Taylor Hebert, Medhall Intern [Worm Fanfic]

[Impartial Panic]

Ow my heads killing me and I don't think my legs are supposed to bend that way.
oh that's a lot of blood and...hey is that my car...*CRUNCH*

Great Justin just had to get himself killed, too bad that taylor girl didn't have powers then I could just fill the vacancy and have an in with the dockworkers guild.

Actually now that I think of it...THEO Get your butt over here I got someone you need to meet.
and for gods sake don't fuck it up like you did with Tammi.

 

[Zackarix]

I could see her being confused about being hailed as some great hero when all she thinks she did was kill some randos who were too nice to Taylor.

Click to shrink...

Sophia: I'm glad everyone agrees that Hebert is a bug who deserves to be squashed and attempting to befriend her is a capital crime. But I think the medal, parade, and statue are a bit over the top for what was just some minor public service.

 

[nighting]

Sophia: I'm glad everyone agrees that Hebert is a bug who deserves to be squashed and attempting to befriend her is a capital crime. But I think the medal, parade, and statue are a bit over the top for what was just some minor public service.

Click to shrink...

Click to shrink...

That's a mental image I'll probably never be able to get out of my head when it comes to Worm. Great. That aside, really enjoyed the story so far.

 

[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

 

[Krein]

Oh Jesus, Gladly, no.

I don't care what idea you have, it's a bad idea.

 

[SMDVogrin]

Oh Jesus, Gladly, no.

I don't care what idea you have, it's a bad idea.

Click to shrink...

Countdown to Gladly presenting the plan as his own and getting ROFLmurdered by Accord in 5...4...

 

[macdjord]

Aaaaaand welcome back to another exiting edition of 'Wait, why am I rooting for the Nazis right now?'.

From the stories Tracey had told me, 'the phrase report to Ms Harcourt'

Click to shrink...

Ack: The open-quote should be on 'report', not 'phrase'.

 

[My_Game_Account]

Sophia is going to 'accidentally' the entire empire then get arrested for it. Thus leading to Taylor becoming president of medhall President Harcourts personal assistant.

 

[Ack]

Aaaaaand welcome back to another exiting edition of 'Wait, why am I rooting for the Nazis right now?'.



Ack: The open-quote should be on 'report', not 'phrase'.

Click to shrink...

Damn it, will fix.

 

[RoninSword]

I eagerly await the next PRT section.
Not only did Sophia run from the cops but she left witnesses alive from where she caused a fatal car accident and now she's on camera having attempted to kill another person.

 

[SMDVogrin]

Aaaaaand welcome back to another exiting edition of 'Wait, why am I rooting for the Nazis right now?'.

Click to shrink...

See, that's why I like the way this story is going. I mean, they did a great job helping Taylor out, but they're still Nazis! So watching Shadow Stalker picking them off doesn't inspire any sort of sorrow. It's like watching the Army-Navy game when you're in the Air Force - you're perfectly happy to have both sides LOSE.

 

[SlickRCBD]

Oh Jesus, Gladly, no.

I don't care what idea you have, it's a bad idea.

Click to shrink...

If Gladly were trying to screw Taylor over, he'd use the book as proof that Taylor plagiarized things or hired somebody to do her work for her.
Seems odd, it's quite acceptable to summarize a plan you found online like Taylor did for a high school or even most undergraduate level projects. Heck, I recycled a portion of a plan I actually used (but didn't write all of it. I only did the portion of the plan for where the workstations/terminals went and some of the Ethernet wiring) for installing a computer system in a doctor's office to bring them in compliance with HIPPA for a school paper when I went back to school to upgrade from an associates degree to a bachelor's degree and had to do a paper on HIPPA compliance. Then again, that was either 300 or 400 level college work, not high school.

P.S. I know Justin was Crusader's name, but I can't recall who Greyson was.

 

[Mecrazyfang]

Who else had their fight-or-flight instinct twig out while reading this?

Fantastic chapter.

 

[Krein]

Who else had their fight-or-flight instinct twig out

Click to shrink...

No no no, this is a Worm fic. /s

 

[Ganurath]

P.S. I know Justin was Crusader's name, but I can't recall who Greyson was.

Click to shrink...

Victor. Good thing for him that his wife has healing hands, eh?

 

[Scopas]

Man... What a great update. Some personal growth from Greg, an academic and social triumph for Taylor, Gladly gets his hands around a poisoned fruit, and Sophia continues to be a fucking axe murderer with range.

Very good chapter, Ack. As always, highly enjoyable and impossible to take so much as the smallest break from.

 

[Death by Chains]

Man, SB and SV are gonna be pissed that the server outage made them wait even longer for an update like this.

Greg: rehabilitation continues, and it is heartening to see.
Julia: I think "ESAD" about covers my feelings towards her.
Gladly: dude, whatever you're thinking, don't. It's a plan where you're going to loose your hat (at least), and those are always bad plans.
Sophia: ...[facepalm]. As I've observed in another Worm fic, not only does she not know when to stop digging her own grave, she doesn't know how to stop digging, or even realise that she should. She's really on the fast-track to getting Hookwolf'd, at this rate.

 

[Crazael]

Greg: rehabilitation continues, and it is heartening to see.

Click to shrink...

I think this fic's depiction of Greg is one of my favorite things about it. It's just so rare to see him treated like a decent human being.

 

[GladiusLucix]

Considering the most recent chapter, and some older discussion...

So Grayson is Victor right? I wonder if he was stealing Sophia's restraint before she jumped Madison... I could totally see him do that.

Click to shrink...

Yes, he is,

Click to shrink...

How long does it take stolen skills to come back? Because Victor might have kicked the rock that started the avalanche of her taking out the E88.

Which would make Crusader and him dying to Sophia sort of hilarious.

 

[Ganurath]

How long does it take stolen skills to come back? Because Victor might have kicked the rock that started the avalanche of her taking out the E88.

Click to shrink...

Based on how long it took Tammi to become articulate after Victor stopped stealing her ability to speak without stuttering? Near instant.

 

[Ack]

Based on how long it took Tammi to become articulate after Victor stopped stealing her ability to speak without stuttering? Near instant.

Click to shrink...

Let's just say that the following things are in play:

1) Victor dug deep when he went after her self-control and critical judgement.
2) She never had much to start with.
3) Sunk cost fallacy is a thing. Once she started down this path, she had very little incentive to stop.
4) Sophia needs very little incentive to become a murderhobo.

 

[Scopas]

Let's just say that the following things are in play.

4) Sophia needs very little incentive to become a murderhobo.

Click to shrink...

I mean, it wasn't so much a case of if, rather when. The PRT just put a leash on a rabid dog, one that she was canonically able to slip almost at will. The slightest psychological pressure could've tipped her over the edge - having interactions with a power vampire and social engineer like Victor was like pouring octane onto an already building blaze.

 

[Crazael]

How long does it take stolen skills to come back?

Click to shrink...

IIRC, it depends on how much/long he does it. