed her shoulder and spun her around.

Of course, it was the bigger of the two gooks. Some part of her advised caution. If she just said nothing and went inside—

Fuck that. I'm an American. I can look the way I want at whoever I fucking want. "Go back to your own fucking country, why don't you?"

"How?" asked the smaller one. "I'm from Kyushu."

Tammi grinned. "Then fucking learn to swim."

"Fuck you!" They came at her side by side.

Suddenly aware of her peril, she turned to bolt up the stairs to the doors but only got within a few steps of the top when her arm was grabbed. One of them pushed her over, and the other one kicked her in the ribs. He had a bad angle, but it still drove the air from her lungs.

"Get her bag!" yelled the first one. She felt one of them grab it and try to pull it off her back.

Fuck! No, no, no! Her Rune costume was in the backpack, as well as her school ID. If they got away with it, they could out her as an Empire member anytime they liked. She grabbed the straps and kicked out blindly. Her heel glanced off someone's leg, the grip on her bag loosened, and she scrambled desperately toward the doors.

"Get the bitch! Kick her head in!"

A hand tangled in her long blonde hair and dragged her back ... just as the doors opened anyway. Framed in the entry was a massive black guy, sending a spike of terror through Tammi; was he teaming up with the ABB to get her stuff?

"Hey!" shouted the black guy. He came forward like a Mack truck, swinging a massive fist. Tammi cringed, expecting to be beaten unconscious with one blow, but the fist whistled past her ear and impacted solidly with something behind her.

She was released then, to fall on her side. The black guy moved up, stepping over her, then snapped out a kick that caught the bigger Asian guy in the chest and sent him in a half-somersault back onto the sidewalk. His buddy was already there, sprawled back with a busted nosed that was adding a lot more red to his clothing.

Muttering the usual empty threats that punks did once they know they've had their asses kicked, the two assholes scraped themselves up off the concrete and staggered off. Tammi watched them go, then stared up at the big black guy, wondering if he was going to make a try for her backpack next.

"Are you alright, miss?" he asked, extending a hand downward to help her up. Dazed, she accepted it, while inside her head she ran in circles, gibbering to herself.

He saved me? What the fuck?



End of Part Thirteen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Fourteen: Moving Along

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: Be aware that this fic delves into the personal thoughts and motivations of white supremacists and people who are generally racist, and there may be racist slurs and points of view expressed from time to time. The author does not agree with any of these. You have been warned.]


Medhall Clinic
Rune

"Are you sure you're alright?" Diane Grayson, otherwise known as Othala, leaned in close to inspect Tammi's face. "From what I was told, you took a nasty spill out there."

"Pfft, I'm fine." Tammi waved her cousin away. "It was just a couple of bumps and bruises, and they're all good now." Although there was nobody else in the room, she carefully didn't mention Othala's ability to bestow regeneration. Max might be a boring adult, but his lectures on not talking about cape matters in her civilian identity made sense.

Also, being yelled at sucked balls.

"Okay, good." Diane nodded and let Tammi get up from the examination table. "So, I hear it was the new security guy who saved you. The, uh …" She paused questioningly.

"The black one, yeah." Tammi nodded. "When I first saw him, I thought for sure he was coming to help them, but then he just started kicking the living shit out of those two slant-eyed assholes like it was an Olympic event. I couldn't believe it. I still can't. Not really. I mean, what are you supposed to do when one of them does something like that? Pat them on the head and say, 'That's a good boy, here's a treat'?"

"What, security guards or black guys?" Diane grinned to show it was a joke. They both knew Tammi was talking about the blacks.

"Haha, yeah." Tammi snorted in amusement, because it was actually funny. "Is it true he only got the job because he helped out a couple of the interns?"

"Well, we've only got two interns, but yes." Diane nodded. "I'll introduce you, if you like. They're both around your age. Taylor's a real go-getter. She's managed to impress both Max and Ms Harcourt a few times, and she's the one who raised the alarm about Shadow Stalker being in the building the other day, then figured out that it was Shadow Stalker and warned Bradley and the others."

Tammi's eyes widened. She'd heard a little of this but she'd taken it with a large grain of salt. Ms Harcourt was the most formidable non-cape Tammi had ever personally met, and her force of will was such that the jury was still out on her having a Master power based around pure intimidation. And this 'Taylor' person had actually managed to impress her?

"Well, damn." Tammi was beginning to wonder if it would be a good idea to meet Taylor after all. Someone like that sounded like they had their life totally in order, and they knew exactly where they were going with it. Which wasn't to say Tammi didn't, but … sometimes she wondered a little. Would someone like that be even interested in hanging with someone like me?

"Yes, I'm kind of impressed with her too," Diane noted, taking totally the wrong message from Tammi's silence. "She's also the one who went into the car when Shadow Stalker murdered Justin, and got his girlfriend to safety."

"Okay, yeah, she sounds cool," Tammi said hastily. The image she was building in her mind was something like a teenage non-cape version of Alexandria; someone who didn't need powers to impress Max. Tammi hadn't even met her, and already she was feeling inadequate. "What about the other one?"

"Oh, Greg?" Diane smiled again. "He had a little bit of a rocky start, but he managed to get his act together in the end. Nice kid. Polite."

Okay, so it's nice to hear that only one of them's a superstar in the making. "Polite is good," agreed Tammi. "I like polite."

Diane nodded. "Yes. Ms Harcourt only had positive things to say about him after he saved her and some of the staff from Shadow Stalker. That was right before he captured Stalker himself."

Tammi's jaw dropped. "The fuck? How'd he pull that off?"

"With panache and flair, from what I hear." Diane raised an eyebrow, possibly in amusement at Tammi's astonishment. "Bradley says Greg's got enough promise that he's got Melody giving him close-quarters combat training."

"Well, damn." All that without powers? What am I doing wrong?

<><>​

Hookwolf

Max slid the beer across the desk to Brad, then leaned back in his chair and raised his glass slightly to look through it. "Well, it seems as though our new hire is turning out better than expected."

Popping the cap off the bottle expertly enough that it landed in the wastepaper basket, Brad chugged about half the contents of the bottle in one hit. He stifled the following burp more out of respect than anything else, then nodded. "Yeah. The Laborn kid's one of the good ones, alright. I thought he might be when he stepped up for young Taylor and Greg, but saving Tammi's ass just proves it as far as I can see. He's respectful, he's smart, he pays attention, he doesn't try to play the race card—" Brad shared a grin with Max over exactly how far that particular ploy would fly in Medhall, "—he's tough, and he can fight. Oh, and when I checked the security footage, he didn't even bother going around the desk. As soon as he saw Tammi was in trouble, he went over it."

"Hmm." Max took a drink from his glass as he seemed to mull that over. "It appears that Ms Hebert's instincts extend beyond analysing paperwork. If this is no fluke and her judgement where it comes to people is equally valid …" He let the notion hang in the air between them.

Brad took a drink from his beer. "The Veder kid," he said when he surfaced. "We were getting ready to cut him loose after his trial period, but she gave him a few pointers. Helped him straighten up and fly right. All we could see were his screwups."

"Whereas she could see deeper. She could see his real potential," Max agreed. "Thus, enabling everything that has followed, including the capture of Shadow Stalker on Medhall premises." He gazed beatifically at the ceiling. "The telephone conversation with Director Piggot was amazing."

Brad chuckled. "Not for her, I bet."

"No." Max's smile never dimmed. "And I imagine it didn't get any better when she had the inevitable conversation with the Chief Director. Personally, I'm astonished she still has her job."

"Fat bitch is better at tap-dancing than we thought," grunted Brad, finishing his beer off. "That, or she knows where a few bodies are buried."

"I strongly suspect that it's a little bit of column A, and a little bit of column B." Max opened the bar fridge and slid another beer across to Brad without so much as looking. "Were you aware that Tammi had her costume and school ID in her bag? If they'd succeeded in getting away with it, she would've been more or less automatically outed, putting most of the Empire in peril and drawing unwelcome attention to Medhall itself."

Brad froze with his thumb pressing against the lower edge of the bottlecap. A chill raced up and down his back as he realised how close they'd come to disaster. "Jesus fuck. No, I didn't. I was right there, and she didn't say word one to me about it. How'd you find out?"

"She let slip to Diane, who passed it on to me." Max sat forward, placing both elbows on the desk. "I understand you've been talking to Ms Hebert and Mr Veder about weekend self-defence training sessions? Go ahead with that, and sign Tammi up as well. Perhaps a few bruises will serve as a reminder."

"My goddamn pleasure." Brad popped the cap off the beer bottle, scoring another three-pointer into the wastepaper basket.

"In fact, while we're at it," Max added, "not just Tammi. I'll be sending Theo your way as well."

Brad raised his eyebrows. The boss' son was usually very much on the protected-species list. "What'd he do to piss you off?"

Max subsided back into his chair and closed his eyes. "I heard a whisper that he was drunk at the wake. Then this morning, he came to me and said to my face that he didn't want to take over Medhall when the time came, and he didn't want to be a part of the Empire Eighty-Eight at all, even if he did end up with powers."

From what little Brad knew of how that sort of thing worked, the last bit was almost certain to happen, given that the ungrateful little shit was third generation. As for the rest of it … that was another thing altogether. He let out a low whistle. "Well, fuck. I wonder who put that wild hair up his ass?"

Max grimaced and rolled the glass across his forehead. "Part of me wants to know so I can crucify whoever it was, and part of me doesn't care. The boy's got a duty to the Anders name, and it's about time he learned what that means."

"So have you thought about setting him up with a Herren girl around the right age?" Brad knew there was a slight risk talking about Theo's love life with his dad, but it seemed the obvious solution. "Once he's got a reason to want to stick around, he might see sense, you know?"

"No, for two reasons." Max raised two fingers in a parody of the victory salute. "One, when my son gets married, it'll be to a cape. Two, he's not interested. They're friendly to him, but he just ignores them."

"Well, shit." Brad could think of three explanations for this. First, maybe the little shit's balls just hadn't dropped yet. Late development was a thing. Second, maybe he was actively avoiding girls with Empire connections for fear it was a setup by his dad—not a totally unwarranted concern, Brad admitted privately. Or third, and least likely (and least palatable), it could be the kid was a swish. Which was something he was never going to suggest, even jokingly. Some things you just didn't say to the boss, no matter how good your working relationship was with him. "So what are you gonna do?"

"Not me," Max said, opening his eyes. "You and Melody. While you're teaching Ms Hebert and Mr Veder how to fight and giving Tammi her reminder to be more careful, you'll also be toughening up Theo and showing him that he can stand on his own two feet. If anyone can do that for him, it'll be the two of you."

"Sure, I can do that." Brad skinned his lips back from his teeth in what might've been mistaken for a smile in poor light. "But I bet Taylor and Greg are gonna pick it up faster than Tammi and Theo."

Max snorted and shook his head. "I believe they call that a 'sucker bet'. Mr Veder's got a head start, but Ms Hebert has determination in spades. They'll be focused and learning while Tammi and Theo are still complaining about being there at all." He snapped his fingers. "And see if Laborn is amenable to helping out as well. It'll give you a working baseline on how good that boy really is, and he'll be able to keep Ms Hebert and Mr Veder busy while you and Melody are giving our two the close and personal attention they'll almost certainly be needing."

Brad grinned. Max's idea meant at least one sparring session with Laborn, and it had been way too long since he'd gone at it with someone, no powers involved. This was gonna be fun.

While he was taking a drink from the fresh beer, a question occurred to him. "So, is this whole thing supposed to be about toughening up your kid, making sure Tammi never fucks up like that again, or so your favourite interns can kick ass when and if necessary?"

Max finished the glass and gave him a self-satisfied look. "I believe it's called killing three birds with one stone. Now, I'm sure I can trust you to break the news to Tammi as gently as you feel like."

Brad smirked. "I can definitely break it to her."

<><>​

Tuesday Morning
Winslow
Taylor

"Hey, Greg."

"Hey, Taylor."

I gave him a kiss on the cheek; it seemed the thing to do. Nobody around us made any comments, though we would've ignored them anyway if they had. In the absence of physical bullying, mere verbal harassment was basically nothing.

In any case, Greg's standing at Winslow seemed to have risen dramatically since the footage came out of him beating the snot out of Sophia. Not just among the guys we were pretty sure were Empire Eighty-Eight (and were still assiduously ignoring), but also with other people she'd snubbed and pushed aside along the way. I didn't care; he could be friendly with other people all he liked, but I was the one he ate lunch with.

Our friendship might not have been forged in fire and blood, but it was close enough. (I may have printed out a still of him clocking Sophia with the fire extinguisher, just to take out of my pocket and look at from time to time). We had each other's backs, and that was that.

"So, did they tell you the good news yet?" he asked. It was a measure of both how much he'd matured and how well I knew him that his excitement was abundantly clear to me, even though he wasn't hopping around like a terrier anxious to go walkies.

"Well, I've been told some good news," I said. "What've you been told?"

"Bradley got back to me on the training thing," he said. "Saturday afternoon at Medhall, you and me both, if you still want to come along. Him and Melody and Brian are going to be teaching us self defense, as well as Theo and that girl Brian rescued on the steps."

I'd heard about Brian's daredevil rescue, though I didn't know any details about the girl. "That's amazing," I said, and hugged him. "Thanks for putting in a good word for me."

"Oh, I didn't have to." He shrugged. "Bradley just asked me if I thought you wanted to be in on it, and I said I was pretty sure you did, but I'd ask anyway."

"Hell yes, I do," I agreed. "I wonder who the girl is, that she gets in on this too?"

"Oh, uh, she's someone's cousin, I think," he said, a little less assuredly. "Medhall's like one big family, only not dysfunctional. They all look out for each other."

"We all look out for each other," I corrected him. "We're Medhall too, remember?"

"Yeah, I know." He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "I have to keep reminding myself when I'm at Winslow, because it's so damn cool and I have trouble believing that this is us."

"Don't I know it," I sighed. "Medhall's the best damn thing that ever happened to us."

"So, what's your good news?" he asked. "Are we getting a limo to school or something?"

I snorted and elbowed him in the ribs; he was already chuckling at his own joke.

"Don't I wish. No, this is even better. Mr Grayson is awake and lucid. He'll be able to testify that Sophia shot him. They called last night and told me that he wants to thank both of us in person tomorrow when we come in."

"Damn." Greg looked suitably impressed. "The level of care in Medhall's clinic must be off the charts. So he's gonna make a full recovery?"

"Well, they were already saying that," I agreed, "but yeah, that's definitely what it looks like. I'm really pleased for him and his wife."

"That's who the girl's related to!" Greg snapped his fingers suddenly. "Mr Grayson's wife! She works in the infirmary sometimes. They're cousins or something. I, uh, got told and I forgot."

"That's okay," I said generously. He got things right ninety-nine percent of the time these days, so I was willing to forgive him a tiny lapse like that.

Well, to be honest, I'd be willing to forgive a lot more than that. Without the pressure on both of us from the Winslow pecking order, and after the maintenance crew had finished with him, he'd actually turned out to be someone it was a lot of fun to be around. Our Fugly's meet-up had been thoroughly enjoyable, and we'd walked along the beach afterward. I was actually looking forward to our next date.

… date?

My brain skidded to a halt with an entirely imaginary screeching sound. Equally imaginary smoke curled out my ears.

Am I dating Greg?

Are we a couple?

Is he my boyfriend?

Up until this point, I'd been getting along quite comfortably with the idea that Greg was just a good friend. A really good friend, sure, but not my boyfriend, anymore than I was his girlfriend. We were … just friends … who only went out with each other … and nobody else.

And when I'd seen him just now, I'd kissed him on the cheek because it felt perfectly natural.

Doing my best to restrain the mad flailing of my brain, I went back over the questions I'd just asked myself. For each one, the answer 'yes' seemed to be the most logical choice. Far more than 'no', anyway.

"Um … Taylor?" Greg peered at me with concern. "Are you okay? I think you're hyperventilating."

"I'm not sure," I said. "Greg … don't take this question the wrong way … but are we dating?"

He blinked, looking more than a little startled. "I … uh, I hadn't thought about it like that. Do … do you want us to be dating?"

"I'm not sure." I seemed to be saying that a lot. "I really like what we've got right now. Can we call it 'dating' without it being weird?"

"Yeah." He nodded in relief. "Yeah, we can. Absolutely. Non-weird dating. Totally a fan."

"Good." I looked up as the home-room bell went. "Oh, uh, that's us. See you in World Affairs?"

His sudden grin gave me the hint as to what he was going to say next. "It's a date."

I rolled my eyes. "Dork." But I said it fondly, and gave him another kiss on the cheek. That was what people who were dating did, right? Right. "See you then."

As I headed off down the corridor toward Mrs Knott's Computer Studies classroom I felt as though I was dancing on air. We're dating!

<><>​

A Few Hours Later
Winslow
Greg

"… and that concludes today's lesson." Mr Gladly looked up as the bell rang. "Don't forget; five hundred words tomorrow on the destabilising factors in the Colombia/Brazil skirmish."

"Shouldn't be too hard," Greg murmured to Taylor as they got up from their desks. "He more or less laid it out for us in detail." It was amazing how much easier this stuff was when he was actually paying attention.

"True," agreed Taylor. "If you want to go on ahead, I just need to talk to him for a second."

"I'm good. I can wait." As far as Greg was concerned, so long as people like Julia were around, Winslow was hostile territory. His job was to watch Taylor's back, just like she watched his. When she'd asked him if they were dating, it was like one of those weird magic eye puzzles had just fallen into focus. He totally understood what she'd meant when she said she liked things the way they were. So did he.

I'm the luckiest guy in Winslow.

Mr Gladly looked up as Taylor approached him. "Ah," he said. "You're here to reclaim the book?" To Greg's ear, he sounded a little disappointed.

"Yes, sir," Taylor confirmed. "We're still working out exactly who wrote it, so I'd be happier if I had my hands on it until then."

"Understood." Mr Gladly started rummaging around in his desk. "It would be a pity to see a masterpiece like this go unpublished, though."

Taylor nodded. "I know, and I'm going to be asking someone about that tomorrow. I can let you know on Thursday what the situation is. They may be okay with it, and they may not."

"That's fair." Mr Gladly chuckled wryly. "I've been trying to read through it and grasp the idea as a whole, but every time I hit a new level of the plan, I just have to give up and go back to the beginning. Whoever wrote it, I'd hate to play chess against them. Ah, there it is." Unearthing the Book, he handed it over to Taylor. "Thank you for the loan."

"You're welcome, sir." Taylor carefully tucked the Book away in her pack, then turned toward Greg. "What do you say we go and get some lunch?"

"That's fine with me." Greg led the way out of the classroom, then fell into step alongside Taylor as they headed for the cafeteria. "But I think I'll stick with what Mom packed for me. I still think the mystery meat waved at me last Thursday."

Taylor shuddered theatrically. "Yeah, I'll pass on that too. The biggest mystery about that stuff is how they get anyone to eat it."

"Haha, yeah, I—"

Greg broke off as half a dozen older students emerged from a side-corridor and blocked their way. There were four guys and two girls; from their manner, this was not an accidental meeting. While Greg was a little more buff than he'd been before he started the internship, he knew for a fact that any two of them could kick his ass with ease, despite the training he'd been getting from Bradley and Melody.

"Veder, Hebert," said the oldest guy, who looked old enough to be a senior. "We've been waiting to hear back from you about our offer. Kind of rude to ghost us like that, don't you think?"

"Offer?" asked Taylor. Greg knew her well enough to see through her façade of surprise as her eyes widened slightly behind her glasses. "Oh, that note was you guys. What was that all about, anyway? We couldn't figure it out and we don't like going into stuff blind."

"Wasn't it obvious?" The oldest kid began talking; from the sound of it, he was following a script in his head. "We're the only ones standing between Brockton Bay and the degenerates and filth that infest the gutters. The blacks, the Asians, the Hispanics and the rest of them. Hess was just the tip of the iceberg. You need the protection of the Empire Eighty-Eight, and we need people who can fight the good fight."

Greg knew a cue when he saw one. "Um, well, seeing how Sophia's been arrested and all, it looks like the problem's solved." Shrugging, he added, "Sorry, guys. No offense, but we're not interested."

"Well, you should be interested." The older kid moved forward and more or less loomed over Greg. "People like Hess are a menace who don't belong in polite society, but she's not the only one. Once the rest of her kind hear about what you've done, they're likely to be coming to take you down. It's a matter of safety in numbers."

Taylor stepped up alongside Greg, her jaw thrust out. "That's all well and good, but where was your 'safety in numbers' when Sophia was screwing me over on a daily basis?" It was the perfect answer to knock this guy off-script, and Greg could've kissed her for it. With her permission, of course.

While the hamster was still getting up to speed in the bigger kid's brain, Mr Gladly came around the corner. "Taylor," he said. "Greg. Are you alright?" The subtext was as clear as a bell: are you being bullied?

"We're fine," Taylor replied, heading toward the teacher. Greg followed, mainly because she had a firm grip on his hand. "Just having a little exchange of views. Nothing to be worried about."

"Good," Mr Gladly said, not without a certain amount of relief. "Principal Blackwell would hate to need the police called again for this sort of thing."

Whether he'd intended for this effect or not, the word 'police' did its job, and the would-be recruiters dispersed. Greg and Taylor watched them go, then Taylor turned to Mr Gladly. "Good timing, sir."

"I'm glad to hear it, but what exactly did I interrupt?" Mr Gladly looked down the corridor in the direction that they'd gone. "Were they trying to steal your lunch money or something?"

"Not exactly," Taylor said. "Let's just say … it was an overly enthusiastic attempt to recruit us into an after-school club. Of sorts."

Greg had to admire the way she'd worded it; she hadn't mentioned the Empire Eighty-Eight even once, but Gladly would easily be able to figure out what she wasn't saying. No snitching involved, and it gave him an out, so he didn't have to officially notice it.

The teacher's head came up at the same time as his eyes widened slightly. "Ah," he said. "Is this likely to become a problem?"

Greg translated that one easily enough, too. Do I have to tell Principal Blackwell that the Empire is trying to recruit you two?

"Not for me," Taylor said. "I'm going to be transferring to Arcadia just as soon as they can finish expediting the paperwork."

"And I'll be fine," Greg assured them. "If they start pushing too hard, I'll sic Bradley on them."

"Warn me first," Taylor said. "I'm going to want popcorn for that."

Mr Gladly tilted his head a little. "And 'Bradley' is …?"

"He works security at Medhall," Greg explained with some relish. "And the amount of crap he takes from anyone is slightly less than zero."

"He showed up to save me and Greg from Sophia and Emma and Madison that one time," Taylor added. "When Sophia started beating Madison up, he put her in time-out so fast her head was still spinning five minutes later. It was amazing. A bunch of uh, kids like that?" She snapped her fingers. "He wouldn't even break a sweat."

"I'll, uh, take your word for it." Mr Gladly was clearly in the loop about what had gone down in Blackwell's office. "If they keep bothering you, let me or one of the other teachers know, okay?"

Taylor's smirk was a little bitter, in Greg's opinion. Not that she was unjustified; the only reason that Winslow was bending over backward so hard to help them out now was that they'd been caught so hard on the back foot by Bradley and Mr Grayson. They were absolutely going to be smashed big-time by the legal penalties, but they knew it could get exponentially worse. Thus, the tap-dancing act.

"Sure," she said. "We'll do that."

"Good, good." Mr Gladly headed off in the general direction of the office, leaving Taylor and Greg to make their way toward the cafeteria.

Greg took a deep breath. "Well, that happened."

"It did." Taylor gave him a concerned look. "Are you sure you'll be okay here without me?"

He rolled his eyes. "You won't be here, so duh, no. I'm gonna want total deets on how you're going at Arcadia, by the way."

"Doofus." She elbowed him in the ribs. "I mean, with the Empire assholes."

"I'll be fine. So long as the PRT manages to keep hold of Sophia this time around, and she doesn't come to Winslow looking for me so I have to beat her unconscious with a folding chair or something …" He paused to draw breath, then looked up at the stained ceiling. "And no, that wasn't a challenge." His attention switched back to Taylor. "What I'm saying is that so long as I don't get their attention again, they'll lose interest in me soon enough."

"Well, I hope so." She slid her arm through his, and held it close. "I'm really getting used to having you around."

"Me too," he blurted, then stumbled over his own words. "Uh, I mean, it's really nice having you around, too."

"Good." She didn't let go of his arm. "So, what do you want to do Sunday?"

"Movie," he said decisively. "Or a nice quiet stroll along the Boardwalk. Because I can guarantee we're not going to be up to anything physically challenging after Bradley and Melody have finished with us on Saturday afternoon."

"Cool. Movie it is."

Together, they entered the cafeteria.

<><>​

That Afternoon
Medhall Building
Rune

Tammi stared at Bradley. "What?" She'd heard him perfectly well; she just didn't believe what he was saying.

He folded his arms and glowered at her. "You're going to be attending combat training. This weekend. No ducking out of it. Kaiser's orders."

"But … but why?" She knew why, alright. Othala snitched. But it was ever her way to try to beat punishment with feigned ignorance. It had worked more than once, too. If they didn't know everything you'd done, there was no sense in making their job easier by confessing.

His lip curled. "One, you ditched class. That sort of thing draws attention. We don't want you drawing attention. Two, you had your costume in the same bag as something that could've been used to identify you. If those pricks had gotten away with your bag, it would've been bad for everyone, not just you. And three, I watched the footage. You made the situation worse with no fucking backup. If you'd just kept your fucking mouth shut, none of this would've happened. You didn't, so now you get a combat training refresher."

"They were just chinks!" she burst out. "They were nothing! Why should I be polite to them?"

His hand lashed out and wrapped around her throat. "Protective camouflage," he growled. "When you're in costume, you can treat them any way you like. Drop cars on them, for all I care. But when you're out of costume, when you're Tammi, you've got to pretend to be the same as everyone else. I thought you already knew this, you stupid little cow."

She fought for breath, even though she knew he wasn't really squeezing hard yet. "Okay," she managed. "Got it. Polite."

"Good." He let her go, then paused, an evil grin spreading across his face. "Oh, and you know Laborn? The guard who rescued your sorry ass from your own stupid trouble?"

She nodded, even though she was still having trouble reconciling the idea of Medhall letting one of them work alongside everyone else like an equal. Bradley was right; he had pulled her ass out of the fire. But that didn't mean she had to like him, or even respect him. You didn't give a guard dog extra praise for just doing its job, after all. "What about him?"

"He's gonna be there, helping me and Melody do the training," Bradley told her, his tone full of sadistic relish. "So you gotta be as polite to him as you are to me and her. And when he gives you an order, you gotta do it."

Her response was automatic. "Like fuck I will!"

Pain exploded across the right side of her face as she was driven off her feet to the left. Face down on the floor, she felt the rush of blood in her ears. Leaning down, Bradley picked her up by her shirt front. This close to his face, she could see tiny blades poking out of his skin around his eye-sockets. "I didn't hear you right," he growled with infinite menace. "I'm pretty sure you just said you'd do what you're told. Didn't you?"

She shook her head to try to clear it. "Wait'll … wait'll I tell Kaiser you're making me do what a—"

He sneered in her face. "It was his fuckin' idea. So you'll do exactly what Laborn orders you to do, and maybe next time you won't nearly bring down the whole fuckin' Empire Eighty-Eight."

There was no way out of it. She had no doubt that Kaiser had given the order. It sounded exactly like one of the boss' bullshit head-game plays. Even if it wasn't, as the junior member of the Empire Eighty-Eight, she lacked any sort of seniority, and had to follow Hookwolf's orders anyway.

She slumped in defeat. "Okay, fine. But I can't believe you're actually making me do this."

He cuffed her again, much more lightly this time. "Suck it up. You made your mistake. Now do what you gotta do to make up for it, and we'll be done. Keep whining and shit will keep happening. Got it?"

This totally sucked huge donkey balls, but she didn't want to get hit again. "Got it."

<><>​

Wednesday Afternoon
Medhall Building
Taylor

I didn't know if it was just me, but the world seemed a brighter place as Greg and I crossed the sidewalk and climbed the steps to the front doors of Medhall. I held his hand until we got inside, where we let go by mutual silent agreement. We had to present a professional front, after all.

Admitting to ourselves that we were dating—that we were an item—had been like both the most obvious step in the world and the biggest, all at the same time. I'd never seriously expected to be dating someone who felt the same way about me as I did about them, and I was pretty sure Greg hadn't either. Until we'd started interning at Medhall, he'd barely even known how to talk to girls, much less relate to us. But once I took the time to give him a little coaching, he'd come a long way in a short time.

We weren't flaunting our newfound relationship in Winslow; even after taking down Shadow Stalker, Greg preferred to keep a low profile. Between girls who wanted to get to know Void Cowboy now that he was actually cool, and the Empire guys who wanted him as a recruit, it was easier for him just to keep his head down.

Diane Grayson was actually waiting in the lobby for us when we walked into Medhall. "Oh, good," she said. "You're here. Alex has been asking about you."

"I'm just happy he's going to recover," I said. "When I first saw him, with that arrow sticking out of his chest …" I shuddered. It had been a viscerally horrifying moment.

"Well, I'm just glad you did," Mrs Grayson said as we went through the security scans. The guards—Brian wasn't on at the moment—gave us nods of recognition as we headed on to the elevators. "Locking his office door saved both your lives, I think. Shadow Stalker was trying not to out herself, so she couldn't just ghost through it."

"She absolutely tried to kick it down," I agreed, recalling the damage she'd done to the outside. "It's a good thing he didn't cut costs with one of those cheap ones."

"Yeah," agreed Greg. "He doesn't strike me as someone who settles for second best." We stepped into the elevator, and Mrs Grayson hit the button for the clinic level.

"Well, no, he isn't," she said, a note of pride in her voice. "Of course, now that it's actually saved his life, he'll be insufferable to live with."

I put my hand on her arm briefly. "I'm just glad he's alive."

"That's true," she said; this time, her smile was less wan.

The elevator came to a halt and the doors opened, letting us out into a familiar corridor. This time, there was a distinct lack of armed guards and tense atmosphere. It was almost silent, with only a faint electronic cycling noise in the background.

With Mrs Grayson in the lead, we headed through the corridors to where her husband awaited in his bed. Despite the cords and tubes hooked up to him, he looked a lot more alive than he had last I'd seen him, and when he raised his eyes to where we were, his flashing grin took away a lot of my worries. "Taylor!" he said cheerfully. "Greg! I understand you two are the heroes of the hour, and deservedly so."

"Greg's the one who saved Ms Harcourt and beat up Sophia," I said, determined not to sound like I was trying to grab credit. "I just figured out what was going on and let Bradley know."

"Taylor, Taylor, Taylor," Mr Grayson chided me gently. "You do realise that one of the reasons we hold you in such high esteem is your ability to figure things out so readily, yes? But of course, I'm not in the least bit surprised it was Greg who ended up taking out the trash. Bullies like Sophia Hess tend to lack critical judgement skills, so they often get caught out by taking on more than they can handle."

"I guess," mumbled Greg. "Though I still don't know who got the photo of the hole in the ironing board and put it up on the wall in the break room."

"Oh, that reminds me," I said. "Mr Grayson, Mrs Grayson, have you seen the footage of Greg knocking Sophia out?"

Mrs Grayson nodded. "I have," she confirmed, giving Greg an approving look. "I was very impressed. You thought fast."

"Well, I haven't." Mr Grayson hitched himself a little higher in the bed, an exercise that caused a wince to cross his features. "Though I've been promised a showing on the big screen in Conference Room One as soon as I'm healthy enough to walk up there."

"Well, it's not the big screen, but here's a still I printed out," I said, digging into my back pocket.

Greg's eyes widened. "Taylor, you didn't."

I raised one eyebrow at him as I handed the folded piece of paper to Mr Grayson. "Nobody said I couldn't. And I like to look at it when you're not around."

Mr Grayson unfolded it, and even Mrs Grayson leaned in to have a look. The image had captured Greg from the side as he swung the fire extinguisher and connected with Sophia's head. The expression of oh fuck on her face was priceless, and I wasn't the only one who liked it; apparently it had gone viral as a meme on PHO. The moment she knew when she done fucked up was one of the more common captions.

"I still can't believe you did that," Greg said, then peered at the paper himself. "Okay, yeah, wow. I do look kinda badass, don't I?"

"That you do, young Veder," Mr Grayson agreed, folding the paper up again. "Taylor, thank you very much for that. You have sincerely made my day with that image."

"You're welcome," I said awkwardly, putting it back in my pocket. "Sophia made my life hell for so long, it's kind of cathartic to be able to remind myself that she's well and truly behind bars, and exactly how embarrassing it has to be that Greg took her down the way he did. Especially with how little regard she held him in."

Greg had raised a finger in protest halfway through my little speech, then he lowered it as I put my arm around his waist. "Well, yeah," he agreed. "She did kind of look down on me a lot."

"Which just shows how ill-informed she was," Mr Grayson said. "Between the two of you, you saved Medhall a tremendous amount of trouble, and you saved my life as well as potentially several others. I don't think any of that is pure luck or happenstance. Here at Medhall, we like to recognise and reward skill and talent, and that's why you've got the positions that you do."

I shrugged. I'd been getting more than a little praise of this type since commencing my internship at Medhall, but it still felt decidedly weird. "I honestly didn't know how things would turn out when I got here. I definitely didn't expect it to be like this."

Greg chuckled. "Let's be realistic. You expected me to screw it up for you, didn't you? Because the way I was messing around, that was something that totally could've happened. I'm personally surprised that I'm still here."

I tightened the arm I had around his waist. "Well, you are, and I'm glad of it." I could even recall the first time he'd really stepped up for me, loaning me his phone to call ahead when Emma and Sophia had tried to stop me from getting to Medhall for the second day of internship.

"I think everyone is." Mrs Grayson checked her watch. "However, I believe it's time you two went upstairs and actually started earning your salaries. Thank you for coming down, though."

"It was totally my pleasure," I said, nodding to Mr Grayson. "I'm glad to see you're doing as well as you are."

"Me too," added Greg. "If I'd known she'd hurt you so badly, I probably would've hit her a second time."

Mr Grayson chuckled, then winced again. "Word to the wise. In situations like this, laughter is not the best medicine. But yes, it was very good to see you two. I'm glad to see you're doing well."

We said our goodbyes and headed back along the corridor to the elevator. Greg elbowed me in the arm and murmured, "I can't believe you kept a picture like that, and didn't tell me!"

"What?" I asked. "Are you really mad about that? I thought you were just putting it on."

He rolled his eyes. "Well, where's my copy? Framed, for preference."

I was still laughing as we stepped into the elevator.



End of Part Fourteen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Fifteen: More Troubles

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine.]

[A/N 2: Be aware that this fic delves into the personal thoughts and motivations of white supremacists and people who are generally racist, and there may be racist slurs and points of view expressed from time to time. The author does not agree with any of these. You have been warned.]



Winslow High School, Girls' Bathroom
Thursday, September 30th, 2010; 12:01 PM

Taylor

Winslow, I decided as I washed my hands, was considerably less unpleasant since Emma and Madison had been suspended and Sophia arrested. It wasn't so drastic an improvement that I was reconsidering the move to Arcadia, but I wasn't dreading just the idea of coming to school every day either. And of course, seeing Greg in World Affairs and at lunch was always a definite boost to my day.

Greg … wow. I shook my head as I held my hands under the hot air jet. If anyone had asked me before summer break what I thought of Greg Veder, my answer would've fallen somewhere between 'who?' and 'obliviously irritating creep'. Even at the beginning of the new school year, when we were chosen for the internship, I'd fully expected his cluelessness to scuttle the whole idea for both of us.

But somehow, it hadn't. In fact, it had all worked out, better than I'd ever expected it could be. With a little direction and determination, Greg had managed to evolve from semi-housebroken puppy to a pit-bull steadfast in my defence. And in the process, he'd gone from hapless fellow intern to friend to … boyfriend?

It had been somewhat of a surprise to both of us to realise that we were effectively dating. We'd already been seeing each other exclusively and holding hands before that point, so all we'd really done was slap a label on it. Once my transfer to Arcadia went through, I was going to miss seeing him in school, but we'd still have Medhall and after school to spend time together.

My thoughts were interrupted by a bunch of girls barging into the bathroom, doors banging open and then shut again. I tensed momentarily, but none of them were people I recognized from Emma's coterie of assistant bullies. In fact, I was pretty sure I'd never interacted with them at all. So, I waited politely for them to get past so I could head for the cafeteria.

"Hey, it's Hebert." I wasn't sure who'd said it, but all eyes swung to me.

The four girls, two of whom were in my year and two from the year above, moved in my direction. Perhaps it was merely the case of long experience, but I began to get a bad feeling about this. I gripped the strap of my backpack more tightly, not sure what their intentions were.

"Excuse me," I said, pretending I hadn't heard one of them call me by name. "I just wanted to head down for lunch. Can I get past, please?" There was no harm in being polite, and rudeness just gave bullies an excuse.

Of course, if they really wanted someone to bully, nothing would change matters, but I didn't want to make things worse.

"In a minute." The largest of the girls, a solidly built blonde with shoulder-length hair, stepped up to me. She was almost as tall as me, but built like the metaphorical brick outhouse. I had no doubt she could put me on the floor in any one of a dozen painful ways. "Want a word with you first."

"I'm listening." It wasn't as though I had any kind of options, here. And at least she'd spoken instead of punching me.

"I hear you and Veder disrespected the guys, the other day. They extended the hand of friendship, and you smacked them in the face with it." The girl did her best to loom over me. "That's not friendly. That's not friendly at all."

Her phrasing needed work, but I absolutely was not going to point that out to her. "No disrespect intended," I said as calmly and rationally as I could. Raising voices could only go one way, and that was 'badly'. "We're just not interested. Sorry."

"Not interested?" That was another girl, with dark auburn hair, stepping up to the plate. "Hebert, for fuck's sake, Hess beat you up and was gonna shove you in your own fuckin' locker. She's been pulling this shit on you all fuckin' year. How long were you going to let that nigger cooch hold it over you?"

Well, if I hadn't been certain who they were trying to recruit me for, that basically laid it out for me. "If it was just her, not long. But there were white girls doing it too. Popular white girls. Or is it okay for white people to bully white people?" Maybe not the smartest thing for me to say, but I really didn't like the idea that they might think I was down with their brand of bullshit.

"'Course not," sneered the blonde. "But there's race traitors everywhere. Weaklings who let black scum order them around."

Logic clearly wasn't going to work with these people. It generally didn't, with idiots. They'd made up their minds, and that's all there was to it.

"So why didn't you do something about it before?" I asked. "Because I can't help noticing that you've waited until after Greg kicked her ass to say anything."

"Kicked her ass?" retorted the second one. "He was the one who got his ass kicked, Hebert. Your boyfriend isn't all that, and don't you forget it."

Belatedly, I remembered that nobody here knew that Sophia was Shadow Stalker. We were literally thinking about two different fights. "Right, right. Anyway, why didn't you help me out six months ago?" If someone had offered assistance then … I may have taken it. That's how low I was.

"Didn't know if you were worth the time and effort," the blonde told me bluntly. "All you ever did was roll over and show your belly. But this time you fought back."

"Yeah, I fought back this time," I said bitterly. "It was the only time I was able to. Because someone stepped up for me. Not one of you. Greg stepped up. Because he doesn't care about waiting until he's got four-on-one odds. He cares about me. You don't. And if you're not gonna step up when I need help, then I don't need you."

For a moment, I thought blondie was going to punch me, but she didn't. Instead, she leaned in close. "You just keep telling yourself that, Hebert. Sooner or later they're gonna come back, and Veder won't be any use at all. You'll come crawling to us then, and I hope I'm there to see it."

No they won't, and no I won't, because I'll be in Arcadia. But I didn't say a word, because I knew all too damn well how spiteful people could get if they thought the object of their derision was escaping their grasp. "We'll see," I said, and ducked past her.

I figured they wouldn't actually assault me (because that would be the stupidest way ever of persuading me to join their little Heil-Hitler cult) but I didn't feel like actively provoking them to test that out. So once I got around the group, I just left. No snide remarks, no smart comments, as much as I wanted to.

Let them think they've won.

The inner door banged behind me, then the outer one. They didn't seem to be following me, which was a relief; my heart was racing and I had a sour taste in the back of my throat. That had been uncomfortably similar to my various encounters with Emma, Sophia and Madison over the last year. How does that work, anyway? Do I have 'bully me' tattooed on my forehead?

Musing over the fact that even the assholes who wanted me around were all too willing to be unpleasant if they didn't like the answers they got, I went looking for Greg. Whether I'd tell him about it or not, I wasn't sure; I didn't want to spoil our lunch together.

And then I heard the shouting. Normally I would've ignored it—settling scores with a little fisticuffs during lunch hour wasn't totally unheard of among the guys—but one of the voices was Greg's. And it wasn't a high-pitched yelp of fear; instead, it sounded more like "Come get some!".

The fact that I'd never heard that particular phrase come out of my boyfriend's mouth was just one of the reasons I broke into a run, right then.

<><>​

Greg

"Hey, Veder."

Greg stopped scrolling through his phone and glanced around. He'd been aware that people were approaching him—since the thing with Shadow Stalker, he'd been paying more attention to his peripheral vision—but it wasn't Taylor, so he hadn't reacted. Perhaps, he realized after a second or so, he should've.

"Guys," he said, straightening up from where he was leaning against the wall. "Can I help you?"

For all his unconcerned tone, he recognized the boys now standing around him. They were the same ones who'd confronted him and Taylor on Tuesday, and it didn't look as though they were here to ask for tips on the math exam. Without taking his eyes off them, he slid his phone into his pocket, where it was less likely to be damaged.

"Yeah." The tallest of the boys moved forward half a step. "You can explain why you and Hebert think you're too good to hang out with us."

Greg thought fast. "Whoa, whoa, guys. We don't think we're 'too good' for anything. All I did was smack out Shadow Stalker, because she had it coming. It was just a one-off."

"Yeah, well, we think you're underselling yourself," another boy chimed in. "We figure you got the right stuff to be part of something bigger. And we made an offer in good faith and you've been telling us to fuck off. And that's just not polite. What do you think, guys?"

It was like what he was saying wasn't even registering on them. They had their script, and they were going to stick to it come hell or high water. This wasn't a total surprise, but sometimes he wished things would actually turn out in a different way to expectations.

Well, okay, Taylor being his girlfriend was definitely not something he'd expected. Fine, that's one miracle. Now how about another?

"Hey, nobody told anyone to fuck off." Bradley had explained that de-escalating a tense situation was a lot harder than escalating it. When people got past a certain point, they wanted to fight. Looking them straight in the eyes could be seen as a challenge. So could certain gestures; pointing or jabbing with the fingers, among other things. With an effort, Greg didn't let the adrenaline in his bloodstream affect his voice as he spread his hands. He wanted to sound boring. "You got your buddies. I got someone I want to hang with. We can just chalk this up to a misunderstanding and go our separate ways. No harm, no foul."

"No, you're the one who doesn't understand," the first one said, pointing a finger at his face. "Hebert only wants to hang with you because you kicked that black bitch's sorry butt. We can introduce you to girls who are way hotter than her. I can guarantee, you'll forget her skanky ass in a hot Brockton Bay minute, and she can go back to being the nobody she always was."

He shouldn't have reacted. He knew he shouldn't have reacted. But there was no way he was letting the insult to Taylor pass.

More of Bradley's advice came back to him. If the other guy's pushing for a fight, he expects to get the first punch in. Get in there first.

"Ain't gonna …" Taking control of the guy's arm, he stepped in, turned, and heaved. With a startled yell, the asshole went up and over, then landed hard on his back. "… happen!"

The rest of the Empire contingent stared in astonishment, but he knew that wasn't going to last. Lunging forward with his shoulder, he caught the second guy in the chest and knocked him off his feet. If you're gonna fight, kid, go all in. Don't hold anything back. If they think you're nuts, they'll back off. Nobody wants to get in the ring with crazy.

There was shouting now, but he didn't care. His anger overrode his fear. "You want some?" Inexpertly swung, his fist still clipped the jaw of the nearest Empire asshole with enough force to make him step back. "Come get some, then! Come get some!"

And that was when someone grabbed him from behind.

<><>​

Taylor

It felt like an eternity before I reached the group of shouting students. Pushing and shoving through the crowd that had formed, I gasped with horror when I got to the front row.

I didn't know how long the fight had been going on, but Greg had already put two of them on the ground. Empire Eighty-Eight, for sure; these were the same ones who had confronted us already. But now, one was holding Greg's arms from behind while two others beat him up. Or tried to; he was struggling like a maniac and still shouting defiance, despite having a swelling lip and a bloody nose. Even as I watched, he lashed out with a kick that made them jump back.

This was my chance; as the one holding Greg's arms concentrated on maintaining his grasp, I stepped forward and swung my backpack in a two-handed arc, putting all my strength behind it. I hadn't taken the Book out since getting it back from Mr Gladly on Tuesday, and the World Affairs and Computer Studies textbooks weren't all that light, either. The pack caught the Empire guy in the side of the head with a dull thump and he released Greg, staggering sideways.

"Leave him alone!" I screamed. "All of you, leave us both alone!"

I didn't even see whoever it was that came in from the side, but there was a stunning impact to the side of my face that sent me staggering sideways. Vaguely aware that I'd lost my glasses, I dropped my backpack and put my hands out to steady myself.

"You don't touch Taylor!" There was a rush and a thud as (I presumed) Greg barrelled the guy who'd hit me into the wall. He certainly sounded pissed-off enough to do it.

The ringing in my head eased enough for me to catch my bearings and my balance, and I looked around. Even without my glasses, I could still see well enough that we were surrounded by Empire guys, and their expressions were not in the least bit friendly. Greg was trying to put the guy he'd rammed into the wall in an armlock, but the guy was fighting back, and it looked like it could go either way.

And then I heard the sweetest sound in the word. An angry teacher clearing their throat. "Mr Veder, let Mr Ferguson go! Exactly what is going on here?"

Well, I told myself as the Empire guys melted back into the crowd. Better late than never, I guess.

I should've known better.

<><>​

An Hour Later
Principal Blackwell's Office

Greg

It was amazing. One bunch of bullies had just been taken off Taylor's case, and these guys seemed to have decided it was their job to step in and take up where Emma and company had left off. While their whole mission seemed to be different, Greg was no more in favour of it that he had been of Emma and Madison's little power games.

He sat alongside his mother in the conference room. Taylor sat next to him, with her dad at her side. The three Empire guys who'd been caught on the spot had their fathers along as well, all managing to look clean-cut and law-abiding. The guy who'd punched Taylor and knocked her glasses off—she'd retrieved them, though the frames were slightly askew now—was apparently called Peter Ferguson. His father, Edward Ferguson, looked downright prosperous.

"All we did was offer them a place in our after-school activities group," Peter explained. He was tall, well-built, and had such a persuasive way of talking that even Greg was half-convinced, and he'd been there. "For some reason, they took offense and physically attacked us."

Taylor made a rude noise. "'After-school activities group', my ass," she said derisively. "That's nothing but a—"

"Ms Hebert!" Principal Blackwell said sharply. "I've done everything by the book for this meeting. Your father was contacted, and we're sitting down to see if we can mediate an equitable outcome for all concerned. Now, Mr Ferguson was polite in his statement. Perhaps you can reciprocate."

"Polite, okay." Taylor drew a deep breath. "Those three are Empire Eighty-Eight. They've been—"

"Now, hold on a minute." The elder Ferguson raised his hand as he spoke. "I'm sorry for interrupting, young lady, but are you insinuating that my son is involved with a known criminal organization within this city?"

Taylor raised her chin and looked him right in the eye. Greg had never been prouder of her than this moment. "No, Mr Ferguson. I'm not insinuating. I'm saying. Between the note they left me and Greg and what he himself said—"

"Excuse me again. I'm very sorry for this," he said, raising his hand again. "What note is this?"

Greg cleared his throat. "Last week, after the Shadow Stalker thing at the Medhall building. A bunch of guys, including these three, dropped a note on our table during lunch. It said something about how we seemed to be strong, right-thinking people, and invited us to join a 'club' of people with similar views."

"Taylor asked me about it," Mr Hebert interjected. "The phrase 'right-thinking' has always been a favourite with white-supremacist groups. We've had enough trouble dealing with them in the past in the Dockworkers. I advised her to stay well clear."

"Really?" Edward Ferguson raised a polite eyebrow. "A single chance phrase that a bunch of teenagers use in an invitation note, and you're blowing this out into Empire Eighty-Eight membership?" His tone lowered, as did the brow. "I'm just going to say this once. Peter is a fine boy, with very strong prospects. Such an unfounded accusation could destroy his future career before it ever takes off. I would be very careful about what you say about him without good, strong evidence that can be backed up in a court of law."

Before Taylor could react, Mr Hebert matched Mr Ferguson's tone. "And I'd be careful about what tone you use with my daughter. If your boy's done what she says he's done, then it's about time he faced the music." He turned back to Taylor. "You were saying?"

"We wanted to just let it slide and walk away," Taylor protested. "But they confronted us on Tuesday." She pointed at Peter Ferguson. "He said that we needed the protection of the Empire Eighty-Eight!"

Peter blinked, looking nothing less than astonished. It was an amazing portrayal of innocence, neither too wooden nor over-acted. "I said … what again, now?"

"I heard it too," Greg said firmly. "He said that exact name, as I'm sitting here. I'd swear to it on a stack of Bibles."

Edward Ferguson gave his son a measured look, then turned to Taylor. His expression was entirely open and reasonable. Greg didn't trust it for an instant. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Danny Hebert cleared his throat again.

"Mr Ferguson," Taylor's dad said firmly. "Do us all a favour and address your questions through Principal Blackwell."

Ferguson's jaw hardened, but he nodded. "Fair enough. I just need to ask Taylor one question. After my son apparently admitted to holding a membership in a criminal organization, who did she report this to? Principal Blackwell? Her father? The police? The Parahuman Response Teams? Surely she was concerned enough to report it to someone."

Blackwell tilted her head as though considering the question, then she nodded. "That's fair," she allowed. "Taylor, did you actually report this to anyone?"

Taylor's face froze. She drew in a shuddering breath. "Why?" she demanded. "Reporting stuff did me no good for the last year."

"We're dealing with that right now, Taylor," Blackwell said hastily. "So you didn't report it?"

"No," Taylor replied coldly. "We didn't."

"Hmm." Mr Ferguson turned his attention to Greg, then just as smoothly looked at the school principal. "Could you ask Mr Veder if he reported it to anyone, or even discussed with Ms Hebert whether or not to say anything? Or did he just choose to do nothing about this blatant admission of criminal activity?"

Before Principal Blackwell could ask the question, Greg shook his head. "I didn't do anything about it." The admission left a sour taste in his mouth, but it was the truth.

"Greg, honey, why not?" His mom put her arm around him for a hug. "You know I would've listened."

He hated the feeling he got that he'd let her down. "We just … wanted to be done with it."

"And there you have it." Edward Ferguson sighed. "Curious, isn't it, that the thing they were apparently so concerned about last week, that they bring up today to excuse the fight, was never so much as mentioned to a parent when it happened?"

"Hey, that's not fair," Greg protested. "Like Taylor said, she spent all last school year being ignored by everyone."

"In fairness, Taylor," Principal Blackwell noted, "you told your father about the note. Why didn't you get back to him about this, if only to tell him he'd been correct?"

"We just didn't want anything to do with it, or them," Taylor tried to explain. "But Mr Gladly was there. We told him that they were trying to recruit us at the time."

"But not who they were trying to recruit you for?" Mr Ferguson had a very expressive line of raised eyebrows. At the last second, he seemed to recall that he was supposed to be addressing Principal Blackwell, and turned to her. "Did Mr Gladly contact you about this, at all?"

"He did not," Principal Blackwell admitted grimly. "I'll be speaking to him about this, afterward. Ms Hebert, did you make it plain to him where the recruitment attempt was coming from?"

"We thought he'd know what we meant," Greg protested.

"Principal Blackwell." Mr Ferguson was the very picture of patience. "Could you please ask Mr Veder if he actually told Mr Gladly outright that my son had admitted to being part of a criminal gang?"

The answer was clear to all concerned, but Greg shook his head anyway. "Well, no."

Blackwell's grim look intensified. "If he understood, as you say, then he should at least have reported this to me."

Mentally, Greg rolled his eyes. Yeah, that'll happen, right after he does karaoke with the Simurgh.

The inference was clear. Without ever actually calling them liars, Mr Ferguson had gone a long way toward undermining their credibility in saying that Peter had admitted to being in the Empire Eighty-Eight. He was right in one way, however; it was their fault that they hadn't told a single authority figure about the encounter.

Taylor evidently had the same idea. "Well, anyway, today they tried again. This time, it was the girls in the bathroom for me while the boys cornered Greg out in the corridor."

"Which girls?" asked Principal Blackwell, picking up a pen. "Can you give me their names? What did they say?"

"I—I know their faces, but not their names," Taylor admitted. "But they asked me why I wasn't joining, and referred to Sophia with really racist terms."

"Did they assault you? Call you names? Steal your property?" Blackwell had the pen poised over her pad now. Greg could almost hear her thinking, Give me something, anything I can act on …

"No, none of that." Taylor shook her head. "They just said I'd come crawling to them when the bullies came back. That was when I walked out."

"And you, Mr Veder?" Principal Blackwell turned to Greg, her eyes laser focused. "Tell me about your encounter. The one Coach Sorensen walked in on."

Greg shook off his sense of frustration. He had to get this right. "Okay, Peter and his buddies there, plus some others—" the other two, he now knew, were called Bronson and George, from the introductions that had taken place, "—came up to me and started pressuring me over why I didn't want to join. Like Taylor said happened in the bathroom, they were using some pretty racist terms. They were acting like we'd disrespected them by not accepting. I said no, and tried to wind it down. Then Peter said some nasty stuff about Taylor, how she only hung out with me because I beat up on Sophia, and how he could introduce me to way hotter girls and she could go back to being a skanky nobody. That's when I, um, got mad and did a hip throw on him."

Principal Blackwell's pen froze in midair. "—you made the first hostile move?" she asked, as if hoping that he would retract his statement.

"Wait, wait." Edward Ferguson had a look of faint disbelief on his face. "Young man, you're saying that you threw my son? Successfully?" Turning, he stared at Peter, whose face had turned beet red.

Greg had no idea where this was going, but he'd already admitted to doing the throw. "Well, yeah. He made it easy. He was sticking his finger in my face, so I just grabbed his arm. I did it the way Bradley, uh, Mr Fieldmark, showed me, and I made sure not to hurt him," he added belatedly. Bradley had explained to him the difference between throws that put people on the ground, and throws that hurt.

"Bradley … Fieldmark?" Mr Ferguson seemed about to ask more questions, then stopped.

"Yeah." Greg nodded. "He's the head of security at Medhall. Him and Ms Jurist have been showing me a few moves since the Shadow Stalker thing."

"Hmm. I see." Edward Ferguson rubbed his chin between forefinger and thumb. "Well, he had insulted your girlfriend, and he was poking his finger in your chest … carry on. What happened after that?"

Greg wasn't at all sure about where this turnaround came from, but Mr Ferguson seemed a lot less antagonistic now. "Well, um, Bronson was right there, and Mr Fieldmark told me that if you start a fight against longer odds, you keep going full-on and maybe the other guys'll back off. So I shoulder-slammed him and he fell over, and then there was another guy, he's not here, and I tried to punch him and that didn't really work, and then George grabbed me from behind, and Peter and Bronson started hitting me …"

Taylor raised her hand. "And that was when I came in. I hit George on the side of the head with my backpack to make him let Greg go, and then someone punched me and knocked my glasses off."

"That was Peter." Greg took up the tale again. "He was better at staying on his feet than Bronson, but I charged him into the wall and I was trying to get him in an arm-bar, but he kept getting out of it, and that's when Mr Sorensen showed up."

"Well, then." Mr Ferguson glanced at Bronson's and George's fathers, then back to Principal Blackwell. "I believe the sequence of events is clear to see."

"You're damn right it's clear to see," Mr Hebert snapped. "Your boy and his friends aggressively pushed Taylor and Greg to join whatever 'club' this might be, provoked Greg with a finger to the chest, and insulted Taylor to his face. They're not sliding out of this one while Taylor and Greg take the fall."

"Well, no, and I wouldn't ask Ms Blackwell to countenance such a miscarriage of justice," Mr Ferguson responded smoothly. "While I personally believe that Peter and his friends meant well deep down, they acted rashly, phrased things badly, and in general contributed strongly to the eventual conflict. However, while I have sympathy for Taylor and Greg, the fact remains that they did initiate active hostilities." He turned to Principal Blackwell. "I propose that all involved face exactly the same penalties, favouring neither one side nor the other. Perhaps a little light suspension to drive the message home, then the slate is wiped clean? No hard feelings on either side?"

Principal Blackwell frowned. Greg could see her problem; given her current legal situation, she had to be trying hard to appear absolutely non-partisan in the matter. "Mr diAngelo, Mr Alfred, does Mr Ferguson speak for you in this matter?"

The fathers of the other two boys nodded in unison. "Yes," Mr diAngelo said. "He does. Equal punishment for everyone."

The principal made a note on her pad, then turned to Taylor's dad and Greg's mom. "Mr Hebert, Ms Veder, do you agree with this solution?"

Mr Hebert glanced past Taylor and Greg to Greg's mom and raised his eyebrows in query. After a moment, she nodded. He turned back to Principal Blackwell. "I want it down on the record that I believe this is mainly the fault of Peter and his friends—if they'd just backed off, all of this could've been avoided—but for the sake of having it over and done with, I will agree to light suspension only for all parties, and no punishment that might interfere with the internships." He took a breath. "And for Peter and his friends to apologise to Taylor and Greg here and now for their pressuring tactics, and for them and their friends to stay the hell away from Taylor and Greg."

Principal Blackwell wrote busily for a few seconds. "Down on the record … hmm … light suspension … internships … staying away." Then she raised her head to look at Mr Ferguson. "Do you agree to that last addendum?"

"I do." He turned a stern eye on his son. "Peter?"

Drawing a deep breath, Peter stood up. Whether he gave a signal or not, Greg couldn't tell, but Bronson and George stood as well. "Taylor, Greg, I'm sorry for us pushing you to join like that. We were way out of line." Whether he meant it or not, Peter still managed to sound absolutely sincere. "We won't bother you anymore. Right, guys?"

"Right." Bronson nodded.

"Totally," agreed George.

"Well, then." Edward Ferguson dusted his hands off almost cheerfully as the boys sat down again. "Does that satisfy the requirements?"

Mr Hebert nodded. "It does. Just don't let it happen again."

"Oh, I have no intention of that." Mr Ferguson turned his attention to Principal Blackwell. "We appear to have reached an accord. Your final judgement, ma'am?"

She ticked off something on her pad and nodded. "If both parties are in agreement, then I will institute a general suspension, starting right now, on Peter Ferguson, Bronson diAngelo, George Alfred, Greg Veder and Taylor Hebert. This suspension will last until Monday morning, by which time I expect all of you to have let go all ill feeling that might have arisen from the matter. I will also inform your respective teachers to not require homework from you. You will be expected to keep up your studies in the meantime. Does anyone have a problem with any of this?" Her tone said, Nobody better have a problem.

Greg's mom shook her head, as did Mr Hebert. "We're fine with it," he said.

"As are we," declared Mr Ferguson. He stood up and walked around the table toward Mr Hebert. "I've heard much about you. It's a pity that we had to meet under such inauspicious circumstances."

"Could definitely have been better, yes. But so long as this is over and done with, I'm good." Mr Hebert shook his hand.

Greg turned to Taylor as everyone else began to get up and drift out of the room. "Is that it?" he asked in an undertone.

"Well, it went a lot better than most every other time I complained to the principal," Taylor murmured. "At least this time, the other guys took it on the chin too."

"True." Greg grinned. "You know what this means?"

Taylor looked at him queryingly. "What?"

"Long weekend." He held up his hand in a high-five.

She returned it, then raised a finger. "Long weekend with bruises. Don't forget Saturday afternoon."

"Oh." All of a sudden, the weekend looked a lot less attractive. "Oh, boy."

<><>​

Taylor

As we walked out of the school—Mr Ferguson's contingent staying a careful distance away from ours—Dad turned to me. "In there, when you said that young Ferguson directly mentioned the Empire Eighty-Eight, you weren't exaggerating, were you? He said those literal words, not something that suggested them?"

I looked him in the eye. "He said, and I quote, 'You need the protection of the Empire Eighty-Eight'. Those words, exactly."

"That's more than a little scary," Ms Veder said. "Do you think he's really a part of it, or was he talking himself up to impress Greg and Taylor?"

That was definitely a scary thought. The Empire Eighty-Eight didn't recruit in schools as a matter of course, not like the ABB did. I'd seen the pamphlets the school counsellor had for Asian kids in case they were approached. This was totally different. If Peter wasn't just boasting, this meant that the Empire had a presence in the schools, even if they didn't sit around with swastika tattoos, sporting the red and black.

Greg had a pensive look on his face. "And how hard his dad was trying to downplay it … was that because he doesn't want people thinking his kid's a member … or is he a member too?"

I blinked. Mr Ferguson was as far away from the pop culture image of an Empire Eighty-Eight member as anyone could get. For one thing, he was obviously rich, well-educated, and cultured as fuck. No shaven head, tattoos, leather jackets, or anything else that screamed 'racist prick' …

… just like Peter himself, in fact.

In fact, while Peter had been offensively direct when he was talking to us out of adult hearing, he'd also been as smoothly persuasive as his father when it came to talking to Blackwell.

It was something to think about.

"I considered that," Dad said soberly. "And that was why I didn't push the Empire angle in the meeting, or after it. Better to let them think that we're not taking it seriously than to possibly make a high-ranking member think we are. Because that's a good way of ending up under the foundations of an overpass."

"Oh," said Ms Veder. "Oh, dear. Do you think we're in danger? Is Greg in danger?"

Dad looked thoughtful for a moment. "I … don't think so," he said at last. "I hope not. Ferguson was not in the slightest bit happy that his boy let that slip, and if anything untoward happened to any of us after this, it's on record that young Peter was accused of being a member. That's something any one of Ferguson's business rivals would give his eyeteeth to find out about, and if it came out as part of a potential murder case … well." He didn't have to finish that particular statement. "The best way to draw attention to something is to try to silence the people saying it, after all."

"Well, I'm not going to go blabbing it far and wide," Greg said hastily. "They can be in the Empire. I'll be over here, minding my own business."

"Me, too," I agreed, taking his hand.

Though I couldn't help wondering. If Mr Ferguson really was a member like Greg thought, that meant they could literally be anywhere, at any level of business. I began to wonder exactly how good Medhall's vetting process was. The last thing Mr Anders would want was for white supremacists to infiltrate his company. The damage they could do to the good name of the business would be catastrophic.

<><>​

Medhall Building
Midday, Friday, October 1st

Greg

The bus pulled up at the stop with its customary squeal of brakes. Greg climbed out of his seat, then stepped back to allow Taylor to stand up as well and lead the way off the bus. She was already dressed in her office clothing, which Greg still thought made her look like a million bucks. The only flaw in the picture was the bruise on her cheekbone, which she'd done her best to hide with makeup.

While he wasn't pleased that she'd taken the hit—if he could've put Peter through the wall, he would've—he was proud of her for stepping up and clocking George with her backpack. Anyone else would've just stood back and done nothing, he just knew it. Not my Taylor.

Keeping an eye out for errant bag-snatchers, they crossed the sidewalk and climbed the stairs to the front doors of the Medhall building. The heavy glass panels rumbled aside, and they entered the climate-controlled interior. Taylor produced her Medhall ID and swiped her way through the turnstile, with Greg right behind her.

"Miss Hebert, Mr Veder," said Brian politely. "Good to see you … wait. Are you okay? Did someone hit you? Did this happen at school?"

Taylor turned her head away. "It's okay. I'm fine. No real harm done."

"Sorry, no." Brian picked up a phone. "Mr Fieldmark gave us instructions to contact him immediately if it looked like you'd been getting bullied again. And from the bruises on Mr Veder's face, it looks like someone's been doing a lot more than call you unpleasant names." He lowered his voice and spoke a few terse phrases into the phone.

Greg glanced at Taylor, who shrugged. The burly security head of Medhall was a force of nature unto himself. It was readily apparent that the smoothest course of action was to answer his questions.

"Okay, we can wait," agreed Taylor. She stepped aside from the turnstile and smoothed her skirt down. "So how've you been, anyway? Settling in okay?"

"Oh, yeah, it's good here." Brian put the phone down, then leaned back in his chair a little and smiled. "I want to thank you two for putting in a good word for me. I think it really helped."

"Pfft, yeah, right," Greg said dismissively. "You had it in the bag and we all know it."

The elevator opened and Bradley stepped out. He walked over to the security desk, glanced at the monitor screens, and nodded to Brian. "Any other problems?"

"No, sir," Brian replied respectfully. "Just the thing with Ms Hebert and Mr Veder."

"Got it. Half an hour, take a lunch break." Bradley turned to Greg and Taylor. "Come on."

They followed him—there wasn't much choice being given in the matter—into the depths of the building, until he swiped a door open into what turned out to be a break room of some kind, with a table, chairs and a kitchenette. Parking his butt up against the table, he folded his arms as he studied them both. Greg would've bet good money Bradley could even tell where he was bruised under his work shirt.

"Okay," Bradley grunted at last. "Tell me everything that happened, from the top."

Greg shared a glance with Taylor. "Uhh … part of it, we're not supposed to tell anyone."

Bradley frowned. "Why? Does it involve a cape's secret identity?"

"Not a cape, no," Taylor explained. "But …" She paused for a moment. Greg could tell the exact instant she decided, Screw it, we can trust Bradley. "… it involves someone being in the Empire Eighty-Eight, and that's kind of dangerous knowledge. So you can't tell anyone, okay?"

Bradley nodded firmly. "Secrets like that, I can definitely keep. Spill."

So they told him about the note and the followup confrontation, then finished off with each side of Thursday's fight. It took a little while, but between the two of them and some clarifying questions on his part, they managed to lay it out for him. Greg was glad he wasn't on the other side of the equation; when Taylor described how she'd been sucker-punched by Peter, the big man's fists clenched hard.

"Dad says the safest thing is to keep quiet about it," Taylor concluded. "I mean, we've got no evidence except what Peter said, and he could've been lying to make himself look good. So even if the police acted on it with no repercussions, we could just be overreacting. He might be an arrogant jerk, but I wouldn't wish that on him."

Bradley nodded. "That's all true," he conceded. "Your dad's a smart man. I'd follow his advice from now on. Don't either of you say a word about the Empire to anyone else. If someone wants to know, refer 'em to me."

"Absolutely," agreed Greg, with Taylor chiming in a moment later.

"Good." Bradley waved his hands in a shooting motion. "Now, go to work. Git."

They got.

<><>​

Medhall Building
Office of Max Anders

Kaiser

Max looked up as his intercom chimed. "Yes?"

"Sir, Mr Fieldmark to see you."

"Send him in." He leaned back in his chair and flicked the unobtrusive switch under his desk that set the floor-to-ceiling windows vibrating in harmonic patterns, designed to mess with laser microphones. The office had been swept just that morning, so he was currently unworried about physical bugs. The reason for all these precautions was simple: Bradley rarely came to him during work hours, and never for mundane problems. Those were routinely dealt with over the phone.

Bradley entered, closing the door behind him. His thumb flicked the lock across; if Max had needed any more proof that this was a serious situation, that was it.

"Take a seat," Max invited. "What's on your mind?" Reaching down to the bar fridge built into the desk, he selected one of Bradley's beers by touch, and sent it skidding over the desk.

Bradley caught it, then lowered himself into one of the visitor chairs. "We might have a problem with the Ferguson kid," he said, and popped the top off the beer with his thumb. As the cap landed neatly in the wastepaper basket, he took a long pull of the brew.

Max paused in the act of pouring himself a finger of bourbon and frowned. "Peter?" The boy had two younger sisters, but he couldn't imagine that Bradley was referring to either of the girls. Peter was his nephew and one of the front-runners for inheriting from Max if Theo somehow managed to make himself unavailable. As such, he was smart, athletic and was growing into a fine young man. "What happened?"

Bradley growled deep in his throat. "Little shit must've heard Ferguson talking about how great it would to have Taylor Hebert and Greg Veder in the Empire, so him and his buds decided to recruit her."

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Max face-palmed. He didn't often swear, but he suspected this warranted it. "How badly did he screw it up?"

"When they turned him down the first time, he doubled down. Things got heated. The girl's got a bruise where Ferguson junior punched her in the face. Oh, and he apparently told both of them that they needed the protection of the Empire."

And that was almost as bad as it could get. "Please tell me he didn't let anything slip that connects him or his father to Medhall. Such as him being my nephew."

For a mercy, Bradley shook his head. "Nothing like that, no."

"Good." Ignoring the glass in front of him, Max put his fingertips to his head and did his best to think coherently. "Send word to Ferguson and the boy. I want to see them tonight."

"Sure thing, boss." Bradley finished the bottle then lobbed it into the basket and got up. He unlocked the door on the way out.

Max emptied the glass and poured another. Ed Ferguson was his brother-in-law, and played a moderately important role in one of Medhall's subsidiaries, but the fact remained that he was replaceable. Literally anyone could do his job.

On the other hand, he had Taylor Hebert who, in the short time she'd worked for Medhall, had saved him in the region of a million dollars' worth of potential losses, in the course of simply doing her job. And that wasn't even counting her exemplary performance going above and beyond for the company.

If it came down to a choice between blood and talent, he would choose talent every time.

Now, how to best phrase that so Ferguson and his irritating little spawn got the message?



End of Part Fifteen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Sixteen: Training Day

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Friday Night, October 1, 2010
Medhall Building

Kaiser

The sun had long since set, the lights of Brockton Bay competing with the pearlescent glow of the force field over the Protectorate headquarters in the bay, when the discreet tap sounded on Max's office door. "Enter," he called out, at the same time pressing the button under his desk that electronically unlocked the door.

As he'd expected, Ed Ferguson entered first, followed by young Peter. Bradley followed behind them, firmly closing the door.

"Edward," Max said. "Peter. Sit." The two chairs in front of his desk were the least comfortable ones in the building. Uncushioned, they had straight backs and were just low enough that he was looking down at Ed and Peter once they took a seat. Bradley stepped in behind them and just loomed there, out of their peripheral vision but close enough that they'd be constantly aware of his presence. "Tell me why you're here."

His brother-in-law was almost succeeding in not looking nervous, but Peter was sweating bullets. That was something the boy would have to learn to control, if he wanted to be successful either as a cape (once he got his powers) or in business.

Neither one spoke. Max let the silence stretch out, not giving them any reprieves.

Finally, Ed got the hint and nudged his son. Peter started slightly, then cleared his throat. "I, uh, we're here because I fu-, uh, I screwed up."

"Yes. You did." Max let his gaze bore into Peter's. "What did you do to screw up?"

Peter drew a deep breath. He was sweating more than ever, now. This was entirely understandable—nobody enjoyed being held to account for their actions—but Max's gaze never shifted. It was imperative that the boy learn from his mistakes. If he could.

Looking like he wanted to close his eyes—that would be a mistake, too—Peter visibly mustered the courage to speak. "I pressured the Hebert girl and the Veder boy too hard at school."

Max nodded once, curtly. "Details."

By now, Peter looked as though he were strongly considering death as a viable alternative to this interrogation. Again, this was unsurprising; quite aside from his elevated social stature within the Empire set, he was tall, good-looking and intelligent. He'd grown used to never having to answer for his actions—aside from the narrowly-avoided scandal involving his ex-girlfriend's pregnancy hoax, of course—to the point that he'd evidently decided that he didn't have to answer for anything.

It was Max's intention to impress upon him that such an attitude required a decade or two more of preparation before it would be appropriate. The boy was a blood relation and had potential, and he was of course a true believer, just the way Max liked his subordinates. But it remained to be seen whether he could learn this most important of lessons in a timely manner.

Peter took another deep breath, this one somewhat more ragged. "When they said no the first time, I should've backed off. Instead, I tried to frighten them into signing up. I, uh …" He winced at the expected rebuke as he spoke the next few words. "I told them that they needed the Empire Eighty-Eight's protection."

Max didn't react, though that was only because Bradley had already filled him in. From the way Ed looked at his boy he'd probably been hoping that it wouldn't come up.

"I see." Max made a slight go-on gesture with his hand. "Continue." Unspoken was the absolute certainty that Peter's fuckups hadn't stopped there.

By now, Peter was performing one continuous wince. "After they turned us down that time, I had Jenna and the others follow the Hebert girl to the bathrooms, while I cornered Veder with some of the guys outside. The idea was to divide and conquer, and stampede them into our ranks. Jenna bad-mouthed Veder to Hebert, and I bad-mouthed Hebert to Veder. It, uh, it didn't go well."

Max didn't bother to speak. He merely waited.

Peter didn't leave things hanging nearly as long, this time. "Uh, Jenna didn't get any kind of rise out of Hebert, except to ask Jenna where she'd been when Hess had been bullying her. But when I called Hebert a, uh, skanky nobody, Veder grabbed my arm and did a hip-throw on me, then shoulder-charged Bronson into the wall. George, uh, grabbed him around the arms from behind …" He trailed off.

"To restrain him without hurting him any further, no doubt?" Max's voice was sharp. He knew what came next, and the way Peter presented it would strongly influence the boy's future in the Empire Eighty-Eight.

To his credit, Peter shook his head. "No, uh, no, sir. Bronson and me … we started hitting him. Then the Hebert girl came up and hit George from behind with her backpack, and he let Veder go. I, uh, I punched Hebert then, because she'd hit George. Veder charged me into the wall, and that's when the gym teacher showed up and stopped it."

"Which was extremely fortunate for you," Max observed, keeping his voice light. "Had either Ms Hebert or Mr Veder been significantly injured, I would have been taking direct reparations out of your sorry hide." He sat forward. "In fact, there were several fortunate instances over the last few days, including your decision to tell the complete truth. You see, building security spotted the marks your people left on Hebert and Veder. Because we have a vested interest in them not being bullied, they were directed on to Bradley. They told him about everything, including your claim to being in the Empire Eighty-Eight. This allowed him to advise them to tell nobody about it, thus avoiding yet another potential sticky situation."

Bradley lifted his chin, silently asking permission to speak. Max nodded, interested in what he had to say. "Young Taylor's a smart kid," the big man said. "She'd already decided not to spread it around, in case it wasn't true. I just reinforced that."

Max couldn't have gotten a better opening if he'd set it up in advance. "That's right. Taylor Hebert is a very smart young lady. In the short time she's been working for us, she's not only performed exemplary work, but she's also spotted and forestalled more than one potential problem ahead of time. On the business side of things, she's saved us at least a million dollars just from spotting things nobody else did. She's personally responsible for preventing the entire Empire Eighty-Eight from being outed. She also saved Victor's life, and alerted us to the fact that it was Shadow Stalker invading the building, not so long ago. And when Stalker murdered Crusader, Taylor was the one who went into the car and saved his girlfriend."

"The Veder kid's no slouch either," Bradley said, smoothly taking up the narrative. "He was a hot mess when he first got here, but between her and the janitorial crew, he soon straightened up. Saved Taylor's life at school when those little cocksuckers were gonna shove her in a locker and empty a pepper spray canister in there with her. Hess cleaned his clock, but he got up and came back for more. Then he saved Ms Harcourt and some of her girls, and took out Stalker solo. Kid's got real potential."

"They both do," Max agreed. "And all of this they did without knowing who they were working for. If they're opposed to being members of the Empire Eighty-Eight, then I say we need never let them know. Their work is exemplary either way." The message was plain. Back off.

"Uh … if I may say something?" ventured Ed Ferguson.

Max nodded. "Proceed."

"This is partly my fault too. I'd heard about some of what they'd done, and I mused aloud that their talents were wasted outside the Empire Eighty-Eight. Peter was just doing what he thought I wanted him to do. Also, once the facts were made plain to me, I ensured that Peter apologised to both of them and gave his assurances that he wouldn't bother them anymore."

"I know." Max sat forward for the first time. "That's the only thing saving you, right now. But you also both screwed up massively, and it's only by pure luck that the fallout isn't worse. Edward, you should be careful in what you say, and how you say it. Peter, you need to learn to separate wishful thinking from intent." He left unspoken the phrase and for fuck's sake learn how to handle a reluctant recruitment. It was well understood by all parties. "And so, a penalty must be incurred." He looked from one to the other, considering. Judging.

"I … I can pay—" ventured Ed, then cut off with a grunt of pain as Bradley's hand descended on his shoulder and squeezed.

"Not money," Max decided. "Peter, your choice is to face Bradley in the cage for five minutes, no holds barred, or your father in the boxing ring for three timed rounds." He knew that Ferguson already used boxing as a way to physically discipline his son, and was quite adept at the sport.

Peter let out a strangled gulp, eyes flicking from side to side in an unconscious attempt to escape the situation. He was screwed either way, and they all knew it. Bradley would play cat-and-mouse, battering him around the cage but never quite putting him down and out until the last ten seconds. Going into the ring, though, meant that his father would have to do the job himself.

"Well?" Max raised his eyebrows. "You have ten seconds before I make the decision for you."

"D-Dad!" blurted Peter. "I choose Dad. Boxing." His eyes cut sideways to his father, and he whispered, "Sorry," just loudly enough for Max to hear.

Ed's expression collapsed in on itself. Max knew what he'd realised with Peter's choice. He would now be obliged to give his son the beating of his life, just to placate Max going forward.

"Your father, it is." Max looked at Ed, his gaze narrowing. "I expect to see the footage of the bout on my desk by tomorrow."

It wasn't that he didn't trust Ed—the man did his job competently and well—but the temptation to hold back just a little and spare his son would've definitely been there. Now, even that loophole had been removed.

Ed would follow through, of course. Max knew him too well to consider otherwise. But both he and Peter would learn a valuable lesson from this.

And maybe next time they won't mess with the golden goose.

<><>​

Hebert Household
Saturday Morning

Taylor

I was settling down on the sofa to watch some TV when someone climbed the front steps and knocked on the door. Frowning, I got up and headed toward the entrance hall. "Were we expecting someone?" I called over my shoulder to Dad.

"Not that I know of." He came out of the kitchen as I reached the front door and opened it.

Greg stood there, grinning broadly; behind him was his mother, whom I'd met on Thursday at Winslow. We hadn't done much more than swap introductions, but I'd gotten a good vibe off her.

"Hi!" He stepped forward and hugged me. I returned the hug, as a matter of course.

"Hi, yourself," I replied at my wittiest, disengaging from the hug. "Hi, Mrs Veder. Good to meet you again."

"Hello, Taylor." Mrs Veder shook my hand (fortuitously, Greg had grabbed my left hand). "It's nice to meet you without other things going on. Greg has told me so much about you."

"About three-quarters of that is probably exaggeration," I said defensively. "I'm just normal."

"Uh huh," he said, raising his eyebrows. "Normal. Right. Sure. I bet if I told Bradley or Mr Grayson that you said you were 'just normal' they'd have a different opinion."

I felt my face get hot. "They're biased."

Dad joined us at this point. "Hi. Pleased to meet you again. Call me Danny."

"Likewise. Nina." She reached past me to shake his hand as well.

It was getting a little crowded in the entrance hall, so we moved back into the living room. I smiled at Greg and he beamed back at me, until I broke the silence with the obvious question. "Don't think I'm not pleased to see you, because I totally am … but why are you here? I thought we were going to be meeting up at Medhall around noon or so."

Mrs Veder raised her eyebrows at her son. "Greg, seriously? I thought you were going to call ahead."

He stared back. "I thought you were going to call ahead!"

Dad chuckled. "And so, nobody called ahead. I've definitely been there before. Okay, why are you here?"

Greg broke the staring contest with his mother to look at me. "I was thinking we could go over the material we covered in class on Thursday—you know, before we were kicked out of school—and read ahead a bit so when we start again on Monday, we know what's going on."

I blinked. "That's … actually a really good idea. But you know, we've got all Sunday to do that."

He flushed slightly at my praise, then held up a finger. "You know we're going to have bruises on Sunday, probably in places that'll make it uncomfortable to sit down for long periods, right? So, I figured we could do it today. Got Mom to give me a lift, and here we are."

"Ah. Good point." From what he'd told me about the physical training Bradley and the other guard—I couldn't remember her name—were putting him through, the big guy wouldn't even consider going easy on us. Not that I'd want him to. If I was going to be doing self-defense training, I wanted to be able to defend myself.

"So, you think we should?" He looked at me anxiously, as though I was about to shoot down his idea.

"Oh, totally." I squeezed his hand reassuringly. "I should've thought of that myself."

He shrugged modestly. "I basically asked myself what would Taylor do? and that's what I came up with."

I nudged him in the ribs with my elbow. "Keep that up, buster, and see what you get."

"Why, what will I get?" he asked innocently.

"This." I let go his hand and put my arms around him. In deference to the fact that Dad and Mrs Veder were right there, I kissed him on the cheek instead of the lips (I still was pretty shy about that sort of thing, to be honest) but I made it a pretty solid kiss anyway.

"So how long have you two been dating, anyway?" asked Greg's mom as I let him go.

Greg and I glanced at each other. "Friday, last week?" I hazarded. "We hung out at Fugly's, after work?"

He nodded. "But we only realised that we were actually dating on Tuesday, when you asked me if we were."

"Of course, I liked you before that," I finished. "When you tackled Sophia, that was a massive plus in my book."

His blush should've lit up the room. "Well, I couldn't not do something. You've been helping me get my head on straight ever since we started at Medhall. Nobody else even cared enough to try."

It was my turn to shrug awkwardly. "I just gave you a few pointers, that's all."

Dad chuckled. "They've been an item longer than that, but they just didn't realise it." He turned to me. "Remember when I asked you how the boyfriend was, and you blew up at me?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Tracey asked me the same question, the next day. So I'm clueless when it comes to that sort of thing. Sue me."

"If you're clueless, then I'm double clueless," Greg chimed in loyally. "You had to point out that we were dating before I even realised it."

"Well, all I know is that he's been tidying up his own room and doing his own laundry since shortly after he started at Medhall," Mrs Veder announced. "Up until now, I'd thought it was the responsibility of whatever they've got him doing there, but it seems like you've got something to do with it too." She gave me an approving look.

"That doesn't surprise me," agreed Dad. "They've been doing group projects for school together, and getting some very impressive marks. What did you get for that last one? Ninety-five percent?"

"Ninety-seven," I corrected him, realising too late that he damn well knew the right figure but was giving me the chance to say it. "But that was mainly the Book."

"Which you got through the people at Medhall," he pointed out with a grin. "Just another thing we can thank that place for."

"One of the many things, yeah," Greg agreed. "So anyway, I brought my textbooks in the car. Want me to grab them, so we can get started?"

"Sure." I gave him a smile. "I'll just duck upstairs and get mine. Is it okay if we take up the sofa, Dad?"

"I've got no problem with that." Dad turned to Mrs Veder as Greg headed for the door. "Would you like a cup of tea, or did you have to go straight away?"

"Tea would be lovely, thank you." She followed him into the kitchen. "I suspect there's a lot of gossip I need to catch up on, about my son and your daughter."

I heard the clink as he put the kettle on the stove, and the soft whoosh as the burner ignited. "Gossip? Hardly. We're merely sharing information." The amusement was plain in his voice.

She chuckled. "As I said. Gossip."

<><>​

Medhall Building, a Little After Noon

Greg

"Just around the back here, Mr Hebert." Greg pointed at the entrance sign he'd been looking for. "That's the guest parking lot through there."

"Huh." Mr Hebert slowed to negotiate the turn. "I don't think I would've spotted that. Nicely done."

Greg shrugged. "That's the way Bradley told me to come in. No big deal."

"Still pretty cool," Taylor said. "I only talk to Bradley every now and again. You get to work with him."

"Hardly." Greg snorted. "He's security. I'm maintenance. He's only humouring me because I got lucky and took down Shadow Stalker. Now, someone like Brian? He's a lot better suited to doing security work than me." It was an incontestable truth. Brian had something like six inches and a hundred pounds on Greg (maybe not that much, but close to it) and had muscles on his muscles.

The car trundled down the narrow side-street, then pulled around into a small parking lot. Entirely hidden from the street, it boasted twenty or thirty painted parking spots, of which three were filled. Mr Hebert picked one apparently at random, and pulled the car to a halt in it. "Okay," he said. "Now what?"

Greg was once more glad Bradley had gone over this with him in detail. "Now we take our workout gear and go over to that security door, and get buzzed in." He pointed to the solid metal door in the side of the building, which was covered by a security camera. "Bradley said he'd meet us there."

Mr Hebert nodded. "Well, then. It looks like this is where I leave you. What time do you think you'll need to be picked up?"

"Oh, we've got that figured out," Taylor assured him. "We'll be finishing up in time to catch the last bus. If we miss it, we'll give you a call and chill in the lobby until you show up."

He chuckled. "Well, aren't we organised? Okay, it sounds like a plan. Have fun and kick ass."

"Get our asses kicked, more like." Greg wasn't complaining, merely making a prediction. Besides, he'd been beaten up before. This time, at least, he was going to learn from the experience.

They got out of the car with their backpacks slung over their shoulders. Greg had originally figured he'd carry his workout clothing rolled up, but Taylor had reminded him that it was a good idea to not leave their other clothing lying around loose. They didn't want Bradley and whoever else was doing the training to think they were total slobs or whatever. At her suggestion, they'd also each packed a towel (he'd borrowed one for the duration) in case they needed a shower before getting ready to go home.

He honestly had no idea how he'd gotten along before he met Taylor.

As they headed for the door, Taylor looked across at him. "I like your mom. She's nice."

Now, what was a guy supposed to say to that? "Thanks." That didn't seem to be enough, so he kept talking. "My dad died before I was born, so she sometimes gets really overprotective and stuff. I'm glad she's fine with me coming to Medhall and learning how to defend myself."

She looked at him with sympathy. "Wow, that's got to suck." Putting an arm around his shoulders, she gave him a firm side-hug. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Nah, it's okay." He gave her a smile that was part grimace. "Stupid accident. They were getting ready to get married, but his brakes failed coming home from work one day. So she raised me on her own. I'm pretty sure she won't let me get my driving license until I'm fifty."

"Yeah, I know how that goes." And from the tone of her voice, he knew she did.

The reached the door, and he glanced up at the security camera. It had a good solid view of them, so he pressed the red call button. A couple of seconds passed, then the speaker crackled. "Veder and Hebert, yes?"

Greg nodded. "That's us."

"Good. Right on time. Come on in." The electronic lock clicked, and the tiny light over it turned from red to green.

Greg grasped the door handle and pulled; it opened easily. "Ready to get your ass kicked for a good cause?"

Taylor grinned tightly. "Let's do this."

She stepped inside; he followed along.

<><>​

Rune

The sweatpants and sports top were itchy, and felt weird. Tammi couldn't wait to get back into regular clothes, or her costume. It didn't matter which one. The sooner Kaiser and Hookwolf figured out that she wasn't going to learn anything from this bullshit self-defense thing, the better.

So what if those ABB assholes had nearly gotten her backpack? She would've called the troops together and gone after them, and smeared them into the pavement for their fucking arrogance. By the time their cretinous minds even figured out what they had their grubby little hands on (if they ever did, which was nowhere near certain) they would've been roadkill. Figuratively, if not literally.

But for now she had to suffer through this utter waste of a good Saturday afternoon. At least she wasn't the only one; coming out of the other side of the changing room was Theo, looking at least as uncomfortable as she felt. Now he was definitely someone who could stand to do some exercise and lose a few pounds. As it was, none of the girls were ever going to give him a second look, even with the cachet of being the son of Max Anders. A suave millionaire playboy, he wasn't.

"Hey," he said miserably. "You're here, too?"

She didn't hate him so much as she simply wasn't interested in him—the one time the idea of her pairing up with him was floated, she'd shot it down hard enough to ensure it never came up again—so she nodded curtly. "What'd you do?"

"Nothing." His eyes immediately drifted away from her, and his entire body language shouted at once, I'm lying! "What makes you think I did anything?"

She snorted. "Because your dad says I fucked up, and that's why I'm here. You're usually the invisible guy, so you being here means you must've done something."

He scuffed at the carpet with his soft, pink toes. Even his feet were fat. "Got drunk at Justin's wake. Then I told my father I didn't want anything to do with Medhall."

Her eyebrows rose and she snorted with amusement. "Well, damn. I am impressed. Were you hoping he'd disinherit you or something?" It would never happen, she knew. Max Anders … well, she didn't like to use the phrase 'control freak' about her boss, but he was absolutely a control freak.

"Not hoping. Wishing." He scuffed harder at the carpet. "Why can't he understand I don't want any of this? I don't like what you do, and I don't want to be a part of it."

She easily translated 'what you do' as everything to do with the cape side of the Empire Eighty-Eight. It really wasn't her problem, so she shrugged. "Maybe when you get yours, you'll think differently." She could tell he knew she meant when he triggered with powers. As a third-generation on one side and second-gen on the other, he was almost guaranteed to end up with them at some point. That he hadn't already must have been a constant source of frustration for Kaiser.

"Hey!" Bradley's voice, carrying a sharp edge of command, echoed down the corridor toward them. "You two! We're not starting until you show up, and everyone else is waiting on you!"

Biting back a sarcastic retort—she knew antagonising her self-defense coach when he was already pissed at her would be a spectacularly stupid move, on several levels—she turned away from Theo and headed in Bradley's direction. "Coming!" she called back. You can start without us if you're really that keen, she added in her own head.

When they emerged into the training room—a conference room with padded mats laid down across the floor—Tammi saw the other two students for the first time. She also saw the big black security guy was there as well, just like Bradley had said he would be. Melody was standing back with her arms folded while the black guy coached the boy and the girl through stretching exercises.

"Took you long enough," growled Bradley. "Theo, you haven't met Brian yet. He's gonna be one of your instructors today. You do what he says, just like with me or Melody. Got it?"

"Uh huh." Theo nodded, though Tammi caught the flicker of side-eye he sent her way. He didn't know what was important, so he wouldn't have a problem with one of them giving him orders, but he knew she thought differently. "I can do that."

"Good." Bradley raised his voice slightly. "Okay, Taylor, Greg, that's enough. Get your butts over here. Tammi, Theo, get over to Brian and do stretches with him. Go!"

Tammi eyed the girl—Taylor—as they passed each other by, and received an equally searching scrutiny in return. Taller than both Tammi and Melody by a few inches, Taylor looked skinny even in the baggy workout clothes she was wearing. She had long curly black hair, tied back in a ponytail for the moment, and glasses that made her eyes look huge. Tammi's first impression was that Taylor didn't look like someone who was all that, but then she recalled Othala's description of her deeds. Her cousin wasn't someone who was easily impressed.

She didn't get as good a look at Greg, but he was just a boy anyway. Not all that good looking, or muscular, or anything else that would draw her attention. Sure, he'd taken down Shadow Stalker, but anyone could get lucky once.

"Tammi and Theo, right?" The black guy—Brian—seemed to tower over both of them, and Tammi fought the urge to step back away from him. Fuck, he's like King Kong. "I'm just going to get you to do some basic stretching exercises, so you don't hurt yourselves when we get into the real stuff. Before we start, do either of you do martial arts, or any kind of athletics on a regular basis?"

Theo shook his head mournfully, while Tammi suppressed the urge to sneer. Like one of them can teach me anything. But he wanted an answer, and Bradley was right there in the room, so she gritted her teeth and shook her head as well. "Nope."

"Okay, then." Had that been a flicker of anger in his eyes? Did he know what was going through her mind? But his tone never changed. "Put your feet a shoulder-width apart, like this …"

As she reluctantly followed his instructions, every instinct shouting at her to put him in his place, she seethed with anger.

This was going to be a very long training session.

<><>​

Taylor

My joints definitely felt nice and loose, once Brian had finished with me and Greg. I hadn't been sure about the exercises, but Greg seemed to be familiar with them, so I'd done as I was told. While I probably still couldn't put my foot up near my ear—as Melody was doing as a kind of casual stretching exercise of her own—I was pretty sure I wouldn't pull any muscles by accident. Which was the whole purpose of the thing.

Belying every martial arts training montage I'd ever seen, the first thing we did was practise … falling. Once again, Greg seemed to already know how this went, so Bradley focused on me, showing me how to go down onto the mat from any angle so I didn't pop joints or break bones. By the time he was satisfied with my progress, Brian had finished with Tammi and Theo's stretching exercises and Melody was running through some basic holds and throws with Greg. He wasn't an expert by any stretch of the imagination, but he definitely knew a little bit about what he was doing. I knew exactly zero about it, so he was still one-up on me.

As we paused for a breather and a drink of water from the squeeze-bottles, I reflected that I could've done with those falling lessons a year ago, when Sophia's favourite occupation seemed to involve tripping me. She'd even gone so far as to push me down the last few steps of a flight of stairs, just enough that I'd fall hard and look stupid. Now, I knew what to do about a fall like that, but the person who'd made me need that knowledge was behind bars. Irony, thy name is Taylor Hebert.

Once Greg was warmed up, he graduated to trying to use his techniques on Bradley, which I figured would be a whole heap harder. Melody took over with me, showing me the same things Greg was trying to do with Bradley, while Brian started Tammi and Theo in on falls. From what little I could see of the other two, Theo was trying but not very hard, and Tammi just plain didn't want anything to do with the training. Again, I wondered what her story was, and why she'd been shoehorned into this class.

Theo, I figured, was here for a little educational punishment duty; he must've screwed up his speech to his dad about not wanting to take over Medhall, or maybe Mr Anders had found out about his drinking. But if Tammi had been at that party, she certainly hadn't been drinking and making a public spectacle of herself. She was a mystery, and my work so far at Medhall had taught me that mysteries existed to be solved.

Melody didn't talk much, but she could sure teach me how to apply a joint lock or perform one of several throws. When applying the locks, she was smooth as silk and fast as a striking snake; one moment I had freedom of movement and the next my arm was trapped in an iron grip. Even the slightest twist on her part would have me rising on my tiptoes in a way I wouldn't have thought possible.

The throws were equally deadly, in a manner of speaking. She was shorter than me—most women were shorter than me—but all I had to do was blink and I'd find the room rotating around me in a way it really wasn't supposed to. It was around then that I found out exactly why we'd been practicing falls so assiduously. I got to try them out some more, for free.

I got to try the moves on her, too, of course, but I knew damn well she was letting me do it, every step of the way. Still, the feeling of achievement when I pulled off my first successful hip throw was amazing. Though barely had she hit the mat when she bounced up again, critiqued my technique, and made me do it again. And again. And again.

"Okay," Bradley announced after depositing Greg on the mat yet again (I was pretty sure he'd pulled off exactly one successful throw against the big guy, and like Melody, Bradley had allowed it). "Taylor, Greg, take ten. Brian, are Theo and Tammi good on falls?"

Brian nodded. "Good as I can get 'em, sir."

I panted as I slid down to sit against the wall. Greg, sweating harder than I was, plonked himself next to me. He handed me my squeeze-bottle, then bumped his knuckles against mine. "You're killing it, Taylor. Really."

"I dunno," I said quietly. I squirted water into my mouth; even at room temperature, it was heavenly. "I'm just a rag doll to Melody. Up against Bradley, I'd be a doormat."

"Yeah, but these guys are professionals," he reminded me. "They've been doing this for years. We've been doing this for a total of hours, if that."

"That's true." I felt a bit better about things.

We settled down to watch how Theo and Tammi took to learning locks and throws. From the outside, it was very educational.

<><>​

Kaiser

Max's phone pinged with a text message. Leaning back in his office chair, he brought it up. On the way up. I've got the footage. Ed.

He tossed the phone back onto the desk, not bothering to send a reply. It was regrettable that he'd had to force Ed to discipline his boy like that, but there was no better motivator than pain, whether it was the physical pain of being beaten or the emotional pain of punishing a loved one. Peter had needed to learn the lesson, and so had Ed.

It was funny; back in the day, he'd never really wanted to inherit the Empire Eighty-Eight. Running Medhall had been all he wanted to do, leaving the leadership of the Empire to his sister Heidi. But somehow she'd gotten the idea he was planning to usurp her position, even after Allfather made the official announcement stating that she was his choice to step up as leader once he retired.

Nothing was stated outright; she'd known how good he was at talking, so she never made any accusations that he could refute. But the politicking within the team had become intense enough to cause rifts between some of the members. Max wasn't sure if Allfather had known about it and either allowed it to run its course or was unable to stop it, or if he'd been oblivious to the whole thing. Either way, he hadn't stepped in.

It came to a head during a fight with the Teeth. Earlier in the day, a few Empire capes had been ambushed, leading to the death of Max's wife Alexis, otherwise known as Heith. Berserk with grief, Max hadn't cared who he killed; he'd just wanted them to experience the loss that he felt. Armoured from head to toe, slashing at his foes with iron spikes, he'd pushed toward the thickest part of the fray.

Only when several iron spears plunged past him, missing by the merest of margins, did he begin to pay attention to what was going on around him. Not all that far away, her eyes fixed on him, was his sister. She flicked her hand and another dozen razor-tipped metal shafts dropped out of the sky onto the enemy, though two targeted him instead. It was only with a frantic dodge that he'd evaded both.

At that moment, the tide of the battle changed. Butcher himself charged forward, taking advantage of Iron Rain's distraction. Max was the only one who could both see her vulnerability and do something about it, but in that moment he knew what he had to do. Once their father was out of the picture—as Allfather, Richard Anders put up a good front, but long-standing injuries were beginning to take their toll—Heidi would stop at nothing to remove him as a perceived threat to her leadership of the Empire Eighty-Eight. She posed a clear and present danger to his life and well-being, and would continue to do so for as long as she lived.

He could have generated a fence of spikes and shielded her for the few seconds she needed to retreat, but he did nothing of the sort. If she wanted to treacherously attack him in the middle of a fight, then she could reap the whirlwind. The last thing he saw before Butcher and a couple of the Teeth dogpiled her was the look of utter terror on her face.

No blame was officially attached to him after the battle, though he saw Allfather sag when he learned of her death. Those few who had seen him withhold his protection would also have seen her spears seeking his life, and very likely chose to stay quiet in place of risking their lives by speaking out. Interestingly, her former partisans were now among those most vocal in their support of him.

At that time, the ethos of the Empire Eighty-Eight was very strongly based around honour and 'face'. Butcher was the one who had gotten the final blow on Iron Rain, so once this was announced it would be expected that Allfather would seek vengeance, one-on-one, with his daughter's killer. Nobody wanted this; either Allfather would die (most likely) or he would become the new Butcher and be driven insane by the voices. So, a deal was worked out under the table with Marquis. In return for a few concessions on territory, the osteokinetic would claim the kill on Iron Rain. This would boost his reputation, he would engage in a few inconclusive battles with Allfather, and honour would be satisfied.

In the end, Allfather died of a heart attack before the scripted battles could take place. Kaiser, as the only potential heir, ended up as head of both Medhall and the Empire Eighty-Eight. He still didn't believe in the Nazi rhetoric, but it was damned useful for gathering disaffected white supremacists to his gang, so he mouthed the phrases and turned a blind eye to the violence against the minorities.

But from all this, he'd learned one valuable lesson: a leader must remain on top of any potential problems, before they became actual problems. If Allfather had laid down the law with Iron Rain, she wouldn't have tried to kill Max, and she could've been running the Empire to this day. But he'd let it slide (or never even noticed it) and so she died when she could have lived.

Max had sworn to himself that he would never let such things get so bad under his tenure, which meant that from time to time, people had to suffer for the good of all. Some might have seen his punishment of Peter as being too harsh, whereas he figured it was just harsh enough. Peter would recover, and he would never forget the penalty for fucking up.

He looked up as Ed tapped on the door; reaching under the desk, he pressed the button that unlocked it. "Come in!" he called.

The door opened and Ed Ferguson entered. The man looked like he'd aged ten years overnight, and he carried with him a latest-model electronic tablet. "Max," he said, his voice slightly ragged.

"Good afternoon, Ed." Max spoke as though the unpleasantness had never happened. Once a punishment was over, it was forgotten. "You've got something for me?"

"Yes." Ed passed the tablet over the desk. "I hope this is enough."

"I'm sure it is," Max said warmly. "Why don't you take a seat?"

The chair in front of his desk was a much more comfortable model; Ed Ferguson dropped into it like a puppet with its strings cut. Max paid him no heed as he activated the tablet. There was just one icon on the screen, and he tapped it.

Ed Ferguson had a complete boxing ring setup in his basement, along with four separate digital video cameras designed to autosync into a four-window finished product. From what Max understood, he had originally set it up that way for training and instructional purposes; correcting someone's form was much easier with four different views of the subject matter. Just as Max had figured, it worked quite well for this.

Peter had started the bout by trying to cover up and stay on the retreat, but sharp words from his father had changed that. It had become an actual boxing match after that, albeit a mismatched one. While Peter had done his best to stand his ground and give as good as he got, it didn't work out that way. He'd been pummelled mercilessly from one end of the ring to the other, his only reprieve being the timer at the end of each round.

To his credit (not to mention Ed's skill as a boxer) he'd lasted all three rounds, only collapsing at the final bell. It had not been faked; Ed's gloves had punished him quite thoroughly, and Max was fairly certain it would take him a day or two to get back on his feet. All in all, a lesson well delivered.

"That all seems to be in order," he said, standing up and rounding the desk with the tablet in hand. "Thank you for bringing this in. We'll say no more about it."

Ed stood as well and accepted the tablet back. "Thank you." He even seemed to mean it.

Max nodded to his brother-in-law. "Let me know how he's going."

He watched as Ed walked out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him. That went well, I thought. Turning, he put the matter from his mind as he headed back to his desk. Other issues demanded his attention, and he needed to stay on top of things.

<><>​

Taylor

I faced Tammi, and Greg shaped up against Theo. "Locks and throws only," Bradley instructed us. "If you throw them, follow them down and get a lock. Once you're locked up, call 'yield' and you'll be let loose. Okay? Okay. Go."

She came in fast and aggressive; I gave ground, watching her eyes. Theo yelped as Greg took him out of the running with an arm-bar, but I didn't let my attention be distracted. Turning my body slightly, I trailed my arm out invitingly, and she took the bait.

She grabbed for my wrist, but I twisted the other way, got hold of her arm and did my best to pull off one of the more difficult throws Melody had shown me. I must've gotten it right, because Tammi squealed in outrage as her feet left the floor. She landed on her back on the mat, but I hadn't let go of her arm, and I moved to secure her.

There was still some fight in her, but she reached the wrong way and I got her arm around into a lock and held it. She kept struggling, all the way up until I tightened the hold and twisted just right; she let out a cry of pain, and I eased off the hold slightly. That was the wrong move, because she heaved hard enough to pull her arm free, and elbowed me in the jaw solidly enough to make me see stars. We rolled over and over for a few seconds, but I still had the upper hand and I yanked her other arm around into a lock. This time, I held it.

"Okay, Tammi, you're out," Brian announced from his position as referee. "Also, you would've lost anyway for that foul shot."

"What? No!" Tammi sounded outraged as I let her go and we climbed to our feet. "That was a total accident! And anyway, who says you're not allowed to hit someone when you're fighting?"

"Me," Bradley said, looming over her. "I said, locks and throws only. Fifty push-ups, right now. Taylor, you okay to face Greg now, or do you need to take a moment?"

I touched my jaw tenderly. It didn't feel like any teeth were loose, but it was still sore. "I might go and splash cold water on my face." I pointed at Greg. "And then I'm gonna come back and whip your ass."

"Yeah, yeah, bring it." Greg grinned as he made a come-at-me gesture.

"Go on," Bradley said, gesturing at the door. "Restrooms are just down the hall. Take your time. Theo, let's go over why you went down to Greg so quickly …"

I stepped out into the hallway and trotted down toward where I could see the sign for the restrooms, not far from the elevators. It only took me a moment to splash the water on my face to refresh myself and check for incipient bruising, then I leaned against the bench and looked myself in the eyes.

"I am kicking ass," I said softly. "I just won a fight."

It was a weird feeling. Tammi was only about a year younger than me, and a bit fitter, and she'd definitely been trying to win … and I'd beaten her. Even though my jaw was still aching a bit, the euphoria was there. I can actually do this. I can learn to win.

<><>​

Edward Ferguson

I just rolled over for him. I beat up my own son, then brought the proof in to him, then thanked him for letting me show him.

The elevator had never seemed so slow. Ed watched the numbers scroll past, the self-disgust building in his gut until he felt like a volcano about to blow. Finally, he jammed his hand on the stop button, and the elevator slid to a halt. The doors opened smoothly and silently, and he stepped out. He didn't know what floor he was on, but the restrooms were right there.

Storming into the men's side of the restrooms, he checked to make sure the stalls were all empty before letting out a scream of frustrated anger. Grabbing a stall door, he slammed it against its stop several times in a row, sending echoes throughout the restroom. "Fuuck!" he bellowed. "Shit shit fuck shiiiit FUUUUUCCK!"

Ed would do what Max told him; he knew that much. He'd followed Max's orders in the past, and he'd do so again in the future. But there was no rule that said he had to like it.

Running water into the nearest basin, he splashed some of it on his face, then checked his clothing and hair. He was presentable; outwardly, at least, he was fine. The outburst had taken the edge off his anger, so he could leave now without driving dangerously in the late afternoon traffic.

Strolling nonchalantly out of the restrooms, he entirely failed to see the teenage girl peering around the corner from the women's side.

<><>​

Greg

Taylor seemed a little perturbed when she came back into the room, but not so much that anyone else noticed. Under Brian's supervision, Tammi was still panting through her push-ups—and making far too much of a production out of them, in Greg's opinion—while Melody was re-instructing Theo in how to apply basic locks and throws. In the process of this, she was using Theo as the test dummy, so he was spending more time on his ass than his feet.

Yeah, been there, done that. Greg could sympathise. Theo gave the impression of someone who was entirely unready for physical confrontation, so when Greg put him in the arm-bar it had been like kicking a particularly defenceless puppy.

"Taylor, Greg, you ready?" asked Bradley. "I don't have to tell you two this, but I'll do it anyway. Locks and throws only. Nothing else."

Taylor nodded. "Got it, and I'm ready."

Greg matched her steely-eyed stare. "Likewise."

"Okay, then. Go!"

Neither one moved for a second or so, searching each other's eyes and stances for a weakness. Greg found none; Taylor was an adept student, which wasn't surprising. Melody had ways and means of making sure a lesson was taken seriously. Slowly, he started moving toward his left, and she began to do the same. They circled each other, expressions intent.

Taylor seemed to break first, reaching in with her arm and creating an opening, but Greg recognised it as the ploy she'd used on Tammi and didn't fall for it. He grinned and wiggled his fingers in a 'nice try' gesture. She responded by wrinkling her nose at him.

He attempted the next feint, grabbing for her arm but pulling back at the last second. As it was, he was nearly too slow; her fingertips grazed his wrist, almost getting a grip. He knew damn well that if she got ahold of him, or vice versa, the bout would be over.

And then he spotted it; the tiniest gap in her defenses. She was holding her elbows just a little too far away from her body, which meant that if he turned this way, and baited her into reaching that way, he could catch her wrist before she could pull back—

"Waaagh!" Thud.

Dizzily, as he lay face-down on the mat with Taylor kneeling in the middle of his back, he slowly reconstructed what had just happened. I thought I was baiting Taylor out. But she was baiting me the whole time. What he'd thought was an opening was a trap. And he'd fallen for it.

"Haha damn!" Bradley slapped his knees. "The look on your face when she took you down!"

"Yield," grunted Greg, and the pressure let up immediately. He rolled onto his back and lay there spread-eagled. "Maybe best of three?"

Taylor grinned and reached down to help him up. "Sure." Then she looked around at the wall-clock and her face fell. "Ugh. Nearly time for the bus."

Bradley nodded and dusted his hands off. "Okay, then. Good session, everyone. See you here next week." He gave Tammi and Theo a moderate glare. "That includes you two."

"Okay," grumped Tammi. Theo added his own unenthusiastic agreement, before Tammi pointed at Greg and Taylor. "What about those two?"

Bradley gave her a toothy grin. "They asked to be here."

"Oh." Tammi gave Greg a 'you have to be kidding' stare, then shook her head. "Okay, can we go now?"

"Sure thing." Bradley waved at them. "Beat it."

"Okay, see you around." Greg grabbed his backpack and headed for the door in Tammi's wake, with Taylor close behind.

They went down the corridor to the elevators, and Tammi hit the call button. When the elevator opened, she seemed to want to take it all to herself, but Taylor just stepped in, so Greg got in as well. Tammi hit the close-door button then, and the elevator shut in Theo's face. Greg didn't think that was very nice, but just as he opened his mouth to say something, Taylor elbowed him gently in the ribs. He shut up again.

"So, Tammi," Taylor ventured, sounding as polite and friendly as Greg had ever known her to, "where do you know Brian from? It's pretty obvious that you've met him before."

Just for a moment, Greg thought Tammi wasn't going to answer, but then she evidently changed her mind. "Oh, uh, some ABB assholes tried to grab my bag outside the front doors, and he came out and kicked their asses."

"Huh, cool," Greg commented. "That's kind of how we met him too. Only with us it was Merchants."

Tammi shrugged. "Well, street scum is street scum."

Taylor smiled sweetly. "Very true."

The elevator stopped on the first floor, and they stepped out into the corridor. Taylor waved. "See you next week."

"Yeah," grunted Tammi. "See you." She turned and headed off toward the back of the building, where the access to the exterior parking lot was.

Taylor led the way toward the front doors, waving at the desk security on the way past. Greg gave them a nod too; he was getting to know them by name.

Their timing was excellent; the bus pulled up at the stop just as they stepped out through the doors. "Wish I'd had time to take a shower," Taylor grumbled as they climbed on board.

"Meh, I know I've smelled worse," Greg quipped. "Remember the time they more or less bathed me in bleach?"

She chuckled as they found a pair of empty seats; as always, he let her take the window seat. "Pretty hard to forget that one." He sat down, with her beside him. Quite naturally, his hand fell into hers, and she squeezed it.

As the bus moved off, he looked quizzically at her. "So, what was that about in the elevator? Why'd you shut me up?"

"Not sure," she said pensively. "Do you think Tammi was treating Brian like someone who'd stopped someone else from snatching her bag?"

Greg paused, and thought back. The more he mulled over the concept, the more he frowned. "No," he admitted. "If I didn't know better, I'd think he kicked her puppy in a previous life."

"She definitely didn't like him," Taylor agreed. "Not one little bit. Which is odd as fuck for a way to treat someone who saved your stuff like that."

"I can't disagree with that." Greg tilted his head. "Also, when you came back from the restroom. You looked like you had a major problem, but you didn't say one word about it."

She gave him a beaming smile. "You're definitely a lot less clueless than you were before you started working at Medhall."

"I just figured it was a good idea to pay attention to you." He raised his eyebrows. "I notice you still haven't told me why you were upset."

"Not upset, exactly." She pursed her lips. "I spotted Peter Ferguson's dad, just coming out of the men's side. From the sound of it, he'd been throwing a major tantrum. Which raises a bigger question."

He got the gist immediately. "Yeah. Why would the father of someone who might be in the Empire Eighty-Eight be wandering around in the Medhall building?"

"Exactly." Her expression was thoughtful. "This bears looking into. We might just have uncovered another mole."

"Should we tell Mr Anders?" He knew he'd defer to her judgement either way.

"No." She shook her head definitively. "There might be an innocent explanation. I'm going to need to do some digging and make sure I've got all the facts before I bother him with this."

That seemed the safest bet. "Yeah," he agreed. "Good idea."



End of Part Sixteen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Seventeen: Curiosity, Meet Cat

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Sunday Morning, October 3, 2010

Taylor

Lying on the sofa with a book in my hand, I shifted position so as to take pressure off one of the bruises on my butt. This only served to locate another one. "Ow."

Dad, sitting in the armchair with a large notepad and a pen, glanced over with an amused look on his face. "How are we going there?"

"I'm okay," I grumped. "But Greg was right on the money about getting our homework done early. There's no way I could concentrate on algebraic expressions if I'm having to find a feather cushion three feet thick just to sit down at the table."

"Ahh, but was it worth it?" He raised his eyebrows. "I seem to remember you waxing lyrical about the training when you got home yesterday."

I nodded without hesitating. "Oh, totally. I'll probably never need it, but it's nice to know I can be not entirely useless in a fight if it comes to that."

"Good. I'm glad." He smiled. "I have to say, your time at Medhall has definitely improved your self-confidence, and that's not even touching on how they've helped you personally." The phone rang, and he raised his head. "Damn it, just when I was comfortable, too."

Climbing to his feet, he went to where the phone hung on the wall and took up the receiver. "Hebert household, Danny speaking."

I waited to see if it was Greg calling, but he didn't immediately say so. Deciding that it was probably one of his friends or associates from the Dockworkers, I went back to my book. Part of my Maggie Holt collection, it was one I'd read before, but I still enjoyed it.

"Taylor?"

I looked up at Dad; he was off the phone now, with a grin on his face a mile wide. "Yeah, Dad?"

"That was the school. They've okayed your transfer to Arcadia, effective Wednesday afternoon."

"Oh. Wow." It occurred to me that Winslow must really have wanted me out of their hair if they were still working at this on a Sunday. That was fine; I didn't want any part of them, either. "So … I head off to work on Wednesday after school, and show up to Arcadia Thursday morning?"

"That's what I was given to understand, yes." He held out his fist and I bumped it. "Congratulations. You beat the bastards."

I snorted in self-deprecation. "Not really. They supplied all the ammunition. It was Mr Grayson who really set things in motion. Him and Bradley." I could still recall with gratifying clarity the way Bradley had smacked Sophia in the mouth and sat her down on her ass. It would be one of my most treasured memories for some time to come.

The fact that Sophia had turned out to be a cape and a Ward of all things had gone a long way toward explaining how and why the school administration had bent over backward for her so hard they would've had permanent kinks in their spines. Still, it wasn't a reason, just an excuse. Also, I would never forgive her for murdering Justin like she had. Even though Tracey was back at work now, she was still mourning him, and I didn't blame her. Incorrigible coffee thief he may have been, but he was still a good guy. There were far too few people like that in the world.

Rolling off the sofa on to my feet, I stretched. "But you're right. This calls for a celebration. I'm gonna see if Greg wants to come down to the Boardwalk so we can have soda and snacks, and maybe catch a movie."

Dad nodded. "That's fine. Say hi to him for me, and enjoy yourself. Try to be home before dark."

I gave him a smile on the way past. "Thanks. I will."

<><>​

The Boardwalk, Later

Greg

"So, you're finally getting into Arcadia." Greg squeezed Taylor's hand supportively. "Good. I'm glad. At least one of us is getting out of that pit of despair."

"I still feel bad about leaving you behind." She leaned on the rail, her expression pensive. "Peter Ferguson and his asshole friends might decide to keep screwing with you, when I'm not there to watch your back."

"With the lawsuit pending, Blackwell's going to be doing her best to make it look like she actually cares about doing her damn job, so I think I'll be safe at least for a while." He tried to sound more confident than he felt, so as to make Taylor worry less. "And I'm thinking Mr Anders will be leaning on Mr Ferguson and telling him loud and clear to keep that Empire shit well away from Medhall, which means well away from us."

Taylor stood up straight and snapped her fingers. "I bet that's what was going on, yesterday. Mr Anders made Mr Ferguson come into his office and ordered him to tell the Empire to back the fuck off, and Mr Ferguson got all pissy because he had to do it. I mean, when was the last time the Empire hit Medhall or one of its subsidiaries?"

"I've never heard of it happening," Greg allowed. "But this is the Empire Eighty-Eight we're talking about. They're pretty damn hot shit, just saying."

"No, they like making it look like they're hot shit." Taylor shook her head. "They hate Asians. Lung's tough but he's not totally unbeatable. Have they beaten him, like, ever? No. They haven't. Do you honestly think Hookwolf would leave him alive if they got him down? And remember when we went to Bradley about Peter? Did he look scared of the Empire Eighty-Eight, the whole time we were talking to him?"

Greg had to shake his head. "He just looked like he wanted to kick someone's head in. Peter's, for preference. And if anyone knows who to steer clear of and who to not worry about, it would be Bradley."

"Exactly." Taylor grinned. "So I think you'll be fine."

"Yeah." Greg felt a little bit of tension leave his body. "Yeah, that's true. Though I'll tell you what; from how pissed off Mr Ferguson was when you saw him, I'm kinda surprised Mr Anders didn't have Bradley or one of the other security guys escorting him out of the building."

"Hmm." Taylor looked thoughtful. "Maybe Mr Anders expected him to be all adult and reasonable about it. You don't expect grown adults to do something stupid, especially when it's in their best interests not to."

"Until they do." Greg didn't have any personal experiences like that, but his mom had told him a couple of stories about her great-uncle Zeke. "But I'd've thought someone as smart as Mr Anders would be on top of something like that."

Taylor shook her head. "Everyone has their blind spots. I'm thinking Mr Anders knows Mr Ferguson from way back, and still sees him as the person he used to be. But Mr Ferguson already did something stupid—I mean, he joined the Empire, right? What's to say he's not about to do something else even more stupid? I mean, when I saw him, he was mad. Maybe mad enough not to care."

Greg knew that tone of voice. Taylor had ideas. "What are you going to do?"

"Well, I originally thought he might be a mole, but then I thought there was no way Mr Anders would have him in any positions of responsibility. Now, I'm not so sure, so I'm going to sniff around a little. See what pops up. If Mr Ferguson doesn't have any connections inside Medhall, we should be in the clear. But if he does …"

"Take it to Mr Anders?"

Taylor nodded. "Take it to Mr Anders."

"Oh, good." Greg heaved a mock sigh of relief. "I am so glad we're not going to try pulling off the plot of a Maggie Holt novel." He didn't subscribe to the idea that a bunch of plucky teens could do better than responsible adults in a situation like this, the entire young-adult novel genre to the contrary.

"Hey!" Taylor's grin showed that she was only kidding as she jabbed him with her elbow. "I happen to like those books, buster!"

"I like 'em too," Greg said defensively. He knew it wasn't as much as she did, but that didn't matter. "Well, now we've established that nobody's going to be doing anything silly, what do you think we should do? Hit the Market, or catch a movie?"

"Market." Taylor let Greg's hand go, but only so she could link her arm through his. "I want to see if the second-hand bookshops have anything new in."

"I'm down with that." Arm in arm, they headed off toward the bus stop.

<><>​

Anders Family Home

Kaiser

Max Anders leaned back in his ergonomic chair and gazed out his study window. The view wasn't as impressive as that from his office window in the Medhall building, but he had to share it with far fewer people. And to be honest, he preferred this one; it made him feel closer to his roots.

The week had been an interesting one, not to mention somewhat satisfying. Young Hebert had not disappointed him in the ad hoc training session he'd arranged with Bradley and Melody, and the new hire had assisted them competently. Bradley had reported that Taylor was coming along well; she'd apparently cleaned Tammi's clock, despite the teenage villain egregiously cheating during the training bout.

(Max would never admit out loud that he was highly amused by this outcome, but that was what being able to shut his office door was for.)

Veder had also shown up well. He'd thoroughly dominated Theo in their bout, but Max was of the opinion that a moderately determined housecat could probably achieve the same end. More tellingly, he'd approached the training with the same interest and focus that Max had come to expect from Taylor. She'd also taken him down when they were matched against each other (despite Veder having a few more training hours under his belt) but that match had reportedly been a lot closer.

All in all, Max was finding himself far more invested in the internship program than he'd ever thought he would be, when the accounting department had suggested it as a way to garner some tax breaks. Interns, in his experience, were gawky teens who had to be shown everything three times and watched like a hawk to ensure they didn't irretrievably jam the copy machine. (To be fair, that had essentially been Veder until he'd undergone a competence upgrade with Hebert's coaching.)

Now, Max found himself rather more in favour of it. Young Hebert had, in her time with Medhall, saved the company from potential losses of millions of dollars, not to mention averting the huge security risk of having Coil's moles on staff. She was smart, focused and impressively tenacious when it came to tracking down problems. Not for the first time, he wondered if there was any chance of diverting her interest toward Theo; with her at his son's side, Medhall would be unbeatable when Theo (eventually) inherited the company.

But no. Theo knew far too much about the Empire Eighty-Eight and its links with Medhall, and Taylor had too low an opinion of the Empire to be comfortable with knowing about that. If they ever ended up in a relationship, she would inevitably learn what Theo knew; Max had little faith in Theo's ability to keep a secret about something like that.

Better to maintain her in her current position: a rising star within the ranks of Medhall. And of course, to make use of her talents by ensuring no other moles crept into the ranks of the company. From everything he could see, her loyalty to the company had to be ironclad by now. As such, he had no qualms in issuing her the clearances she was going to need for the task ahead of her.

At the same time, he would insert a subtle test into the initial group of people she was to examine. Among the employee files he would have her audit would be one whose ties to the Empire could be located if one dug deeply enough. If she found it and reported it, that would tell him one thing; if she didn't report it, that would mean she'd failed to find it or didn't consider it worth reporting, either of which would tell him something else altogether.

Current indications were that if anyone could ensure that Medhall as a whole was working for Max Anders and only Max Anders, it was Taylor Hebert. But he still wanted to make sure for himself.

<><>​

Medhall Building, Monday Afternoon

Taylor

"Hi, Tracey." I put her coffee on her desk, then carried on to mine. "How's the arm?"

"Slowly mending." She took up the cup and sipped at it appreciatively. "I can't wait to get the cast off. It sucks, having to take the bus every day. I just don't feel confident enough to drive with it on."

"It'll happen soon enough." Pulling out my chair, I sat down then sipped at my own coffee. "So, what's happening today?"

"Today is something different." She tapped a thick Manila folder that was lying on her desk, which had a flash drive on top of it. "Mr Anders has apparently decided that it's time for you to actually earn your salary, instead of sitting around drinking coffee with me all day." The grin lurking on her lips would've told me that she was joking, even if the tone of her voice hadn't tipped me off.

"Okay, I'm listening." I got up from my desk and strolled over to examine the folder and the drive without touching them yet. "What is all this, and what do I need to do with it?"

"Employee files." Her tone had swung all the way over to 'serious' now. "It's a selection of people who are employed by Medhall. This is all the information we're legally allowed to hold on them. Mr Anders wants you to go through them with a fine-tooth comb and see if you can shake loose any improprieties at all."

I blinked, taken somewhat aback at the implications of what she'd just told me. "Wait … why me? And why am I looking at these people in particular? And am I even allowed to look at these files?"

Tracey sat forward in her chair. "Good questions. I asked much the same ones. You've been chosen for this because you've shown a superior talent for data analysis and pattern recognition. These people are in departments which have shown irregularities, and we want to find out if they're personally behind those irregularities. And the first page in the stack will be a document explaining all this which you need to sign, to verify that you're aware of the limits of your new clearances, before you can look at the actual files."

"Oh." I moved the drive aside and opened the folder, to reveal the document she'd mentioned. Reading it through went into a little more detail, but didn't reveal anything new, like what the people were suspected of doing. I supposed it wasn't part of my job to know that bit, just to find out what their electronic footprints revealed.

However, when I looked over the terms of my clearance for examining the activities of the employees, I found something interesting: I wasn't limited to looking at just the people in the folder. This, I suspected, was intended to allow me to follow up on potential conspiracies within Medhall, or maybe they were going to get me to audit more groups, and they didn't want to have to keep re-issuing specific clearances.

Either way, this opened a loophole for me and made my self-appointed task—checking on Ed Ferguson—much, much easier than I'd dared hope it would be. Of course, I still had all the other checks to make so I couldn't dive straight into that. I'd get to him when I could, though. Patience was a virtue and all that.

Trying not to let any of this show on my face, I nodded. "Okay, it all seems pretty straightforward."

"Excellent." Tracey smiled and offered me her pen. "Just sign on the dotted, and I'll witness it. Then you can make a start at untangling whatever these guys have done to cover their tracks. Have fun."

"Gee, thanks." I mock-rolled my eyes as I pretended to grumble. Inwardly, I was elated that Medhall—which meant Mr Anders—was showing me so much trust. I fully intended to prove that it was all warranted, by unearthing any problems Mr Ferguson was causing within the company and exposing them to the light of day.

Scribbling my signature, I handed the pen and document over to Tracey so she could do the same. Then I took up the folder and the drive, and headed back to my desk.

It was time to justify Medhall's faith in me.

<><>​

Tracey

It was lucky, Tracey reflected (not for the first time) that she'd broken her left arm and not her right. Re-learning how to use a mouse would've been time-consuming and irritating; it was bad enough having to type one-handed. Fortunately, Taylor had taken up the heavy lifting until Tracey was able to get her fingers freed from the cast and could type again. Not with as much grace and speed, and with a few more typos than before, but still a vast improvement over having just one hand to do it with.

The thought of her arm naturally led on to how she'd broken it, and tears filled her eyes as she remembered the last moments with Justin; his easy grin as he took the car up the road to the Captain's Hill lookout, and the warm feeling in her chest every time she looked at him. She'd gone from being on top of the world to hanging upside-down in terror and pain in what seemed to be a heartbeat. For more than twelve hours she'd been trapped, occasionally passing out from the pain and the awkward position, calling for help until her throat was raw and she couldn't do anything but cry.

Toward the end, she'd been ready to give up. All she had to do was reach her seat-belt clip and let gravity do its worst. But even in this she was foiled; her left arm was broken, and she couldn't reach the clip with her right hand. That had been when she saw the lights and heard the voices calling out, and known help was on the way. But only once Taylor had slithered into the confined space with her did she actually think she had a chance of survival.

They'd both lived through that ordeal by the skin of their collective teeth, but now she had to keep on living while Justin was gone.

Taking a tissue from her desk drawer, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then tried to focus on her work again. Ms Harcourt was probably making allowances for her trauma and current disability, but that wouldn't last forever. She had to get back on track and prove that she was still strong enough to make a difference in her position at Medhall.

"Okay, wow. Holy shit." Taylor's quiet exclamation drew her attention, and not just because of the swearing (though that had something to do with it). "Tracey, could you look at this, please? Tell me I'm not just seeing something that's not there?"

It was thoroughly unlike Taylor to ask for help needlessly, or to sound so uncertain. Grateful for the distraction, Tracey pushed her chair back and stood up. She was halfway over to Taylor's desk before she began to wonder if she was cleared to see what Taylor was talking about, but she dismissed that idea. She was Taylor's supervisor; it was literally her job to check on what Taylor was doing.

"Have you found something?" Rounding Taylor's desk, she leaned down to see what was on the screen.

"Yeah." Taylor sounded a little breathless, as though she'd been taken aback. "Most of the guys on the list came up clean on the first sweep, but I was going to go back over them in more detail. Then I hit this one, Kenny diAngelo. He's been arrested a few times for hate crimes … and his son's definitely a member of the Empire Eighty-Eight."

"His son?" Tracey's eyebrows rose. "It doesn't say anything about that there, just gives a name: Bronson."

Taylor turned to look at her, a serious expression on her face. "Yeah, but I go to school with Bronson diAngelo. He runs with Peter Ferguson, who literally tried to recruit me and Greg. Straight-up said that the Empire needs people like us, after Greg took down Shadow Stalker."

"Oh." She couldn't fault that logic. "Is that all you've found out?"

"Nope." Taylor clicked to another tab. "I used the connection to Peter Ferguson to open a query on his father Ed. Did you know Ed Ferguson is Mr Anders' brother-in-law? And that he works for another company which is still doing business with Medhall, even after I told Bradley about Peter being in the Empire?" She paused, looking like she wanted to eat her own words. "Uh … maybe I should ask you to forget that bit? Bradley told me and Greg that if the Empire found out people were talking about who was in the gang, it could get dangerous."

"No, no, it's good," Tracey hastened to assure her. "I'm not about to go running around telling everybody. So, what else have you found?" Inwardly, she was more than a little shocked at the revelations Taylor was piling on her plate, but for the most part she was proud that her protégé was doing so well. This was exactly what Mr Anders had needed her to do.

"Well, I decided to dig more into Mr Ferguson." Taylor's expression wasn't quite shifty, but Tracey got the impression that she'd made the decision before she found out about dAngelo, and this was just a useful excuse. "Mainly because I saw him in the Medhall building on Saturday, throwing an absolute tantrum in the men's room, and I couldn't figure out why."

"Why he was there, or why he was throwing a tantrum?" Tracey was learning new things all the time.

"Both, really." Taylor took a deep breath. "I mean, zero disrespect to Mr Anders, he's a fantastic businessman and an amazing boss, but he has trouble making judgements when it comes to his family, you know? Like, he has trouble understanding that Theo doesn't want any part of Medhall. That's not even a bad thing, really. It just means he's human like the rest of us, not Jesus in a three-piece suit. But what if Mr Ferguson has him convinced that this Empire thing is just Peter and not him, and he's got his hooks into Medhall, and he's trying to plant Empire people inside it? Kenny diAngelo's just the first one I found, and I haven't really gone in-depth with the others yet."

By now, Tracey's head was spinning. Taylor's analysis of Mr Anders' lack of judgement regarding family had come out of left field, but it all fitted together. Especially since his wife had left him not so long ago. "And what did you find out about Mr Ferguson?"

Taylor's expression was troubled. "I've found where chunks of money have been going missing, funnelled between Medhall and its subsidiaries. Starting with the company Mr Ferguson works for, I tried to follow them around, but I can't quite track where they've gotten to." She pointed to a spreadsheet on the screen. The figure her fingernail tapped on was substantial, enough to pay Tracey's salary for several years. "What if some or all of these subsidiaries have been taken over by the Empire, and they're using their contacts inside Medhall to launder money for them?"

"That's … um, that's kind of scary." Tracey felt the hairs on the back of her neck begin to stand up as she considered the enormity of what Taylor was suggesting. "I really think at this point you should step back and hand it over to people who can do something about it."

"But I can keep digging. There's more to be found, I'm sure—"

"No." More sure of herself now, Tracey shook her head. "It's almost three, anyway. Time for you to pack up and head home. I'll keep looking at what you've got here, and see if you've got enough data to bother the higher-ups with."

"Oh." Taylor hesitated before getting up. "I mean, I don't mind staying another few minutes—"

Once more, Tracey cut her off. "No. Volunteering for unpaid overtime sets a bad precedent. Shoo, shoo. I'll let you know how it all comes out on Wednesday."

"Okay." Taylor stood up and stretched; Tracey heard her vertebrae popping back into place. "Have a good afternoon. See you then."

"See you then." Sliding into Taylor's now-empty chair, she waved as the teen scooped up the backpack and headed out into the corridor. "Now, let's see what we've got here …"

Within moments, she was deep in the rabbit-hole, following the tracks Taylor had already laid down.

<><>​

Winslow, Tuesday Morning

Taylor

The moment I got off the bus, I saw Greg. He was leaning against the side of the steps, arms folded, with a too-cool-for-school attitude that he could never have pulled off just a few months ago. The funny thing was, I didn't even think he was going for that look. It was just the impression he gave off. I figured that between dating me and getting those self-defence lessons, he'd gotten a huge confidence boost, and it showed.

He saw me and straightened up as I came over to him. "Hey, Taylor."

"Hey yourself, Greg." I kissed him on the cheek and took his hand. "What's new with you?"

"Nothing much, except that I got a weird text message from a strange number sometime last night, and I only found it this morning." He pulled his phone out and woke it up. I had just enough time to notice that the home screen was now a photo of me instead of Alexandria in a bikini before he brought up the message.

I leaned in close to read the single word: Mice.

"Okay, yeah, that's weird," I agreed. "Did you reply?"

He shook his head. "Nope. I've heard all sorts of crap about people spamming random cell-phone numbers and if you reply they start bombarding you with Nigerian prince emails and Viagra ads."

I took a second look at the text message; or rather, the number. It looked familiar. Very familiar, in fact. "Wait, that's Tracey's phone number. She made me memorise it after Emma pretended she was me that one time."

"And how did she get my number?" Greg raised his eyebrows. "This is gonna be a good one, I can tell."

"I don't own a phone, you know that." I turned my hands palm-upward. "I gave her your number for if she needs to contact me during school hours."

He nodded judiciously. "Okay, that's fair. Once you're at Arcadia, that's gonna have to change, of course."

"Thanks for the reminder." We started up the stairs. "But that still doesn't explain why she sent that to you. I mean, even if it's meant for me, I don't know what it means."

"So, it's not some little in-joke between you? You know, cats, mice, dogs, whatever?"

"No." I rubbed my chin, thinking hard. "Unless …"

"Unless …?" he prompted, clearly interested.

"That thing I told you about on the bus, and said not to talk to anyone else about, at all, ever? Remember that?" With pre-Medhall Greg, I would never have even considered sharing a confidence like that. The interval between promising to tell nobody and then blabbing it out as stream of consciousness would've been less than five minutes. But with post-clue-Greg, that just wouldn't happen.

He nodded once, briefly. "That thing, yes. I remember. What about it?"

I didn't like where my imagination was taking me. "You know what mice do? They tunnel. They undermine. They weaken. They infest."

From the way his eyes widened, he got the message loud and clear. "So, you think she's saying Mr … uh, the talking horse, has a lot of influence that he shouldn't have with his, uh, echoey friends, in the place we work?"

Greg and I were very much on the same wavelength these days, so it wasn't hard to decipher what he was saying. Ed Ferguson and the Empire Eighty-Eight have infiltrated Medhall more deeply than I thought. "Yeah, that's what I'm thinking."

He glanced down at his phone, which was still in his hand. "Should … should we do something? Tell someone? Or reply?"

I'd been thinking about that myself, and I shook my head. "No. Yesterday afternoon, she told me she was going to send it up the line once she'd figured out how deep the rot went. I figure this is her way of letting me know I was right, and that she's doing something about it. No doubt I'll get the full story on Wednesday about how they cleaned it out."

Greg grinned. "And then Mr Anders will steal your coffee again."

I wrinkled my nose at him. "Not funny." Though to be honest, it actually kind of was.

"Great." He heaved a sigh. "So now I'm going to have to pretend to be surprised when they make a fuss over you on Wednesday. You movie star, you."

I elbowed him, but gently. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Suuure you didn't."

"I didn't!"

"Uh huh."

"You're laughing at me, aren't you?"

"Mayyybe."

<><>​

Cafeteria, Midday

Greg

They'd gotten lunchtime down to a fine art. Each day they took turns getting in line and acquiring lunch for both, while the other person snagged a table and waited. Today was Greg's turn to meander his way through the line, and he made sure to grab things he knew Taylor liked.

"Hey," she greeted him when he got back to the table. "Ooh, thanks. Just what I wanted."

"You're welcome." He sat down next to her and nudged the tray in her direction. "So, is it just me or is World Affairs actually becoming more tolerable?"

Taylor peeled her banana while she thought about that. "Well, it's less of a popularity contest than it used to be, with Madison and Julia keeping their heads down since Gladly laid down the law. And I haven't had anything nasty on my seat in forever."

"What I was thinking." Greg shook up his chocolate milk and popped a straw in through the side. "I still can't believe how much I tried to hang off those … those … argh." He shook his head, unable to think of a word for Madison and her friends that was bad enough but still wouldn't offend Taylor.

"Hey." She put her hand on his. "We all make mistakes. And talking about mistakes … have you seen Peter?" She hooked her head sideways.

"Uh, no?" Greg had been carefully not looking in the direction of the table where Peter and his hangers-on usually sat. "Is he back at school already? I thought he'd been given more suspension time or something when he didn't show up on Monday."

"Not suspended, no. Check it out."

Intrigued by Taylor's tone, Greg glanced in that direction as casually as he could manage. One glance was enough; not only was everyone at that table carefully not looking toward his and Taylor's table, but Peter … was a mess. His hair was neatly combed and his clothing as stylish as ever, but his face showed distinct signs of having been beaten to a pulp. Someone who knew what they were doing had worked him over like a piñata.

"Jeez," Greg murmured, turning his attention back to his meal. "I did not do that to him. Wish I had, though," he added on further reflection.

"Yeah, I know." Taylor took a bite of her banana. Once she'd swallowed it, she kept talking. "That happened after the meeting with Blackwell. Maybe he poked his nose where it didn't belong over the weekend, and some minority or other handed him his ass on a silver platter?"

That made sense. "Yeah, probably." Greg took a drink of his chocolate milk. "All I can say is, couldn't have happened to a nicer asshole." He kind of wished he'd been there, to award points for style, and maybe catch it on camera.

Taylor grinned at him as she picked up her pita wrap. "There's no way I'm going to argue with that."

<><>​

End of Math Class

Taylor

I left the classroom with my homework done, which was something I was finding easier and easier to achieve these days. Emma's absence was a major factor in this; since Mr Barnes had pulled her from the school, she couldn't get in my ear and distract me. And without her or Sophia around, and Madison and Julia profoundly unwilling to stir the pot, nobody else cared enough to bother me.

Greg was coming from Computer Studies, so we met outside the library as usual. The plan was to wander out of the school and talk for a while before we took our different buses home. No big hurry.

As soon as I saw him, I knew something was wrong. He looked about two shades paler, clutching his phone like a lifeline. "Greg," I said, going over and grabbing his hand. "What's up? Has something happened?"

"Yeah." He squeezed my hand like he never wanted to let go. "Come on, there's something I've got to tell you, and we need to be in private."

"What? Why?" A nameless dread began to creep over me. "Greg, tell me what's going on."

He stopped to look me full in the eye, and what I saw in his expression stilled my questions. "I'll tell you once we're away from everyone. Come on."

Wordlessly, I followed him away from the general crowd, around the corner of the school to a quiet spot. The last time I'd seen him look so grim and purposeful had been … when he was fighting Peter's friends. This did not bode well for whatever he wanted to tell me.

"Okay," I said once we stopped. "We're away from everyone. Now spill."

He took a deep breath. "I saw it on the news just as I was coming out of class." Tapping his phone to wake up the screen, he handed it over to me.

Numbly, I took it. It showed a news article about a single-car accident the previous evening, where the car had crashed and burned. The lone occupant had died at the site, in the fire. She had been identified as one Tracey Grimshaw, employed by the Medhall corporation.

Tracey …

I swayed on my feet as my head went light. My feet felt a thousand miles away, disconnected from me. Greg caught me before I fell, and steadied me. "No," I whispered, or maybe screamed. I couldn't tell. "No. It's not true. It can't be."

Tracey …

Tracey had taken me under her wing from my first day at Medhall. She'd been the first to see me as more than just another cog in the machine, and she'd listened to my problems without judgement. When Emma and her friends did their level best to sabotage my job prospects, she'd had enough faith to listen to my side of things, and she'd even taken my case to Ms Harcourt and gotten the clothing replaced.

Tracey …

Tracey had been a good person. She hadn't deserved to die like that. She hadn't deserved to die at all. Working at Medhall had been interesting, but she'd made it fun.

Why the hell does shit like this have to keep happening to me?

I gradually became aware that I was sitting down on the patchy grass with Greg kneeling awkwardly beside me. While I wasn't bawling my eyes out, I was sobbing quietly, with tears streaming down my face. He offered me a handkerchief and I wiped my eyes and blew my nose, but the tears just kept coming. Taking me into his arms, he held me close while I cried on his shoulder.

Life just wasn't fair. Between my job and my boyfriend, I'd forgotten that for a while, but if there was one thing I could count on the universe for, it was to remind me where I stood in relation to karma.

<><>​

The Office of Max Anders

Medhall Building

"And you're sure the Hebert girl doesn't know anything about this?" Max leaned forward in his chair. He wanted a positive response, Victor knew he wanted a positive response, but his subordinate also knew he wanted honesty above all else.

"Totally." Even wheelchair-bound, Victor emanated an air of confidence. "I've watched the security footage of her leaving. Taylor's the sort of girl who wears her heart on her sleeve, especially since she started dating the Veder kid. If she'd had the slightest idea who we really were, there's no way she would've danced out of here like that. Every single one of her tells says she had not a care in the world."

"Good." Max relaxed into the chair again. "So Grimshaw was telling the truth about that, at least. What else did you get out of her?"

"That she was following up on the investigation Taylor started. Taylor went from Kenny diAngelo to his son Bronson to Peter Ferguson to Ed Ferguson, picked out that you're his brother-in-law, then noted that Ferguson's firm still does business with us. That's as far as she got before she went home." Victor raised his eyebrows, communicating quite effectively that Max's ploy of inserting an obvious member of the Empire Eighty-Eight into the audit folder had been what had almost screwed the pooch for them this time. "While she did find the under-the-table cash flow, she thought it was totally Ferguson's doing, infiltrating the subsidiaries and using Medhall to launder Empire cash."

"Well, she's a damn bright kid, you have to admit that." Max raised his glass in a mock toast. "All she was missing was that one last bit of information." The information that Tracey Grimshaw had found and taken to Ms Harcourt. "Fortunately, we've managed to instil enough loyalty in her that she didn't even consider the other explanation." Max felt quite proud of himself for that. Who would've thought that helping out a teenage intern—even one who'd managed to impress Ms Harcourt—would have such far-reaching implications? Damn, I'm good.

Victor nodded to concede the point. "Talking about loyalty, were you even aware Harcourt was one of us?"

"Well, she isn't, as far as I can tell." Max took a sip from his glass. "She's just … dedicated to Medhall. The impression I got was that she's known who we really are for years but she doesn't care." It had come as a shock to him, too. "Her loyalty is to the company, and if we go down, it does too."

"I can see that, I suppose. Lucky break twice over, then." Victor essayed a grin. "We live a charmed life, it seems. Two bullets dodged in the same day. Of course, you do know whose fault it is that we were even in this situation, don't you?"

Max frowned. "Don't even start. What's the point in having a resource like her mind on staff without using it to its full potential?"

"Oh, no. Not you." Victor waved his hand in denial. "Young Ferguson. If he hadn't harassed Hebert and Veder, she wouldn't have followed the lead through to his father. And we wouldn't have had to disappear Grimshaw."

"That all worked out okay, at least?" Max was reasonably sure of this, but he wanted to make certain.

"Like clockwork." Victor nodded to emphasise his point. "The boys grabbed a streetwalker of around the right age and body type and brought her into the clinic. Diane did a couple of quick X-rays for dental records and swapped them out for Grimshaw's, then they snapped her arm, put her in Grimshaw's car and lit her up. With the bits of Grimshaw's cast in the car as well, the autopsy will just be a matter of ticking the boxes, especially if the coroner gets a little financial incentive to ignore anything out of the ordinary."

"Good, good." Max drew a deep breath; it was time to confront the elephant in the room. "And you don't know who she contacted before Harcourt got the phone away from her?" It was the only reason Tracey Grimshaw wasn't dead for real.

"No." Victor's jaw muscles bunched as he grimaced. "Harcourt says Grimshaw only got off a word or two before she noticed, and then they were struggling for the phone. Grimshaw managed to push her away just long enough to brick it, and I still haven't been able to recover the body of the text or who it was for."

"Well, we know it wasn't to Taylor, which is one good thing." Max was fully aware that the girl didn't own a cell-phone, which was an odd quirk for a teenager, but entirely welcome in this situation. "If nobody comes sniffing around asking odd questions in the next week or so, make Grimshaw vanish altogether."

"Copy that." Victor turned the chair and started for the door. "Well, you still have your girl wonder on staff, and that's what really matters."

"Very true." Max finished the bourbon as the door closed behind Victor. The Tracey Grimshaw hiccup aside, things were looking up for Medhall.

<><>​

On the Bus

Taylor

"No." I shook my head again. "I refuse to believe it. It can't be true." My eyes were still swollen, but I'd stopped crying and my head was clear again.

Greg shrugged helplessly. It wasn't his normal bus home, but he'd said he would see me to my door, and there wasn't much I could do to stop him. Not that I really wanted to. "Taylor, they said they identified her. It was her car. She was driving. It wasn't reported as stolen. That's as open-and-shut as things get. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, that's the trouble." I jabbed at his phone screen where it mentioned her car. "Tracey said just yesterday that she was taking the bus until her arm healed, because she didn't feel confident about driving with her cast. Do you honestly think she would've gotten in her car on the same day she said that to me?"

He blinked. "… oh."

"Yeah, oh." I drew a deep breath. "That wasn't an accident. Tracey was murdered. And I think I know who did it."

"Who?" Greg was staring at me like he'd never seen me before.

It was plainly obvious to me. "Ed fucking Ferguson. He found out we were looking into him, and somehow got to her." I clenched my fists. "Well, he might think he's some big shot in the Empire and that he's untouchable as Mr Anders' brother-in-law, but he's not getting away with it. Not this time."

Greg blinked. "So … what are we going to do?"

"I don't know yet. But I'll think of something."



End of Part Seventeen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Eighteen: Threads

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



12:17 Wednesday Morning

Taylor

The dream was horrible. I hated it. Tracey was stuck in the car and I was climbing down to save her, but the more I climbed, the farther away the car got. And the worst part was, Tracey was calling out for help, and I couldn't reach her.

Over and over, the dream restarted, and Tracey called out to me every time. I'm so sorry, I desperately shouted at her in the dream. I'm trying. In befuddled dream logic, I kind of knew that I was failing her, but the whys and wherefores escaped me at the moment.

Just when I was about to figure it out, I fell off the cliff.

Waking up involved me landing on my bedside rug. It was a hell of a shock for me; still tangled in my sheets, I had no idea which way was up, or where Tracey had gone, or anything. Reality seeped into my head as I struggled and cried out, but I only really figured out what was going on when the bedroom light came on.

"Taylor!" Dad said, kneeling down beside me. "Are you okay? What happened?"

I rubbed my eyes and shook my head to dispel the last of the nightmare. "Had a bad dream," I mumbled. "About Tracey."

"Oh, Taylor." He helped me unwind the sheets from myself, then hugged me. "I'm so sorry. Did you want to stay home tomorrow? Uh, today?"

Sure, I wanted to. But there was too much I had to do. And it would be my last day at Winslow with Greg, and I didn't want to do that to him.

I got up and headed into the bathroom to splash water on my face. Feeling a little refreshed, I went back to bed, rearranged the covers so they were on the bed again, and tried to settle back down. I did get to sleep, in the end, but it took a while.

<><>​

Winslow

Greg

When Taylor's bus pulled to a stop and everyone started getting off, he straightened up from where he'd been leaning against the wall and took a few steps forward. He liked meeting her before class and catching up on the gossip, and it pained him that this would be the last time they'd do it.

They would remain a couple—she'd been extremely clear about that—but their time together would necessarily be limited to Medhall and weekends. Friday afternoons would be all theirs, of course, because they'd meet up at work and go from there.

He knew he was going to miss hanging out like this before class, and that was the least of it. Heading to the cafeteria with her for lunch had become the highlight of his day, especially with her snarky commentary on Gladly's class and discussion of whatever book or movie caught their fancy.

He'd read more books (as opposed to graphic novels) since they'd become friends than ever before in his life.

Finally, he spotted her in the crowd and went over to her. She looked great, as always, but there were bags under her eyes and a hollowness to her cheeks that didn't look good. "Hey, you," he said, then lowered his voice. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, mostly." She put her arm through his and leaned against him. "Can we just go someplace quiet, please?"

He nodded, pleased he could help. "I know just the place."

<><>​

Taylor

Greg did indeed know just the place, for which I was grateful.

At this time in the morning, there wasn't anyone smoking on the roof. How he'd known that would be the case, I didn't exactly worry about. I hadn't made a habit of going up there myself; I'd snuck up to eat my lunch in peace a couple of times, but the smell of cheap cigarette smoke and the way conversation had fallen silent had put me off.

Nobody had been so blatant as to bring up actual chairs to sit on, but there was a board laid over a couple of cinderblocks, and I was happy enough to sit on that. Greg sat beside me, his gaze silently concerned. I sighed and leaned against him, balancing my backpack on my knees. The last thing I wanted to do was accidentally carry a couple of the sad and sorry cigarette butts littering the area down into the school on the bottom of my pack, and be accused of smoking literally on my last day.

"Bad dreams," I said, in response to his unasked question. "About Tracey."

"Ah," he said, in tones of comprehension. And I knew damn well that he did actually understand. "You knew her better than I did. She was nice, wasn't she?"

Tears welled in my eyes, but I refused to cry. If I went into class with swollen eyes and a runny nose, the rumour mill would be churning out the most godawful theories before second period. Besides, I needed to talk it out.

"Yeah, she was." I accepted his silent offer of a handkerchief, wiped my eyes, and blew my nose. "She took me under her wing, gave me work, then trusted me to do it. When Emma tried to pull that shit pretending to be me, as soon as I called, she understood and believed what I was saying. And she even got me more of those clothes from Beautiful Me when Emma and her asshole friends stole the first lot."

"I totally get that." He put his arm around me and gave me a comforting hug. "She sounds like a great boss."

"She was the best." Leaning over, I blew my nose on his handkerchief again, then put my head on his shoulder. "I can't believe she's gone."

He squeezed me gently. "So, you think you can find out what's going on with this whole fake car accident thing?"

The question made me straighten up, anger replacing grief. "Yeah. However she ended up in that car, whoever put here there, the trail starts in Medhall. And if anyone knows how to sniff around inside Medhall's systems, it's me." I was totally going to find who killed Tracey, and then I was going to sic Max Anders and the entire white-hot fury of Medhall on them.

"And there's the Taylor I know and love," he said; even without looking, I could tell there was a grin on his face. "You know I've got your back in all this, right?"

"I know." I gave him his handkerchief back; I didn't need it anymore. "And thanks. I needed that reminder."

"Anytime." Just then, the home-room bell went off and he bounced to his feet. "Whoop! Don't want to be late for your last day at this glorious institute of mediocre education."

"This 'glorious institute' can die in a fire," I growled. Far too many of my troubles could be laid at the theoretical feet of Winslow High School, and the actual feet of the teachers and students that infested it.

But I had met Greg there, so that was a bonus.

He grinned again as I got up. "Not arguing."

<><>​

Just After Midday

Greg

He wasn't sure about the expression on Taylor's face as the bus pulled away from the stop. She didn't look relieved so much as contemplative.

"What's on your mind?" he asked. This was one of the many good things about having Taylor as a girlfriend. Asking her a straight question got a straight answer.

"I was just thinking … I'm never going to see that place again, at least not as a student." She leaned back against the seat, looking up at the ceiling of the bus. "There's not much I'm going to miss about it, apart from World Affairs and lunchtime with you, but it's weird to think I'll never do any of that again. Computers with Mrs Knott. Math with Mr Quinlan. It's something that's been a huge part of my life for nearly two years, and now it's just … gone."

Greg nodded. He'd never really been in that kind of situation himself, but he could kind of imagine it. "I guess it would be like if we suddenly stopped working at Medhall tomorrow, except in a good way."

"Yeah, exactly that." Taylor sat up and booped him on the nose with her forefinger. "It's like I'm having this huge chunk of me just … excised, and I'm left wondering why I'm twenty pounds lighter."

"What, like cancer?" he jibed.

She snorted. "Exactly."

"You'll still have Arcadia to deal with," he reminded her. "Though I hear it's pretty good. They say the ABB doesn't even recruit there."

Taylor snorted. "I'll be happy with no gang fights behind the school."

He frowned thoughtfully. "I doubt that happens either. PHO rumour is that the Wards go to school there. I can't see them letting shit like that slide."

"Unless they didn't want to out themselves?" Taylor shrugged. "It might become an issue if Arcadia suddenly started showing a one-minute Wards response time whenever anything bad happened." She rolled her eyes. "And besides, they had a Ward at Winslow. That didn't do shit to keep the gangs in check."

"In fairness, Shadow Stalker was kind of a Ward-in-name-only," Greg mused. "I honestly think she was in it more for the 'being allowed to hurt people and get praised for it' aspect than the actual 'helping people and doing good' part. Just my impression."

"Ward-in-name-only? W-I-N-O?" Taylor smirked. "Would a superhero in name only be a SINO or a SHINO?"

Greg chuckled. "At the risk of sounding crude, if she'd graduated to the Protectorate, she'd be a PINO." He pronounced it 'peeno', causing her to roll her eyes.

Then her smirk morphed into a grin. "Well, she definitely was a bit of a dick. Anyway, I'd call her a hero-especially-in-name-only, ultra-skeevy, because she was pretty heinous."

It took him a second to get it, then he groaned. "And I thought your dad's jokes were terrible."

She preened. "I learned from the best."

<><>​

Medhall Building

Taylor

The banter and silly jokes with Greg were a welcome distraction on the bus ride, otherwise I would probably have gone back to brooding about Tracey. It wasn't fair! First she lost Justin, and then someone abducted and killed her as well!

I honestly would've suspected Sophia for that one too, except Dad had made some phone calls and established that she was still firmly under lock and key, with visual checks every hour. I gathered that following the Medhall debacle, the PRT wasn't taking any chances with her getting away. Their public image had already been tarnished enough; they didn't want it to drop any further into the toilet.

Which meant, with Sophia out of the frame, I only had one other person to pin it on.

Ed Ferguson.

Whatever bushes Tracey had shaken to get his attention, and rate her abduction and murder, I was also going to have to ferret through. I had no idea how he'd grabbed her, unless it was as she was leaving the building to catch the bus. He could likely try that with me as well … unless I asked Bradley or Brian to walk out with me and Greg. And if I found rock-solid proof that he'd done it, I'd take that straight to Max Anders, and Ed Ferguson would soon have a lot more to worry about than one teenaged intern.

We got off the bus and headed up the stairs to the front doors. By mutual silent agreement, we'd brought along the black armbands we'd worn in Justin's memory. It gutted me that we were having to use them again so soon, but I felt Tracey would be pleased that we were using the same ones.

Brian was on the front desk, looking as impressively muscular as ever. He nodded pleasantly to two people coming through in front of us, then smiled when he saw us. "Taylor," he said warmly. "Greg. Good to see you." He paused, his eyes flicking to our armbands. "Uh … am I missing something?"

Greg gave me the sidelong glance that meant 'go ahead, I got this', then headed over to the desk as I went through the security arch. It didn't buzz for me, of course, and I caught fragments of what Greg was saying. Brian nodded, looking suddenly solemn, and I found myself unaccountably irritated that his higher-ups hadn't clued him in that someone from the company had been murdered overnight.

"If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know," he said, and I knew he meant it. I could tell just from looking at him that he was one of the good guys.

If he'd been at Winslow when I was being bullied, he wouldn't have been one of the people looking the other way and pretending they didn't see it happening. That just wasn't Brian. From what I'd seen of him, he would've been in there kicking ass, especially when Peter Ferguson and the Hitler Youth came after us.

I nodded. "Thanks." It was nice to know that someone had my back, even if I didn't need the help right then. I'd gone so long without anyone being in my corner, and now I had everyone backing me up.

Greg and I stepped into the lift together, and I hit the buttons for each of our floors. We didn't talk much on the way up, each of us involved in our own thoughts as we were, but our silence was companionable rather than awkward. I got out on my floor and headed by habit to Tracey's office, but once I got there, I had no idea what to do.

I'd been making these grand plans in my head, but in the cold hard light of reality, I knew I couldn't just go ahead with them. I was on Medhall's dime now, and they would surely expect me to actually do some work instead of investigate a murder. The best I could do, I supposed, was find out what they wanted of me then see if I could work my other stuff in around that.

With a nod to myself, I turned to go toward Ms Harcourt's office, then paused in thought. Tracey's boss valued initiative, and this wasn't my first unsupervised day in this building. Heading into the kitchenette, I set up a cup of coffee the way Ms Harcourt liked it—I'd jotted a note to myself to that effect and left it on the fridge—and spent the time until it was ready making sure I was presentable.

With coffee in hand, I went back down the corridor to Ms Harcourt's office. She was clearly a busy woman and, although I had no illusions about being able to fill Tracey's shoes, I figured I could take some of that load off her shoulders. After all, they were actually paying me a full salary now, so it was only fair that I do something to earn it.

Pausing before the dreaded portal, I knocked twice.

"Enter." Her voice wasn't any more forbidding than normal, as far as I could tell. Hopefully I hadn't come at a bad time. Well, a worse time than normal.

I turned the handle and opened the door. Ms Harcourt looked me over as I entered. "Miss Hebert. I expected you three minutes ago."

"Yes, ma'am. I made coffee, ma'am." She didn't already have a cup on her desk, so I'd guessed correctly.

"Ah." She didn't say any more than that, but she allowed me to place the cup on her desk. "Thank you. Until a replacement can be found for Ms Grimshaw, you will be working in her workspace. Is that going to be a problem?" The subtext, as far as I could tell, was that if it was a problem, she'd find some other place for me that was unlikely to be as comfortable, such as an unused utility closet.

I stiffened my spine. "No problem, ma'am." Or rather, while it was all too probable that I'd find the memories of Tracey in her workspace to be unpleasantly sharp from time to time, there was unlikely to be anyone there to supervise me, and I wasn't sure if I was up to adapting to a new boss right that very second.

"Good." There was a large Manila envelope on her desk; placing two fingers on it, she slid it across to me. "A continuation of the audit process. If anything appears to be unusual, make a note of it and bring it to me at the end of your work day. However, if you find something that seems likely to affect Medhall directly, contact me immediately. Is that understood?"

"Totally, ma'am." I took up the envelope, and felt an oblong lump that I guessed was a flash drive in there as well. "Am I expected to complete these today?"

Her expression was almost unreadable, but I thought I detected a hint of approval. "You are expected to complete them when you complete them. When you are finished, return the results to me."

"Thank you, ma'am. I'll, uh, I'll get to work, shall I?" I absolutely, desperately, did not want to turn my back on her and walk out when she still had stuff to tell me. Nor did I want to stand there like a stuffed dummy, waiting to be dismissed.

"Yes. I will call through when I need anything from you. I hope you've been working on your telephone presentation." Translation: 'get it right this time'.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am." I turned and walked steadily from the office, carefully closing the door behind me. Well, she didn't yell at me for stopping to make coffee, so I'll count that as a win.

Clutching the envelope like a lifeline, I headed back to where Tracey and I had spent so much time chatting and working. The first thing I did was start another cup of coffee brewing. While the machine was still burbling, I sat down at the desk and opened the envelope.

I'd been right; along with the paper files was a flash drive, no doubt containing extraneous information about the people named in the files. I restrained myself from gulping nervously. Here I was, a teenager, and they were trusting me to vet actual adults who had been with them far longer than I had.

It was one hell of a responsibility.

I leafed through the files, getting first impressions while keeping half an ear out for the coffee maker. Nothing seemed to jump out at me, though I knew how deceptive that could be. I hadn't spotted those moles the first time until I compared their social security numbers. Aside from that, they'd looked perfectly mundane.

Once the coffee machine had worked its magic, I went and poured myself a cup, then came back to the desk and started work in earnest.

About five minutes in, I ran into an unexpected snag. There were a few things about the first guy I wasn't sure about, so I was going a little deeper into his employment history when one of my queries hit a wall. Instead of popping up a new window in response to hitting the Enter key, it instead generated a text box. ENTER USERNAME AND PARAMETERS OF SEARCH QUERY.

Well, that was something new. I remembered, on Monday, skating straight past that particular set of search screens while looking into Ed Ferguson. And now I had to ask permission to go deeper?

This was potentially problematic, but I didn't give up my plans immediately. There were ways and means around that sort of thing, not least because humans were fallible … and nobody seemed to have touched Tracey's desk yet.

Dutifully, I entered my username then typed in the basic description of what I was looking for. Either someone was really on the ball, or they'd automated it and were checking to see who went past a certain level, because the authorisation popped up almost immediately. A moment later, I figured it out, and wanted to facepalm: Ed Ferguson, or whoever had found out Tracey was looking into him, had evidently been in the system, so they were working to trace whoever was going where they shouldn't.

Well, it was good to see they were doing something, though I intended to see things through from my end anyway. Ed Ferguson was a clear and present danger to Medhall, and I wasn't going to let that stand. This was now a matter of pride; Medhall security might be on the case, but I was going to get there first.

The check on the guy's previous employers showed nothing of any particular interest, but I was only just getting warmed up. Once I'd given his file a thorough check, I started on the next one, keeping notes on minor things that might line up. Once again, when I got to a certain level of query, I hit the same request for authorisation to continue. I complied again, of course.

One by one, I worked through each of them. Nothing of a dramatic nature had showed up by the time the phone at my elbow rang. Mindful of Ms Harcourt's warning, I carefully answered. "Good afternoon, Taylor Hebert speaking. How may I help you?"

Ms Harcourt spoke crisply and firmly. "Very good, Ms Hebert. Bring me a cup of coffee, then I will be requiring you to hand-deliver an envelope for me."

"Yes, ma'am," I replied. "I'll be there soon."

Never one for extraneous verbiage, she ended the call on that note, and I put the phone down myself. After jotting down a reminder for myself so I'd know where I'd been up to, I got up and made the cup of coffee for Ms Harcourt.

Again, I trod the length of the corridor to her office and knocked. Her "Enter!" was as curt as ever, but she nodded approvingly when I bore the coffee into the room.

"Thank you," she said. "Take this envelope up to Max Anders' office." Not even by a gesture or a quirk of her expression did she ask if I knew where it was. If I didn't know that by now, I would not have been the girl she'd hired on.

"Yes, ma'am." I took the envelope. It held a stack of papers, and was held shut with one of those cool string fasteners. "Was there anything else, ma'am?"

She looked at me for a moment. "You haven't called me about anything dangerous to the company, but have you located anything problematic at all?"

I thought back to the little I had discovered. "It'll be in my report, ma'am, but all I've found so far is that three of them lied about some of their employment before entering Medhall, and one may be concealing a minor drug habit, if I'm interpreting his absences correctly."

Her eyebrows rose fractionally. "I shall be interested in looking at your conclusions." There was a minor pause. "Well, don't let me keep you." The dismissal was clear.

I nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Heading for the elevator, I kept a firm grip on the envelope. Whatever Ms Harcourt wanted to convey to Mr Anders, it had to be too important and too sensitive for the inter-building mail service to courier from one office to another, or even to put in an email. Was I curious? Sure. But was I even tempted to open it and see what it was all about? Hell no.

To my surprise, when I stepped into the lift, Greg was there, wearing his Medhall maintenance gear and carrying an impressively large flashlight. Given that I had a screenshot of him wearing that same gear while knocking Sophia ass over teakettle with a fire extinguisher, I thought he looked very cool indeed wearing it.

"Oh, hi," he said with a blink of surprise. "What's happening, Tay?"

"Nothing much." I gave him a grin as I punched the button for the top floor. "Just the normal high-flying business life of a Medhall intern. Where are you headed?"

"Hey, I'm a Medhall intern too, I'll have you know," he retorted, then returned my grin. "Someone up on the seventeenth floor is complaining that the HVAC isn't working right, so I get to go and see if we can fix it or if we need to pull in an actual qualified repair guy. Whee."

"He also serves who fixes the air ducting," I reminded him. "Looking forward to next Saturday?"

"You know it." There was a lot we weren't saying, but we didn't need to say it out loud. I hadn't seen any cameras in the elevator, but if the doors opened at the wrong time and someone caught the two interns saying or doing something inappropriate, I was absolutely sure that Something Would Be Said. As my dad had once said, the best way not to get caught doing something wrong was to not do it.

"I liked Theo. He's shy, but a nice guy underneath all that," I mused. So as not to speak ill of the absent, I didn't speak the next bit out loud, but Greg and I knew each other well by now. He nodded as he heard what went unsaid: Tammi, not so much.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Greg glanced away from my face to look at the lit-up floor indicator. "Whups, this is my floor. See you around, Tay."

"See you, Greg." I waved as the doors closed, then rode the rest of the way up to the top floor.

As I approached Mr Anders' office, his secretary nodded to me. "Miss Hebert? Go right in, he's expecting you."

"Thank you." I nodded to her, still a little weirded out by how accepted I was in Medhall, even by the boss's secretary, whom I was almost certain I'd never met before. Stepping past her desk, I knocked once then opened the door. "Mr Anders? It's Taylor Hebert."

"Ah, Taylor." Max Anders, immaculate in a three-piece suit that would've cost more than our car—maybe more than Alan Barnes' car—rose from behind his desk and came around it to meet me. "You made good time. It's good to see you again, although it always seems to be under less-than-ideal circumstances. How are you holding up?" His expression was the epitome of concern.

"I've been better, but I'll be okay, I guess. Thank you for asking." I held the packet out to him. "This is from Ms Harcourt."

"Ah, yes." He nodded as he accepted it from me. "Formidable lady. I honestly don't know what Medhall would do without her."

I didn't know how to answer that, or even if it had been addressed as a question rather than a comment. "Was there anything else, sir?"

"No, no, you're fine." He waved his hang negligently. "Back to work, Miss Hebert."

"Thank you, sir." I turned and left, closing the door carefully behind me. I had more work ahead of me before I could start on my own project.

<><>​

Kaiser

Seating himself behind his desk again, Max idly tossed the envelope to one side—it contained reports, but nothing of substance—and tapped a button on his laptop. "So, what do you think?"

Victor's face appeared on the screen. "I still think having Veder in the elevator at the same time was trying too hard. She's very sharp; I doubt she'd do anything stupid in an elevator, even one without visible cameras."

Max shrugged. "Teenagers do stupid things all the time. They're known for it." His lips tightened as he thought about Theo's transgressions. "Especially if they want to impress their boyfriend or girlfriend."

"Not Hebert." Victor chuckled. "I'll give you one guess as to who wears the pants in that relationship, and it isn't him. She doesn't need to do jack to impress him. That's already been achieved."

"I do see your point." Max picked up the envelope and examined the string with which it was held closed. "How about outside the elevator? When she was alone in the corridor? Did she try to sneak a peek?"

"Not even a little bit," Victor admitted. "In the footage we've got, all her body language is focused on one thing. Getting that envelope to you. And pride that she was given the responsibility to do so."

"So, she's not the one working with Grimshaw against us, then." Max wasn't sure if he should be relieved or disappointed. The Hebert girl had been an absolute godsend when it came to finding those moles—he still got the shudders when he thought about how close they might have come to uncovering Medhall's connection to the Empire Eighty-Eight—but if it wasn't her, who the hell was it?

Grimshaw had uncovered that connection when following on from Hebert's initial investigation—which had been deeper and more thorough than he'd anticipated (that was on him, and he'd own it)—and had sent off a message to someone. Whoever that someone was, would know what Grimshaw knew. Hebert was good at many things, but she wore her heart on her sleeve; deception at a level that would fool Victor just wasn't part of her skillset.

If she was aware of Medhall's true nature, there was no way she'd be able to hide it. And from the face-to-face encounter he'd just had with her, she'd been up front, frank and slightly giddy at meeting with the boss … and that was it. Nothing else.

Victor shook his head in agreement with Max's assessment. "Not a hope in hell. She's just as loyal to Medhall as she ever was, if not more so. There's no way she's secretly working to bring us down. Bullshit of that level isn't in her wheelhouse."

"And you've got no idea of who it could be." Max hoped he was wrong.

"Not yet." Victor's expression of determination became razor-edged. "But now we know it's not Hebert, we can look past her and find the real culprit. No sneaky email blackmail demands yet?"

"No." That also was a disappointment of sorts. It would've given them something to work with. "I'll let you know if anything does come up."

"You do that. I'll keep working from my end. Later."

Max ended the call and leaned back in his chair with his fingers steepled, thinking hard. Okay, who do we focus on next?

It was a dilemma without an immediate solution.

<><>​

Taylor

Some little time afterward, armed with a fresh cup of coffee, I finished my last cross-check and looked over my notes. I'd found one more inconsistency, which I'd tracked down to a potential link with ABB sympathisers. There was no evidence that the actual employee shared those sympathies, and it wasn't as though he could've chosen who his brother-in-law was, but I noted it down anyway. Medhall could investigate more deeply, or not, as it saw fit.

With all that squared away, I could now work on my other project: proving that Ed Ferguson had found out Tracey was looking into him and had her killed.

The trouble was that as far as I could tell, Medhall security was trying to do the same thing I was, but in doing so, it was seriously getting in my way. The requirement to send in a request to dig past a certain level was an indication that they were trying to honey-trap the bad guys into revealing themselves, but I doubted it was going to work. And if I tried looking for whatever Tracey had found, the automated system might lock me out or it might raise an alarm with an actual human being. I had no desire to get a talking-to from Bradley about staying safe in the workplace.

However, I didn't necessarily have to use my login.

Standing up from my desk, I went over to Tracey's. I'd been holding off from doing this for more than one reason, but I knew I had to. Getting in trouble was a very real scenario, but with any luck I'd find my proof first, so I'd be able to offer up Ed Ferguson's head on a plate.

However, over and above the spectre of potential trouble, I now had to face the loss of Tracey. When I wasn't focusing on her desk (and the fact she wasn't sitting at it) I could pretend in the back of my mind that she'd just stepped out for a moment and would be right back. Looking right at it, at the chair that was turned at just the right angle for her to get up and walk away from her desk, my eyes filled with tears at the thought that she'd never be back. She'd never sit down opposite me again, pass a little banter, then get on with her day.

I used a tissue to wipe my eyes, then moved so I was standing behind her desk, alongside her chair. Careful not to move the chair—the surest sign anyone had been at her desk—I gently edged open the right-hand top desk drawer. "Sorry, Tracey," I murmured. "But I have to do this. You understand."

Tracey was a nice person and an awesome boss, but she seemed to have problems remembering her password. I wouldn't even have known this, but a few times while I'd been taking a break between tasks, she'd gone to the bathroom, shutting her terminal down while she was away (as per the rules) and then had to log on again when she came back. Each time, she'd opened her right-hand drawer before typing the password into the computer.

There was only one reason she would be doing this: she'd left a reminder for her password in that drawer somewhere.

It wasn't immediately obvious, but then again, I hadn't expected there to be a giant Post-It note with THIS IS MY PASSWORD written on it. Acutely aware of the passage of time, I shuffled through the contents of the drawer—a couple of staplers, about fifty pens, several pencils, a packet of rubber bands, an actual Post-It pad (no password on it)—and other assorted stationery. Nothing popped out at me to indicate why she always opened the drawer.

I didn't want to empty the drawer onto the desk; it would take too long, and if someone came along I would be very hard-pressed to come up with a good reason. 'Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission' only worked if something had been achieved with the unauthorised action. So, I looked harder.

I saw the transparent sticky-tape on the upper edge of the inner opening of the drawer and dismissed it four or five times before my attention was drawn back to it. Why would Tracey put tape there? Although I couldn't get down low enough, I ran my fingers over that area … and found what I was looking for.

There was a small, laminated card, taped in place so that normally it was held up out of sight by the tape. I found that if I hooked my finger around it, I could pull it down far enough to read the password printed on it. After reading it through several times, I let it flip back up into place and nudged the drawer shut again. Then I went back to my desk.

What I was about to do next was the riskiest part of all. If they had already cancelled Tracey's login, it would simply come up with an error; however, if the system was watching for someone logging in as Tracey, it would certainly raise an alarm. My only hope was that, via institutional inertia, they'd neglected to do either one. After all, who would log in using a password that only she knew?

Dad had told me horror stories about logins not being cancelled after someone left the Dockworkers, and other people getting into the system using the still-extant password. Fortunately, the intruders hadn't done much damage, but password security was now something they took extremely seriously there. In Medhall, I'd been told, they did security updates over the weekend; with any luck, cancelling out Tracey's login privileges wouldn't be done until then.

With an excuse already brewing in the back of my mind—oh, uh, I had a brain fart and forgot my login so I used the one Tracey showed me once, I'll never do it again—I logged out of my terminal, then logged back as Tracey. One character at a time, I entered the password.

My finger hovered over the Enter key for the longest time. Then I jabbed it down.

The computer screen didn't ignore my request, and it didn't flash any kind of alert that I'd logged in with someone else's password. I didn't hear running footsteps in the corridor. The terminal considered my offering, then popped up a new screen.

I was in.

As of right then, I was on the clock and I knew it, but I had one last thing to check. If Tracey's login was also affected by the query restrictions, I would be back to square one. Also, I would be in so much trouble it wouldn't be funny. They might not fire me—I had saved them millions—but Ms Harcourt would probably bust me down to janitor for a few weeks to show me why I didn't pull crap like that on her watch.

Fingers flying over the keys, I retraced my earlier steps with Ed Ferguson. Only a few screens separated me from where the query was likely to happen. I blazed my way down the trail, barely reading the prompts. This was it, the make-or-break. If I got through, I was golden. Otherwise … I was probably going to have to get used to scrubbing toilets alongside Greg.

(Actually, either way this was likely to happen. But I was okay with that, so long as I found out what I needed to first.)

I reached the point where I'd been roadblocked so many times before. The query went in, and I clicked the mouse button.

Without any hesitation at all … it gave me the information.

I wanted to shout, to cheer, to jump up and down and whoop, but I didn't. The clock was ticking down, both literally and figuratively, and I needed to find out what I was looking for. There was exactly zero chance, as I saw it, for this intrusion to go unnoticed until Friday. Medhall security might have been slow-moving, but they weren't that lax.

However, now I had to follow Tracey's breadcrumb trail. For a moment, the word 'breadcrumb' reminded me of how Greg had been texted the word 'Mice' by Tracey. This now had more chilling connotations. I wasn't sure exactly what it meant, but I intended to find out.

With a burst of inspiration, I clicked the mouse on 'Previous queries' … and there it was. My roadmap. All the links Tracey had followed, the last time she was in here. Pulling my notepad closer and turning to a fresh page, I started following the links, going on from where I'd left off. It was getting very close to three, but I was hot on the trail.

She went in some directions that didn't seem to make sense, but I followed them anyway, jotting down fragments of data. Max Anders showed up, as did his ex-wife Kayden. The rabbit-hole became deeper and deeper, with no end in sight. Why isn't she looking more into Ed Ferguson? What did she do that triggered him to grab and murder her?

Tracey had looked into the money and where it had been disappearing to. She'd found a lot more cash, not being laundered by Medhall for Ferguson's subsidiary like I'd thought. Someone within Medhall itself had been using some very creative accounting to make it look like it was actually going somewhere and not just vanishing … and that someone had been personally appointed by Max Anders.

Why would Max Anders want to conceal the disappearance of his own money? Surely he could spend it how he pleased.

Unless he was bankrolling something extremely illegal. The thought wouldn't go away.

There was a series of searches into personnel files: Bradley, Melody, Justin, Mr Grayson, Diane, and photos of Mr Anders' ex-wife. I wasn't sure why; the money didn't seem to be going to them.

She'd done an outside search, and called up pictures of villains. Hookwolf, Cricket, Crusader, Victor, Othala, and Purity. I stared at the side-by-side image matches. No. Oh, God. No.

Hookwolf had tattoos. I'd never seen Bradley shirtless.

Cricket rarely spoke. Melody didn't either.

It can't be.

But the information was there.

Max Anders hadn't told Ed Ferguson to back off. Kaiser had given an order to an underling.

Even the racist jokes Greg had complained about when he first started working with Maintenance … it all made sense now.

The jigsaw puzzle was vast, almost too big to comprehend, and the pieces I had were few and far between. But when I looked at them with the certain knowledge that they'd led to Tracey's death, they took on far more sinister connotations.

This could all have been a horrifying coincidence … but I didn't believe in coincidence. Nor, it seemed, had Tracey.

Using that as a springboard, she'd looked deeper. Cash influxes into the company, well-concealed, but matching dates with heists and robberies by the Empire capes. Once upon a time, Hookwolf had been captured and was due to go into the Birdcage. Bradley had not attended work for that whole time … until Hookwolf was broken out of the transport.

I could only imagine the look on Tracey's face when she'd finally connected all the dots. At a guess, it would have matched mine.

This was huge. It was terrifying. I didn't want to believe it. It made all the sense in the world.

Have I been working for the Empire Eighty-Eight, for Kaiser, all this time?

I wanted to throw up, but I didn't have the time.

Grabbing my notepad, I tore the top pages off and folded them before tucking them into my bra. Then I made one last foray into what I could only imagine as a deep and dark jungle waiting to tear me asunder. With Tracey's clearance, she could log into the security camera system; not the current running system, but the recordings.

The clock was ticking down the last minute or so before three. I selected the camera that had a view of Tracey's desk, and flicked through the thumbnails until I saw one where she wasn't at it. Going back to the previous one, I started it running.

There was no sound, but I saw her working at her desk, looking more and more flustered as she no doubt found out what I just had. She spent a little time collating her work, looking as though she wanted to tear it all up. I knew how she felt. I wanted to shred it myself, but it was too late for me.

I knew what I knew, and as soon as someone checked the login records and the security logs, they'd know what I knew too. It was unbelievable, inconceivable … but Tracey had died for it.

If I kept denying it, I'd die too. I knew that, without a shadow of a doubt.

On the screen, she got up and headed out of sight up the corridor.

I flicked to the next recording in that direction; she'd gone to Ms Harcourt's office.

Inside the office, she laid out what she had. Even with no sound, it was easy to see what she was talking about. Ms Harcourt heard her out, then came around the desk.

I'd known something must have happened, but I didn't expect Ms Harcourt to punch Tracey in the stomach, hard enough to drop her the floor. On the screen, she dragged Tracey to a small closet on the far side of the room and shoved her into it, before hooking a chair under the handle. Then she went to her phone.

That was it. I knew exactly how bad it was now. Danger surrounded me on all sides.

I have to get out of here.

Hastily, I began to shut the terminal down. I'd been logged in for far too long already, but now I had to treat every second as vital. Snatching up the phone, I dialled a number that I'd long since memorised.

"Greg here. Who is this, and how can I help you?"

"Greg!" I hissed. "Can't talk! I need a secret passage out of the building! Life or death!"

"What—?"

At that moment, I saw Ms Harcourt coming along the corridor, so I put the phone down. In front of me, mercifully enough, the computer had finished shutting off. Anyone with any computer knowhow, of course, could retrace where I'd been and figure out what I knew.

And if I was still in the building then, I would be dead.

Literally, not figuratively.

Even worse, they'd probably assume Greg knew what I did, and murder him too.

Fuuuuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Is everything well with you, Miss Hebert?" Ms Harcourt looked me over. "You seem flustered."

"Sorry, no, I was just rushing to get this last bit done," I said entirely truthfully but misleadingly. Picking up the report I'd already written, I handed it to her. "Three cases of being less than truthful about prior employment—and I think that one there may have done prison time and not told us—one potential low-key drug user, and a possible link to ABB sympathisers that we weren't told about."

Thankfully, she was distracted by that, and looked down over the report. "This is exceptional work, Ms Hebert. We will have to check your conclusions, of course, but I foresee no problems arising with that."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said. "Uh … I know I'm running late to leave, and I'm seriously not trying to score overtime, but would it be possible to use the restroom before I go?" I tilted my head at the phone. "I was just telling Greg that I wouldn't be long."

"Of course." She afforded me a measured nod. "Alert the security people in the lobby when you leave so we are aware when you have vacated the premises."

"Sure, I can do that." I tried to look like someone who was doing their best not to cross their legs in front of their boss. "Uh, the restroom …?"

"Go." She stepped aside, looking over the report again.

I ducked past her in the direction of the nearest ladies' restroom. A glance over my shoulder told me that she was heading off back toward her own office.

Hurry up, Greg.

Please.



End of Part Eighteen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Nineteen: When in Doubt, Run Away

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Greg

"So, how's things going with you anyway?" Greg leaned against the security desk, idly pulling off his safety gloves and stowing them in his backpack.

"Not too bad, actually." Brian glanced at a screen and clicked the mouse, then looked back up at him. "This is a pretty good job, and the guys are starting to warm up to me."

"Good. That's good." Greg paused. "I just wanted to thank you for volunteering to help Bradley and Melody with training me and Taylor. I think we were really both starting to get it there, at the end."

Brian shrugged. "That's no problem. You're both willing to learn, and you're at least kind of fit, which makes you good students." He glanced around, then lowered his voice slightly. "Unlike some. Just saying."

Greg knew exactly who he was talking about, and why he'd lowered his voice. "Yeah. She was a bit of a dick to Theo too, when we were leaving."

"Wouldn't surprise me in the slightest. I'm actually wondering—" But what he was wondering went by the wayside when Greg's phone went off. "You should probably get that."

"Right." With a glance back toward the bank of elevators—Taylor usually wasn't this late coming out—Greg pulled out his phone and strolled a few steps away from the security desk while he flicked the Answer icon. He didn't recognise the number, but that didn't mean it was a miss-call. "Greg here. Who is this, and how can I help you?"

"Greg!" It was Taylor's voice, kept low and filled with more urgency than he'd ever heard from her before; even the time he'd loaned her his phone to call Tracey that one time. "Can't talk! I need a secret passage out of the building! Life or death!"

Taken aback, he blinked in confusion. "What—?"

The call cut off, leaving him staring at the phone. What the hell? What's going on here? He recalled telling Taylor about the 'secret passages', and how Ms Harcourt and the young women had hidden in there from Shadow Stalker, but he had no idea why she needed him to sneak her out that way now.

… actually, on second thought, he did have an idea. She'd been looking for information to link Ed Ferguson with Tracey's death. If Ed was in the building and had figured out what she was doing …

But it didn't matter. Taylor had called for help, and he would go the distance for her. It was that simple.

Doing his best to pretend to be casual, he slid his phone back into his pocket and returned to the desk. "Dude, can I ask a huge favour? One of the guys upstairs just called and said I left my wallet in the maintenance storage room, but they're busy and can't bring it down. Okay if I just slip back up there and grab it?"

Brian frowned. "You're not supposed to be in employee spaces after your shift ends, but … hold on." He picked up a phone and made a quick call. Greg could hear him relaying the excuse and asking if it was okay to let him back through. He jittered, wishing he could just bolt upstairs, but knowing that any stunt like that would probably get him tackled and tased, and then he wouldn't be able to help Taylor.

"Okay." Brian put the phone down. "I'm going to escort you up. Joe says he can hold down the desk while we're up there."

"Just don't be too long," one of the other guards said as he came out of the back area. "Hey, Greg."

"Hey, Joe." Greg swiped himself back through, and they headed for the elevators. His mind was turning over scenarios at a thousand miles per hour, trying to figure out how to ditch Brian after he got hold of a maintenance keyring.

They entered the elevator and Greg hit the button for the floor he needed; the doors closed, and the elevator started upward. It seemed to be inching along, but Greg did his best to hide his urgency. The last thing he wanted was for Brian to wonder what was going on.

"Okay, so what's actually going on?" asked Brian. "You're trying not to show it, but one of my friends is a regular Sherlock, and she's given me pointers on spotting body language. This is about more than a wallet, isn't it?"

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Not only was Brian a ton more skilled and six inches taller than Greg, but an elevator offered exactly zero places to run to. If this came to a fight, Greg knew he would not only lose, he'd lose badly.

As the elevator rumbled upward, he tried frantically to think of what to say.

<><>​

Taylor

Keeping one eye on Ms Harcourt's back, I pushed the restroom door open, then stepped away and ducked back into Tracey's office area. Behind me, the restroom door automatically closed, but by that time I was out of her line of sight again. I needed a hiding place and I needed it fast, but I couldn't go too far from the kitchenette; Greg would likely be coming out of the maintenance door there.

Slipping my shoes off—they were comfortable, but I wanted to be able to move silently, and bare feet was better for that—I stuck them in my backpack. After looking around frantically, I pulled Tracey's chair out and ducked down into the footwell. With the chair pulled in as far as I could manage, it would hopefully look like there was nobody under there; for once, my skinny frame was working for me instead of against.

Now it was just a waiting game. I didn't know when Ms Harcourt would get the memo that I had accessed Tracey's account, and I didn't know when Greg would get here. All I could do was pray that he was more on the ball than whoever was running the computer security.

<><>​

Victor

Alexander Grayson frowned as he looked up from his paperwork and realised that a notification had popped up in the corner of his screen. It had been waiting for some little time, but at least it wasn't an outside breach. However, the fact that he'd gotten the notification at all meant it was significant.

With a sigh, he moved the mouse and clicked on it. The new window opened, showing that someone had accessed an area of the network that he thought he'd closed off to most personnel after the Grimshaw near-debacle. He focused on the account name … and froze.

"What the fuck?" he murmured. It was Grimshaw's account, but he knew damn well Grimshaw was locked in a room in the bottom sub-basement level until they could get around to disposing of her without leaving a trace. They'd already fucked up by faking her death instead of killing her for real, and now they were stuck with her unless they wanted the authorities wondering why there were two of her in the morgue.

Pulling all his copious investigative skills to the fore, he started in on the problem, determining who had accessed Grimshaw's account and what they'd seen. The latter was a real problem; they'd traced over what Grimshaw had uncovered and taken to Harcourt. But it was the former that was the ultimate kicker. Alex traced the access point back to the terminal in question, thinking it was going to be Grimshaw's, but it wasn't. Instead, it was the one Taylor Hebert had been using.

Grabbing up his phone, he hit the speed-dial for the first number in the queue. "Max," he said tersely. "We have a real problem. Hebert just backtraced what Grimshaw found out. She knows, Max. She's seen it all."

To his credit, Max didn't indicate the slightest sign of incredulity. This was Hebert they were talking about. She was almost as good at ferreting things out as Victor was, and he had a power helping him out. "Fuck. Is she still in the building?"

Alex hit a few keys, calling up the swipe card registry. "She hasn't swiped out yet, and her last computer entry was … thirty seconds ago."

"Any sign her boyfriend is in on it with her?"

"None, but I didn't know she had any idea. If she's shared anything at all with him … I mean, he came across as a total loser, but she's turned him all the way around." He didn't have to mention Veder's spectacular takedown of Shadow Stalker.

"Good point. We're going to have to deal with both of them. Where's he?"

Victor scrolled down the registry. "Signed out, as of three minutes ago."

"He'll be waiting for her. You go down to the lobby and get him back inside. I'll contact Harcourt and tell her to hold Hebert right where she is."

"Gotcha. On my way." Jumping up from his desk, Alex vaulted over it and headed for his office door. He felt real regret at the way things were going—Hebert had literally saved his life—but maybe they could talk the two around. After all, Harcourt had unexpectedly sided with Medhall.

It was worth a try, anyway.

He power-walked along the corridor to the elevator bank and hit the down button. As soon as one of the elevators opened, he jumped in and mashed the button for the lobby. It seemed to take forever to descend the distance, and he was ready to throttle whoever had composed the music that accompanied the trip by the time he got to the bottom.

Striding out of the elevator, he made his way to the desk, where one of the guards—Joe, he believed—was dealing with a member of the public. Veder was nowhere in sight. Okay, he must be outside.

He swiped his way through the barrier, and stepped out through the automatic doors, already composing the excuse to get Veder to re-enter the building. But even when he descended the steps to street level and looked around, he couldn't see the young man. Fuming at the delay, he dashed up the steps once more and headed over to the desk.

"Mr Grayson," Joe greeted him respectfully. "How can I help you?"

Alex bit back his impatience, and assumed a calm, casual demeanour. "I'm looking for Greg Veder, one of the interns. Has he been out this way?"

"Yeah, he has." Joe rolled his eyes. "Moron forgot his wallet, so Laborn's escorting him back up to the maintenance room to get it. You just missed them. Did you want to leave a message, sir?"

"Yes. Tell him that when he comes back, to wait right here in the lobby. We have some very important news for him." Alex forced himself to smile, as though the bearer of good tidings. "Do you have that?"

"Wait … here … good … news." Joe looked up from the notepad. "Yes, sir. I'll be sure to tell him."

"Good." Alex swiped himself back through and speed-walked toward the elevators. Even as he hit the button to go up, he was pulling out his phone to update Max and bring Bradley into the loop. This was an all-hands-on-deck situation if he'd ever seen one.

<><>​

Brian

"Well?" asked Brian, after Greg hadn't said a word in several seconds. He liked Greg and Taylor—they'd gotten him into this job, after all—but that wasn't going to stop him from doing that same job.

Greg was looking in every direction but him, and every second glance was at the floor indicator. He didn't know if Greg was a fast runner—he was only moderate, himself—and the last thing he wanted was for the guy to do a bolt with him chasing after through the corridors of Medhall. That would be the absolute maximum in bad optics for security in general and himself in particular.

Leaning over, he hit the 'stop' button; the elevator jolted to a halt. Greg stared at him. "What did you do that for?"

"Because I asked a question, and you haven't answered." Brian liked to think he was a patient guy, but everything had its limits. "When you tell me what you really want to go up again for, then maybe we can go."

"Fuck …" Greg looked more frazzled than Brian had ever seen him, and then he ran his hands through his hair and redoubled the look. Taking a deep breath, he looked Brian straight in the eye. "Taylor called me. She's in some kind of trouble, and needs to get right out of the building. She asked me to take her out through the maintenance spaces. I just need to get the maintenance keys to do it with."

Brian frowned. "Taylor's in trouble? Last I heard, she was the fair-haired girl. What would she be in trouble for?"

"Okay, okay, she'll probably yell at me for telling you this, but we've been having trouble at school with a guy called Peter Ferguson, who's connected to the Empire Eighty-Eight. The other day, Taylor found out his dad is also connected. That's Ed Ferguson, Max Anders' brother-in-law. And we've seen Peter's dad right here in the Medhall building. He runs a company that Medhall does business with."

Brian blinked; whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't that. As it was, the mention of the Empire Eighty-Eight definitely got his attention. "Jeez … okay. So, what do you think's going on here? Why would Taylor want to sneak out of the building?"

Greg shrugged desperately. "I'm thinking maybe Mr Ferguson is here in the building right now, and somehow knows what she found out. But I wanted to get her to safety first and ask questions after."

That … kind of made sense to Brian. "Right, okay. But if I find out she's been stealing company secrets or something, I am going to hand you both over to Bradley and wash my hands of you. Understood?"

Greg stared at him incredulously. "Stealing company secrets? Taylor's had a thousand chances to do that, and she's never done it once. She's saved them millions. That's why we're getting paid full adult salaries as interns."

"Ah. Right." Brian hadn't known that. He took a deep breath, and made a leap of faith. "Okay, let's do this. But we'll do it my way."

"I don't care how we do it, just so long as we do it!"

Greg's desperation for Taylor's safety, more than anything else, convinced Brian. He hit the start button, then the button for the next floor.

"What?" Greg stared. "We need to get to the maintenance room, so I can get keys!"

Brian hefted the bunch of keys on his hip, making a jingling sound. While maintenance had certain keys, security had them all. "What, like these?"

The look of embarrassed realisation on Greg's face was like the sun rising. "Ah. Yeah. Those keys."

<><>​

Taylor

I waited, crouched in the footwell of the desk, just long enough to wonder if I shouldn't have made a run for the elevator, or even the fire stairs. Shit, maybe I should've just pulled the fire alarm and gone out with the general rush.

It wasn't too late. Maybe I still could.

But then, just as I was shifting around, preliminary to pushing back the chair and getting out from under Tracey's desk, I heard a door open and close at the far end of the corridor. Ms Harcourt's voice echoed all the way down to where I was, clearly audible: "Ms Hebert!"

There was no mistaking the Tone of Doom. She absolutely knew. I froze where I was, listening intently with my eyes tight shut.

Down the corridor her footsteps came, moving in an almost military cadence.

I held perfectly still, barely even breathing.

She got up to where Tracey's office was, and her footsteps paused.

My heart rate faltered at the same time.

Then she marched on, and I breathed again.

I heard the restroom door open, and she called out my name again, but I wasn't listening. If she did what I thought she was going to do, then I had a tiny window to improve my chances of escaping. I listened so hard, I could almost feel my ears growing another quarter inch.

From inside the restroom, I heard a stall door being pushed open, then let swing back to bang against the stop. I acted as fast as I could. Pushing back the chair, I scrambled out from under the desk, bringing my backpack with me. I dashed to the corridor, briefly checked that there was nobody watching, then grabbed one of my shoes out of my bag and skidded it down the corridor in the direction of the elevators. Then I grabbed the T-handle of the fire alarm and gave it a good yank.

When Ms Harcourt had set the fire during our induction process, there had been no fire alarms going off. Greg and I had likewise not been at Medhall long enough to go through an actual fire drill. So I wasn't prepared for the absolute cacophony that erupted when I pulled the fire alarm. Sirens went off with a steady whoop-whoop-whoop, red lights that had always sat quiescent now flashed balefully, and an automated voice began reciting a message about remaining calm and moving to the nearest exit.

Fortunately, I had just enough presence of mind to dive behind Tracey's desk before Ms Harcourt erupted from the restroom. With one eye around the corner of the desk, I saw her storm past, her eyes fixed on something ahead. Hopefully, she'd fall for the ruse and decide I'd gone thataway while her back was turned.

As people began to stream past, I debated joining the rush, but quickly discarded the idea. They would be watching for me, and it wouldn't take much effort to pluck me out of the crowd. My original idea was just going to have to do.

I just hoped Greg got here before they backtracked and found me anyway. Because I was damn sure they weren't going to stop looking.

<><>​

Kaiser

Max raised his head when the fire alarms started going off. It seemed to be an amazing coincidence, perfectly set up for someone in the building who was trying to get out. Taking up his phone, he hit Victor's number.

"I don't think it's a fire," Victor said immediately. "Wait, Harcourt's calling me."

"Let me know what she says." Max ended the call and got up from his desk. Hands clasped behind his back, he paced back and forth. It was the supreme irony, if he'd been into that sort of thing, for the Hebert girl to be the saviour of Medhall in one instance, then threaten to topple it in the next.

It seemed his assumption of it being a false fire alarm was well-founded, if Victor also believed the same thing. Could it be that she was using the general exodus to sneak out? It sounded the most likely scenario. Grabbing up his phone from his desk, he sent a general text to Bradley and Melody to watch two of the fire exits and to put two of the more loyal guards on the other two.

Then he made his way toward the fire stairs. While his staff could be excused as 'being elsewhere at the time', Max Anders had to be visible to talk to the emergency services when they showed up and explain that it was a prank by an irresponsible intern.

But in the meantime, the search would go on. They had to catch her. There was no other acceptable outcome.

<><>​

Victor

"—must have been hiding, then she ran for it after pulling the alarm," Ms Harcourt reported crisply. "I found her shoe, so I know which direction she was running in."

"Good, good." Alex looked around distractedly. He'd been standing outside the maintenance room since before the fire alarm went off, and there was still no sign of Veder or Laborn. "Let me know how you go."

He ended the call and tried the door to the maintenance room. It opened easily, to show a room empty of either the wayward intern or the security guard who was supposed to have been escorting him. He knew damn well there was no way Veder could have overpowered Laborn, not without taking a lot of damage in return.

Hitting Max's number, he waited for his boss's terse answer, then started talking. "Harcourt says Hebert was definitely the one who pulled the alarm and ran for it. I'm at the maintenance room where Veder said he needed to go, but he's not here, and neither is Laborn."

"Fuck. You think Laborn's in it with them?"

Victor grimaced. "I … can't really see it? Unless this is part of a really big sting of some sort? Don't forget, he actually got cut saving their stuff. That's really going above and beyond."

"Has anyone tried calling Laborn's phone? Or his radio? He is wearing a radio, right?"

"No, not yet." Peering into the maintenance room, he spotted a two-way radio of the same type the security guards used. "But I can do both, right now."

"Do it, and get back to me."

<><>​

Tracey Grimshaw

There were no speakers in or around the room Tracey was imprisoned in (wherever that was), but she heard the echoes of the echoes of the sirens going off. The sound was unmistakeable, and she sat up from where she'd been huddled miserably in the corner.

Oh, god, there's a fire.

What do I do?

Are they going to let me out?

What if they don't?

Her mistake, she'd long since decided, had been in not picking up the nuance of Ms Harcourt's question: "Have you told anyone else about this?" Like an idiot, she'd said no. The punch that floored her hadn't been particularly expert, but it was totally unexpected.

She'd gone to Ms Harcourt in the first place because there had been no mention of the woman in any of the information she'd gone through. Ms Harcourt herself was staunchly apolitical, espousing no particular views or even strong convictions, except for her loyalty to Medhall. The other thing Ms Harcourt had said to her, while they were struggling over the possession of her phone, was telling: "I'm not going to let you tear Medhall down."

So no, she strongly suspected that they weren't going to just let her out. The locked room she was in didn't appear particularly flammable—she'd broken a couple of nails trying to pry the door open, and the walls were extremely solid, even when she kicked them—but death from smoke inhalation was definitely a thing.

She'd once read that staying low was best for smoke, so she stretched out on the floor, trying to be careful with her injured arm. It had begun to knit, but they'd taken the cast off (she hadn't had a choice in the matter) shortly after being shoved into the room. She wasn't quite sure why; maybe they thought she could bash her way out with it?

Either way, she wasn't getting out of this room any time soon, but that wasn't even the worst bit.

The worst bit was that Taylor was still working for them. With the girl's irrepressible curiosity, she would sooner or later stumble on some other clue as to the company's maleficent origins.

Tracey knew that she wasn't likely to get out of this situation alive, but hopefully Taylor would be smarter than her, and take the evidence directly to the authorities.

Bring the bastards down, Taylor. Avenge me.

<><>​

Medhall Building Maintenance Spaces

Greg

"Laborn, are you there? Come in, Laborn. Report location."

Greg jumped as the voice suddenly emanated from Brian's radio. "Jeez!" he exclaimed. "Uh, you aren't going to answer that, are you?"

Brian frowned. "I don't actually recognise that voice. It's not Bradley, and it's not Joe. Whoever it is doesn't belong on the radio net. There's something weird going on here."

"So you believe me?" Greg felt an upswelling of hope. Holy shit, I actually got it right!

"Let's just say, I'm less inclined to disbelieve you." Brian pointed his flashlight along the passage they'd been going down, and brushed a hanging spiderweb out of the way. "Still this way?"

"Just along a little bit, then up a ladder. Taylor's two floors up."

Brian shook his head. "I will never understand how you keep it all straight in your head."

Greg chuckled hollowly. "It's only a bit more complicated than Donkey Kong. Gaming nerd for the win."

At that moment, Brian's phone rang. He swapped his flashlight to his left hand while he pulled the phone out, and looked at the number on the display. Again, he frowned.

"Who is it?" asked Greg, while the phone kept ringing.

"Not anybody I know." Brian abruptly declined the call. "Someone really wants to know where we are, and they're not Medhall security."

"Ferguson. It must be." Greg felt his heart rate increasing. This was real. It was really real.

"Someone, anyway. Maybe the same people who set off the fire alarm, to get all the witnesses out of the way." Brian accessed another number in his phone and held it to his ear.

"Who are you calling?"

Brian glared at the phone. "Well, I'm trying to call friends, but the call's not going through. They must be blocking it somehow." He gestured with the flashlight and stuffed the phone away. "Just along here, then up a ladder? I'm starting to think we need to get to Taylor now."

Greg followed behind Brian as he hustled along, but didn't voice his thoughts. Well, duh.

<><>​

Taylor

The last of the staff had poured along the corridor in the direction of the fire stairs, but I knew better than to move right away. They would be searching for me; when they didn't find me in the outgoing crowds, they'd come back up to where Ms Harcourt had thought I'd run to, and start going through the place with a fine tooth comb. Eventually they'd work back to where I actually was, and I would be found.

Unless Greg got to me first. I had to have faith that he would.

But until then, there was nothing to say I couldn't make it harder for them to find me. As it was, I knew I couldn't be seen by the security camera in the corridor unless I moved out from behind the desk, but if someone went back through the camera files, they would spot that I'd last been seen in that area, and direct people to that location. I'd be caught like a rat in a trap.

Which meant I'd have to be extra sneaky. Fortunately, Tracey once more came to the rescue.

While I'd been working with her, she'd occasionally had to go off and assist Ms Harcourt with meetings with the higher-ups. When prepping for one such meeting, she'd had me fetch a triple-A battery from the supply closet, because her laser pointer was starting to get a little weak. So I knew she had one; more to the point, I knew (from Dad talking about it) that shining a laser pointer into the lens of a security camera was a big no-no, because it caused them to turn away or shut down to avoid damage. Not because laser pointers could actually damage them, but because Tinkers were a thing, and so were hand-held lasers that could scorch plastic from twenty yards.

My immediate thought was that I could use it to mess with the security cameras so they'd never see me, but it didn't take me long to figure out the flaw in that plan. Wherever the cameras were acting up, that was where they would look for me. Which required a little deeper thought into my strategy.

Sliding open the appropriate drawer without getting up from behind the desk wasn't the easiest thing in the world, but I managed it. Then I had the fun job of sorting through the desk's contents by touch alone, while keeping an ear out for approaching footsteps.

It took three false identifications, and far too long, before my fingers closed around the pointer. Time, already of the essence, was now downright vital. I scrambled out from under the desk, backpack over one shoulder.

Ducking out into the corridor, I pointed the laser at the camera and prayed that Dad hadn't been exaggerating. After a few seconds of dosing it with the beam, I ran down the corridor to the next camera and did the same, then the next one after that as well. Then I ran back the other way, my bare feet slapping against the vinyl flooring in a way that felt truly weird, and hit the next two cameras in that direction.

That would give them a whole bunch of places to search, not just the office space I'd been hiding in. Anything that slowed them down was just fine with me. But I still had to hide; simply standing out in the open did me no good at all.

I went into the kitchenette and yanked the fridge door open. My initial plan had been to empty out the contents and hide them (somewhere), then squeeze into the space thus vacated. But then I heard distant footsteps coming. There were too many shelves in there to pull out and hide without making it obvious where I was, so I took the next best option.

Reaching back, I flicked off the light switch, then opened my backpack and hauled out my hoodie and jeans. I'd never gotten into a compromising position with Greg where I might need to get my clothing back on in a hurry (he was too much of a gentleman for that) but I could've broken records with how fast I got my jeans and hoodie on this time.

There was just enough room in the fridge to shove my backpack onto one of the shelves, then I closed it and scrambled up onto the bench. As the footsteps came closer, I climbed on top of the fridge itself, pressing back into the niche it occupied. The ceiling was maybe two feet above the top of the fridge so I was more or less in a foetal position, but if they didn't give the kitchenette area more than a cursory glance, I might escape notice, at least for a little while. At least, that was the plan.

"Fucking laser pointers," I heard Bradley growl. "I'll give Taylor that much, she's inventive as fuck."

"Sounds like you actually admire her." That was a guy's voice that I didn't know. "That's not like you."

"Well, she has done a lot for this company." I recognised Mr Grayson's voice. "So how about we don't go lethal straight away? She deserves the chance to see the light."

"She knows what she's seen." Ms Harcourt's tone was as uncompromising as ever. "The fact that she's trying to escape tells us everything we need to know."

"All she knows is that when Tracey took it to you, you beat her up," Mr Grayson reminded her. By now, it sounded like they were standing almost directly outside the kitchenette, and I was barely breathing. "That's bound to give anyone a prejudiced point of view. And look at yourself. You didn't need any persuading at all."

"She hasn't put the years into this company that I have," Ms Harcourt retorted. "I don't care about your politics or your ideology. I care about Medhall. And I have it on good authority that she hates and despises white supremacy. So your chances of legitimately bringing her around are slim to zero. Whereas if she pretends to come around, then starts working against you …" She let the statement trail off.

"We're wasting time." That was Bradley. "Everyone, spread out, check all the offices and other rooms where she coulda hidden. And keep an eye out for Veder and Laborn. They're loose in the building somewhere too."

"It never fails." It was the same stranger's voice. "Once you bring one of them on board, everything goes to hell."

"What, interns or blacks?" asked Mr Grayson in a joking tone. "Come on, Lars, let's look down this way. Melody, you check the restrooms."

"Because I'm a chick?" I'd wondered why Melody didn't talk much. Belying her name, her voice had a fifty-packs-a-day rasp.

"No," snapped Bradley. "Because you're the lightest of us and if she's done something tricky like hide in the ceiling panels, you're the only one who can get up there."

I had actually considered hiding in the drop ceiling, but now I was glad I hadn't. Besides, I was fairly sure I just wasn't athletic enough to get up there.

Out of the corner of my eye—I wasn't moving any part of my body that I didn't have to—I saw Melody and Bradley moving off down the corridor. Ms Harcourt leaned into the kitchenette and gave it a cursory glance, then sniffed dismissively and went out of sight again. I tried to relax the full-body clench I'd just gone into, and blessed the impulse I'd had to turn the light off. Combined with my lack of movement and the darker clothing, the shadow in the niche had given me just enough concealment that she hadn't spotted me.

Over the crashing and banging of her searching Tracey's office—there were cupboards and cabinets that could theoretically have contained me, if I'd also been a professional contortionist—I heard the most welcome noise in the world; that of a door lock carefully opening. "Greg?" I whispered. "Be careful. Ms Harcourt's right there."

Thankfully, he was totally on the ball. "Taylor?" His whisper was no louder than mine. "What's going on?"

At that moment, I had an epiphany. I knew what Tracey's text to Greg had been, before autocorrupt had had its way with her message. She'd been trying to say, 'MH is E88', but the spaces hadn't come through. "Medhall is Empire Eighty-Eight," I whispered as I tried to climb down off the fridge.

"What?" That was Greg, apparently trying to process my words.

"What?" And that was a deeper voice, one I knew, but hadn't expected. What's Brian doing here?

Right then, I slipped; I caught myself before I fell all the way, but my feet hit the floor with an audible thud. "I'll tell you later," I hissed as I yanked the fridge door open to retrieve my backpack. "We have to get out of here."

"You're going nowhere," Ms Harcourt proclaimed as she stormed across the corridor, her eyes alight with righteous rage. "You have no idea how much trouble you've caused—"

As she came at me, she swung a punch. I hadn't been specifically taught how to deal with punches yet, but the little training I'd had let me slip it aside all the same. As part of the same move, I grabbed her arm, braced myself, and heaved. She wasn't light, but her momentum did all the work; over she went, to land on her back in the middle of the kitchenette. For a few seconds, I stood there, staring, unable to believe what I'd done.

I'd just thrown Ms Harcourt.

I'd just thrown Ms Harcourt.

The current situation notwithstanding, it was like I'd just toppled the Forsberg Gallery or punched out Alexandria; utterly unbelievable.

"Taylor!" Greg opened the maintenance door all the way and grabbed my arm. "Get in here!"

That snapped me out of the state of shock, and I followed him back into the maintenance space. As he pulled the door shut, I stared at the third member of our little party. "Brian? What are you doing here?"

"Tell you later," Greg said, facing up to me. "Who else is out there?"

I took a deep breath. Bradley, Melody, Mr Grayson, some other guy … "Hookwolf, Cricket, Victor, and someone called Lars."

"They're here!" I heard Ms Harcourt bellow from outside the maintenance door. "They're in the walls!"

I'd never actually seen a black guy go pale before. "We have to go," Brian urged. "Greg, which way?"

"Follow me!" Grabbing Brian's flashlight on the way past, Greg hurried off down the dark, web-strewn passageway.

I followed along; as claustrophobic and musty as it was—generations of rats and bugs must have died in those passages—it was still preferable to what was outside.

<><>​

Hookwolf

"They're here! They're in the walls!"

Brad looked around at the Harcourt woman's shout, frowning. What, really? Coming out of the office he'd been searching, he ran back down the corridor. Cricket popped out of the restrooms as he came past, and fell into step with him. As they came up to the kitchenette area, he saw Victor and Stormtiger coming the other way.

"What the fuck?" demanded Stormtiger. "What do you mean, 'they're in the walls'?"

"I mean, they went into that door there!" Harcourt snapped, climbing painfully to her feet. "The girl was right here, in this kitchen area, and you all missed her. I heard her talking to her confederates and went to apprehend her, but she threw me to the ground and got away!"

It was a serious situation, but Brad couldn't help catching Cricket's eye. They both snickered out loud as Brad clenched his fist and grew a whole lot of blades from it. Holy shit, the kid actually learned something! Drawing back his fist, he smashed it into the small door, ripping out the section around the lock. Without anything to hold it closed, it swung inward.

He was still chuckling at the mental image of Taylor pulling off a shoulder throw against Harcourt as he headed into the passageway. On another level altogether, he was wondering what had to be done about her 'confederates'. These had to be Veder and Laborn, unless there were two other people wandering around inside the building that he didn't know about. Were they in it with her, or just going along for the ride?

It wouldn't matter in the long run, Brad knew. Max was very much a fan of zero loose ends. It was how Medhall had survived for so long. He'd hunt these three down, then persuade Grimshaw to talk about who she'd sent her message to, and then they'd be able to deal with it once and for all.

It was a pity about Hebert; she was sharp as a tack, and a nice kid on top of that. But Medhall came first.

He hustled along the passageway until he realised the only light was coming in from behind him, so he pulled out his phone and activated the light on it. Moving on, he quickly came to the first junction; there was a ladder and a passage heading off at right angles. He paused and listened intently, but all he could hear were his idiot teammates bumbling up behind him.

"Will you assholes keep the noise down?" he demanded. "I'm trying to figure out which way they went!"

Stormtiger pushed forward past Cricket, ignoring her poisonous glare, and sniffed. Brad felt the air shifting around him. "Up that way," the aerokinetic said, pointing at the ladder.

"Why would they go up?" asked Victor. "Surely they'd want to go down."

"The smell of shit-scared teenagers goes up the damn ladder," Stormtiger stated flatly.

"Okay, you're the bird dog." Hookwolf passed the phone over to him. "Lead the way."

"Fuck you." But Stormtiger started climbing the ladder anyway. "When I catch that asshole Laborn," he muttered, "I am gonna rip his fuckin' guts out."

Not if I get to him first.

<><>​

Taylor

"Can we stop a minute? My feet are killing me." I hated to ask, but the rough metal of the ladder rungs and the equally rough concrete of the passageways made me feel like I was dancing on broken glass.

Greg stopped, of course, and aimed the flashlight down at my feet. "You're barefoot. Why are you barefoot?"

"Took my shoes off to move quietly," I said. "Lend me a shoulder?"

"Anytime." He moved up next to me and I gratefully leaned on him while I reached into my backpack for my sneakers. I didn't think we had time for socks, but I could definitely deal with that better than bare feet.

"Thanks," I said as I tugged on the first sneaker, then changed feet. "You guys were a lifesaver, showing up when you did."

"Yeah, well—" Greg began, before Brian grabbed the flashlight and turned it off with a 'Shh!'.

I stopped moving and held my breath to listen. After a few seconds, my eyes adjusted enough to detect a flickering light down the passageway we'd just come along, getting stronger. Also, I was pretty sure I could hear voices. My eyes opened wide in the darkness, and I jammed the shoe on my foot.

"Go!" hissed Brian.

"Going!" Greg agreed, and we hurried off.

It wasn't quite a labyrinth, but there were occasional branchings. We kept moving, going up and down ladders and around corners at a speed that soon had me panting for breath. At one point, Greg let us out into a ladies' restroom, then took us out into the corridor—I spiked the security cameras that I could see—and around the corner to another maintenance door. After going down two floors from that, we stopped to rest.

I was covered in sweat, not least from the fact that I was wearing two layers of clothing, but also because of the constant exertion. My breath was hurting in my lungs, and my heart rate was somewhere up around 'hummingbird'.

"Taylor, you okay?" Greg was in better shape, but that was probably because he'd been doing this sort of thing on a daily basis. Brian didn't seem to be sweating at all, the big cheat.

"Yeah … yeah …" I gasped. "Just … need to … catch my … breath."

And then we heard it. The sound of a maintenance door opening, two floors above. I even picked out Bradley's voice, but not what he was saying.

"How can they keep following us?" I whimpered, staggering to my feet. "How do they know where we are?"

"I think I know," Brian said grimly. "The one you don't know, Lars, he must be Stormtiger. A friend of mine once told me he can follow a scent by concentrating the air into his sinuses."

We kept moving. Greg led the way, being the only one at all familiar with the hidden spaces of the building, and Brian did his best to help me along. But the noise behind, and the flashing light, got closer and closer.

And then Greg left us to race up ahead. Brian was almost carrying me by now, although I was staggering along with zero gas in the tank. "Sorry," I whispered. "For getting you into this."

"Not your fault," he replied. "I made my choices."

As we got closer, I heard Greg open a maintenance door. I wanted to protest that ducking out through the corridors didn't actually gain us any distance, and probably let them catch up with us. But then he came back through the door and pulled it shut behind him. "Keep going," he urged, handing Brian the flashlight. "We need to be out of sight."

Brian didn't query him, though I was worried. Surely he wasn't going to try to hold them off on his own? Even Brian couldn't do that, and I'd seen him fight.

Greg fell in behind us, and I heard the ssst ssst ssst ssst from a spray bottle. An acrid tang stung my nose, and I stifled a sneeze. Brian picked me up and carried me, jogging onward, attempting to outrace the rolling cloud of vapour that Greg was generating. Even in the middle of it, he was still adding to it, spraying two bottles at once for all he was worth.

Then I heard the bottles clatter to the floor and he caught up with us. In a flash of light, I saw his eyes were red and streaming. "Ladder," he wheezed. "Down."

I could climb down a ladder; it was about all I could climb, right then. Brian went down first, then I half-climbed, half-fell down. He caught me at the bottom. Greg came down without using the rungs, hands and feet on the outside of the ladder. I felt jealous that he could pull off a cool move like that.

We staggered around a corner, then Greg waved for the flashlight to be turned off and we collapsed on the floor. Greg and I were both trying to die quietly, while Brian was just muffling his coughs. I was still terrified that they'd hear us from an entire floor away, right up until I heard the hacking, choking coughs that emanated from above.

"Fuck!" That was Bradley … Hookwolf. "His fuckin' sinuses are bleeding! What the fuck?"

"Veder sprayed cleaning products in the air," Mr Grayson (Victor, my brain insisted) said. "Somehow he knew how Lars' power works."

Someone—hopefully Stormtiger—let out another barrage of racking coughs. It honestly sounded like he was doing his best to part company with both lungs at once. We could live in hope.

"Yeah, you're right." Hookwolf managed to sound pissed and admiring all at once. "It's definitely something she'd do."

"So what do we do?" asked Victor. "We can't just leave him here. He might actually die."

"No, that's true." Hookwolf seemed to come to a decision. "Get him to Othala. We'll keep looking. Tell Max to send everyone home. Seal the building. Put out the word that a couple of interns and a security guard pulled the alarm and vandalised the place."

"Copy that." I heard the maintenance door open. "Come on, Lars. Let's get you out of here."

"We have to keep moving," Brian murmured. "They might catch up with us by accident."

I clenched my teeth to avoid groaning as I got to my feet yet again. Even with that brief respite, I felt as though my leg muscles had congealed into solid concrete. But I knew he was right. Just Hookwolf on his own could murder all of us.

"Can we just call the cops?" I asked in a whisper. "Even if they arrest us, we'll be alive."

Greg shook his head. "Brian tried calling someone. The call was blocked."

"Even if we got through, the Empire's got people in the BBPD," Brian said. "And the PRT. But the PRT wouldn't touch this anyway."

"Yeah," I said. "Because we're not capes. Damn it."

"We've got to lie low until we can get our strength back," Brian advised. "Not in the public spaces. Security will be sweeping those areas. And somewhere Stormtiger can't track us to, once he gets his sinuses back. Any ideas?"

Greg brightened. "I think I might know a place."

<><>​

Kaiser

"What the fuck is going on in there?" demanded Max, though he had to keep his voice to a calm tone. It was important to maintain the unflappable reputation. "How is it that you can't capture one overly inquisitive intern in our own goddamn building?"

"Two, plus Laborn," Victor reported, his voice exhibiting the warbling overtone of a Medhall phone. "They're extremely resourceful. Veder knows his way around the interior spaces, and he's already incapacitated Lars."

"How the fuck—no, save it, I don't want to know." Max shook his head. "Just make sure they can't get out, and I'll keep the Faraday cage running on the building, and make sure the reporters go away happy."

"You do that."

The phone call ended. Max growled in his throat as he put the phone away, then pasted a smile on his face as he went to speak to the reporters who had shown up.

The Empire Eighty-Eight would win. It was just a matter of time.

<><>​

Greg

Taylor peered down the long ladder. "I'm not sure I can climb down that. How far down does it go?"

"Not sure." Greg grimaced. He hadn't factored in Taylor's exhaustion. "Never been to the bottom. I found it one day, but nobody's ever talked about it."

"I can carry you down," offered Brian. "It'll be uncomfortable, but …"

"I guess?" Taylor looked at Greg. "What's this ladder for, anyway?"

"Oh, there's an elevator shaft just on the other side of that wall." Greg gestured at a maintenance door set in the wall. "We need access that doesn't actually involve climbing down the shaft itself. So, a ladder."

Brian sighed. "Well, there's only one way to do this. Taylor, do you feel up to hanging on to my back?"

Taylor didn't look too certain, but she nodded. "Going to have to, aren't I?" Then she paused. "Just a second. Turn your backs, guys."

Greg immediately averted his gaze, and saw that Brian had too. Behind them, they heard the rustling of cloth.

"Okay, you can turn around now."

When he looked, Greg saw that Taylor had removed her hoodie and jeans, and was stuffing them into her backpack. Her office clothing was sadly creased, but it had to be lighter than what she'd been wearing before.

Brian nodded approvingly. "Okay, yeah, that's better. You must've been boiling in that."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, you have no idea. Let's do this thing."

The climb down into darkness felt interminable. Greg went first, and paused every dozen rungs to shine the flashlight downward, but there was always more ladder. He began to wonder just how many floors the Medhall building had. Surely it wasn't this tall.

Eventually, they reached the bottom of the ladder shaft. There were two maintenance doors leading out; one into the elevator shaft that he already knew about, and one that he had no idea of. He was just peering at the second one when Brian arrived at the bottom, and let Taylor down onto her feet.

"Jesus," she muttered, shaking her hands out. "Now I know what they mean by 'hanging on for dear life'."

"What's through there?" asked Brian pragmatically, pointing at the second maintenance door.

"No clue." Greg glanced at the other two, and turned the handle. It opened, and he pushed it out a little way. Light spilled in; outside was a basic concrete corridor.

There were no shouts of alarm, so he cautiously stepped out, blinking in the glare of fluorescent lighting. Taylor and then Brian followed him out, peering around. The walls were industrial off-yellow, and the floor was raw concrete.

"What is this place?" asked Taylor, her voice hushed.

"I have no fucking idea." Brian shook his head. "And I've been given the full tour, from Max Anders' office all the way to the basement storage. Greg?"

Greg shook his head. "Don't look at me. I've never seen this place before either. And I thought I knew the building."

Taylor drew a deep breath. "Well, we either stand here and wait for them to find us, or we go and see if we can find something useful. Like an exit. Right?"

Greg glanced at Brian, and they traded shrugs. "Makes sense," Greg allowed.

"Totally," agreed Brian.

They moved off, Brian in the lead by mutual agreement. Taylor was still unsteady on her feet, but she was moving better now.

"Hey," a voice said from just around the next corner, "did you hear something?"

"Yeah, I did," said someone else. "Back me up while I check it out."

There was absolutely zero cover in the corridor, and Greg knew damn well Taylor couldn't run. It appeared Brian knew that too, because he was running forward, toward the corner. It was amazing how quietly someone his size could move when he had to.

The first thing they saw around the corner was a rifle barrel, and then a face. The eyes widened, just as Brian reached out and grabbed the guy. There was just enough time for the guy to yell in surprise, and for the rifle to go off, before Brian headbutted him savagely.

Greg had no idea where the bullet went to, but the rifle's report was loud enough to deafen him. And then the other guard appeared, pointing his rifle at them. He was far enough back that Brian couldn't just grab him, and he seemed to be yelling something into a radio.

And that was when Brian put out his hands and blackness poured from them, enveloping the second guard in a heartbeat. Intuiting what was going to happen next, Greg pulled Taylor to the ground, covering her with his body. There was a muffled shot, but it didn't seem to come near either one of them. A moment later, the blackness started dissipating, revealing Brian standing over the recumbent body of the second guard.

"What the hell?" asked Greg, rolling off Taylor and getting to his feet. "You're … a cape?"

"Well, duh, he's a cape," Taylor snarked as she used the wall to help herself get up. "What I want to know is, what are these two jerks stuck down here guarding with rifles while all hell's breaking out upstairs?"

Greg immediately knew what she was doing. Yes, Brian being a cape had to be addressed at some point. He even had a suspicion of who Brian really was. But right now it wasn't important.

Between them, Brian and Greg secured the guards, then checked them for keys. One of the guys had one that didn't seem to be the usual house key/car key setup. There was only one door along that part of the corridor, and Taylor went to it.

Inserting the key, she turned the lock and opened the door. Then she stared into the room, her jaw dropping.

"Tracey?"



End of Part Nineteen

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Twenty: All For One

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]


Tracey Grimshaw

The voices outside the cell were barely audible to Tracey, but the single shot startled her badly. What's going on?

And then, after a few moments, she heard a key rattling in the door lock. Sitting up from her slumped position on the cold concrete floor, she prepared to plead for her life with whoever opened the door. Pride was all well and good, but you couldn't be proud if you were dead.

The door opened, and the last person Tracey hoped or expected to see looked into the room. "Tracey?"

"Taylor?" Her one-time intern looked terrible. Taylor was filthy, her normally immaculate hair was downright bedraggled, her Beautiful Me outfit was stained and creased, and her eyes looked haunted. Tracey's heart plummeted toward the centre of the earth. "Oh, no. They got you too?"

"No. No, no, no." Taylor limped into the room. She had grazes on one knee and both elbows, but there was a smile of pure joy on her face as she knelt down beside Tracey. "Brian and Greg got me out just in time. How are you alive? They said you crashed your car, but I knew that couldn't be true, so I thought Mr Ferguson had gotten to you. Then I saw what was on the computer, and I thought they'd killed you for knowing too much."

She hugged Tracey then, dispelling any notion that this might be a particularly vivid hallucination. Tracey hugged her back, holding her close. "No, they've been trying to find out who I sent the text to. How did you find me, anyway?"

"By sheer accident." Taylor stood up and helped Tracey to her feet. "We're running from Hookwolf and the others, and Greg's escape plan led us here. Brian beat up the guards, then I got curious about what they were guarding. Can you walk?"

Despite the dire circumstances, Tracey had to chuckle. Taylor getting curious about something and making a totally serendipitous discovery was totally on-brand for her. "I think so, but I haven't had anything to eat or drink since … how long's it been? They never switch off the light in here." She would've broken it if she'd been able to reach it, or had anything to break it with. Instead, she'd had to cover her eyes with her arm to get away from the endless glare.

"It's Wednesday afternoon, a bit after three." They got to the door, which Greg helpfully held open for them. "Greg, do you have anything in your backpack for Tracey to eat or drink?"

God, forty-eight hours. No wonder my stomach feels like a wrung-out sock. Tracey looked on as Greg produced a water-bottle and a protein bar out of his backpack. "Oh, thank you. You're a total lifesaver."

"We have to move," said Brian. Tracey had seen the big guy on the front desk a few times, but this was the first time she'd learned his name. "They will be looking for us, and we need to find a way out before they find us."

"I thought Mr Grayson, I mean Victor, was still in a wheelchair," Greg said as they started hustling down the corridor, or at least moving as fast as Tracey could totter.

Taylor was assisting her, which was a great help, as were the water and protein bar she was ingesting as fast as her body would allow her to. She could almost feel the energy flowing back into her body. Or perhaps that was adrenaline.

"Othala," Brian stated flatly. "When this all kicked off, he probably asked her to finish up the healing in one hit. Chances are, they've been stringing it out to make it look natural."

"Yeah, that makes sense," agreed Taylor. "Something else I'm wondering, though. Why didn't we grab the guards' guns? At least give us a fighting chance if they catch up with us. Or am I missing something?"

"Ho ho ho, now I have a machine gun?" Greg added.

Brian shook his head. "Not going to happen. Stallone's character in that movie was a cop. He was trained in using firearms. I know which end bullets come out of, and that's about it. We don't know the safe way to handle them, and we don't know how to use them properly. Maybe with an hour or two to look them over carefully, we could chance it, but we don't have an hour."

A four-way junction lay up ahead, and he gestured everyone to stay back while he crept up to the corner. Somehow, with a wave of his hand, he created a puff of black smoke, which he stuck his head into briefly before it dissipated again.

"What just happened?" Tracey asked, looking to Taylor for an explanation.

"Brian's a cape," Taylor said quietly. "Long story. All clear?" she asked, raising her voice a little.

"All clear." Brian gestured them forward. "I think there's an elevator down along the left corridor."

"We've just come around three sides of a square," Greg agreed. "That's probably the same elevator that the ladder came down beside." As everyone looked at him, he shrugged. "I counted my paces."

"Fair." Brian pulled out his swipe card. "Now, does anyone think we've used up all our luck so far, or should I try to see if my card still works to get us up to lobby level so we can bust out of here?"

<><>​

Taylor

I shook my head. "They control the elevators. We might not get dropped fifty feet into the sub-basement, but they could totally open the doors right where Hookwolf and Cricket are waiting for us." In my mind, I still had trouble envisaging the rough-hewn but helpful Bradley as Hookwolf, but somehow it was a lot easier to see Melody as Cricket. Probably because I'd associated with him more than her, and because she'd never really been nice to me.

And now they were hunting us with murder in mind. It was something I had to keep reminding myself of, which was why I was calling them by their villain names instead of their civilian identities. The villains weren't my friends.

I was starting to realise they never had been. They'd only protected me because I was the clever intern who found the moles and saved them money, not because they liked Taylor Hebert the person. Of course I was valuable to them, because I protected their bottom line … until I didn't. And then I was just a liability.

"Maybe we could risk it?" Tracey's tone was both tired and wistful. "I'm sick of this place. I just want to get out."

Greg shook his head. "No, Taylor's right. The moment we ping that elevator, they'll know … shit. Shit, shit, shit."

By this point, we were close enough to see the elevator floor display, which was why Greg had started swearing. Because the display was active, and the number was counting downward. And not one of us was optimistic enough to assume they weren't coming for us.

<><>​

Greg

"Fuck it. "Brian slapped his access card and keyring into Greg's hand. "Everyone, back against the wall beside the elevator. Taylor, hold hands with Greg. Tracey, hold hands with Taylor. I'm going to try to separate Stormtiger from the rest and disable him, then get back to you. If I can't, I'll kick that maintenance door in and go up the ladder. Either way, thirty seconds, you get in that elevator and get the hell out. Understand me?"

Even as Brian gave his rapid-fire instructions, he was pouring huge volumes of that same inky black smoke from his free hand, filling up the corridors. Greg could see the stress on his face, the knowledge that his lone stand, even aided by his powers, would most likely see him dead or seriously injured. "I could stay," he offered tentatively.

Brian's large hand clamped on his shoulder and pushed him back against the wall. "Appreciate the offer, man, but nobody can see in my darkness but me. I've got to do this on my own. But if anything happens, I've got a sister. Take care of her for me."

The inky wall was already starting to close in, as Brian's cape power obscured the overhead lights. Greg clasped his wrist briefly. "We'll bring them down. All of them." For you, he meant. Your sacrifice won't be in vain.

Brian's eyes searched his face for a moment, then he nodded. "Yeah." Then the darkness became complete. Greg's questing hand found Taylor's and her fingers squeezed his. He squeezed back.

The vibration of the wall told him the elevator had reached the floor they were on, and he started the mental countdown. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi …

<><>​

Brian

I've got one chance to get this right. Brian braced himself in front of the elevator doors, standing a little off to the side in case someone blindly threw or shot something straight ahead. They didn't know he was a cape yet, so with anything resembling luck, he might be able to take them by surprise and remove Stormtiger from the equation.

He'd never directly fought any of the Empire capes before, but he knew damn well that trying to beat up Hookwolf was a losing proposition, especially after he popped armour and blades all over his body. When facing an opponent that more closely resembled a combine harvester, discretion was by far the better part of valour. Which also meant that he couldn't afford to get surrounded by the others and herded into Hookwolf's arms.

He pulled out his baton and flicked it to its full length, wishing heartily that they'd gotten around to putting him through the training courses for tasers or mace. Knowing what he did now, he was less than surprised that they'd been dragging their heels on the matter. But given the current situation, the less time spent wishing and the more time spent doing was probably a good idea. At the very last second, as the number panel displayed SB2, he pulled off his socks and shoes, then picked up a shoe.

The elevator doors opened. If Brian had needed any proof that Taylor had been telling the truth about the Empire Eighty-Eight running Medhall, he now had it. Stepping forward out of the elevator, hands held out in front of him, was Hookwolf. The villain even had his trademark metal mask on.

Behind him was Stormtiger, flanked by Cricket; last out were Victor and Kaiser himself. Brian breathed as quietly as he could, aware that Stormtiger would probably smell him (and the others) as soon as he started using his powers. Victor was armed with a pistol held low against his leg, not that it would do him any good until he could see something. Brian didn't intend to give him the chance.

"What the hell?" asked Hookwolf. "What happened to the lights?"

"Fuck," Stormtiger replied. "Cape. Gotta be. Go careful."

Tossing the shoe off to the left, Brian sidestepped quietly to the right in his bare feet. These were less than optimum in a combat situation, but he wanted to be silent as possible. The ruse was almost certainly older than civilisation, but it was still a good one; as muffled as it was, the sound of the shoe hitting concrete still turned all four heads.

"You hear that?" That was Hookwolf.

"Yes," agreed Kaiser.

Brian moved in as silently as he could, his feet skimming over the concrete. Hookwolf, Victor and Kaiser were all going in the wrong direction. All he needed was for Cricket to step away from Stormtiger and he'd be able to incapacitate both of them in short order. It was easy, even against skilled opponents. Very few people practised blindfolded against sighted foes, after all.

The burst of disorientation took him by surprise and nearly knocked him off his feet. He staggered, staring with disbelief as Cricket moved directly toward him. Even as he tried to evade and block her incoming blow, she sent him reeling again with what he belatedly realised was a sonic attack to his inner ears.

A snap-kick sent the baton spinning from his hand, then a backfist to the jaw rattled his cage and loosened teeth. He was still up, but disoriented, and she hit harder than any woman he'd ever gone up against. Before he could do more than put a basic guard together, she buried her heel in his solar plexus. The breath went out of his lungs in a painful whoosh and he began to involuntarily double over, only to meet her knee coming the other direction at speed.

He straightened up from the impact, but his consciousness was already flickering around the edges. The full-blooded kick to his sternum arrived like a battering ram and drove what little air he'd gotten back into his lungs straight out again. He vaguely felt his feet leave the floor before he crashed down on his back.

His last thought before real darkness closed in on him was, I'm sorry, Aisha …

<><>​

Taylor

I couldn't see a thing; all I knew was that Greg was holding my right hand and Tracey my left. Noises were happening in the darkness right in front of me, and I was trying to silently count seconds in my head, but I didn't know if I was doing it right, or if Brian was even okay. Despite me knowing that it wouldn't matter if my eyes were open or shut, I had them as wide as I could, just in case I might spot something that could be of use.

The first inkling I had that things were going badly—that is, even worse than they'd already been—was when Brian's darkness started to shred and fade away before my mental countdown had quite hit twenty seconds. Kaiser, Hookwolf and Victor were about twenty feet away, looking in the wrong direction, but Brian was down with Cricket standing over him, and Stormtiger was close by her. And both Cricket and Stormtiger were looking directly at us.

Tracey froze, her hand clenching painfully tight around mine. I wanted to move, but I had no idea which way to go. We couldn't run and we couldn't fight; with Brian down, we couldn't hide either.

Greg acted, hauling on my arm and bodily dragging Tracey and me to the lift. "Go-go-go!" he yelled, slapping Brian's swipe card into my hand and shoving us inside. I managed to make myself react, swiping the panel inside the elevator and blindly stabbing at the buttons with my fingers. But just as Greg started to jump back inside with us, metal-clawed fingers closed around his arm and he was hauled out again with a yelp.

Cricket stepped into the open door of the elevator and gave us what might have been a smile. "Hi," she rasped, every word an effort. "Didn't really think you'd get away, did you?"

I pushed Tracey to the back of the elevator and got myself between her and Cricket. "Don't you dare hurt her!" We were screwed, I knew we were screwed, but I couldn't help myself. Tracey had already been through enough. And maybe if she agreed to say nothing …

Even though I was looking for it, I barely spotted Cricket's shift in balance before her casual backhand bounced me off the side of the elevator and dropped me to the floor. "Never tell me what to do." Even through the ringing in my ears, I heard death in her tone.

My head was spinning, but I tried to get up anyway. Tracey was screaming somewhere above my head, then I was grabbed by the collar and dragged out of the elevator. Suddenly, the screaming stopped and I tried to focus, fearing the worst.

"We have here an unfortunate mess." As my head cleared, I recognised Mr Anders' voice, though with an extra edge and echo to it that I'd never heard before. My glasses had been knocked off in the elevator, but I was able to make him out, wearing his Kaiser armour, standing before us.

Of much more urgency to me was Cricket; she was holding me up against the wall with a very sharp-looking curved blade not very far away from my neck. The side of my face where she'd hit me throbbed and felt swollen, but that wasn't even remotely the worst of my problems right then.

I looked into her eyes, and there was nothing there. No warmth, no recognition of a fellow human being. Then and there, I knew that she was just waiting for the word to end my life, and she wouldn't even spare a second thought afterward.

From the corner of my eye, I could see that Tracey was alive, mainly because Victor was holding her up with a pistol barrel pressing up under her jaw. Beyond her, Greg was at Stormtiger's mercy. I may have been imagining things, but the blue-masked villain seemed bitter over the trick with the cleaning products. And finally, Brian was slumped on the floor with Hookwolf standing over him.

We were done, I could see that. There was no hope for escape, no hope for rescue. All that was standing between us and death at the hands of the Empire Eighty-Eight was whatever passed for mercy in Kaiser's mind.

I wasn't exactly optimistic on that count.

My stomach clenched as I realised that I was going to die here. Today. Now.

I don't want to! It was a despairing wail against the inevitable darkness.

"It doesn't have to be this big a mess." Victor didn't turn his head away from Tracey. "There's a possibility we can salvage something out of it."

I didn't dare hope that we'd get out of this, but his words still snared my complete and total attention.

"I'm listening." Kaiser strode toward Victor, his metal armour clanking on the concrete floor.

"We've already seen how much value Taylor Hebert can be to Medhall," Victor began. "And Veder is also highly resourceful in that regard."

"You're just sayin' that 'cause she saved your life, an' he clocked Shadow Bitch." Stormtiger didn't sound convinced on either instance.

Cricket nodded. "Plus, that just makes them dangerous."

"Granted on both instances," Victor acknowledged. "But hear me out. Suppose we could secure their guaranteed loyalty? Given a little supervision, they could continue to be real assets to Medhall and the Empire."

I really, really didn't like the sound of the phrase 'guaranteed loyalty'. Part of me wanted to lash out and yell at him that I'd never agree to work for him again, but the part that was involved with self-preservation desperately told it to shut the fuck up. I was still alive, and I wanted to stay that way, however forlorn a hope that might be.

"Interesting concept." Kaiser sounded mildly intrigued. "How would you go about guaranteeing their loyalty, so they didn't just email our secrets to the PRT and Protectorate at the first opportunity?"

"A couple of little carrots, and a few sticks." Victor sounded pleased with himself. "Hebert and Veder care for each other. Guaranteeing Veder's safety would help keep Hebert in line, and vice versa. Also, we could allow them to spend time with each other. A raise in salary couldn't hurt either. As for the sticks, there are several we could use; blackmail, threats to family, and so forth."

"Fuck that." Stormtiger actually sounded pissed now. "This little shit made me snort bleach. I'm gonna rip his guts out an' make him choke on them."

"Stormtiger." Kaiser's tone was mild, but we all heard the edge underneath it. "Not at the moment. I'm still thinking about this. Victor, where would we get blackmail material from? You've already checked Hebert and Veder out, and they're depressingly well-behaved."

"Ah, that's the best bit. It's ready-made, just waiting for us to use it." Victor nodded toward Tracey, then inclined his head in Brian's general direction. "Hebert kills Grimshaw, Veder finishes off Laborn, I get footage of both instances, and we hold that over their heads in case they ever decide to be heroes and expose the evil deeds of Medhall." There was definitely sarcasm in the end of his statement. "And if they think they can talk their way out of it anyway, they've still got family."

I'd thought my stomach was filled with dread before, but now it froze completely solid. No, not Dad.

"I like it." Kaiser nodded slowly. "And if they decide to die instead of committing murder, their families' lives are forfeit as well. All the sticks. Cricket?"

She only paused for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, sure. She won't have the guts anyway."

Kaiser turned his head to look at me. "She might just surprise us. Stormtiger?"

"Fuck, no. They're too dangerous, like Cricket says. An' this little cocksucker needs to suffer an' fuckin' scream before I'm finished with him. I nearly died, back there."

"Well, he was running for his life, so we can't really blame him …" Kaiser sighed. "Hookwolf?"

"Hm." The burly villain thought about it. "Yeah, why not give it a try? Hebert's got grit. She might even come around."

"Well, that's two for and two against. I've got the tie-breaker, and I also think it's worth a shot." Kaiser dusted his hands off with a clash of metal on metal. "So. Taylor, Greg. Are you willing to buy your lives and your families' lives with a little bloodletting? Grimshaw and Laborn are going to die anyway, but this way you get to survive. What do you say?"

Terror filled my every cell. I tasted bile at the back of my throat, but all I could think of was Tracey's face when I stepped into her room. Killing her was unthinkable. Refusing to kill her and letting Dad die was equally inconceivable.

I was locked into a dilemma that I couldn't see my way out of. One way, I died, along with everyone I loved, while the other would require me to sacrifice part of my soul forever. I turned my head to look past Tracey, whose terror was manifest on her face, to see that Greg was equally conflicted.

Through the roaring in my ears, I heard Kaiser's voice. "Well, then. It seems—"

My mind broke.

<><>​

Or rather, that was how it seemed. I floated, apparently weightless, in what appeared to be interstellar space. Greg and Tracey were there as well, both looking as stunned as I felt. Two gigantic things spiralled past us like active embodiments of DNA, and five smaller objects orbited between us like crazy planets.

Unseen cords bound around us and pulled us together, while the 'planets' crashed together soundlessly and formed a single mass. Then they split apart into three and shot toward each of us. There was an inevitability about the whole process; I felt that even if we'd been able to dodge, they still wouldn't have missed.

The impact staggered me on a visceral level, and then I saw the cords. One linked me to Tracey and one to Greg, and there was a third one linking Tracey and Greg together.

And then, of course, I forgot it all.

<><>​

Kaiser

Max staggered, then caught himself. What had he been saying? "Uh, seems that—"

Everyone appeared to be on the back foot. That was a bad thing. Why was that a bad thing? His brain was still rebooting, as though he'd just drifted into a daydream. But he didn't do daydreams.

Something was wrong.

"You. Starved. Me." Tracey Grimshaw was a gentle young woman, who had never raised her voice in anger that he knew of. Now her tone was harsher than he'd ever heard it before. Victor, just coming back to himself, was a fraction too slow to react when she grabbed him. Or maybe she was just too fast. One hand around his wrist, and the other around his throat.

Max's feeling that something was badly wrong ramped up at that blatant action, and then jumped into turbo overdrive when tendrils of dark energy began flowing from Victor's body into hers. Other tendrils reached out to Cricket and Stormtiger, groping hungrily through the air.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. She's triggered with powers.

He gathered his mental resources and focused on the area under Grimshaw's feet. Metal spikes impaling her body would surely break her concentration—

He hadn't noticed the Veder lad sidestepping around Stormtiger until it was too late and Veder had hidden behind the aerokinetic's bulk. And then, just as Max was about to shred Grimshaw, there was a crack like a bomb going off and Stormtiger was sent flying—directly toward him. Max had just enough time to see that Veder was holding his hands in a double palm-strike pose before Stormtiger barrelled into him, bowling him over.

Fuck, they both triggered!

As Max rolled to a halt, he saw Hebert fend off a strike by Cricket and neatly disarm her of one kama, something he wouldn't have believed possible if he hadn't seen it. Then she made a tossing motion, there was a flicker of blackness through the air, and she dropped through the floor and out of a black patch on the ceiling to land behind Cricket. Twisting in midair, she tried to come down with a dropping elbow strike, but fortunately Cricket picked up on the teleport gambit (this was absolutely not her first rodeo) and turned in time to deflect it.

Sonovabitch. It's all of them. We have to lock this down hard. "Cluster trigger!" he yelled.

There was no more thought of perhaps salvaging Hebert and Veder. That had gone out the window when they triggered. Now it was a case of dealing with three pissed-off grab-bag capes.

Victor was already on it. Still holding his pistol, he angled it toward Grimshaw's head and pulled the trigger with zero hesitation. But instead of punching through her skull and spraying her brains all over the wall and ceiling, the bullet … splashed off her skin like water? That was what it looked like to Max, anyway.

And she wasn't even finished. Her eyes now glowing with darkness (Max wasn't sure how that worked, but power weirdness was weird by definition) she let him go and gestured with her hands. A long cylinder, outlined by webs of the same dark energy, formed behind him, an instant before Victor was sucked into it by a howling gale and spat out the far end to tumble off down the corridor. Max was reminded of a wind tunnel in an aerospace facility he'd toured at one time.

Stormtiger climbed to his feet and sent a couple of air-blades hurtling toward Veder, who held out his hand, palm out. A spinning, shimmering disc formed in front of him; when the air-blades hit it, they were sucked in and dispersed. Then Veder held out his other hand. Stormtiger's chains rattled; disbelievingly, Max watched them come apart link by link, the metal flying across to the teenage boy. It solidified on his forearms, forming midnight-black metal bracers. And then Max's armour started to come apart at the seams, also flying toward Veder.

Come on, we're better than this. Even four on three—now that Victor had been tossed out of the fight—they should be able to make a better showing. Max didn't want to try spiking Hebert, due to the fact that she was sparring with Cricket at lightning-fast speeds—where the hell did she learn to fight like that?—and Grimshaw didn't seem to be fazed by high-speed metal, so he turned his attention to Veder. Iron spears erupted from the wall behind the boy, only to be pulled away from it and absorbed directly into the armour that was constructing itself around Veder.

Hookwolf mustn't have seen or realised that Grimshaw could splash bullets, because he headed for the young woman in a full charge, bristling with spikes and blades. Max turned his attention to Hebert, who'd just hit Cricket in the chest with a palm strike, hard enough to knock her onto her ass. This meant she was clear to be attacked, so he sent a bunch of spikes erupting from the wall and floor, intended to kill her or at least pin her in place long enough to be killed at their leisure.

But she pirouetted out of the way, then threw Cricket's kama. It whickered across the distance between them and sank into his unarmoured shoulder. Screaming from the unexpected agony, he spun around and fell to the floor.

Stormtiger threw air-blades at Hebert, who threw up her hand and generated a ball of pure blackness, three feet across. The air-blades went into the ball heading for Hebert, but came out at an angle and smashed into Hookwolf's side just as he reached Grimshaw. His unarmoured side; not satisfied with Kaiser's armour, Veder had stolen Hookwolf's metal as well, and had formed it into a set of glossy black plate armour, complete with kite shield.

As Hookwolf staggered, Grimshaw grabbed his arm. The dark tendrils latched on and crawled all over him, then more lunged out toward Max, Stormtiger and Cricket. Bleeding and dazed, trying and failing to grow more metal, Hookwolf fell to his knees. Veder stomped forward, still pulling in metal—Cricket's face-cage was now gone, as were the spikes Max had intended for Hebert—and sending it to his companions, building armour around them as well.

Stormtiger launched an air-blade at Grimshaw, only for her to throw a tendril at it; the air-blade dissipated before it got halfway to her. And then she sent out brightly glowing tendrils that latched onto her allies, as well as the downed Laborn. Even as he backed off to avoid the black tendril reaching for him, Max had a really bad feeling about what the glowing ones did.

"What the fuck do we do?" demanded Stormtiger, pulling Max to his feet by his uninjured arm.

By now, with all the metal that had been thrown around, Veder had put substantial armour on all three of his comrades. Worse, when Max tried to grow spikes on the interior of this armour, it just wouldn't take. No matter what he tried, no matter what his allies tried, it was countered.

He was losing, and he didn't like it.

The moment of inattention was all that was needed for the tendrils seeking him and Stormtiger to latch on. Immediately, he felt the sharp, agonising drain, the steadily encroaching weakness. He instinctively threw up a barrier between them and Grimshaw, interlocking metal blades going between the floor and the ceiling. As the last blade slid into place, the tendrils cut out; he staggered, looking at the angry red patch on his hand.

"We can't fight them." It was only the truth. "We need backup. Find Victor and call in everyone else. They'll be trying to get out and go to the authorities. We have to capture or kill them before they leave the building."

Stormtiger shook his head disbelievingly. "What a clusterfuck."

Max didn't disagree.

<><>​

Taylor

I stared around wonderingly. My mind was still buzzing with the after-effects of the skills I'd 'seen' in the capes we'd been facing. Button-mashing my brand-new abilities, I'd yoinked everything—tapping, not stealing, it seemed—and shared it out to everyone.

And then I'd fought Cricket. And I could teleport, kind of. I'd beaten Cricket. Hookwolf was down and unconscious. The others had run away.

"Did we win?" asked Greg disbelievingly. "I think we won."

"We won, for now." Tracey was walking tall in the armour Greg had put around her. "But they aren't done yet. We need to get to the PRT now."

Brian sat up and looked around. He went to rub his head, then encountered the helmet Greg had put on him. "What happened? And why am I wearing armour?" He looked around. "Why is everyone wearing armour? And how come we're still alive?"

"So many questions, so little time." I headed over and helped him up. "We'll fill you in along the way, once we figure out everything that happened. How do you feel?"

"Pretty amazing for someone who just got the shit kicked out of them," he admitted after a second. "I'm not even feeling any bruises."

"More walky, less talky." That was Tracey. She ran her hands over the closed elevator doors. "Where's the swipe card?"

I frowned. "Pretty sure I dropped it inside there when Cricket hit me."

"Non-issue," said Greg. "Because apparently I can do this—" and with a wave of his hand, the entire elevator door came apart and particles of aluminum flew to his armour, where they provided swanky-looking highlights. The steel framework was redirected to the rest of us, where it made the armour a little more complete. "Voila. No door."

Beyond was an empty elevator shaft. "Also no elevator, it seems," I observed, leaning and looking upward. "I can see it, though. A bunch of floors upward." It took me a second to realise that the near-total lack of light in the elevator shaft didn't bother me in the slightest, or that my awareness of all the metal around didn't go away when I looked in different directions.

Another moment later, I realised that I could see perfectly in darkness, but I was still short-sighted in normal light. How unfair was that?

"Okay," said Brian. "That's all well and good. But how do we get up it?"

Greg stepped up. "I think I can get us out, but it'll involve property damage." He looked at the remains of the elevator doors. "More property damage."

Hookwolf groaned and tried to get up. Tracey zapped him with one of those weird black energy lines, and he subsided again. "I have an amazing lack of care factor, right now."

"Time to make some headlines." Greg jumped into the elevator shaft. In the next instant, there was a deafening WHOOOOSH and he rocketed up the shaft while a solid gale-force wind blew out the open elevator doorway. A few seconds later, I heard a KBOOOM and bits of debris fell back down the shaft.

"Well, that happened," I said.

Brian raised his eyebrows. "He's really, really into this."

Tracey chuckled dryly. "We noticed."

Greg dropped back down the elevator shaft, slowing his fall with regular doses of whatever his rocket ability was. He actually went below the level of where we were, then blasted himself upward just enough to land in the doorway. "Holy shit!" he yelled. "That was amazing!"

"We've got an opening?" I asked.

"Yeah." Greg seemed to be trying not to hyperventilate. "Goes to the lobby. Ten feet up the wall. I miscalculated a teensy bit."

As I recalled, the lobby ceiling was thirty feet high. "I think we can manage."

Leaning into the open shaft, I called up one of the shadow-patches I'd used to teleport around Cricket—it seemed I could also step through shadows, which was wild as fuck—and tossed it upward. It hit the edge of the hole Greg had blasted, and stuck there. To anyone else, it would be a blot of anomalous shadow, as though something was obscuring the light, but to me …

I moved up to the wall, face-first, close enough to cast a shadow, then stepped right through. On the other side of the shadow was a ragged hole in the concrete elevator shaft wall, chunks of reinforced concrete littering the floor below. For a mercy, nobody had been hurt, though I made a mental note to talk to Greg about being more careful in future.

On the other hand, this was Medhall. As far as I could tell, this was Nazi fucking Central for Brockton Bay. Like Tracey had said, my care factor wasn't exactly overflowing at that moment. Less than five minutes before, I'd been faced with the choice between me murdering Tracey or letting me and Dad get murdered, by Max Anders himself.

Fuck him, and fuck all of them.

"Hey!" The voice caught my attention. Two security guards were pointing pistols at me from about thirty feet away. I hadn't even known they had firearms until now. "Get down from there! Hands behind your head!"

I had a better idea than surrendering. Diving back into the shadow, I rolled out from underneath the security desk. The guards were less skilled overall than Hookwolf and Stormtiger and Cricket, but I found I could tap into those just as easily as I had the others. This built on the meagre training I'd already had, so I was reasonably confident I could take them down if I could just get the jump on them.

When I was fighting Cricket, she'd tried to use some kind of sonic ability to put me off balance, but to her surprise and mine, I'd had a counter; the ability to silence a small area around me. I used it again now, to sneak up on them.

Which would've worked if the damn phone on the desk hadn't started ringing just before I got close enough to put them inside the six-foot radius of the silence effect. One of them turned to look and saw me. I couldn't hear what he said, but it really didn't matter. They knew I was there, so I dropped the effect.

Both of them turned and pointed their guns at me. I didn't have flashy ranged effects like Tracey or Greg had gotten, but I could detect all metal in a sixty-foot radius, more or less. I knew exactly where each gun barrel was pointing, and I could even 'see' the bullets inside the guns.

"Down on the floor!" yelled one of the guards.

"Hands behind your head!" the other one countered.

The phone rang again.

I raised my hands. "One of you might want to get that."

There was no doubt about who was on the other end. Kaiser would be circling the wagons, telling security to lock the building down, probably making it a terrorist threat. Telling them to shoot to kill.

There was a roar from the hole in the wall. One kept his pistol on me, while the other turned back toward the hole. I was pretty sure I knew what was going to happen next, so I braced myself.

Greg, still clad in his ornate armour but with his shield on his back, came up the elevator shaft and out through the hole like he'd been doing it all his life. I personally suspected that he'd bounced off the walls a few times until he got it right, but his entrance was better late than never. I was glad to see that he had passengers: Brian on one arm and Tracey on the other.

He misjudged the landing a bit, probably because of the extra weight. They hit the floor hard, and Greg had to go down onto one knee, the armour over his kneecap smashing a marble tile. I couldn't be certain that the tiles where Brian and Tracey had landed weren't cracked either, but I didn't give a flying fuck. They weren't my tiles.

In the ensuing silence, the phone rang again. Then the guard who wasn't covering me called out in tones of disbelief. "Laborn? Veder? What the fuck?"

I felt vaguely insulted that they hadn't recognised me as yet, but figured that it was the whole lack of glasses and black armour thing.

The guard facing me half-turned his head. "What, really? Laborn?"

"You know," Brian said as he strode forward, "a crapload of things are a whole lot clearer to me now. Gus, I'm gonna take a wild stab and say you're a card-carrying follower of the Empire Eighty-Eight. Joe, I'm not so sure about."

"That's actually a good thing, Joe," I added helpfully. "Just saying."

"I don't give a fuck what you've got to say," said the guy with his gun on me. "Get over there with the rest of them, or—"

"No." Greg stood up. "After the day I've had, idiots pointing guns at me really shit me off." He gestured and both pistols disintegrated, the metal particles flying toward him and becoming part of his armour. "Now, you two can step aside or we will go right through you." He shrugged his shield onto his arm. "I really don't give a damn which one it is."

"What he said." I flipped a shadow-patch onto the floor on the other side of the security barrier, then threw more at the security cameras. The cameras would be blind as long as the patches lasted. One more patch went to the ground at my feet; I stepped into it, and popped up next to the sliding doors.

"Joe?" asked the guy who'd been covering me; I assumed it was Gus. "What the fuck do we do?"

Joe backed up, hands in the air despite not having been ordered to put them up. "What do you think? We step aside and we let them leave. I'm not paid enough to go up against capes, especially if they're leaving."

I noted that neither of them queried Brian's reference to the Empire Eighty-Eight. This meant that either they hadn't noticed it, they figured it wasn't important, or they didn't want to acknowledge it. If I was a racist dirtbag facing off with a black cape, I'd probably choose not to emphasise that part of my lifestyle too.

The phone on the desk continued to ring, but neither Joe nor Gus made a move toward it as Greg led the way out through the security barrier, with Tracey behind him and Brian following up. As they joined me at the doors, Brian turned toward Joe. "Oh, and by the way? I quit."

As an exit line, it wasn't too bad. I smacked the big green let-me-out button, and the doors rumbled open. We walked out of Medhall, still wearing our armour, drawing the curious attention of passers-by. I half expected cop cars, helicopters and guns pointed at us, but it had only been a few minutes since Kaiser had made his getaway. Even if cops were on the way right now, we still had a little time.

The PRT might be a little quicker—I could actually see the top of the PRT building in the distance—but even they'd need time to mobilise.

"Okay, we're out," Greg said, as we set off down the street. "Now what?"

I'd actually been thinking about this. "First, we contact our families and tell them to go to ground. Kaiser is absolutely going to try to grab them for leverage. Second, we get to the PRT building and get our story in first."

"Damn right," Brian agreed. "The last thing we need is a kill order."

"But how are we going to get to the PRT building?" asked Tracey. "Walk? No bus is going to take us."

Brian rubbed his chin. "Once we get hold of a phone, I have a friend I can call."

"One that would give us all a lift?" I asked sceptically. "Looking like this?"

He grinned. "Oh, you have no idea."



End of Part Twenty

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Twenty-One: Running the Gauntlet

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



Purity

Kayden was just settling Aster down for her afternoon nap when her phone rang in the other room. She used a gently musical ringtone so it wouldn't disturb her daughter's rest, so she always had to listen for it. Given her specific circumstances, it was rarely a good idea to ignore a phone call, especially in Brockton Bay.

Stepping out of the room, she took up the phone. It was Max's number, which raised her alertness levels immediately. She was still separated from both him and the team, but he had a habit of not taking no for an answer.

"Hello?" she said, putting the phone to her ear.

"Kayden," he said, and she immediately knew he wasn't calling to mess with her. He was panting as though climbing stairs or some other strenuous exercise, and Max never made phone calls when he couldn't sound like he was on top of the situation. If she knew her ex-husband, there was something seriously wrong. "I need you to suit up and get over to the Medhall building, right now. Long story short, we're at extreme risk of being outed. All of us. There are four capes trying to get to the PRT building, and we have to stop them at any cost."

Her eyes went wide. If 'all of us' meant her as well (which Max could be exaggerating about, but could she take that chance?) then Aster was at risk. But … "Max, I can't just leave Aster on her own!"

"Theo's on his way over in a cab. He has a key to your apartment?"

"Yes, yes, he does." She trusted Theo to take care of her baby. He'd done it many times before. "Okay, I'll go. Who are these capes? What am I looking out for?"

"They're new. A three-person cluster trigger plus Grue, of the Undersiders. They got into our secure files and found out things they shouldn't have. Their theme is black metal armour. One can teleport. Another one can fly. Take no chances. Shoot to kill."

"Understood. Who else are you calling in on this?" She darted to the closet and pulled the white bodysuit out from the hidden compartment.

"Everyone."

<><>​

Rune

Lounged back on her seat in the bus, Tammi let the music from her phone wash over her while she idly watched the world pass by. Unlike basically every other teen on the bus, she was evaluating people as worthy targets of her powers once she changed into her cape identity; even in the 'good' part of town, there were far too many wrong sorts of people. People who needed to be taught a harsh lesson about not going where they weren't welcome.

Another couple of stops and she'd be at the Medhall building, where she'd be free to find out from Kaiser what the Empire's latest plans were. She didn't see it as brown-nosing exactly, but she figured that if she showed enough interest, he might ease off on her about that bullshit self-defence training. Especially with that utter fucking cow Taylor Hebert lording it over her all the fucking time.

If it wouldn't get me yelled at again, I would seriously kick her ass while I was out as Rune, and pretend I thought she was Jewish or something. But she knew Victor would see through that shit in a hot Brockton Bay second, and he'd totally snitch on her to Kaiser.

The music cut out, then her phone ringtone kicked in. Making a face, she considered declining the call, but considering the thin ice she was already on, it was probably a good idea to find out what was going on. Letting out an exaggerated sigh, she tapped the earpiece to accept the call. "You've got Tammi."

"Family business." It was Krieg's voice, and he sounded like he was driving somewhere in a hell of a hurry. "Clear?"

The code phrase was as simple as it got. 'Family' meant 'Empire'. Tammi casually glanced around; nobody seemed interested in listening in to her side of the conversation. Still, she knew she'd have to keep it innocuous. "Clear."

"You are needed in the air post-haste. Four capes wearing black metal armour are trying to get from Medhall to the PRT building. They have sensitive Empire data. Kill them, any way you can. Understood?"

She blinked, her mind whirling with the ramifications, but not wanting to ask any stupid questions. Besides, Krieg had laid it out as plainly as possible. "Um, understood."

"Good. Go." The call ended.

Tammi stood up from her seat and slid out into the aisle. There was a bus stop just up ahead; even if there hadn't been, she would've had the driver stop anyway. Fortunately, she had her costume in her backpack—though she was being a fuck-ton more cautious about people trying to grab it, these days—so she wouldn't have to half-ass a mask.

As she headed up the aisle toward the front of the bus, she wondered exactly who the four capes were and how they'd managed to grab such sensitive data.

But asking those kinds of questions wasn't her job. Kicking the asses of people who tried to pull shit on the Empire was.

And right now, it was time to go to work.

<><>​

Fog

Geoff Schmidt was seated on the sofa, newspaper held up at the correct angle for reading, because that was what men did with newspapers when they were home. At precisely timed intervals, he turned to the next page, so that even an astute observer would assume he was actually reading it. The observer would be wrong, of course; there was no information within the newspaper that could possibly interest him. He did these things because not to do it might cause comment.

The newspaper was just low enough that he could see Dorothy in the small kitchen. As he watched, she opened the oven and took out a tray of freshly baked cookies. Neither of them particularly enjoyed cookies—they were a relatively inefficient food source—but making cookies was something that women did in the home, so she did it. Humming the same tune she always hummed whenever she cooked or cleaned or did any other housework, she transferred the cookies to a bowl and brought them out to him.

"I made cookies, dear," she said brightly, as she always did. "Would you like one?"

"Thank you, my darling." He folded the newspaper in exactly the same way as he had done the day before, and the day before that, and took a cookie from the bowl. Despite the fact that it was still uncomfortably warm, he took a bite from it. "Mmm. It's delicious."

"Thank you. I'm glad you like them." She placed the bowl on the coffee-table in front of him, on the mark it had left after weeks of being placed in the same spot. "Feel free to eat as many as you want."

"I will, thank you." He finished the cookie, then took up the paper again and unfolded it. He would eat no more cookies. Before they went to bed that night, Dorothy would empty the bowl into the trash and wash it up. Tomorrow, she would make more cookies.

The landline rang. He lowered the paper and turned to look toward Dorothy. "Could you get that for me, dear?"

"Of course, sweetheart." Dorothy went to the phone and picked it up. "Hello, you have reached the Schmidt residence. Dorothy speaking."

He kept the paper lowered so that Dorothy would stay in her human form while she was speaking on the phone. When she had finished, she put the handset down again and turned to him.

"Who was it, dear?" he asked.

"It was Victor." Dorothy smiled. Unlike the expression she wore when bringing cookies out to him, this expression was genuine. "Kaiser wants us to kill someone."

Geoff's return smile was equally sincere as he put the paper down and stood up. "After you, my dear."

<><>​

Taylor

Brian slapped at his hip; his metal gauntlet smacked against his armour with a clang. "Dammit," he muttered. "I'm pretty sure I've still got my phone, but I can't get to it. How do I take this stuff off?"

"Are you sure you want to?" I asked. I'd never even considered the idea of wearing armour before—I liked reading fantasy books, not acting out the scenes in them—but this stuff was both comfortable and made me feel protected. Especially since I didn't have Victor's bottomless well of skills to draw on. Though Brian was pretty impressive in the hand-to-hand stakes. "It's saved our lives already, and you know they'll be coming after us pretty hard."

Tracey nodded. "That's true, but if we send out an SOS, we can get the cavalry on the way before the bad guys get here." She gestured at the vehicles passing by. "And you know, if we just grab a cab or jump on the bus, we could be well away before they get themselves organised."

"I, uh, I dunno about you guys," Greg interjected, "but if we call the PRT and tell them what we know, we'll just sound crazy. Even if they send someone to investigate, they'll take their time about it. And as for grabbing a cab? Brian, I love you like a brother but the cabbies in this town are assholes. Half of them won't even slow down if it's a big black guy trying to grab a ride."

Brian shook his head. "I was thinking of calling my friends, not the PRT. So, can you give me access to my phone? Like Tracey says, we need to put out an SOS as soon as possible."

"Okay, yeah, good point." Greg flexed his free hand—I wasn't sure where his sword had gone—then paused. "Uh, where do you keep your phone, anyway?"

"Belt pouch, right here." Brian indicated the armour on his hip. "Just give me access, then you can put the armour back. Though maybe fix it so I can actually make a call too." He waggled his steel-clad fingers and tapped the side of his helmet.

"Okay, give me a second." Greg seemed to concentrate on the spot Brian had pointed at.

"Wait." My brain suddenly threw up an answer to a question I hadn't asked. Specifically: if Brian was a cape, who was he? I'd spent some time memorising the list of capes that Ms Harcourt had given me, and there was only one in Brockton Bay who could create darkness at will. "You're Grue, aren't you? Of the Undersiders."

Brian turned to look at me while Greg was still working on his armour. "Will it matter if I am?"

"Honestly, Taylor," Tracey said with some asperity. "Why even bring something like that up at this—wait, the Undersiders? You're a villain?"

An aperture opened in the side of Brian's armour, and he retrieved his phone. "I'm pretty sure this is not the time for this discussion, ma'am. We're in this together, and I want to survive as much as you do. Which means—"

"Look out!" shouted Greg, jumping in front of Brian and raising his shield. Something metallic ricocheted off it an instant later, followed by the spiteful crack of what I automatically identified as a high-powered rifle (and how sad was it that I knew what one of those sounded like?).

I looked around, and saw Victor again. This time he was airborne, though he was wearing ordinary clothing and a domino mask rather than his regular metal armour. He was also carrying something; with my current lack of glasses, I couldn't see what it was, but I figured it was the rifle.

"Shit," Greg muttered. "He's out of range." He gestured, and the opening he'd created in Brian's armour closed up again. "I can't affect the gun, and bullets travel too fast to get a fix on them."

The rifle fired again; this time, the bullet struck my helmet, making my head ring, but didn't do more than give me a shove. A moment later, another shot hit Greg in the shin. Again, this did no damage, but I began to wonder what would happen if he shot the same point three or four times in a row.

"We've got to do something, maybe get under cover!" Tracey gave Victor a glare, but apparently he was out of range of her powers too. "If he knows where we are, the other members of the Empire won't be far behind!"

"Give me a second." Greg modified Brian's helmet and gauntlet so he could use his phone, then turned to look up at Victor. While he was doing this, three more bullets struck; if we hadn't been wearing armour, any one of them would've been a kill shot. "Okay, I'm going to go deal with him. You guys get under cover and sit tight."

Belatedly, I recalled the redirection-ball I'd used earlier. "Give me a second here." Facing Victor, I held up my hands and summoned the ball again. Three feet across, it formed a nice shield in front of Brian, allowing him to make the call without Victor doing something assholish like shooting the phone out of his hand.

As I'd hoped, Victor fired a shot into the ball … and it came out going straight back toward him. He jerked sideways in the air, blood spraying from his left shoulder. Apparently disliking the way things were going, he started flying back toward the Medhall building. Good. Maybe he'll think twice about shooting at people in the future.

I barely had time to savour my triumph before Tracey yelled a warning. I spun around, just in time for a chunk of concrete half the size of a Buick to smash into me. The armour took the impact (not without inflicting a few bruises), but I was knocked a dozen yards along the sidewalk. Groaning and trying to figure out which way was up, I started to climb to my feet.

Tracey and Greg ran toward me, while Brian followed behind. Still talking on the phone, he threw out his free hand to paste a swathe of blackness across the sky. There was a distinct difference to the last time he'd used it: that time, I hadn't been able to see through it. Now, it was like tinted glass to me. Did it have something to do with my new powers, and how I could see in the dark?

I stopped thinking about that when I saw the costumed figure on the other slab of concrete swoop around the cloud of blackness for another try. The chunk of concrete that she'd already nailed me with, plus a motorbike and a car, orbited her as she looked for a clear shot.

"Rune!" yelled Brian. "Fuck off!"

"Hahaha die!" cackled the teenage Nazi, angling the car in our general direction.

"Oh, no you don't," Tracey snarled. She held out her hand and the wind tunnel she'd used to yeet Victor down the corridor formed again. Although she couldn't quite reach Rune with it, the tunnel sucked in Brian's darkness and hosed Rune down with it, enveloping her so she couldn't see a thing.

Behind me, Greg took off straight up, sending dust flying everywhere. I half-expected his jetwash to be hot, but it was just high-pressure air. He angled over toward the black cloud that Tracey had hit Rune with, forming a wicked-looking mace in place of the sword he'd used before.

Rune burst out of the blackness, trailing wisps of it behind her. While she'd been in the cloud, I'd been able to make out her expression as one of epic fury; once she was in the open air again, my lack of glasses reduced that to maybe upset. She was going to be more than 'upset' in a moment, given that Greg was closing with her, mace raised menacingly. All three of her orbiting weapons were out of position, and she had no way to avoid him.

But then he slowed dramatically; she swooped mockingly out of the way, giving him the finger on the way past. I couldn't understand it, especially given that he couldn't slow down without turning off the jet-thrust. It was either full-on or nothing, as far as I could tell.

Brian called out, "It's Krieg!" and pointed. Then he put his phone back to his ear. I looked to where he'd indicated and saw the familiar costume of the most Nazified cape in the Empire Eighty-Eight. A moment later, it became hard to move or even to breathe.

Fuck. This is bad. This is really bad. Krieg had battlefield control, able to slow his enemies and leave his allies unhampered. None of us had the range for energy attacks to hit him.

"Get … here … fast …" Brian ground out, forcing the words past the cloying power that made it feel like we were mired in fast-drying concrete. Turning his attention from the phone, he raised his hand with some effort. More clouds of blackness started pouring out, but even those were held back by the slow-field.

Rune circled around toward where Greg was still gamely blasting forward at a fraction of her speed, her concrete chunk leading the way. "Not so good against stuff that's not made of metal, huh?"

She was right; he wasn't. Even the heavy shield he was carrying would only transfer the impact into his arm. The trouble was, Krieg's power would prevent him from being knocked back normally. It would be like being hit with something travelling a lot faster. Bones were going to be broken.

Greg brought his hands up into the path of the mass of concrete; just before it reached him, he unleashed the same blast that had smashed Stormtiger into Kaiser. The crack echoed across the street like a gunshot, and while the concentrated air-hammer didn't smash the concrete or even stop it, it did slow the thing down dramatically. Greg was knocked backward, but it was more of a hard nudge than a killing impact.

I couldn't see Rune's expression, but her whole attitude told me she was pissed off that he'd managed to deflect her big attack on him. Unfortunately, there was a way she could easily screw him over, and I was pretty sure she had figured it out. Even worse, her concrete platform was moving too erratically for me to teleport onto safely.

Wait a second. Teleport.

"Tra … cey," I managed. "Send … you … Krieg."

Her eyes met mine, and she nodded fractionally. "Do … it."

This was just one of the upsides of us having worked together so closely for weeks. We were on the same page almost immediately, and didn't have to spend time explaining things in detail. I formed a teleport circle and flicked it toward Krieg.

In the meantime, Rune was circling around, clearly intending to hit Greg from behind where he couldn't use his air-blast to counter her strike. Fortunately for him, a chunk of concrete that big had a lot of inertia, so she couldn't just corner with it on a whim. But time was running out, and if she hit him in the back of the head, she just might manage to snap his neck.

I didn't intend to let that happen.

The instant the teleport spot landed, I put the other end of the teleport under Tracey's feet. She fell straight down into it, and came up between me and Krieg. He'd been out of my range from the beginning … but now he wasn't out of her range. Forewarned, she put out her hand toward him and a black tendril shot out from her to him. It latched on and he staggered backward, evidently unprepared for that move.

All of a sudden, I was able to move and breathe normally again. It seemed that with Tracey drawing on Krieg's life force (or whatever the black tendril drained from people) he was no longer able to concentrate on fucking us over. Brian's darkness began to billow unhindered, and Greg managed to jet-blast out of the way of Rune's murder attempt.

He started to pull a hard turn to get back toward her, mace once more at the ready. Now that he wasn't being held in place anymore, she didn't like this game; flinging all three of her improvised missiles at him (he easily dodged them all), she bolted for the cover of Brian's expanding darkness. It wasn't a bad idea, considering that Greg was looking for payback for the cheap shot she'd used on him, but it had one drawback.

Specifically, me.

My power was literally about teleporting through shadow. If there was no pre-existing shadow, I had to supply one, but with one already there, I could create teleport links into it … or out of it. Brian's darkness was tailor-made for this; I didn't even have to concentrate to make the links. One was right in front of her when she hit the darkness, and the other was on my side of the darkness, down at ground level.

Brian's head came up. "Purity!" he warned, just as I caught an approaching glare out of the corner of my eye. As inconvenient as this was to us, it was too late for Rune; plucked from her concrete magic carpet, she emerged from Brian's darkness at her full flying speed, and face-planted the sidewalk with impressive enthusiasm. I was pretty sure I heard bones break, but I was all out of either sympathy or fucks to give.

Turning to stare at the oncoming Purity as the now-uncontrolled concrete slab demolished a row of parked cars, I was fairly certain we wouldn't be able to bait her into doing the same thing Rune had. In the Medhall information documents, she was one of the capes for whom the recommended response was 'hide and pray', which was probably just a paraphrasing of the PRT's stance on non-capes dealing with her.

"We've got to move!" I yelled; at the same time, Brian shouted exactly the same thing. "Greg, get down here!" I added.

Flying up there on his own, he was nothing more than a target, especially as he was lacking in ranged capability. Worse, we were all currently going through an accelerated learning curve about how to best use our powers; currently we were doing okay, but I'd forgotten to use my redirection-ball and my teleport until it was almost too late. I was actually pretty impressed by how well the teleport had worked with Brian's darkness, but it kind of made sense if I'd somehow gotten the darkness aspect of my powers from him.

That was something we were going to have to look into later; analysis of powers in the middle of a fight was probably not the best use of my time. Purity was coming in hot, and Greg's manoeuvrability was not the best. Also, while the metal armour he'd made for us was very cool, I had no desire to test it against a blast that could level a building.

Turning in midair, he started back down toward us, but it was too late. She'd evidently spotted him, and was arrowing in his direction. And then what I'd feared happened; a spiralling blast of destruction shot out toward him. I screamed a warning, even though I knew it would do nothing at all to save him.

Her attack was going to hit him; he didn't have the airborne agility to dodge it. More to the point, he didn't have any airborne agility at all. He did have the heavy shield, but that simply wasn't going to cut it.

This had likely occurred to him as well, so he did the only thing he could: he turned directly toward her, put out his hands, and generated the flat disc that had dissipated Stormtiger's attack. I had no idea whether it worked against anything other than high-pressure air, but as a Hail Mary pass, it was as good as any. In the instant before Purity's blast hit, it spread out between him and her, just wide enough to cover his entire body.

Light flared in all directions, like a high-pressure water hose hitting a flat plate. I felt the concussion from where I was, and a dozen car alarms went off. Nearby windows might have shattered, but I wasn't sure and I didn't really care.

Greg was driven backward, still maintaining the shield as Purity kept trying to blast through it. He was dissipating the energy as fast as she threw it at him, but she was betting on him running out of gas before she did. The trouble was, I had no idea how long he could hold her off. His ongoing jet-thrust kept him in the air, but her blast prevented him from moving forward.

Tracey came jogging up, panting a little from the exercise. "Krieg's out like a light," she reported. "What do we do now?"

Brian's voice was grim. "The longer we let them hold us in one place, the more chance they'll have of wearing us down and killing us. We've got to neutralise Purity right now."

"Open a portal to her," Tracey urged me. "I'll do the same as I did to Krieg."

I shook my head. "Too dangerous. Besides, my portals need a surface to attach to … wait." A whole series of connections had just clicked together in my head. My powers were linked to Tracey's and Greg's, and we'd all borrowed from Brian. If my teleport had an affinity to Brian's darkness (hell, I could see through it), and the colour of the metal Greg had made our armour from was also connected to that, then …

"Wait for what? We don't have time to wait!" Tracey pointed up at Greg. "He's facing her all by himself!"

"No. He's got us." I flicked out a teleport hole, aiming at the street directly under Purity. At the same time, I used my link to shadow to make Greg's shield the other end of the link. It connected immediately, confirming my suspicions. "Greg!" I yelled. "Your shield! Use your shield!"

I had to say this about Greg: whatever his misgivings about doing what I said, he trusted me implicitly. He brough the large steel shield up into place behind the dissipation disc, then dispelled the disc. Purity's blast struck the shield; or rather, the teleport portal I'd layered over the outer face of it … and vanished. It wasn't even splashing out sideways.

Half a second later, Purity found out where it was going, as it erupted from the street below her. With a startled yell, she stopped blasting, smashed skyward by the surprise attack. She was, it turned out, immune to damage from her own blast. But she wasn't immune to being knocked back by it.

We'd gotten some breathing room, but it wasn't going to last for long. As Purity was flung away over the rooftops—sucked to be her, I decided—we moved off down the street. Not running, because while Tracey's glowing tentacles had definitely pepped me up back in the Medhall building, I still wasn't anywhere near as fit as I really needed to be.

Greg came in for a landing near us. He stumbled but didn't fall over, though I was pretty sure he cracked the sidewalk anyway. "Holy shit," he managed. "What just happened? I thought I was dead. What did you do with my shield?"

"Yeah, I was kind of wondering about that myself," Brian said, scanning the sky above. "You only threw a shadow portal to the street."

"I'll explain later," I panted. "Doubt it'll work twice."

"Here, have a top-up, courtesy of Krieg." Tracey sent a glowing tentacle to each of us, and I immediately felt a hundred and ten percent better. Even the incipient bruising from Rune's bullshit ambush went away.

That let me think a little straighter, and I tapped into Brian's athletic skills for any techniques on moving fast without getting winded. The trouble was, these all came with the disclaimer: 'be fit first'. I wasn't unfit, but neither was I what anyone would really call athletic.

"Purity's coming back." Brian warned. "Can you do that trick again?"

I shook my head. "Not that one, but maybe another one." I eyed the incoming glow. She had to be pissed off.

"Cars coming, too," Greg said. "Not PRT. I don't think they're friendly."

Brian took a quick look in that direction. "No, they aren't."

I made a snap decision; dropping one shadow portal at my feet, I opened another one across the road, in the shadows of an alleyway. "Guys, go. I'll take Purity this time. Maybe I can convince her to fuck off for good."

"Are you sure about this?" Brian asked, but first Tracey and then Greg had already stepped into the portal and ended up on the far side of the road. "I can put up visual cover."

"And she'll just shoot through it blindly until she hits us." I pointed at the portal at my feet. "I got this. Go."

I wasn't certain if it was my tone or the incoming Blaster that convinced him, but he dropped into the portal as well. Greg and Tracey had trusted that I knew what I was doing. I hoped their faith in me wasn't misplaced.

I'm supposed to be an analyst, I wailed internally. Not a superhero!

But there I was, with not one but two cars full of villains bearing down on me, along with Purity. All had blood in their eye, and nobody was pulling any punches.

That was fine. Neither was I.

Someone leaned out the window of the first car and opened fire on me with an automatic weapon. Bullets pinged off the sidewalk around me, and a few signs acquired sudden holes. I felt—and heard—hammer-blows on my armour, but Victor had more or less inured me to that with his sniper rifle.

Small mercies.

The second car screeched to a halt, and a man and woman jumped out. Almost immediately, the man dissolved into a misty cloud; I belatedly recognised him as Fog, one of the Empire's second-stringers. The woman stepped into the cloud and vanished. Either she was Night, or she'd just committed suicide. (Until further information came along, I was going to assume she was Night.)

And then Victor himself, now wearing his trademark metal armour, swooped into view above the cars. In his hands, he carried a somewhat larger rifle than before. I seriously did not have any faith in Greg's armour to stand up to it. But if what I was wearing wasn't proof against it, Victor's armour certainly wouldn't be either. He'd be looking for an opening to shoot me in the back, just like Rune had tried with Greg.

As bullets continued to ping off my armour, I looked back toward Purity just in time. Hovering over the street, she raised her hands and sent one of her building-killing blasts my way. Hastily, I summoned my redirection-ball and got it in the way with mere instants to spare.

Originally, I'd considered just throwing her blast back at her again, but that would only temporarily deal with one problem. And Kaiser was stepping out of the back of the first car, raising a long tubular object to his shoulder; I didn't know what it was, but the very appearance of it screamed 'military'. By definition, that meant it was dangerous, maybe as dangerous as Purity herself.

So when Purity's blast got to me, I fielded it with the redirection-ball … and sent it at the cars. The bullets that the Empire were spraying at me, I sent the other way.

Shit proceeded to happen at an impressive rate.

The second car exploded, catching both Night and Fog, dissipating the mist and forcing him to reform, and sending her sprawling. While I didn't get the first car, the explosion sent Kaiser flying, along with several of his men. Still airborne, Victor backed off a ways, carefully raising his rifle to his shoulder. Purity came in for a semi-controlled crash landing in the middle of the street; it seemed at least one of the bullets they'd been spraying at me had hit the mark. The wrong mark, but I wasn't complaining.

This was my opportunity. The teleport portal was still open in front of me, so I jumped into it. At that exact moment, I heard Victor's rifle go off; the bullet whanged off my shoulder, giving me a solid jolt. I stumbled as I emerged from the shadows in the alley across the street, but Greg caught me before I fell.

"Are you okay?" he asked as quietly as he could, his helmet close to mine. Even though we both had narrow slits for vision, I could see the worry in his eyes. I knew there was a reason I liked him so much.

"I'm fine. Victor's shot knocked me off balance." I turned my shoulder toward him. "What's my armour looking like?" When I moved my arm, I could feel metal scraping against itself in a way it really shouldn't be doing.

"Sprang a plate," he reported. "I can fix it—"

"Move now, fix later," Brian interrupted. "We're too close to them. We need to break contact."

He was totally right. We were only about twenty feet inside the alleyway, and Purity was visible from where we were (fortunately, looking the other way). With her power off, she was a petite mousy brunette in a white bodysuit, now stained red from at least one bullet wound. She was kneeling in the middle of the street, hand held to her ribs. Her Empire buddies would be swarming around her in the next few seconds, and all it would take was one of them looking our way to start this shit all over again.

"Stick close to me," I said quietly, then activated my sound deadening aura.

Everything went utterly silent, and we started off down the alley. Even when Greg accidentally brushed against a trashcan and knocked the lid off, not a sound was made. Between that and the wall of darkness Brian raised behind us (people expect to see darkness in dark alleys; it's kind of a thing) we managed to get down the alley and around the corner without anyone charging after us.

Even when we came to a fence, it wasn't a problem. I bridged the obstacle with two portals, and we barely broke step as we passed through. But while we were absolutely making progress, none of us pretended for a moment that this was going to last.

When we got to the far end of the alley, we paused to catch our breaths. Brian was giving the impression this was casual exercise for him, and Greg was definitely fitter than he had been from all the traipsing around inside the Medhall building doing his janitorial duties, but neither of those situations applied to Tracey or me. I just wasn't as fit as I could be, as proven by my lack of stamina during the mad dash to get away inside the building, and Tracey had just spent the last couple of days doing literally nothing at all.

"Okay," I panted as I leaned against the alley wall. "They're totally going to be looking for us, yeah?"

"They are," Brian agreed. "Especially with what we know about them." He still had his phone in his hand, and he tapped out a quick text. "Also, we can't count on any of them staying down. Othala's known to be a fairly effective healer, if she uses her power that way."

"Victor didn't look like he'd just taken a bullet to the shoulder," I admitted. "Which means Rune and Purity are both going to be coming after us again, more pissed than ever."

"That's who shot you?" Greg shook his head and groaned. "Oh, man. I miss the days when he was just Alexander the Great, Medhall law division and all-round awesome cool guy."

Brian shook his head. "It's never not going to be weird that you know them by their fucking nicknames."

"Know them?" Tracey had recovered enough to contribute to the conversation. "Taylor saved his life. From Shadow Stalker, even."

"I remember Taylor and Greg telling me about that, or at least about Greg clocking her with a fire extinguisher," Brian agreed.

"Is it just me," Greg asked plaintively, "or is it the height of irony that even though Stalker was a murderous psycho bitch who tried to kill three of us, if we'd known about Victor then, we probably would've cheered her on?"

I had to stop and think about that. "Jeez, you're right. She did try to kill you, me and Tracey. Wow. That's a real head-spin."

"She tried to kill all of us," Brian corrected me. "The 'friend' I mentioned that she shot with a broadhead arrow? That was me. She hates me." He paused. "Wait a minute. Why did she come into the Medhall building if she didn't know it was Nazi central, anyway?"

I sighed. "She was also one of my school bullies, and she couldn't stand the fact that Bradley and Mr Grayson … ugh, I mean Hookwolf and Victor, came to the school, saved me from her, and got her arrested. Also, Hookwolf smacked her pretty hard in the mouth while both of them were out of costume, which is a whole other level of irony that I'm not sure I'll ever be able to top. So anyway, my guess is that she came to Medhall to kill the people who were helping me, then kill me, and vanish."

Like she killed Justin and tried to kill Tracey, I didn't say. I also didn't want to speculate about whether he was actually an Empire cape or just some charming guy who worked in Advertising. Hell, I didn't even know which one I wanted him to have been. Did I want his death to be retroactively justified, or did I want Tracey to have been dating someone who wasn't a Nazi?

Tracey shook her head. "I think I'm going to be needing a lot of therapy after this. Okay, I've caught my breath now. We can keep going."

"It's good," Brian said, looking up. "Our ride's here."

Puzzled, I followed his gaze, just as five gigantic creatures jumped off the edge of a roof and scrambled down to ground level. I'd heard about these things before, something to do with a villain called Hellhound and her control over dogs, but seeing them up close was something else altogether. Resembling some unholy cross between dinosaurs, rhinos and the dogs they had allegedly begun life as, these horror-movie monsters ended up on the sidewalk next to us.

Riding astride them were three costumed teenagers: one wearing purple spandex with a stylised eye on the chest, one in a Renfaire outfit with a sceptre and a theatrical mask, and a heavy-set girl with a cheap dollar-store dog mask. I figured the last one was Hellhound, but the other two weren't anyone I knew about. The closest I could come was 'the other members of the Undersiders'.

Greg did a double-take. "Wait, we're riding those things?"

Hellhound turned to look at him; I could feel the glare she was giving him. I elbowed him in the ribs, eliciting a clack of metal against metal, and held up my other hand. "Ignore him. We've been on the run since we discovered the truth about the Empire Eighty-Eight, and right now we're all a bit frazzled."

The girl in purple stared at me. "Wait, holy shit, Medhall is Empire? All of it? Max Anders is Kaiser?"

Brian sighed. "Introductions. This is Tattletale, Regent and Bitch. Yes, that's what she prefers. And yes, Tattletale will figure shit out. Guys, this is Taylor, Greg and Tracey. Greg's the one who smacked out Shadow Stalker." He eyed the two monster dogs without riders. "We're going to have to double up. Tracey, are you okay riding with me?"

"I gotta say," drawled Regent, "the armoured-knight look actually works well for you, Grue. Maybe a demon head for a helmet, but the rest of it's totally on point."

Tracey shook her head. "I don't care if I have to learn how to ride a skateboard at this point. I just want to get to safety." She looked at the dog-thing, as if trying to figure out how to get on its back. "How do I get up there without hurting it?"

"You won't hurt it," Hellhound/Bitch replied curtly. "Just climb on." 'If I can do it, dumbass, so can you' was clear in her tone.

Brian scrambled onto the back of one of the dogs, while Greg gave me a hand-up onto the other one. Reaching down, Brian pulled Tracey up in front of him, while Greg pulled himself awkwardly on behind me. "Um, we might need to armour you guys as well," Greg suggested. "The Empire's playing for keeps right now. They're going all-out on the lethal shit."

"They really are," Brian confirmed. "This stuff's saved our lives several times already."

I tilted my head. When I wasn't suppressing sound around me, my hearing was really, really good. I wasn't sure if this was due to air currents funnelling sound toward me, or my ears just being more sensitive (or even a combination of the two), but right now I was hearing the sound of things (and people) pushing through the air, coming closer with every moment. Fainter, but still audible, was the crackle of radio communication. "Incoming!" I warned.

"Go!" shouted Brian.

Bitch whistled and pointed, and the dog-critters jolted into motion. I'd already found a couple of bone spurs to hang onto, and my fingers were clenched tightly around them. This was good, because the dogs had an amazing turn of acceleration; they bounded off down the street like puppies who knew the treat was that way.

Brian held up his hand and darkness poured from it, spreading out and filling the street behind us. As usual, I could see through it, and I looked back over my shoulder just as Rune came over the rooftops on another slab of concrete. It looked like she had several people on board.

"What, super-hearing and you can see through his darkness?" Tattletale had somehow managed to drop back alongside the dog Greg and I were riding. "Are you all grab-bags? Wow, a cluster? How recent?"

"No distractions!" yelled Brian over his shoulder. "Figure out what they're going to do! Greg, armour!"

"On it!" Greg let go with one hand and gestured to the cars we were galloping past. Streamers of metal curled off them, leaving them without side-panels and roofs, but I didn't care all that much. Destruction of property seemed to be the order of the day around us, even when we didn't mean it.

A moment later, each member of the Undersiders was wearing front and back torso armour and a helmet that was vaguely themed toward their original costumes; Tattletale got an eye embossed on hers, Regent got a crown built into his, and Bitch's visor was a snarling dog's muzzle. All of this was in the black steel that Greg seemed to specialise in, of course.

A moment later, his effort paid off as a hail of gunfire poured down through the darkness and swept over us. They were firing blind, of course, but enough expenditure of ammunition would inevitably see results. I felt one bullet ping off my helmet and heard a couple more hit Greg; sparks flew off the others here and there, saving them from wounds that would've been debilitating at best and fatal at worst.

"Jesus Christ!" yelped Regent. "Who opted for bullet hell?"

"Fuck off!" yelled Tracey. I was pretty sure this was the first time I'd heard her swear ever, so that was a measure of the pressure we were under. She pointed up and back, and I saw her pull the wind-tunnel trick again, forcing Brian's darkness much higher than it would normally have gone. As a result, the slab slowed a little and the volume of fire slackened off.

"Where are they?" asked Greg, looking up and back into the cloud of darkness. "And is Purity around?"

"There." I twisted around and pointed at the flying slab of concrete. "And I haven't seen her yet, but be careful."

"Were you being careful when you took them all on at once?" he retorted. "Right now we're in 'do, or do not' territory. Stay safe." Letting me go, he took off straight up from the dog we were riding, like some kind of vehicle-launched cruise missile.

As Brian had noted, he was really into this. I just hoped it wouldn't get him killed. Him and me weren't done yet, not by a long shot.

<><>​

Greg

Flying was an absolute blast, in every sense of the word. It wasn't like he had rocket boots, but like the air under his feet was just forcing him forward. He was still figuring out how to alternate between 'full power' and 'off', but he was sure he'd get there eventually. Right now, he needed to kick some more Nazi ass.

With this firmly in mind, he launched up through the cloud of utter blackness that Brian had generated—how Taylor could see through it, he would never understand—and then levelled out once he could see again. Directly ahead, he spotted Rune and her passengers on their flying chunk of concrete; they immediately opened fire on him, so he brought up his arm to block them from hitting the vision slit in his visor. He could still see the concrete slab, though, so he could aim.

The volume of fire coming in at him sounded like hail on a tin roof as he closed with them; he could feel the metal weakening under the incessant impacts, but his power allowed him to shore it up and take the hits. They tried to dodge, but a ten-ton block of concrete was too heavy to just duck out of the way, so he stayed on target. If I spread my arms out at the last second, I can sweep them all off the block.

And then, with less than half a second to go, a smashing impact hit him from the side, hammering into his right leg just below the knee. Agonising pain blasted from his toes up to his hip even as he was thrown off course, veering aside from the flying concrete platform. More by instinct than intent, he threw out his hand and sent an air-hammer at the assholes on it, using the manoeuvre to redirect himself in case the sniper was lining up another shot.

As he flung himself over and dived for the cover of Brian's darkness, he spotted the culprit: Victor, of course. Coming in from the side with that damned oversized rifle, he'd held off from firing until Greg was totally focused on Rune's platform. He was too far away for Greg to have a hope of getting to him, and with that rifle he could punch through Greg's armour. Technically, Greg knew, he could make the armour thicker, but he was also wounded; the rifle had done damage to his leg. Better to back off than double down right now.

He changed direction twice, zig-zagging in the air, before he reached the cover of the darkness. On the second such change, he heard another shot, which came so close he heard it, but felt no impact. Then he was inside the darkness and levelling out, powering back toward Taylor and relative safety.

That was stupid, he told himself bitterly. I could've been killed.

It wasn't the first time he was going to get told that, he knew.

<><>​

Taylor

When Greg came flying back out of the darkness and flopped onto the dog-monster I was riding, I was shocked. Half the armour on his right leg was gone, and there was blood running down his leg. "Greg!" I gasped. "Tracey! Greg's hurt!"

"I'll do what I can." She reached out toward us and sent a glowing white tendril to the wound. A few seconds later, it cut out and she sagged in place. "I can't do more than that, but the bleeding's stopped."

"That's fine," Greg panted, leaning against me. "I'll be fine. And before you yell at me, I know it was a stupid idea. Victor was just waiting to ambush me."

"No," I said. "I heard them talking on the radio just after you took off. Victor was coming in from another area. And you knocked two of the guys off the platform, so that took the heat off us."

"Velocity came by too," Brian added. "He checked us out, then backed off, but I think the cavalry's on the way."

"Said no member of the Undersiders ever about the Protectorate or the PRT," snarked Regent.

The dogs took a corner at high speed, leaping over cars and ripping up asphalt with their claws. I hung on as tightly as I could, and Greg held on to me. The PRT building was within sight now, just another few hundred yards.

And then, Purity drifted down from above, hands glowing. From out of the intersection drove four heavy SUVs, which screeched to a halt. Men piled out of three of them, while Kaiser got out of the fourth. Two armoured women also climbed out, and began to expand in height. Someone handed Kaiser the same bulky metal tube as before.

"We can get through," Bitch said, but her tone was unsure. "We can take them."

"Not everyone." Tattletale's voice was quiet, even as the dogs slowed to a walk. "We'd lose people. Maybe even most of us."

"Well, they're going to try to kill us anyway." Tracey's voice was sharp-edged. "They already faked my death once. This is just them balancing the ledger."

"I'll flood the area with darkness," Brian began. "Taylor, if you can teleport—"

It seemed Purity wasn't willing to let us finish our discussion. I had the impression she was bitter about being shot, earlier. Summoning my redirection-ball, I hoped she'd target me again. Maybe I could get her and Kaiser to take each other out …

She fired, but it didn't go anywhere. This was because a dark-costumed figure was suddenly right in front of her, black cape flapping and curling with the sudden release of energy. Alexandria was driven back not one inch by Purity's attack; in return, she backhanded the Empire heavy-hitter almost casually, knocking her unconscious.

Legend flew in from the side and caught Purity, then unceremoniously dropped her to the ground from just low enough that she wouldn't take any more injury. Alexandria stared down the gathered Empire contingent with that folded-arms pose flying capes loved to use when they were intimidating people; Legend, looking back over the top of us toward Victor and Rune, had his hands on his hips.

Kaiser made the first move. He carefully laid the missile launcher on the ground, and climbed back into the SUV. One by one, his underlings did the same, Menja and Fenja reducing in size until they too could enter the vehicle. They started up and drove off, leaving the missile launcher still in the middle of the road, not far from Purity's unconscious body.

I looked around to see Victor and Rune likewise retreating before the unstated menace of two members of the Triumvirate. When I looked forward again, Alexandria was gazing down at us, her expression unreadable. Without so much as a nod of recognition, she rocketed up and then angled southward. I was pretty sure I heard a sonic boom.

"Go," Brian said urgently. "Before the Empire changes its mind and comes back."

But we didn't have to worry too much about that; the PRT was coming out in force, and we made the last hundred yards to the building with an honour guard of troopers and armoured vehicles on either side, watching the skies for any return of the villains. More troopers had gone out to collect Purity and the errant launcher.

None of us breathed easy until we were under cover, and the blast-proof doors rumbled down over the entrance to the parking garage. One by one, we got down off the dogs; Greg's leg was still weak, and I supported him as best I could. The troopers didn't quite seem to be sure what to do about us, but we made no hostile movements and neither did they.

And then an elevator door opened, and a solidly built woman in a blue business suit stepped out. "Alright," she said, looking from one to another of us. "None of you are under arrest. But I do want to know exactly what's going on here."

Tracey cleared her throat. "Yeah, we're probably going to need refreshments for this one."

<><>​

Cauldron Base

Legend

Keith made way for Rebecca to step through the Door into the common room where Contessa was waiting, then he followed on. The enigmatic woman looked up from her coffee and nodded to them. "Well?"

"Done," Rebecca said. "They nearly made it, even without our help." Her expression asked a question. Why did we need to intervene in a local conflict?

"Good." Contessa stood up, leaving the cup where it was. A Door opened before her, and she stepped through it.

Rebecca growled under her breath. "I hate it when she does that."

Keith took the cup and went to the sink to wash it up. "And yet, she keeps doing it."

He, too, wondered if he'd ever find out why she'd sent them to do that.

All things told, it didn't seem likely.



End of Part Twenty-One

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Twenty-Two: Debrief

[A/N 1: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

[A/N 2: This has been one hell of a month, and it's not done yet. I went through a cyclone, fought off a cold, had a friend visit over the course of a week, and I've had to deal with a dodgy ankle. Still, here's the chapter. Whoo.]


Taylor

"Shit!" Brian stopped in his tracks, even as we headed for the elevator. I thought he'd maybe figured out that as armoured up as we were, with five monster dogs (even ones that were steadily shrinking back to normal size, which didn't look weird at all) there was no way in hell we were going to fit into the passenger elevator.

Director Piggot looked back at him and opened her mouth, but Tattletale held up her hand. "Something's wrong," she said.

The other two members of the Undersiders immediately looked around warily, no doubt used to treachery from their line of work, but Brian shook his head. "Families," he explained. "We have to contact them right now."

Shit! Dad! I immediately felt terrible for not remembering that sooner; in my defense, we'd been on the back foot more or less since I'd connected the dots in Tracey's office, using her login. The trouble was, I didn't own a phone; hell, back in the Medhall building, I'd had to use a landline to call Greg for help. "Can I borrow a phone, please?"

"The PRT would be happy to—" began the woman in the business suit.

"Nuh-uh," Tattletale interrupted. "No doubt you'll be trying your hardest to find out their real identities anyway, but you're going to have to work a little harder than that. Guys, your phones?" Demonstrating that she meant what she said, she pulled out a sleek latest-model smartphone, and woke it up with what looked like an eight-digit passcode while shielding the screen with her other hand. "Here," she said, handing it to me. "Knock yourself out."

"Thanks." I zoned out then, concentrating so I didn't get Dad's office number wrong. In the background, I was vaguely aware of Regent and Bitch handing their phones over to Greg and Tracey, but I wasn't paying them a great deal of attention right then.

I hit the last digit, scanned the number to make sure it was correct, then tapped the Call icon. Immediately, it began to ring.

Come on … come on … pick up. Please pick up.

<><>​

Dockworkers' Association

Danny Hebert

When the phone rang, Danny frowned slightly. Taylor always rode home on the bus with Greg—nice boy, definitely good for Taylor—so there'd be minimal reason for her to call him before five. The TV across the room—he usually kept it on mute—was playing a new spot about the Empire Eighty-Eight getting into a running battle with someone who might have been the Undersiders, though it looked like they weren't sure. Even if it wasn't, gangs came and went all the time in Brockton Bay; they usually had to either work at not antagonising the big dogs or be aware that if they Fucked Around there would inevitably be a Finding Out phase.

Turning his attention from the scrolling chyron at the bottom of the TV screen, Danny picked up the phone. "Good afternoon, you've reached the Dockworkers' Association. Danny Hebert speaking, how can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Mr Hebert." The reply was smooth and confident and just a little familiar. "This is Max Anders. I'm calling about your daughter Taylor."

"Uh … Mr Anders, right!" Yes, he definitely remembered that voice now. After all, they'd spoken face to face not so long ago, on the road up Captain's Hill. "What … what about Taylor? Has something happened? Is she hurt?" He recalled all too vividly the fright he'd felt after the Shadow Stalker incursion into the Medhall building.

"Oh, no, it's nothing like that." Anders chuckled warmly. "Here, I'll put her on. She can fill you in herself."

That didn't sound so bad. Danny relaxed back into his chair. "Okay, sure." Taylor could've definitely made many worse choices for her boss than Max Anders, he reflected.

"Hi, Dad." Taylor sounded fairly cheerful. "So, this is basically my fault. I stayed back to finish one last thing, and Greg was going to wait for me, but he got a call from his mom so he left before I finished. But now I really don't want to ride the bus alone, so could you come pick me up from the Medhall building, pretty please?"

"Absolutely." He was far enough ahead in his paperwork to be able to leave early this once. "I'll be there as soon as I can. Pick you up around the back?"

"Sure, that'll be perfect." He could hear the relief in her voice. "You're the best. When we get home, I'll make you a cup of coffee just the way you like it."

"Yeah, that'll be great," he said absently, already in the process of shutting down the ancient desktop computer that was all his budget could cover. "See you soon."

<><>​

Kaiser

Max shook his head admiringly as Victor ended the call. "I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it. You really do have all the skills, don't you?"

Victor cleared his throat a couple of times, then smirked. "It helps that I spent so much time in her presence. And that she doesn't have a squeaky chipmunk voice like that idiot Clements girl. If I wanted to emulate her voice, I'd need to do something drastic to my most prized possessions."

"Good thing we didn't have to go that far." Max shook his head. "Othala's stretched to the limit as it is, healing Stormtiger again as well as Fog, and dealing with the rest of Rune's broken bones. Also, trying to fix whatever the fuck it was they did to Krieg." He still remembered the agonising chill touch of the black tentacles in the sub-basement of Medhall.

"Weren't we going to try to contact the other families?" asked Victor. "The more hostages the better, and all that?"

"I've got people on the way to the Veder house and the Laborn residence as we speak," Max explained. "Danny Hebert's the only one who doesn't carry a cell phone. Better to go to where they are than to trust we can pull them to where we are."

Victor frowned. "Somehow, I can't help thinking that no matter who we grab, those three will be spilling the beans before we can start applying pressure. Shouldn't we be concentrating on pulling our visible assets so we can go underground?"

"The guilty flee where none pursueth," Max quoted. "I know we're actually guilty of what they'll be saying, but the PRT won't be able to prove it, at least not immediately. And if our lawyers can muddy the waters sufficiently before we force them to recant, we might even be able to sidestep it altogether."

"Ever the optimist, hmm?" Victor grinned and slapped Max on the shoulder. "You know what I'm going to regret most about this whole shitshow? Apart from Purity taking it on the chin, I mean?"

"We can break her out," Max declared confidently. Though he wouldn't rush the jailbreak too much. She'd never roll over on him, but maybe a few extra days sitting in a cell would underline how much she depended on him and the Empire Eighty-Eight, especially now that she was well and truly outed. Though coming to think of that … "Send someone to pick up Theo and Aster from Kayden's apartment before the PRT gets there."

Given Kayden's avowed intention to go hero, being the one who had control over her daughter would go a long way toward determining her ongoing loyalties. He didn't think Director Piggot would take the initiative in recruiting her, but stranger things had happened before now.

"Sure." Victor started sending a text, but he kept talking without looking at the screen. "So, what I'm going to regret most of all isn't the bullshit we just went through, but how we had someone like Taylor, with all that sheer goddamn potential, working for us … and it was never going to work out. Not in a million fucking years."

Max didn't want to concede that last point. "I'm not so sure about that. If we'd had a few more months to work on her, cement her loyalty to us as people, we might've been able to pull another Harcourt. And Veder would've followed in her footsteps."

"Grimshaw would've been a complication, no matter what," Victor reminded him. "According to Harcourt, she was competent but she didn't have Taylor's spark of genius and level of resourcefulness. And even though she's been working for us for years, she still didn't hesitate to try to sell us down the river."

"Maybe if Justin was still alive, he might've been able to talk her around," Max suggested, but he personally wouldn't have bet his life savings on it. "But even if that wasn't the case, you should really have killed her off then and there, rather than getting complicated by faking her death. Why the fuck didn't you do that, exactly?"

"I told you," Victor said tiredly. "She sent off a text, and I decided we needed to find out who to before we put her in the ground for good. Events were moving too fast. Bad calls were made."

"Well, now we really need to cut all this off at the pass." Max straightened his suit jacket. "Did Hebert sound convinced?"

Victor's smile would not have looked amiss on a shark. "Entirely."

<><>​

Taylor

The phone rang for what felt like forever before someone finally picked it up. "Good afternoon, you've reached the Dockworkers' Association, Danny Hebert's office." I recognised Lacey's voice, albeit a little breathless. "I'm sorry, Mr Hebert's gone home for the day, but if you want I can take a message."

I frowned. Dad, going home for the day this early? Right when I needed to talk to him urgently? That made no sense; or rather, it made sense in a way I didn't want it to.

"Hi, Lacey, it's me," I said. "When did Dad leave, and did he say exactly where he was going? Because I really, really need to get a message to him."

"Oh, Taylor." She switched seamlessly from 'professional' to 'personal'. "He, uh, he actually said he was going to pick you up from the Medhall building. Something about how your boyfriend ditched you?"

It was the worst possible news I could've had. "Lacey, you've got to stop him! He can't go to Medhall!"

"What? Why? Isn't that where you are?" Kurt and Lacey didn't have any kids, but I still heard 'concerned parent' in her voice. "Taylor, what's going on? Why don't you want your dad to pick you up?"

"I'm not there! I'm at the PRT building!" The words spilled out of my mouth. "Medhall is full of Empire Eighty-Eight, and they just tried to kill me! Stop him! Please!"

I wasn't quite sure what part of that got her attention, but I heard the phone handpiece hit the desk. Distantly, I could hear Lacey calling out to others in the office, but her voice was too faint for me to make out the words. As my hand clenched around the phone, the plastic creaking in my grip, I saw the blue-suited woman staring at me.

"Is that true?" she demanded.

I nodded, still listening intently to the phone. "Yeah. Tracey figured it out, so they faked her death and when they got what they wanted from her, they were gonna kill her for real. Then I figured it out too, and me and Greg and, uh, Grue made a run for it. Hookwolf and Stormtiger and Victor were chasing us through the service passages, inside the walls."

"And Max Anders?" she asked, her tone intent. "Does he know about it? Is he complicit? Or are they using his business as cover behind his back?"

Greg laughed hollowly, apparently done with his phone call. "Ma'am, he's Kaiser. I'd be downright astonished if he didn't know about it."

The woman blinked, apparently taken aback for the first time since she'd entered the discussion, which said a lot for her ability to handle new information. "Anders is Kaiser? You know this for a fact?" From the tone of her voice, she was reconsidering some of her prior assumptions.

"Yup," Greg confirmed. "We were right there in the room while him and Victor and Stormtiger and Hookwolf and Cricket discussed how they were going to coerce me and Taylor into being loyal to them. To Medhall."

"Murder," I filled in. "It was going to involve murder. I was supposed to kill Tracey, and Greg was supposed to kill Grue, and they'd hold that over our heads forever. The alternative was that they'd murder me and Greg and Dad and Greg's mom, so there wasn't really a good option."

"Wait." That was Armsmaster. "You're teenagers. What do you have to offer that Kaiser and the Empire Eighty-Eight would be willing to give you even that much leeway over? Unless it's your powers …?"

Armsmaster's lack of social adroitness was something even I knew about, so I chose not to be offended by his words. "No, it's not the powers, though he probably would've been even more interested if we had them then. We, um, kind of saved him a ton of money, back when we were interns." I paused, thinking. "Greg clobbered Shadow Stalker after she nearly murdered Victor and tried to murder me. I found a bunch of Coil's moles in the building. And I'm pretty sure Grue saved the Empire Eighty-Eight from being outed, totally by accident, after me and Greg convinced Kaiser to hire him on as a security guard."

The silence that fell across the parking garage was broken by a bark of laughter from Regent. "Haha, you fucking did what now?"

"Coil? You're sure?" The woman in the blue business suit was zeroing in on me.

"Wait, wait." I held up my hand to give her the message that I preferred having personal space. "Who exactly are you, again?"

"Director Emily Piggot, Parahuman Response Teams." The response was as curt as it was automatic. "You were saying about Coil?"

"Uh, yeah," I said. Holy shit, she's the PRT boss! And she's talking to me! If my adrenaline glands hadn't already been sending out for more supplies, I would've felt as breathless as I had once been when talking to Max Anders (though not as awestruck because, to be fair, she just wasn't that charismatic). "They had me checking employment records and I noticed some of the social security numbers were in sequence, so I pointed this out to my boss. There was a huge investigation that I was totally left out of. But they told me after the fact that I'd uncovered an infiltration by Coil's people."

"Was there any indication—" she began, but just then I heard voices on the phone I was still holding to my ear. I held up my hand again, and turned away from her. Talking to the Director of the PRT was absolutely a big deal, but Dad came first.

<><>​

Danny

It wasn't until Danny was pulling out of the Dockworkers' Association parking lot that something Taylor had said made him frown. They usually drank tea rather than coffee at home, and Danny always made the coffee when they did drink it. So why did she say she was going to make me a cup of coffee the way I like it? She's got no idea how I like it.

It was a puzzle, and Danny didn't like puzzles. Thinking back, she'd sounded just a little hoarse, like she was coming down with a cold … or she'd been crying. But she'd been outwardly upbeat, like nothing was wrong.

Something just didn't add up.

A car horn sounded from behind him, and he realised he'd rolled to a stop in the exit to the parking lot while he'd been thinking about things. He waved to acknowledge his gaffe and put the car into gear, preparatory to driving out of the parking lot. But then the horn sounded again, repeatedly and insistently.

Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw Lacey in the car she shared with Kurt, waving frantically out the window. He couldn't decipher most of the gestures, but one seemed to mean 'come back' and another was a horizontal slashing cut-off motion. Puzzled, he put the car in reverse and waited; she backed up almost immediately, giving him the room to reverse as well.

As soon as he was out of the exit, he pulled to one side and stopped the car. Lacey was getting out of her car, so he set the handbrake and got out as well. "What's up?" he asked. "Is there some sort of emergency?" He was going to have to call Taylor back, he figured.

"Oh, thank God I caught you!" She stopped, leaning against her car with one hand raised while she caught her breath. "Taylor's not at Medhall! She's at PRT building!"

"What? But I just talked to her." This wasn't making any sense at all.

"No, no, no, that wasn't her. The real one just called." She straightened up and half-ran over to him. "Medhall's full of Empire Eighty-Eight, and she found out."

"What?"

"It's okay, she's fine. She's more worried about you."

"Me? Why me?"

"Because you were going to Medhall!" she shouted.

Even with the doubts he'd been having earlier, this was still something he had trouble getting his head around. "Taylor's at the PRT building? Are you sure?"

"Of course not," she snapped. "I regularly have heart attacks trying to stop you from driving off to be a hostage for supervillains for fun."

"Hostage? Why?" Events were moving too fast.

"Because she knows who they are." She gestured toward the Association building. "I dropped the phone on your desk and ran, so she might not have hung up yet."

Still not at all sure what the hell was going on, he returned to his car, turned off the engine, and locked it up. "Who was pretending to be her? Was it Emma again?" On second thought, he doubted very much that Emma (for all her faults) would be affiliated with the Empire.

"She didn't say. All she said was that Medhall was full of Empire Eighty-Eight."

Despite the fact that she'd already covered that, he still had trouble believing it. "But … Medhall are good people. I've met some of them. They think Taylor walks on water, and she thinks the same about them."

"I'm guessing that's before she found out they were Empire Eighty-Eight." Lacey turned her hands palm up to emphasise her words. "But she sure sounded genuine about it."

"Okay, okay, I got it." Danny headed back into the building at a fast walk, with Lacey trailing behind him. When he got to his office, the phone handset was still lying on the desk from where Lacey had apparently left it. Sitting down in his chair, he scooped it up. "Hello?"

"Dad, thank God." Whether this was Taylor or someone else—the idea had occurred to him on the way back into the office that this could be a fake—it certainly sounded like her. She also sounded stressed as hell. "Lacey told you?"

"Lacey told me what you said, yes." Danny was listening hard to the ambient noise at the other end of the phone call. There were echoes, and other voices in the background, but none he could pick out. "What's going on?"

She took a deep breath. "Okay, long story short? Medhall is Empire Eighty-Eight. Max Anders is Kaiser, Bradley is Hookwolf, Mr Grayson is Victor, and I don't think you met anyone else. When they realised I knew this, they tried to grab me, but I'd gotten hold of Greg and the new security hire, and we got away through the maintenance passages and rescued Tracey on the way."

He frowned, uncertain how to say this. "Honey … Tracey's dead. You told me that yourself."

"I thought she was too. But they faked her death when she found out about them, so they could kill her when it suited them. Greg and I found her and rescued her, then busted out of there."

This was starting to sound more and more like the plot of an action movie. He wanted to believe it was Taylor he was talking to, but there was still the chance he was being punked. They'd done it once, after all. "Taylor … don't take this the wrong way, but what's the nickname your mom always used for you?"

"What? Oh, right. She called me Little Owl." She paused. "Wait, if they can pretend to be me, then they can pretend to be you too. Um, back when me and Emma were still friends and we used to play heroes and villains, when she played Alexandria, who did I play?"

Now that was going back a ways. He paused, racking his brain. It had been a very distinctive name, to do with her hair … "Ah. Aha. The Infamous Doctor Curlyhair."

"That's the one." She sounded pleased just for a moment, then her tone went serious again. "Can you just come to the PRT building, please? I don't think home or work's safe. Not until we can deal with the Empire once and for all."

"Yeah, I can see that." Taking family members hostage to menace someone into not testifying against them was totally something Nazis would do. It had been the go-to tactic for organised crime long before the Empire came on the scene, after all, and nobody had ever accused Nazis of possessing a superior moral compass to someone like Al Capone. "I'm on the way."

"Drive safe."

"Always." He ended the call and came to his feet. "Lacey, we're shutting down until Monday. Right now, I'm heading to the PRT building. Get the place locked up and everyone offsite." The last thing he wanted was one of his friends and colleagues to end up with a gun to their head.

"Got it, boss. Go."

"Going."

<><>​

Taylor

"Thanks," I said to Tattletale as I handed her phone back to her. "That's a huge weight off my mind."

"Hey, don't worry about it." She grinned impishly—she'd removed her helmet, as had Regent, though Bitch seemed to have taken hers off, liked the look of it, and put it back on—and tilted her head toward Brian. "Grue seems to think you're worth helping out, so I'm just going along with that. Also, I'm truly intrigued as to how you put together the clues about Max Anders and the rest of the Empire Eighty-Eight. You'd think they would be more careful about dropping hints about that sort of thing in front of interns. Especially ones who've already shown a talent for connecting the dots."

"I would also be interested in such things," the Director stated bluntly. "Especially if you happen to possess actual proof. Personally, I would be willing to take your word that Max Anders is Kaiser, but the moment we attempt to set one foot inside Medhall, we're going to need a warrant backed up by cast-iron evidence."

"Um." I thought for a moment. "Purity is Kayden Russel, Max Anders' ex-wife."

The Director tilted her head. "Is that so? Intriguing and problematic for the man, but at best circumstantial."

"But the fact that I knew it before you unmasked her means I've been into their files." I tapped my breastplate with my fingertip. "I took notes."

"Anyone can write anything." She looked and sounded as though she truly regretted the words she had to say. "I need something that can't be faked in five minutes by someone with a grudge, or a lucky guess."

"How about screenshots?" asked Tracey. She held up Bitch's phone. "I emailed them to myself before I told Ms Harcourt."

"Let me see that." The Director took the phone and started flicking through the images, zooming in on some of them. "Okay, yes, these are definitely … I need these images pulled down, backed up and deep-analysed, stat." Turning to Armsmaster, she passed the phone to him.

"Hey!" Bitch protested. "That's my phone!"

"It's also the same phone you deliberately lose every other day," snarked Regent. "Why is it you only want it back when someone else finds it useful?"

"Because it's my damn phone, and she can't just give it away to someone else!" Bitch actually sounded angry at this. At her side, no doubt picking up her mood, her dogs growled. "Especially an asshole like Armsmaster, who'll get everything else off it!"

"We have spares," Tattletale assured her. "There's nothing on there that we can't handle them knowing."

"But it's my phone," Bitch insisted stubbornly. "Give it back, or I start growing my dogs!"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Brian said irritably. "Give it back to her. Tracey, here." He passed her his phone. "Pull up the emails on that."

I looked between the Undersiders as Bitch snatched her phone back from Armsmaster. I'd only been exposed to their interactions for a relatively short time, and I didn't know everything about them—that seemed to be Tattletale's jam—but I already had a rough idea of their interpersonal dynamic and their motivations. They were villains, but not in the same way as the Empire Eighty-Eight were.

The Undersiders weren't united by a cause of hatred like the Empire, or pseudo-racial unity like the ABB. As far as I could tell, they were a bunch of teenagers who were in it for the money; the trouble was, there wasn't enough camaraderie to overcome the snark and anger. What the final glue was that held them together, I couldn't quite figure out. Not yet, anyway.

Brian's action seemed to disarm the tension as Tracey went into her emails again, then passed the phone on to Armsmaster. I caught Tattletale looking speculatively at me, as though she'd figured out what I'd seen in her group. "You're actually pretty good at this," she said cheerfully. "I'm better, but for someone without any powers or formal training, you've definitely got a talent."

"Gee, thanks." I didn't want to piss her off, so I left out some of the sarcasm I was feeling. "Seems like all it's really good for is getting me in over my head in a Nazi organisation without actually telling me that they were Nazis. I mean, Greg and I were getting hand to hand training from Hookwolf and Cricket!" It was hard to express how totally bizarre that was without shouting, but I did my best.

"If that's the session I'm thinking about, Grue was helping Hookwolf and Cricket train you," Tattletale agreed, sounding highly amused. "Apparently Kaiser's son was there, and some other girl …?"

"Theo's actually a nice kid, but the other one was Rune." I glanced over at Brian. "I'm pretty sure she had her costume and school ID in her pack when you stopped those ABB assholes from mugging her. There's no other good reason why Kaiser and Hookwolf would've been so insistent on her doing the training. Basically, punishment duty."

"So why was Theo being punished?" asked Brian. "Bradley—I mean Hookwolf—made sure I didn't go easy on him either."

Greg chuckled. "He got drunk at the wake we attended for Justin. You've never seen a guy who wanted less to be there."

"Why would Kaiser punish him for that?" asked Tracey. "Did he cause a scene or something?"

I shook my head. "No. Greg and I put it into his head that he should tell his old man that he didn't want to inherit Medhall. So I'm guessing he did, while he was still drunk. And he probably opted out of the Empire Eighty-Eight at the same time."

"Hahaha, wow." Tattletale's grin broadened. "For a control freak like Kaiser, that's gotta be right up there in the 'fuck you and the horse you rode in on' stakes."

"All that and more, yeah." I glanced at Greg and Tracey. "Oh, and you do know Justin was Crusader, right?"

Tracey nodded heavily. "I know. I couldn't believe it when I saw it at first, but …" She sighed. "I guess it's better this way. I don't have to devote any time to hating him. He's dead, along with the man I thought he was."

"What, really?" Greg sounded surprised. "Huh. I never made that connection."

"Justin …" Director Piggot's head came up. "The man Shadow Stalker killed, right? On Captain's Hill."

"Yup." I shook my head in mild disbelief. "In one of the biggest strokes of irony in recent history, she murdered Crusader and damn near killed Victor, all the while having no idea what she was really doing."

"Wait, does she get to walk because they're really supervillains?" asked Greg, sounding worried.

"Hm, no." The Director chuckled grimly. "Intent matters, here. She had no idea who they were, otherwise she would've made it clear at the time. In any case, they didn't have kill orders, and they weren't committing crimes requiring a lethal response at the time."

I rolled my eyes. "For her, 'existing' and 'breathing the same air as me' were sufficiently heinous crimes to warrant kicking the shit out of someone. Been there, done that. Wouldn't recommend the T-shirt."

"Holy shit, you know Shadow Stalker personally?" Regent's voice was positively gleeful. "How much of a coincidence is that? You know an ex-Ward, you were working for supervillains, and you were working with another villain."

"None of which I knew about at the time," I retorted defensively. "I'm pretty sure I don't know anyone in Coil's organisation, and I'm damn sure I'm not part-timing for the ABB. Also, Grue's pretty heroic in my book. Saved my life and Greg's more than once, and Tracey's too." I turned to the Director. "Did anyone tell you he was going to take on Hookwolf, Cricket, Kaiser, Stormtiger, and Victor all by himself, just to give the rest of us a chance to get out of Medhall?"

I couldn't see Brian's expression, but I got the impression he'd just rolled his eyes. "To keep the record straight, I thoroughly underestimated Cricket. She kicked my ass all by herself."

"Still, you made the effort," Tracey said. "And I seriously appreciate it."

"Your phone." Armsmaster handed Brian's phone back. "Images have been saved and backed up. Just out of curiosity, what's that armour made from? I'm having trouble placing the exact alloy."

"Oh, it's not my doing." Brian indicated Greg. "He made it. We're just wearing it."

"Ah, yeah," Greg said awkwardly when Armsmaster turned toward him. "I guess it's one of my powers. I take whatever metal's available and make it into this stuff. I call it 'darksteel'. Kind of dorky, I know."

Dorky or not, it had saved our asses, so I weighed in on the matter. "As I recall, this is made up of Kaiser's metal, Hookwolf's metal, Stormtiger's chains, Cricket's head-cage, a few bullets, and most of an elevator."

Armsmaster took a step back. "So … Shaker rather than Tinker, then. You can control it, right?"

"Oh, totally." Greg chuckled nervously. "Don't worry, your halberd's safe from me. But if you want a sample, I can give you one." Holding out his hand, he made a curl of metal detach from the top of his shield and reform in his palm as a short-bladed knife with a contoured handle.

Stepping forward again, Armsmaster took the knife, holding it close to his visor like he was examining it minutely. "How do you achieve the darkening of the alloy?"

"Literally darkness. I mix it in." Greg gestured toward the rest of us. "We've all got themes of darkness in our powers. I think we get it from Grue."

Everyone turned to look at Brian then, and I suspected that we were only just starting to delve into the discussion about our powers and how they interacted.

So long as we got food in the process, and so long as Dad was safe, I really didn't care.

<><>​

Kaiser

Max's phone rang. He turned away from where Victor was briefing Medhall's legion of lawyers on his version of the upcoming shitstorm—for shitstorm it would assuredly be, no matter how well-prepped they were for it—and took it out. The caller ID read Bradley, so he opened the door and ducked out into the corridor, already swiping to accept the call.

"Please tell me you have good news," he said. Once they had Hebert in custody, the danger posed by Taylor would be greatly reduced; depending on how good Victor was at posing subtle threats, they might even be able to leverage her into overturning the testimony of the other two. The Veder boy, at least, could be depended on to follow her lead.

They were already winding up to spin the Grimshaw woman's supposed death as a stunt by a disgruntled soon-to-be-ex-employee, rewriting her fitness reports post-Crusader as someone who had gone off the deep end into a morass of conspiracy theory. The exact substance of their cover story, he knew, didn't matter so much as the emotions it evoked. As with everything else important, it would be decided in the court of public opinion long before the legal system ever got their teeth into it.

"How long ago did you contact Hebert?" asked Hookwolf in a way that told Max immediately that no, there was no good news in the offing. "He should've been here already." As it was, he was stuck watching the rear parking lot along with Cricket, so as to take Hebert into custody as soon as the man arrived.

Max checked his watch. "Yes. Yes, he should have." For Hebert to have taken this long meant that either Victor had screwed up somehow in his impersonation of her, or something else had alerted Hebert to the ruse before he got to Medhall.

Between Hebert's absence and the time that had passed, he had to assume that the four perfidious employees had spilled the beans about Medhall's connection with the Empire Eighty-Eight, though there was still an element of doubt regarding exactly how much they knew. And even if they knew things, knowing and proving were two entirely different breeds of feline. They could tattle all they liked to the PRT, but this would hardly be the first time a perfectly blameless corporation had had such allegations levelled at it.

"Keep waiting?"

He considered the option, then shook his head. "No. Put one man on it, with orders to bring Hebert to you if he shows. Also, check in with the men you sent to pick up Veder's, Grimshaw's and Laborn's family members. I need to know how that's going."

"Will do." Hookwolf paused. "How bad you reckon this is gonna get?"

"We'll get through it," Max assured him, working to convince himself as much as Hookwolf. "The Empire Eighty-Eight's bigger than both of us, and it's not about to fold because of a few snitches. I'll stand firm, look them right in the eye, and challenge them to prove a damn thing."

"Gotcha." He wasn't sure how much he'd convinced Hookwolf of his words, but the man ended the call without arguing, which was a good thing.

Deciding on the next course of action, Max re-entered the conference room where Victor was still expounding on legal strategies. "Mr Grayson, a word if you will?"

"Of course, Mr Anders." Victor turned to the legal team. "Take five. Brainstorm some ideas between yourselves." As perfectly composed as ever, he followed Max out the door and closed it behind him. "Yes?"

Max opted to start with a softball question. "How's it going in there?"

"Depends." Victor gave Max a serious look. "If we can flip any of them, I'd say we've got a good chance of skating free and clear. Have we got Hebert yet?"

"No." The time for softball was over. "I think it's time Kaiser got seen committing some dastardly deed in public."

Victor frowned. "Is that wise? If this goes badly, reminding the public that we're villains who occasionally hurt people might not be a good move."

"True. But while Kaiser is out and about raising hell, Max Anders will be giving an extremely public press conference out in front of the building." Max waited to make sure Victor got the idea.

"Ah. Of course." They'd done this before, but not very often.

While having Victor make a public appearance at the same time that Kaiser committed a public act of villainy made for a great alibi, the fact was that Max didn't need an alibi. Not once in all the years that Medhall had been active had anyone seriously connected the dots between it and the Empire. Nobody had even suggested that the popular, handsome, wealthy Max Anders might be a supervillain.

"Finish up in there and I'll set it up," Max decided briskly. "The PRT won't move on anything they've been told for at least a couple of hours, while they cross all the t's and dot all the i's. That's the downside of being the good guys; they've got to at least pretend to follow the rules."

"Agreed. Are we breaking Purity out?"

It was tempting, but Max shook his head. "That would be hitting them where they're strongest, and suggesting that they're on to something. We'll do that in a few days, after all this has died down. Where has the ABB made its latest advance?"

Victor didn't even need to stop and think. "The elementary school on the corner of Fisher and Richmond. There's a couple of grocery stores on that block."

Max nodded. "Well, we're taking it back, while you make a speech about the importance of law and order in our fine city. Finish off with a vague promise to donate to some worthy cause or other. That's always good for a few column inches."

"I'll make it some minority group, to really throw them off," Victor suggested with a smirk. "Every mixed message we give them is a good message."

"Absolutely." Max didn't give a damn which charity got the money, so long as he was seen to be donating it and looking good in the process. "Let's get this done."

The hostage plan might have fallen through—given the lack of messages from Hookwolf, it seemed that more than Hebert had evaded his tender mercies—but he had more than one string to his bow.

We can still win this. He had to believe it.

<><>​

Danny

Parking in front of the PRT building and walking in felt a little risky to Danny, especially with the Empire Eighty-Eight potentially gunning for him. Drive-by shootings didn't take place quite as often in Brockton Bay as they had in the Bad Old Days, but they were absolutely still known to happen from time to time. So, as he didn't feel like headlining the nine o'clock news, he found his way around the back of the building, to where two armoured guards stood behind polycarbonate windows, on either side of a very firmly closed blast door.

"Sir!" A voice crackled out of a speaker. "Turn your vehicle around and leave! This building is on lockdown!"

"Wait, wait!" he called, waving his arm out the window. "I'm expected! My daughter asked me to come here! My name's Danny Hebert!"

There was a pause. "Your daughter? What's her name?"

"Taylor," he said. "Taylor Hebert. This is about the Empire Eighty-Eight thing. She asked me to come here for my safety."

Again, there was a brief pause. "Exit your vehicle and face the camera. Do not make any sudden moves."

Carefully, Danny did as he was told. The camera lens was shielded behind the same sort of polycarbonate that the guards were using, and he looked directly into it. He had no doubt that he and the car were being scanned a dozen different ways by less obvious detectors, but he didn't care. So long as he could get to where Taylor was and make sure she was okay, he was fine with whatever they did.

After what was probably only thirty seconds or so, but felt like several hours, the speaker crackled once more. "Mr Hebert, enter your vehicle and drive forward slowly. Follow the instructions of the guard. Do not deviate, or you and your vehicle will be foamed. Do you understand?"

He nodded several times. "Yes. Yes, I understand." He got back into the car and let it roll forward at a crawl. The blast doors rumbled upward out of the way, but he kept his movement nice and slow until he was sure the car would fit underneath.

Once the car was inside, he saw the guard gesturing for him to pull into a vacant car spot. Up ahead, as his eyes adjusted to the glare of the harsh fluorescent lights, he saw a bunch of people in black armour, but that wasn't his problem right then. Doing what he was told, then getting to Taylor, was his entire concern.

Pulling into the parking spot, he set the handbrake then killed the engine. On getting out of the car, he was confronted by the guard. "Do you consent to a pat-down, sir? Security reasons."

"Sure, go ahead." Danny had been frisked once or twice before, in the aftermath of accompanying Anne-Rose to protest marches. It had been quite some time ago, but some things never changed.

The guard was professional and quick about it, and stopped short of the point where Danny would've felt the need to suggest the man buy him dinner first. "Done, sir. Over there." The helmet faceplate was opaque, but the guard pointed at the group of black-armoured people.

"Thank you." He walked in that direction, hoping that one of these capes—they had to be capes, given that most of them were wearing medieval style plate armour, with one even sporting a large shield—could tell him where he needed to be.

"Dad!" Taylor's voice suddenly echoed through the parking garage; he looked around, trying to pinpoint where she was. And then a slim figure broke away from the crowd and ran in his direction; he blinked as he registered that it had to be a teenage girl, but wearing the same armour as the rest of them. "Dad!" she shouted again.

"Taylor?" He started forward into a run himself, tears springing into his eyes. He had no idea what was going on here, especially why Taylor was wearing some Renfaire knockoff that made it hard to focus on her in the less than stellar lighting down here, but he honestly did not give a flying fuck right then.

They came together in a hug that drove the breath out of him, but he didn't care; wrapping his arms around her, armour and all, he spun her around. Her helmet had a hinged faceplate; raised, it showed her laughing teary expression. "Dad, I was so worried about you!"

"It's good to see you're okay too," he said, not quite wanting to let her go yet. "But what's going on? What's all this about Medhall and the Empire Eighty-Eight? And where did you get that armour from?"

She giggled, a release of tension. "Well, let's just say, it's a long, long story."



End of Part Twenty-Two

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Twenty-Three: Second Wind

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]

Nina Veder, Psychologist

The phone in Nina's purse buzzed just loudly enough to be audible. She looked over and frowned, then put the patient notes down and retrieved the phone. Her next appointment was in ten minutes, and she preferred to be up to speed on the progress they'd made so far. However, very few people had the number for this phone, so it was probably a good idea to answer.

When she saw the unknown number on the screen, her frown deepened. Who's this, and how did they get my number?

Just for a moment, she considered declining the call and blocking the number, but her innate courtesy suggested otherwise. If she answered and found out who it was—Greg might be using his friend Taylor's phone—she could always end the call and block them then if the call turned bad. Accepting the call, she put the phone to her ear. "Hello, Nina speaking. Who is this?"

"Hi, Mom, it's me." Greg's voice sounded echoey and a little strained, but it was definitely him. "I need a huge favour. Biggest favour I've ever asked. Please?"

She didn't hesitate; with Greg, she would never hesitate. He was her only child, and she would fight the world for him. "Of course. What is it?"

"You know how you once told me that if I ever really wanted to tell you something, anything at all, that I just had to say so and you'd listen? Remember that? I need you to listen now."

The urgency in his voice struck a chord in her, and she nodded involuntarily. "Okay. I'm listening. What's the matter? What's going on?"

He took a deep breath, then another. "You need to leave work. Get out of there, right now. Don't go home. Go somewhere safe. Maybe get a motel room. Just don't stay where you are. You're in danger."

She blinked a couple of times, then glanced at the clock. Eight minutes until the next appointment. Her first instinct was to argue. I've got obligations. I can't just leave. But he sounded so urgent, and he'd been so responsible recently, that she paused long enough for second thoughts to creep in. "Tell me why I'm in danger and I'll go."

"Medhall is basically Empire Eighty-Eight. Max Anders is Kaiser. He tried to kill me. I'm at the PRT building, right now. The Empire will want to grab you for a hostage against me. Get out of there, now. Please."

Nina wasn't quite sure what convinced her: the tone of his voice, the sheer bizarreness of his story, or the fact that deep down, he would always be her baby boy and she'd always have his back.

If someone had come up to her on the street and told her that Medhall was a hotbed of white supremacy, she would've laughed it off, but Greg loved that company. Every day he went there, he'd come home with amusing anecdotes about the people he worked alongside. There was no way in hell he'd be spreading a story like that about them … unless something was seriously, seriously wrong.

"Okay," she said. "I'm going. I'll let you know when I'm safe." Standing up, she dropped the patient file back in the cabinet, grabbed her purse and walked out of her office.

Shirley, her receptionist, looked up as she came out into the front office. "Oh, Ms Veder," she said. "Your three-forty-five appointment, Mrs Danvers, says she'll be here in a few minutes—"

"Call her back." Nina didn't slow down. "Reschedule. I have to leave. Family emergency. Lock up when you're done." She paused briefly at the door to give Shirley a sympathetic smile, then she pushed the door open and stepped through.

She'd been about to go out through the main doors of the building then around to the side parking lot, but two cars had just pulled up across the road, and a bunch of guys were getting out of them. Normally she wouldn't have given such an incident a second glance, but after Greg's call she was a lot more suspicious. She turned instead and headed down a side corridor, bypassed the public restrooms, then hesitated as she reached the fire exit door that led directly to the parking lot.

If I open this door, the fire alarm goes off. She had a well-developed sense of the social contract, including what one did and did not do, and setting off the fire alarm for no good reason came under 'thou shalt not'. On the other hand, there was a bunch of guys she strongly suspected to be Empire Eighty-Eight closing in on the building, and she did not want to end up as a hostage in their hands. Screw the social contract, I want to live.

Taking a deep breath, she shoved the nudge-bar of the door and it opened; the alarm started blaring immediately, a siren overlaid by the clanging of a bell. "Sorry!" she yelled over the cacophony and bolted out into the parking lot. Her keys came readily to her hand, and she opened her hatchback door. Diving into the front seat, she was just shutting the door when she spotted movement in the rearview mirror.

When she looked more closely, she stiffened in fear. Two of the ominous men had apparently figured out her plan and were running into the parking lot. Running toward her.

Reflexively, she smacked her elbow onto the central-locking button, jammed the key in the ignition, and turned it. The engine coughed, sputtered, then caught, just as someone came running up to the car and tried to open the passenger-side door. She didn't waste time seeing if they were going to try to break the window next; throwing the car into gear, she gunned it out of the parking space, swerved around the second man, and bolted for the street exit.

There was a thud on the back of the car, then a wrenching craack as (she belatedly realised) the second guy grabbed and tore off the rear window wiper. Both men chased her, but while her hatchback had a relatively small engine, it had great power to weight ratio, which meant good acceleration. This allowed her to get to the street exit with enough time to spot a gap in traffic before they caught up.

One of them almost made it, swinging a piece of metal like a club, but she found her gap and floored it. The little engine shrieked, the tyres spun, and the car shot out into traffic, merging with the flow within seconds. As her heart rate began to finally slow down, she reached up and carefully put her seat belt on.

"Okay," she said out loud. "Okay. Okay. I'm alive, I got away. I'm fine."

She didn't feel fine. If she was being honest with herself, she didn't think she'd ever feel fine again, not after the terror of the last minute or so. All she really wanted was to get to Greg, make sure he was safe, then have a perfectly reasonable nervous breakdown.

But first, she had get away from the Empire Eighty-Eight, which meant making sure she'd thrown them off her trail before heading into the PRT building.

<><>​

Otis Grimshaw, Shoe Salesman

The lady's foot slid into the size nine and a half sandal, but to Otis' practised eye, it was too loose. "Hmmm …" he murmured. "I think eight and a half would be too short, so let's try a nine, shall we?" Removing the offending footwear, he tucked it back into the box then rose to his feet. "I'll be just a moment."

"Thank you," the lady replied. As he moved away toward the rack of shelves holding the sandal he required, he heard her speaking to her friend. "Didn't I tell you? He always knows exactly what you need."

He didn't hear what the friend said in reply, because at that moment, his phone rang in his pocket. Managing not to frown, he took it out. At this time of day, he figured, there was only one person it could be: his wife, Marjorie.

Marjorie was taking Tracey's death quite hard, and she hadn't liked it when he'd needed to come in to work. The fact of the matter was, there'd been nobody else available to cover his shift, even though he was grieving the loss of their daughter just as deeply as she was.

He stepped into the stock room and closed the door behind him, so as to have privacy for his phone call. He didn't begrudge the few minutes it would take to speak to Marjorie and bring her around to a happier frame of mind. In any case, he'd be finishing for the day in less than two hours; after that, he'd be able to devote his entire attention to her and the funeral arrangements.

To his surprise, the number showing on his phone screen was one he'd never seen before. Now that he was behind a closed door, he did allow himself to frown in puzzlement. The phone continued to ring; pursing his lips, he tapped the Accept icon.

"Hello?" he said, ready to end the call if it was one of the vultures that inevitably came crawling out of the woodwork at times like this. However, what he wasn't ready for was the voice he heard in his ear.

"Dad! Oh, God, it's good to hear your voice! It's me, I'm alive, you have to listen to me, please!"

Just for a moment he thought it was actually Tracey, and that the events of the last few days had been one horrible, protracted nightmare. Then he came to his senses again, and anger filled his gut with a cold fire. "I don't know who you are," he growled. "And I don't know what your game is. But if you don't leave us alone right now, I will find out who you really are, and I'll spend all the money you're trying to scam out of us in making sure you go to prison for a long, long time."

"Dad, no!" It really did sound like her, and his heart ached at what could never be again. "The Empire Eighty-Eight faked my death! I found out stuff I shouldn't have, and they were holding me prisoner until it was safe to kill me for real!"

He blinked, knowing he should end the call now, but the edge of urgency in the voice had him hooked. And it really did sound like Tracey. Still, he couldn't let them keep the initiative like this. "So, I suppose I need to pay a ransom to get you free, or something like that?" The moment the scammer said 'yes' (because what else could this be?) he would cut them off, no matter how much like Tracey the girl sounded. And he would never, ever tell Marjorie about it.

"No, that's what I'm trying to tell you." She took a deep breath, with the same little half-hiccup Tracey had when she was over-stressed. "I'm at the PRT building. I was a prisoner, but then I got rescued by Taylor—you know about Taylor, I gushed about her enough to you—and some other people, and it's been totally insane, but we're safe now. But now you need to get safe. I know way too much about the Empire Eighty-Eight for their liking, so they're probably going to where you are right now to grab you as a hostage so I won't spill the beans. Mom, too, probably. So you need to get out of there, grab Mom, and come to the PRT building as fast as you can. I'll be there and boy, have I got a story for you!"

He stared at the phone.

On the face of things, it was utterly improbable and implausible, but it really did sound like Tracey on the phone, and her story kind of made sense, for a given definition of 'sense'. The mention of Taylor was another large chip out of his scepticism; Tracey had told them all about how smart her new intern was, and how proud she (Tracey) was of her.

Still, it could be some truly weird and well-informed hoax. Time to ask a question that only Tracey would know the answer of. "Okay, if it's you, what did I get you for your ninth birthday?"

"Nothing," she replied immediately. "You were working late and you forgot, so you got me a present the next day and you and Mom tried to convince me that I'd had it all the time and forgotten to open it." She snorted. "An apology would've done just as well, you know."

The hard little knot of pain in the centre of his chest began to loosen. That's Tracey. It has to be. Nobody else would know anything about that. "Okay. I'm going now. But when I see you, I'm going to want to know all the details, young lady."

"And you'll get them. Just go, please!" The call ended.

He took the time to breathe deeply, in and out, twice. His heart rate was now hammering along as the knowledge fizzed through his bloodstream. Tracey's alive, Tracey's alive! But the rest of what she'd told him sobered him up again. I have to go, now.

Stepping out of the stock room, he caught the eye of one of the girls and gestured toward the customer he'd been serving. "Amanda, Mrs Richardson there needs a size nine in the blue Olga Perensky. I've got to go and pick up my wife. Family emergency."

Not giving her a chance to argue or ask questions, he hustled out of the store and headed for the underground parking lot where the shop staff members kept their cars. As he moved, he called Marjorie's cell number. Come on, pick up, pick up …

The phone rang for what seemed an eternity before his wife answered. "Otis? What's the matter? Why are you calling?"

He'd been married to her for nearly thirty years, and he knew her moods. With the state she'd been in since they'd been advised of Tracey's apparent death, if he presented her with too much information at once, she'd get all flustered and nothing would get done. So he had to treat her with kid gloves. Fortunately, he had been married to her for nearly thirty years.

"Honey, I need you to do something for me. I can't explain all of it right now, but I need you to go across to Mrs Wilkinson's house and stay there until I pick you up. Can you do that for me, please?"

Fortunately for his needs, they'd been living in the same neighbourhood for the whole of their married life, and were good friends with their neighbours on both sides for several houses along. Mrs Wilkinson was a widow, with a large number of cats, who was in the same bridge club as Marjorie. There was no doubt in his mind that Marjorie would be welcomed in if she knocked on Mrs Wilkinson's door; the best part was, the driveway to that house was around the corner from the street that he and Marjorie lived on.

"I—I can do it, certainly, but can you tell me why?" She was starting to sound uncertain. This was not a good thing.

"It's a surprise. I'll tell you when I get there." He let some of his newfound elation leak into his tone, but not too much; he didn't want her asking awkward questions instead of doing what he needed her to do. "Just do this for me, alright? I'll see you soon."

"All—alright. I'll go over there now." He heard her push back the chair and get up from where she'd been sitting at the kitchen table. "I love you, Otis."

A fond smile settled on his face. "I love you too, Marj."

He ended the call and used his staff pass to access the elevator down to the underground level. As he stepped out at the bottom, he looked around carefully, but no sinister figures lurked in the shadows to ambush him. He even checked the back seat of the car before opening the door and climbing in.

As he drove the car up the ramp out of the parking garage, he couldn't help replaying the enigmatic phone call in his head. The person had sounded like Tracey, and had known things only Tracey would know, but could he really be certain?

I'll only know for sure when we get to the PRT building.

For now, he knew, he would have to make a leap of faith and hope he stuck the landing.

<><>​

Aisha Laborn, Juvenile Delinquent

Homework absolutely sucked and should die in a fire. That was Aisha's opinion, but unfortunately her father didn't share it. Even more unfortunately, living with him was marginally less unpleasant than living with her druggie whore-bag of a mother, even if he did make her actually start in on her damn homework the minute she got home.

Celia didn't care about homework, just like she didn't care about Aisha keeping her room clean, being home at a reasonable time, doing chores, or basically anything except when she was getting her next high. Most specifically, she'd shown a total lack of care factor when that one boyfriend of hers kept getting handsy with Aisha, right up until Brian had to come over and beat the snot out of him. And then, Celia had been pissed at her for 'leading him on' and Brian for 'overreacting'.

In short, homework wasn't the only thing that could die in a fire as far as Aisha was concerned. It wasn't even the main thing. But right then, it was the one she really wished would have something nasty happen to it. Where's a supervillain attack when you really need one?

Her phone vibrated on the table beside her. She went to pick it up—thank you, God, any distraction is a good distraction—but her father got there first, snatching it away from her reaching hand.

"Hey, what?" she protested. "That's my phone!"

"Not until you finish your homework." He tapped to answer, then held the phone to his ear. "This is Aisha's father. She's currently unavailable. May I take a message?"

Grumbling, Aisha subsided back into her chair. There was no percentage in trying to grab the phone off him; his reflexes were somehow better than hers, and he was the one who'd initially taught Bri how to fight. He wouldn't hit her, but he could certainly fend her off indefinitely with one hand, even if he was busy doing something else with the other.

"Wait, what?" he asked, frowning and putting his hand over his ear. "Say that again, son, and slow down. It's hard to hear you."

"What's going on?" Aisha asked, standing up from the table. "Is Brian in trouble or something?" She'd been pretty impressed when he got the job working security at Medhall (even if she'd never admit it to him). That was serious business, right there.

He didn't answer for several seconds, listening hard to whatever Brian had to say. Aisha wasn't sure what was going on; saying 'I've been arrested, can you come bail me out' didn't take all that long (as she knew from personal experience). Also, he didn't seem to be getting all steamed up like he'd done when Aisha called him to pick her up from the cops.

Finally, he ended the call with a "Got it." When Aisha saw his face, his skin was almost grey, as though all the blood had drained from it. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "This goddamn city." Then he saw her watching him and took a deep breath, as though to give himself strength.

"What?" asked Aisha again. "What's going on? What did he want?"

"Grab whatever you can't replace," he said roughly. "We're going out the door in one minute. Move!"

"Okay, but why?" she asked as she headed for her bedroom. She wasn't arguing on behalf of the homework, now forgotten on the table behind her. This was a broader 'why'. She wanted to know what the fuck was going on, so she'd know how scared to be.

"Brian found out the identities of some of the Empire Eighty-Eight capes!" he yelled from his bedroom. "They'll want to use us as hostages! Now hurry the fuck up!"

She absolutely hurried the fuck up. TV had taught her long ago that being used as a hostage by anyone was bad for the health, and she knew from personal experience that the Empire Eighty-Eight were even less likely to let her go alive afterward than the normal run of dirtbag gangster assholes. So she grabbed the backpack from under her bed and shoved everything from the top of her dresser into it: random trinkets, a shell she'd once found on the beach and liked, and a photo of her and Brian from back when he was still her cool big brother and not a pretend adult.

She was sitting on the bed, pulling on her sneakers, when her father called out from the living room. "Go! Let's go!"

"Okay, I'm coming, I'm coming!" Jumping up, she grabbed the backpack (filled the rest of the way with random clothing grabbed from the drawers) and hustled out of the room. Her father was waiting by the door, with a somewhat larger bag slung over his shoulder. She spotted her phone where he'd left it on the table, and stuffed it into her back pocket.

"Stay right behind me," he ordered her tersely. "When we get to the car, get in and stay low. We'll be going straight for the PRT building. That's where Brian said to meet him. Clear?"

A dozen more questions were whirling around in her head by the time he finished talking but this didn't seem like the time to air them, so she nodded. "Clear."

"Good. On me." He opened the door and ducked out into the corridor, checking both ways with a sweep of his head that made her imagine a rifle with a laser dot doing the same. This was a side of her father she hadn't seen since he came home from the Navy.

She followed obediently as he hustled down the corridor, trying not to tread on his heels. When they got to the top of the stairwell, he glanced back once at her, nodded, then started down. Heart rate elevating all the time, she followed along.

And then the door at the bottom of the stairs crashed open, and she heard footsteps thundering into the apartment building. "Apartment three-four-seven!" a voice yelled. "Go-go-go!"

Aisha's heart stopped, and her everything clenched. Three-four-seven was her father's apartment. The conclusion was inevitable: these were the Empire Eighty-Eight guys.

Booted feet were pounding up the steps, going a lot faster than Aisha and her father had been going down. She incautiously peered over the railing, spotted movement and an upturned face, then heard a yell from below. She didn't need her father's growl to know that she'd just fucked up in a big way.

"Back!" he snapped. "We'll go down the fire escape!"

Turning, she sprinted back up the stairs, staying barely in front of her father. Going all the way to the roof might have been an option, but these guys were gaining and she didn't want to run across a wide-open space with no cover to stop them shooting at her. All this went through her mind in an instant, then made way for the singular urge to get away.

They bolted along the corridor and into the apartment; he hadn't locked it when they left. He paused to do just that, while she darted across the room to where the window leading out to the fire escape was. They'll probably be watching the car, so we're gonna have to run for it. No problem. I know the area around here like the back of—

She heaved the window open, then her thoughts skidded to a halt, dominated by one word.

Fuck.

"Uh … Dad?" she said, her voice higher than it normally was.

"What?" he said from behind her, then paused. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh." The Empire guy with the gun in Aisha's face gestured with it, and she backed up. Climbing in through the window from the fire escape without moving the gun away from her couldn't have been the easiest thing in the world, but he managed it. "Now get that shit away from the door and open it again, asshole. You want to try and be clever, remember: we only need one of you."

As her father took away whatever he'd shoved in front of the door, Aisha's shoulders slumped. There was no getting away now.

I was wrong. There are worse things than homework.

<><>​

Taylor

Calling my name out, Dad started forward into a run. We met in a mutual hug that would've driven the breath out of me if I hadn't been wearing the armour, and he spun me around. I raised my faceplate, laughing and crying at the same time. "Dad, I was so worried about you!"

"It's good to see you're okay too." He didn't let me go, and I didn't want him to. "But what's going on? What's all this about Medhall and the Empire Eighty-Eight? And where did you get that armour from?"

The last of my tension drained out of me in a giggle. "Well, let's just say, it's a long, long story."

Director Piggot cleared her throat. "A long story which, hopefully, we can put aside for the moment. We still have the issue of proving that Max Anders is Kaiser, and ensuring that there are no moles within this building, in the pay of Coil or anyone else."

"Oh, you'll have moles from all the gangs," Tattletale said cheerfully. "Coil, the Empire Eighty-Eight, the ABB. Hell, the Merchants would probably have people in this building if they could stay sober long enough to pass the drug tests."

Brian—Grue—elbowed her discreetly, or as discreetly as could be done when both parties were wearing metal armour. Predictably, there was a muted clang and the jab had no effect on her. "Don't antagonise her," he muttered, barely loudly enough for me to hear him.

"I'm not." She didn't bother keeping her voice down. "If there was something you needed to hear, would you prefer the comfortable lie or the harsh truth?"

From Director Piggot's tight-lipped expression, I figured she preferred the truth but didn't appreciate being caught short. "Miss Hebert, considering that you've already shown some level of expertise in this field already, would you be amenable to working with my people—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa there," Dad broke in with a chuckle that almost sounded natural as he let me go and we started back toward the group. "Director Piggot, I know you weren't just about to suggest that my daughter perform highly skilled work without first laying out a contract specifying terms of employment. Given that she's a minor, I'm going to want to look that contract over first and make any necessary changes before she signs and I co-sign it for her."

"Uh, Dad, I don't really mind—" I began.

He cut me off with a flat knife-hand gesture. "Hon, what have I always told you about unpaid overtime?" Raising his eyebrows, he gave me a you-know-this-one look over his glasses.

It wasn't hard to recall. "Don't do it," I replied automatically.

"Right. And the phrase 'I don't really mind' only ever applies to close friends. For the rest, it's business, and you need to cover yourself, hon."

"Mr Hebert, this is important—" the Director began.

"Good, then word the contract accordingly," Dad countered. "None of that bullshit half-pay you've got the Wards on. If Medhall could stand to do it, then you can too."

"You appear to be better informed about the pay rates of the Wards than I'd expect a non-cape and a non-employee of the PRT to be," Armsmaster observed. "Why is that, Mr Hebert?"

"Because, among other things, I'm the head of hiring for the Dockworkers' Association," Dad retorted. "It's my job to know about how the working conditions for the Dockworkers stack up to those in the rest of the city. And I happen to know that once Taylor is signed up to work as a parahuman PRT employee, even temporarily, you're legally bound to never reveal her secret identity or make use of it for your own benefit."

That gave me a brainwave. "Which reminds me," I said brightly. "I'm going to need three assistants, under the same conditions as me. Tracey, Greg and Grue." Tattletale and the others, I figured, could handle their own secret identities.

If the Director's lips had been thin before, now they looked like she was doing her best to suck a lemon dry from the inside. "That clause only counts if the parahuman is using their powers in the service of the PRT," she gritted. "Thinkers and the like."

Dad shook his head. "If that's part of the standard contract—which I seriously doubt—you can take it right out again. You are not holding my daughter's cape identity over her head."

Wow, Dad, you go. As she chewed that one over, I looked at my father with new eyes. Up until the Director had asked me to work with them to (I figured) find moles hidden in her building, he'd been on the back foot and unsure what was going on. But the moment we'd set foot on his turf, he'd engaged negotiation mode and come out with all guns blazing to make sure I got a fair deal.

After a few moments, she nodded briefly. "I can work with that. Come up to conference room A, and we'll serve refreshments and work out the nitty-gritty."

"That invitation's for everyone, right?" I asked. "I'm only asking because Grue's going to be one of my assistants in this, and I figure you wouldn't try anything underhanded like splitting up the Undersiders." I gave her my best innocent gaze.

To her credit, she didn't hesitate. "That is correct. It's for everyone." Turning to Bitch, she added, "I'm going to assume your dogs are house-trained, yes?"

"You could say that," Regent snarked. "Any more house-trained and they'd be using the bathroom like everyone else."

"I wouldn't teach them something stupid like that." I couldn't see Bitch's face inside the snarling-dog helmet that Greg had made, but her voice definitely made up for it. "Dogs need to shit, they let me know and I take them outside."

"Fine, I'll take that as a 'yes'. You can all come up." The Director gestured toward the doors of the freight elevator. "I'll ride with you, just so you can be sure there'll be no funny business en route. But once the contract is signed, I will be needing Miss Hebert to apply her skills to the problem."

I glanced at Tattletale, and noticed that Brian was doing the same. She looked from him to me and back again, and gave us a slight but noticeable nod. It seemed Director Piggot was on the level.

"Sure thing," I said, and headed for the elevator. "Let's do this."

<><>​

Kaiser

Max Anders looked up as the two people were manhandled into the sub-basement room the Empire Eighty-Eight tended to use for its planning sessions. The whiteboards had been wiped clean, the LCD screens dark and silent. Not that his involuntary guests were likely to survive the experience, but after the earlier debacle he had fixed on a policy of giving zero information to anyone not cleared for it.

He frowned as the blindfolds were yanked off the heads of the older man and the teenage girl. Given their specific skin tone, he could easily narrow down who they were. "You've brought the Laborns, I see. Where are the others?"

Hookwolf, who had accompanied them into the room, shrugged. "Hebert never showed, the Grimshaws weren't where they were supposed to be, and Veder's mother made it out of the parking lot just in front of our guys. By now the PRT will know what's going on, and there's no way we'll be able to blockade the approaches to the building. So, this is what we've got to work with." He gestured at the father and daughter.

Max grimaced; he wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose, but his metal mask would get in the way. His plan would have worked much better had he access to the relatives of all four of the inconvenient witnesses to his identity. But he'd never been a man to simply give up when the going got tough, unlike his weak-willed excuse for a son.

He surveyed the two people before him. David Laborn's hair was starting to go grey but he held himself proudly upright, despite the swelling lip and other evidence that Max's men had been more than a little rough with him. The dossier Victor had thrown together indicated that he'd spent time in the Navy, reaching the rank of petty officer, before being honourably discharged.

Aisha Laborn showed the telltales of fear, but she also stared back at him defiantly, despite her hands being fastened behind her back, as her father's were. Her dossier betrayed a life barely started, yet already misspent on petty crime and minor brushes with the law. Max supposed that with a mother like Celia Laborn (his men hadn't bothered picking her up; with her history of drug use, any real mistreatment would likely see her dead of a heart attack, for no good purpose) this wasn't entirely unexpected.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked.

David Laborn glared at him. "You want to use us as hostages to stop my boy from telling the PRT exactly who you are, and where this place is."

"Never work," Aisha Laborn added, just to be contrary. "Bri'll do what Bri will do. You might as well surrender to the PRT right now."

"You'd better hope you're wrong, girl." Max took a step forward, looming over her. "Your role in all this is to convince him otherwise. Succeed, and you both live. Refuse, and I give one of you to Hookwolf while the other one gets to watch. Fail, and you both die in ways too excruciating for me to adequately describe. Would you like to serve as an example for your father right now?"

He was lying when he said they would live, and they probably knew it, but he'd always found the ability of people to talk themselves into believing a comforting falsehood to be nothing short of miraculous. Their role in this wasn't strictly to force Grue to recant and for his recantation to be believed, but to throw doubt upon his whole story (and thus, by association, the testimonies of the others). Once they'd done that, they would be surplus to requirements, to be disposed of in the most efficient way possible.

It wouldn't do to have them testifying that they'd been kept hostage to force Grue to change his story, after all.

The elder Laborn growled and nudged his daughter, no doubt to warn her that Max wasn't bluffing; and indeed he wasn't. The very future of the Empire Eighty-Eight was at stake here, and there was nothing—and nobody—he would not sacrifice to assure its safety and security. From her sudden change in demeanour, she'd gotten the message.

"No, I get it," she mumbled, head down. "I'll talk to Brian and tell him not to be such a dick."

Max smiled coldly. Sometimes all it took was a little persuasion.

<><>​

Taylor

I had to admit, once the Director said to get stuff done, stuff got done. Dad had no sooner looked over the contract and declared it to be kosher, and I'd signed it (with Greg, Tracey, Brian and Dad adding their signatures where needed) than a tech came in pushing a trolley bearing half a dozen laptops. These were arranged in an arc in front of where I'd be sitting alongside Deputy Director Renick, who came in last of all.

Mr Renick, a tall, spare older man with a grandfatherly air, had apparently been a forensic accountant before he ended up as the Deputy Director of the PRT in Brockton Bay; I was certain there was a story there, but one I was unlikely to hear. He shook my hand after I'd taken most of my armour off, and invited me to call him by his first name. "If we're going to collaborating on this, young lady," he'd said, "'Deputy Director' is far too unwieldy for casual conversation."

In all honesty, weirder things had happened to me even that day, so I took it in my stride. "Just so long as you don't steal my coffee," I agreed, and Tracey stopped inhaling pastries at the far end of the table long enough to snort in amusement. Greg also chuckled, from where he'd dragged a chair to sit behind and beside me for moral support.

"I don't get it," Brian said, looking from Greg to Tracey and then to me.

"Crusader used to steal her coffee regularly, and even Kaiser did it once," Tracey explained. I noted her use of their villain names; a fairly transparent way of emotionally distancing herself from her former colleagues (and deceased ex-boyfriend). I wasn't going through that, and wasn't likely to (unless Greg had some deep, dark secrets he hadn't told me) but it wasn't my place to judge her for her coping mechanisms.

"I believe I can avoid that." Paul Renick nodded to me genially. "So, shall we get started?"

It wasn't only me and him, of course. There were other guys trawling through the employment database, some of them watching electronically over our shoulders to see if they could spot anything we couldn't. But it seemed that nobody else had found anything, so we were the definition of 'fresh eyes' on the situation.

No pressure, of course. None whatsoever.

But I'd done this sort of thing before, and while there was a certain amount of stress involved, I also had a stake in ensuring that Kaiser went down hard. So I buckled down, let my mind submerge itself into the flow of data, and went looking.

About ten minutes in, I frowned and back-keyed to the previous screen, then grabbed a quick screenshot and flicked it over to the laptop to my right. Something had changed, and I wasn't sure what. The question was, had the change been a once-off thing, or was it ongoing?

And then the change happened right in front of me, so smoothly that I would've missed it if I wasn't looking for it, and I knew I was right.

"Someone's in the system right now," I said out loud. "I think they're pulling the dodgier employee files as we speak."

That got me the undivided attention of everyone in the room. The Director had already been watching me like a hawk, but now it felt like I was under a microscope. One with a laser sight attached.

"Lock all users not in this room out, right now!" the Director snapped, and Paul hit a key combo on his laptop which apparently did that very thing. Then the Director got up from her chair and came closer. "What makes you say that, Miss Hebert?"

I rolled my chair back a little so she could see my screens better. "That's this page of employees as of just before you called the lockdown. And that's a screenshot of that same page, from thirty seconds before. See if you can spot the difference."

She wasn't slow off the mark. "Corporal … Jasper Reed is missing from the refreshed screen. You're saying he's a mole?"

"Probably a link between moles," Tattletale remarked from where she was sitting with Regent and Bitch. She hadn't been offered access to a laptop—mainly because Director Piggot wasn't an idiot—but she'd been following the action all the same. "I bet if you look it up, he gave someone else clearance into the system."

That made a lot of sense to me; unbidden, I entered the search query to see who the redoubtable Corporal Reed had been linked to, clearance-wise. The list of names that came up caused my eyebrows to raise. Director Piggot didn't swear audibly, but I got the impression she was thinking some curse-words pretty loudly.

"How did you spot that?" asked the Deputy Director as he started on some of his own queries.

"I was following a line of inquiry, and something was missing from the last time I went over this page," I explained. "Can we look to see what's been deleted recently from employee files?"

"Doing that right now," he murmured, then he sat back. "Director, you need to see this."

Just about then, Brian's phone rang. I was impressed that a room this deeply buried in the guts of the PRT building even got a phone signal, but then I dismissed the thought as I went back to the search. Paul could handle Corporal Reed and his merry band of moles, but I was more curious about who had cleared him.

But before I could get properly started on that, I heard Brian's voice. It was quiet, but I'd heard that hopeless tone before, from my own lips. "Yes," he muttered. "Yes. Okay. Yes."

Those three words rang every alarm bell in my brain, and I sat up. The Director and Deputy Director were delving far into the rabbit-hole I'd unearthed, and neither one looked around as I got up from my chair and approached Brian. Greg, not sure what was going on, followed me anyway.

While Brian's helmet visor still covered most of his face, I could tell from the little bits of expression I could see that all was not right with his world. "What's the matter?" I asked in a low tone.

Tattletale was the only other one who seemed to have noticed, and she shot me a glance before putting a hand on his shoulder. "The Empire Eighty-Eight has his family," she murmured. "He's got to do what he's told, or they're dead."

That was about as bad as it could get. The Empire had already done its damnedest to kill all of us, and they were playing for keeps. "Well, fuck." I kept my voice down as a matter of course.

"So, let's go save them." That was Greg to a T, right there, and one of the reasons I loved him. "Any way to know where they are?"

"Maybe." Tattletale grabbed Brian's phone from his unresisting hand. "They didn't call from Aisha's number. There's two possible reasons for this."

I nodded. "One, she lost it. Or two …" I frowned. "What's two?"

Tattletale grinned. "Aisha stashed it." She showed me the screen of the phone, where she'd called up a phone-tracking app. The GPS location had it right where Max Anders certainly wouldn't want a locator beacon pinging from: the Medhall building.

"Okay, and I bet I know where." Greg knew as well, and so did Brian. We were somewhat acquainted with the Medhall sub-basements. "There's only one more thing we've got to do, and you're going to hate this bit."

"Hate what?" She stared at me. "Oh, shit, you're not going to—"

"I am." I turned toward Director Piggot and raised my voice. "Ma'am, may I have your attention for a moment?"

She looked up from the screen, and again proved that she wasn't just another suit as her eyes narrowed. "Something's wrong. What's happened?"

"The Empire got Grue's family," I explained succinctly. "We know where they are. Their lifespan will be measurable in minutes if Kaiser gets the idea that Grue isn't bending to their demands. We need to go back in there and get them out."

"You signed a contract." It seemed to be an automatic response on her part. "We've found some moles, but there's no guarantee that's all of them."

"Oh, I have no doubt there's more to be found, but right now I'm sure you're more interested in figuring out which of your people with the clearance to pull files clear out of the system is actually doing it." I gestured at Grue and the others. "If the PRT moves on this, Grue's family will be dead before you get within three blocks of where they are. We've got the wherewithal to get closer and the knowledge of the interior of the building. We're the only chance they've got of coming out of this alive. Tell me I'm wrong."

She frowned, but it wasn't to her previous lemon-sucking standard. Eventually, she nodded. "You're not wrong. Well, you brought this to my attention before jumping in feet first, so there's that to be said for the situation. Do you have a plan?"

"Just the beginnings of one," I conceded, then looked around at the various capes in the room. "But I'm sure we can improve on that."

Tattletale grinned. "Count on it."



End of Part Twenty-Three

 

[Ack]

Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern

Part Twenty-Four: Return to Medhall

[A/N: This chapter commissioned by @GW_Yoda and beta-read by Lady Columbine of Mystal.]



An Underground Bond Villain Base

Coil

Thomas Calvert hated being forced into a course of action, rather than being the one who initiated said action. He much preferred to be able to set up a choice so that he could have his cake and eat it too; no matter how matters panned out, he would be on the profitable side. But as of half an hour ago, his hand had been forced. Word had spread through the grapevine that the same girl who had uncovered his moles in Medhall (though the people talking about it didn't know that specific detail) was sitting down in the same room as Director Piggot to check out the PRT's employee records.

It would've been highly tempting to dismiss the entire previous incident as a teenage girl fluking her way to a win, but Calvert had learned never to ignore danger signals like that. His preferred course of action would've been to get to her (and, in a perfect world, recruit her to his cause) but just the presence of the Undersiders made that impossible, so he had to go with the next best option. Or rather, the next least worst option and the worst option of all.

Neither one was what he would've selected if he had any other choice in the matter, but it was a truism that when facing competent opponents, the good options tended to evaporate. In one timeline, the one where he was in his base, he accessed the employee records and set about deleting the ones he had personally provided clearance for; in the other, where he was in the PRT building, he did his best to monitor what was being done, but made no changes himself.

It didn't really seem to help, either way. He wasn't quite sure what system Hebert was using, but after about fifteen minutes on the non-interference timeline, she started flagging records. Not every name she picked was one of his, but there were at least two other gangs involved, so he would not have bet so much as a bent nickel that the other names were false positives.

In the other timeline, he got away with removing a few names, then she spotted something; he managed to drop one more name off the rolls before he was shut out of the system altogether. Still, he didn't drop that timeline. In the non-interference one, she seemed to have located a string and was tugging on it as hard as she could, unravelling his entire internal PRT network, which would inevitably lead back to him.

Getting up from his desk in the PRT building, he left his office and headed for the exit in an unhurried fashion. About the only bright spot in all this mess was that the Hebert girl had positively identified Medhall as an Empire Eighty-Eight front, and Max Anders as Kaiser. Calvert had speculated about this being a possibility, but never seriously. His career with the PRT was almost certainly circling the drain right now, but that information (if leveraged correctly) had the potential to be very useful indeed.

<><>​

Taylor

"Step one of the plan," Tattletale said cheerfully. "Getting out of the PRT building without alerting the Empire that we're on the move. Step two is getting into the Medhall building, again without alerting the Empire that we're there. Step three is finding Grue's father and sister. And step four is getting everyone out alive. Questions so far?"

"Just one." Regent raised his hand like he was in class. "You're talking like we're going to be tagging along with them. Why are you talking like that?"

"Because he's your team member, and he'd do the same for you." Tattletale's tone was sugary sweet.

"Rescue my family for me?" Regent snorted. "Puh-leeze. The Empire could keep them."

"Fine." Grue gave him the stink-eye, which was pretty impressive with his metal mask. "We'll leave you here. In the PRT building. Alone, with all these PRT troopers."

Regent looked around at Director Piggot and the other PRT personnel in the room, and seemed to think for a moment. "On the other hand, I do kinda feel like getting out and stretching my legs. Count me in."

"Glad we could sort that out." Tattletale dusted her hands off. "So, getting back to step one. While I doubt very much that the Empire Eighty-Eight has this building surrounded three-deep, they've almost certainly got every exit under surveillance, specifically looking for people riding big dogs."

I spoke into the expectant silence that followed. "So when we leave, we can't do it riding big dogs?"

"And the tall brunette in the front row wins first prize." Tattletale touched her nose then pointed at me.

"If we're not riding my dogs, how do we leave?" Rachel didn't sound enthused by the idea. "Isn't like we can just walk out the front door. Place is on lockdown."

Greg shrugged. "PRT van, maybe? Those things have got tinted windows."

"Which is as good as a neon sign telling everyone that they're sneaking us out. Ideally, we do it in a way that they don't even suspect anyone's left at all." Turning to Director Piggot, Tattletale tilted her head slightly. "You do have secret exits, right?"

"We do," the Director replied steadily. "Do you want to bet your lives on the Empire moles not having found them already?"

Tattletale grimaced. "No, you're right. They'd totally know about them."

I blinked as an idea occurred to me. "Are any of the Empire fliers near this building right now?"

Director Piggot glanced at me curiously. "Purity's in custody, and Rune's not exactly subtle. Why, were you thinking of being choppered out?"

A grin spread across my face. "No, but I'd like to try something, and I didn't want them spotting me doing it. Is there any way I can get the loan of a pair of binoculars?"

<><>​

Director Piggot

"Get her a set of binoculars," Emily ordered, not even caring who got it done. "What's the plan?"

Tattletale gave the Hebert girl a curious look. "Yeah, I'm kind of wondering about that too."

"Hah." Grue's voice was quietly amused. "So this is what it feels like." The Veder kid nodded and grinned, and they bumped armoured knuckles with a quiet clack. "Think you've got the range?"

"Maybe." Hebert accepted the binoculars that had magically appeared out of nowhere. "Only one way to find out."

"Find out? Range for what?" Emily was rapidly losing patience. Being enigmatic was all well and good, but not when she was trying to get simple answers to simple questions.

Hebert looked her in the eye. "I intend to teleport directly to the Medhall building, but I need line of sight to do it. How do I get to the roof?"

"Escort them to the roof. Keep a watch for flyers and snipers." Emily turned back to where voices were being raised over the search for moles. "What's going on?"

Renick answered her without looking up from the screen he was working on. "We've separated out three lines of enquiry, and traced back to who gave one group their initial clearances. Same person who was doing the deletions. It's Commander Calvert, ma'am."

"Calvert?" With that one name, the ongoing situation with Grue's family went straight to the back burner. She knew Calvert, better than most. "He can't be Empire or ABB. Has to be working for Coil." This wasn't a huge surprise for her. The man had always been a snake; in her expert opinion, someone who would shoot their captain in the back to get into a chopper first just couldn't be trusted. "Okay, so where the hell is he?"

Renick swivelled one of the screens to show her. "He never came in today. Called in sick. And he's got his cell-phone turned all the way off. No way to locate it."

The conclusion was inescapable. "He knows we're on to him. Secure his computer and start prepping a request to drag his cell-phone data off the cloud. I want to know all his movements. Also, set up a password change, building-wide, ASAP. When we drop the lockdown, I don't want him burrowing straight back in and reading our mail."

"Roger that, ma'am."

<><>​

Coil

Couldn't the Empire have stepped on their dick any other day?

Thinking further about the matter, he realized it wouldn't have mattered. Any day that Taylor Hebert showed up on their doorstep with the Empire slavering for her blood would've locked down the PRT building and sparked a mole hunt: one where her capacity for uncovering his tracks apparently outstripped his for hiding them. The fact that it had been inevitable merely made it all the more irritating.

While Piggot was less intelligent than him (everyone was less intelligent than him, by definition) she could probably reach the appropriate logical conclusions, given enough of a head start. He'd been locked out of the system a lot earlier than he'd expected to be, though he was reasonably certain this was down to the Hebert girl picking up on his shenanigans. In the PRT timeline, he suspected he was also locked out of it by now anyway, but it didn't matter.

It didn't matter because he'd tried to ram his way past the lockdown ahead of the inevitable room-by-room search of the PRT building, and now his car was thoroughly encased in containment foam, and going exactly nowhere.

In the timeline he knew he was keeping, he set about emptying his public bank account—it held far less than his private ones, but money was still money—and moving his other resources to places he could still access them, but were out of the reach of official retribution. Losing his hooks into the PRT would put a crimp in his criminal career, though not to a level that he couldn't recover from. He would also have to dump his identity as Thomas Calvert, which would be extremely annoying.

The only bright spot in all this was the outing of Max Anders as Kaiser, though he would seriously have preferred to learn that information without having his own secrets exposed at the same time. With any luck, the PRT would focus on hitting the Empire while they were vulnerable, and leave him until later (by which time he would be safely ensconced in a perfectly legal profession under a totally unsuspicious identity).

He would, he decided gloomily, probably have to grow a beard and shave his head, so as to change his appearance enough to go out in public.

As always, though, he would survive.

<><>​

Taylor

The PRT had nice binoculars. Even before I looked through them, I could tell they were a precision instrument, well made and equally well maintained. I put the strap around my neck without being prompted—binoculars are not light, and the last thing I wanted to do was repay the Director's generosity by dropping them—then put them to my eyes.

I already knew I could see the top of the PRT building from the base of the Medhall building, so by definition, the reverse should be true. Peering through the binoculars in the right general direction, I twiddled the focus until it came into sharp clarity for me, then started examining the target building. The afternoon was getting on, so there were plenty of shadows around the base of Medhall, and I nearly went for the biggest one.

However, then I had a thought. If Max Anders is Kaiser, how would he get from his office to that sub-basement in a hurry without letting people know about it?

I thought I knew the answer, but all I had was speculation. However, there was a way of confirming it. "Greg, question."

Even though I wasn't looking directly at him, I knew his head had just come up. "Yeah?"

"How many elevator shafts in Medhall?"

I heard Regent mutter, "what kind of a stupid question is that?" but I ignored him. If anyone knew the internal structure of that building, it would be Greg.

"That's a really good question," he said slowly. "There's a bank of them that service most of the floors, one of which goes all the way to the sub-basement. But now that I'm thinking about it, there's another gap in all the floors, separate from the others, and it lines up with the back wall of Max Anders' office."

"You're thinking secret elevator," Tattletale said immediately.

"I am," I confirmed as I took the binoculars away from my eyes and looked at her. "If we got access to his office, do you think you could figure out how to open it for me?"

"Pfft." She rolled her eyes. "Ask me a difficult one next time."

"Excellent." I glanced at Tracey. "Are you sure you're okay with going back in? I mean, we just got you out of that hellhole."

She'd come up in the elevator with a pastry in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. By now the pastry was gone, though she was still working on the water. "Br—I mean Grue—helped get me out of there. The least I can do is help save his folks." She didn't look certain, but she did look determined.

Brian nodded. "And I totally appreciate it."

"I'll have to give the other Undersiders proper armour if we're going back in now," Greg said. "What you guys have now is okay to run away with, but not so great against people who are personally targeting you."

"I can personally attest to that." I shrugged one shoulder, recalling the hammer-blow that had struck it. "Victor's got access to some stupid big rifles."

"I'd ask permission first, if I were you," Tracey cautioned him. "Director Piggot's been a perfectly wonderful person so far, but she might take it amiss if you started dismantling her building around her."

I blinked a little at the glowing description of the testy Director, but I figured it was a matter of perspective. Director Piggot had given us refuge and only asked a few things in return, not even trying to arrest the Undersiders. While I wouldn't have gone so far as to call her 'perfectly wonderful', I was entirely willing to forgive the little power plays; people in authority did that sort of thing as naturally as breathing.

"I might be able to help there," Armsmaster offered. He'd come up on the roof with us, and was observing the back-and-forth with some interest. "I have a secondary workshop in this building, and I keep a store of metal there for my use and Kid Win's as well. You're welcome to it, if it will assist in getting innocents out of the line of fire."

"Totally," Greg agreed immediately. "I'm pretty sure I'll be able to grab more once we get there, but every little bit helps."

"I appreciate this, Armsmaster." Brian spoke with feeling. "They're my only family, and we both know how unlikely it is that Kaiser will just let them go, afterward."

Armsmaster held up his hand. "You didn't let me finish. There's one condition."

"What condition?" I asked cautiously. My eyes flicked to Tattletale, but the broad grin on her face was not in the slightest bit helpful. Either what he was about to say was too stupid for words, or …

He unracked his halberd from his back and snapped it out to its full length. "I'm coming with you."

The gathering tension popped like a particularly anaemic soap bubble. Brian and Greg shared a glance, and I was pretty sure I was able to interpret the bro-look between them as what the fuck? and no, I didn't see that coming either.

"Um, sure?" Greg sounded like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. "The more the merrier, I guess. Just, um, me and Taylor and Tracey, we've got our own way of doing things. Getting our powers all at the same time, kind of thing. Grue's pretty good about following our lead, though." He turned to Tracey and me. "Sorry, I shouldn't be talking for you. Are you okay with Armsmaster coming along?"

Tracey shrugged and nodded. "Like you said, the more the merrier. Having a bona fide superhero along has gotta help our chances." She gave Lisa and the other Undersiders a smile. "That's not to say the villains haven't been doing a brilliant job so far, just want to make that clear too."

I grinned. "Oh, he's totally welcome." Ever since he'd stepped inside my power's radius, I'd been aware of his range of skills. Here was a man who didn't fuck around when it came to getting good at hand-to-hand combat. Everyone who was going into this fight—and I had zero doubt there would be a fight—would be doing it with a serious competence upgrade.

Taking up the binoculars again, I began scanning the Medhall building again for a good teleport destination. It would need to be some place we weren't visible to casual observation, while at the same time able to gain immediate entry to the building itself. Fighting our way in through the front doors, for instance, would be a hell of a lot harder than fighting our way out had been.

If we can avoid all that …

And then, as my eyes lit on one particular spot, I grinned.

Oh, hell yes.

<><>​

Medhall Building

Kaiser

The phone on Max's desk rang. It was a burner, which thus far had been used for exactly one purpose: to deliver the ultimatum to Grue about his family. As soon as that business was concluded, it would be destroyed and the fragments discarded, in much the same way as he discarded anything else that was surplus to requirements.

This attitude extended to people as well as things, which he recognized and was entirely unapologetic for. He could, so why not?

Taking up the phone, he tapped the icon to answer. "Hello?"

There was a chance—slim but not outside the realms of possibility—that Grue had spilled all to the PRT and they were making this call to entrap him with his own words. Thus, he knew to be careful with his phrasing. This was not, in the age-old idiom, his first rodeo.

"It's me. Grue." The young man was keeping his voice down. "Are Dad and Aisha still alive?"

Max hadn't been advised otherwise, and he firmly doubted that any of his people would colour outside the lines that hard anyway. "Nothing has changed. Do you have a change in developments regarding your associates?"

"Yeah. What if I can bring them to you? Will you let my father and sister go then?"

It took him less than half a second to figure out what to say. "I'm sure arrangements can be made." This could still be a trap, but the chance to silence all three of them was not something he wanted to pass up. "How is it going with explaining the true state of affairs?" Specifically, that Medhall (and Max himself) had nothing at all to do with the Empire Eighty-Eight.

(The word 'true' in that context was more ironic than otherwise.)

"People are listening to me. Armsmaster has been detailed to escort them off the premises."

Max sat up at that. As a trained public speaker, he was good at telling when someone was shading the truth, or even outright lying. The Laborn boy was not trained for that sort of thing, and so far Max hadn't picked up any hints of deception. "Well done. The rear parking lot entrance would probably be best. After all, I'd love to see them all again."

And kill them. Preferably slowly. He still had a faint scar on his hand from that goddamn black tentacle the Grimshaw woman had hit him with.

"Actually, I've got a better idea."

Max frowned. Something about Grue's voice had changed, become more assertive. "And that is?"

Grue came up from a crouch, right next to Max's desk, where the afternoon sun left a pool of shadow. He was wearing the black armour the Veder boy had equipped him with, though his helmet faceplate had more of a demonic visage than before. In his right hand, he held a long black staff which he spun with assurance.

Blackness billowed out of his left hand, covering Max in an instant. A blow more akin to a speeding truck than a teenage boy holding a stick slammed into Max's chest; Max went over backward, spilling out of his chair. He rolled over then came up on his hands and knees, trying to seek refuge under his desk. His duress buttons, also under the desk, would alert the rest of the Empire Eighty-Eight.

A metal-booted foot smashed into the side of his chest, knocking him sprawling across the luxuriously carpeted floor. Winded, he flopped onto his back, trying to regain his breath. Something hard pushed down in the middle of his chest; as the darkness faded away, he saw it was Grue's staff. Grue was also standing on his right wrist.

Also in the room were the Hebert girl, Grimshaw, and Veder (who was standing on his left wrist), as well as the Undersiders, all clad from head to foot in that same black armour. As a singular contrasting note, Armsmaster rounded out their numbers.

"Well, I brought them here." Grue's tone held no humour whatsoever. "Where's my father and sister?"

Max thought very fast indeed. "Armsmaster," he managed. "You have to believe me. These people were on the verge of being fired, so they must have—"

"Save it," Grimshaw told him bluntly. "Before I took the evidence to Ms Harcourt, I took the precaution of emailing it all to myself, just so it couldn't be deleted before we could take it to the authorities. The PRT now have that email in their possession. They've got everything. Now, where's Grue's father and sister?"

Well. Shit.

<><>​

Taylor

"Sub-basement, right?" asked Tattletale. Mr Anders didn't seem to react, but she nodded. "Yup, definitely sub-basement."

"The same level you had me on?" asked Tracey.

Again, there was no apparent reaction, but Tattletale nodded again. "Got it in one."

This time he reacted, glaring at her. "I didn't say anything!"

She grinned at him in a way that would probably have been immensely irritating if she wasn't on our side. "I'm psychic. Just keep on trying not to think about the answers, and they'll be in the front of your mind for me to read."

That wasn't how her powers worked—like, at all (she'd quietly filled us in while other things were going on)—but he was totally taken in. Setting his jaw, he stared at her defiantly. "It's impossible to read the human mind. Scientists have proven that."

"Just like it's impossible to bend a spoon with the mind?" Greg suggested. "Didn't scientists prove that too, once upon a time?" The metal staff he was holding (identical to the ones the rest of us, including Grue, had) curled in a corkscrew motion, then straightened again.

It turned out that Armsmaster had trained extensively with the staff before he'd gone on to the halberd, and I was currently providing everyone in the team with that level of skill. Armsmaster wasn't coming out of it empty-handed, however; Grue was pretty adept in MMA, which meant we were all getting a boost in that.

"We're wasting time," Armsmaster said. "Kaiser, tell us exactly where in this sub-basement level the hostages are being held, and I'll testify that you cooperated when you go to trial."

"If you go down there, they'll die." Mr Anders wasn't giving an inch. "Even if you take me down as a hostage, my people have two and you've only got one. Which one are you willing to lose?"

"I trusted you." Tracey's voice dripped with venom. "I idolized you. I thought you were a good man. A great man. And all the time, you were just a sneaking, stinking Nazi. A villain pretending to be an actual human being. Hurting people because you could." She held out her hand toward him and a black tentacle oozed out of the palm of her gauntlet. "If you won't help us rescue Grue's family, then what use are you to us?"

Mr Anders reacted to that, his eyes widening. "Armsmaster, she's about to torture and kill a helpless prisoner! Are you going to allow this?"

"He just wouldn't give up," Regent remarked in a spectacularly uncaring tone of voice. "Just kept fighting, even when it was clear he was going to die if he didn't surrender. Truly, a villain of stunning determination. Or stupidity, one of the two."

"I don't see a damn thing," Bitch added. "Fucker lets Hookwolf kill dogs. He deserves to die."

Brian didn't say a word. He just leaned on the staff, putting more and more pressure on Mr Anders' chest.

Armsmaster straightened up. "Anders, you're putting me in a very difficult position. Right now, there are seven people in this room that you've personally tried to kill, four of whom are villains, one of whom has relatives under direct threat from your people. I'm your only hope of getting out of this unscathed, but you've got to work with me here. Give me something, anything, so I can get them to back off."

I wondered if Mr Anders would realise I'd borrowed his skills of negotiation and intimidation and bestowed them on everyone (including Armsmaster); this was straight out of the good cop/bad cop playbook (minus giving the prisoner a cup of coffee and a cigarette), and Armsmaster was playing his part to perfection. It didn't hurt, of course, that we were all perfectly willing to wreck Kaiser's shit if it helped get Brian's folks back to him alive.

The black tentacle extended, writhing ominously as it closed in on Mr Anders' face. He tried to pull back from it, but flat on his back as he was, there was nowhere to pull back to. I could see the whites of his eyes, the fear growing in them.

"Tell me, Mr Anders, which eye-socket do you want this to go into?" Tracey's voice was flat with menace. "If you don't choose, I will."

Frantically, Mr Anders rolled his head from side to side to avoid it; it was less than three inches from his face by now. "Armsmaster!"

"Give me something!" Armsmaster bellowed.

I saw the exact moment when his resolve broke. "Alright, alright! They're in holding room three-B! There's an armed guard at the door!"

"Lie," Tattletale and Armsmaster said at the same time. Grue leaned on the staff, and the tentacle oozed an inch closer.

"Two guards! Two guards!" Mr Anders was almost sobbing with terror.

"How many capes down there?" asked Brian. I was impressed; in my mind I'd equated 'guards' with 'capes', and I never would've thought to ask the separate question. At the same time, the black tentacle slithered an inch closer to Mr Anders' left eye.

"I don't know. I don't know! They, they come and go down there! When you got away it was all hands on deck!" White was showing all the way around both irises by now. "Stormtiger's still in the infirmary with Othala after what you did to him, and Rune's still got broken bones! The rest are all … around!" He seemed remarkably bitter that he was suddenly facing the consequences of his actions.

"My heart bleeds," Tracey said coldly, but the tentacle retracted a few inches. "How do we make sure he won't raise the alarm as soon as we move on from here?" The implication was obvious, and he flinched away as the tentacle flicked toward him again.

"I will not be a party to cold-blooded murder." Armsmaster's voice was only mildly censorious. I got the impression he knew Tracey wouldn't go all the way and kill Mr Anders (I was still having trouble thinking of him as Kaiser) and it helped to keep the asshole frightened enough not to try anything stupid.

"Oh, I've got that covered." I gestured to the wall. "Kaiser, your secret elevator is right through there. How do we get to it?"

He blinked at me, apparently surprised that I'd pointed directly at it (he didn't know about my ability to sense all metal within about sixty feet). "There's a—"

"—sliding panel, got it." Tattletale moved to where I'd pointed, eyed a painting of a bearded man bearing a distinct likeness to Mr Anders, then pressed a section of what I'd thought was decorative wood carving. There was a click and that section of wall slid aside, taking the painting with it. Behind it was a rather modern-looking elevator door … with an electronic panel attached. No buttons in sight. "Ah, I see. Biometric reader. No high-tech villain lair should be without one."

"Ooh, ooh," Regent said. "I know this bit. This is where we cut his hand off so we can fool the handprint readers." He was probably only saying it to mess with Mr Anders, though I was almost fooled myself.

"Wouldn't work." Tattletale's disappointed act was almost perfect. "Those things register your pulse at the same time."

Brian reached down and grabbed Mr Anders by the front of his shirt. With a single heave, he put the man on his feet. "Hand on reader, now. Pull any shit, any at all, and I'll let her have you."

"Why won't your armour allow metal growth inside?" asked Mr Anders. He seemed sufficiently cowed that he allowed Brian to push him up to the reader, though it seemed to me that he was regaining his self-confidence.

Greg spoke up. "Because fuck you, that's why." His staff curled at the tip and snaked around Mr Anders' neck, not quite tightening into a noose but certainly making sure the asshole knew it was there. "Now, be a good little supervillain and open the secret elevator for us."

With very little choice in the matter, Mr Anders relaxed and allowed his hand to be placed on the reader. After a second or so, it beeped cheerfully and the elevator door slid open. I looked inside, and spotted the problem immediately.

"Okay, so where's the rest of it?" asked Greg. What we were looking at would hold two people, or four if they didn't mind brushing shoulders. Our contingent of eight, all armoured, plus Bitch's three dogs (not grown yet), wouldn't have a hope in hell of cramming in there. Even if we shed our armour (Armsmaster too) with the plan of re-donning it once we got down to our destination, we still wouldn't fit.

"It's a secret elevator." Mr Anders shrugged, very carefully. "I didn't need a bigger one."

Tattletale facepalmed. "And there's no buttons on the inside. You step in, the door closes, and it takes you to the other end of the line. Your palmprint on either end is what makes it work."

Well, fuck.

I began trying to sketch out in my head the fox-goose-grain problem that this incurred, ferrying one or two of our people down at a time while keeping an eye on him and making sure he didn't raise the alarm somehow with half of our people separated from the other half by the entire height of the building. It didn't look promising, especially with the glint I could see returning to Mr Anders' eye. If he got half a chance to screw with us, he would absolutely do that.

"Fuck it," Greg decided. "We got this. Bag him and tag him, he's not needed anymore."

"What?" asked Armsmaster. "How do you propose—" He stopped himself. "Well, if you're sure."

Greg nodded. "I am."

I tilted my head to get Armsmaster's attention. "Tell your roof guards that Kaiser's on the way. Make sure he can't skewer them once he gets there."

"Understood." With quick, practiced movements, he secured Mr Anders' hands behind his back, then put a drawstring bag over his head and tightened the string until it wouldn't slip off by accident. At the same time, I could barely hear him muttering into his helmet radio.

Once Armsmaster was done, Brian grabbed Mr Anders and manhandled him around to the spot we'd all been avoiding; the pool of shadow alongside the desk (now somewhat darker than normal). "Watch your step," he advised, then shoved him forward. Mr Anders' startled yelp as he tumbled into the portal was music to my ears, even as sharply cut off as it was.

Once he was through, I closed the portal. We were committed now. The only way out was forwards.

"Wait," said Bitch. "That was still open?" She'd been highly dubious about stepping through the portal in the first place (her dogs hadn't liked it at all, and had only done it because she was there).

"You shut it?" Regent carefully prodded the carpeted floor with his foot. "How are we supposed to get back now? Because we can't all go down at once, and once you're down, you can't send the elevator back. So unless two of us want to go down there on a one-way suicide run—"

Greg gestured at the elevator. The doors, plus the elevator itself, flowed out of the open doorway and stacked itself in a neat pile of ingots out of the way. There were quite a few of them. Once he was done, the only things in the way were bits of plastic that had previously held circuitry and an open elevator shaft with the end of a cable hanging forlornly at just over head height.

Turning to Bitch, Greg indicated the surplus metal. "You think that'll be enough to armour your dogs with, once they get up to size? I mean, I know they're tough as fuck, but the Empire will be absolutely playing for keeps and I don't want to see them getting hurt."

Tattletale clapped her hands together, her eyes alight with sheer glee (and not a little deviltry). "Haha, wow! Now I see how you beat them the last time." She gestured toward Armsmaster. "How long do you think it would take you to break his suit down to the circuitry?"

"A question we will never see answered," I said, giving her a really? look, before he could come to the conclusion that she really meant it. "Thanks for opening the way, hon." Moving forward, I braced myself on either side of the now-empty opening and peered down the shaft.

After about ten feet down, it got really dark, but that didn't bother me. Since I'd gotten my powers, darkness and I were old friends (and I may have been humming that tune under my breath). We understood each other really, really well.

Even without the binoculars (I hadn't dared bring them through) I could see the bottom clearly enough to do what I did next; specifically, slap a shadow on the wall next to the opening and step through, ending up on a concrete ledge above the bottom of the shaft itself. This was a good thing, because the bottom of the shaft had (if I was reading the metal built into the shaft walls properly) about a foot of water in it, courtesy of Brockton Bay's notoriously high water table. The exterior elevator door was about chest-level for me and was almost certainly designed to stay locked until the (now non-existent) elevator showed up, but that was fine. I didn't intend to open it all by myself.

Leaning back through the portal, I looked over at Greg, whose armour had gone from impressive to almost cartoonish in the short interval that I'd been gone. Everywhere it could hold extra metal, it was, with even his shield almost a foot thick. He looked like the medieval armoured version of the Michelin Man.

It was a good thing, I decided, that his darksteel apparently didn't weigh any more than cardboard to him. Armsmaster and the Undersiders (now that was a catchy band name) were staring at him as though unsure of what to make of this trick (except for Brian, of course). "Okay, fine," I said. "That's one way to carry it through, I guess. Now quit showing off and get in here."

"Yes, ma'am." He stepped on through, and I guided him to make sure he didn't take a header into the water. "Okay, I can't see a thing, just saying."

"Well, there's a two-foot drop into a foot of stagnant water," I told him. "You won't drown, but squelchy shoes are the absolute worst. Move to your right, so you can make room for the others."

"Can't argue with that." He followed my direction, moving to where I put him, and staying there. That was one of the many things I liked about him; he never, ever second-guessed me.

Once he was in place, I leaned back through the portal. "Armsmaster, you're next. We need some light on the subject."

"Coming through," he agreed. Lights clicked on at various points on his armour, and he stepped through as I moved to the side. His helmet turned to the left and right as he took in the bottom of the elevator shaft (which was getting crowded), then he looked up at the door. "That's a useful power. Can it get us through the door without making noise?"

"No, but I can," Greg said. "If I made a small hole, do you have any tech-gizmos that'll let us see what's on the other side?"

There was almost physical pain in Armsmaster's voice as he replied. "If you promise to never call them tech-gizmos ever again, then yes, I do."

"Good," I said briskly. "I'm thinking that once we get the all-clear, Greg makes the door into steps, you guys go through into whatever's on the other side, then I bring everyone through as fast as we can, and work from there."

Armsmaster cleared his throat. "I have a question. We are some distance below ground level. How are we going to get out if we have to retreat in a hurry?"

"Grue gives us cover of darkness, and Greg and I make an exit with the judicious application of teleport portals and blowing holes in shit until we have a way out." I raised an eyebrow. "Any suggestions you might have for us at the time will definitely be taken on board."

"I suppose I can't fault that. The hole you spoke of, Mr Veder? And had you people settled on cape names yet? It just feels wrong calling you by your real name."

I chuckled as Greg began teasing slivers out of the base of the elevator door. "We haven't really had the time to consider it. If you must have a name for me, call me Portal."

"And I'll be Alloy," Greg offered. He stepped to the side again as a tiny dot of light showed under the door. "All yours."

"Thank you, Alloy." Armsmaster put his hand up to the hole and a slender cable extended from the base of his armoured wrist, slithering into the gap like it was alive. He paused for a moment. "Looking around now. We have a concrete corridor, off-yellow walls, fluorescent lights. It tracks very much with your description. No people in sight."

"Excellent." I gestured at the portal. "I'll give them the word that we're about ready to move."

"Good … wait." He held silent for a moment, then lowered his voice. "Two people coming. No costumes, but they aren't dressed like the guards you mentioned. One has a pistol in a shoulder holster. Coming up to the elevator door." Another pause. "Facial rec puts one as Alexander Grayson, Medhall legal department, and the other as a Geoff Schmidt."

I kept my voice way down as well. "Mr Grayson is Victor. I don't know the other guy. Now shh." Closing my eyes, I listened as hard as I could. Voices filtered through the door to me.

"… up there for a while. Not answering his phone."

"Do you think something has happened?"

"I don't know. Nobody's approached the building, even from the air. His office door reads as being electronically locked from the inside. He could just be having a quiet drink, or it could be something more."

"How long does this elevator normally take?"

"Less time than this."

"Greg," I whispered. "On my mark, pull the door. I'll get the others." I waited until he nodded, then I held up my finger. "Three. Two. One. Mark."

Things happened very quickly after that.

Greg grabbed the whole door with his power and thoughtfully spread it over the base of the elevator shaft, covering the water with a sturdy-looking metal grating; almost as an afterthought, he added a convenient set of steps up to floor level. Armsmaster didn't even need it; proving to be extremely damn agile in his armour, he leaped four feet vertically with the assistance of his halberd. Then, as soon as his feet hit the concrete floor above, he swung the halberd in a short arc. The base of it encountered Geoff Schmidt's chest (whoever he really was) and electricity sparked, knocking the guy back a few yards to land heavily on his back.

As Greg thundered up the steps (I didn't want to even try to guess how much his armour actually weighed now), I stuck my head back through the portal. "Come on!" I shouted. "We're in!"

Pulling back out, I went up the steps myself as fast as I could, as people started spilling through the portal into the confines of the elevator shaft. Brian was right behind me, with Tracey on his tail. After that was Tattletale, Regent and Bitch, but I wasn't sure about the exact order.

I was just in time to see Armsmaster take Victor down with what looked like a ranged wireless taser shot, while Greg applied metal manacles to Geoff Schmidt's wrists and ankles. Victor's pistol clattered to the floor … but then Schmidt stirred and blew out into a cloud of particulates, surrounding Greg. "Shit!" I shouted. "It's Fog!"

A howling gale blew past me, ripping Fog away from Greg where his cloud reformed farther down the passage. I recalled how Tracey had done that to Victor once upon a time, sending him tumbling out of control. The trouble was, Fog wasn't vulnerable to bruising or concussion in this form. He could always regroup and come back at us—

Armsmaster skidded a thing like a hockey puck down the corridor toward Fog. As it vanished under the cloud, he must have done something, because the interior of the cloud lit up with a whole lot more electricity than he'd used with his taser. The cloud collapsed inward, and Fog was lying unconscious on the ground.

"Okay, dang, nice work, but how do we keep that contained?" asked Regent. "Soon as he wakes up, he's all Mister Murdercloud again, and you can't have too many more Hockey Pucks of Lightning stashed away."

Armsmaster spun his halberd and jabbed Fog with the butt end of it. Instead of zapping him this time, there was a pssst sound, and I was pretty sure I saw a needle retracting as he took it away. "Tranquilliser," he said briefly. "It'll hold him for an hour."

"By which time we'll have either won or be dead," Tattletale finished. "Great. Good to know."

"We're gonna win this," Greg assured her. "We've done this once, we can do it again. Now, let's go find room three-B, and kick the asses of anyone who tries to get in our way."

I high-fived him. "Let's go do that thing."



End of Part Twenty-Four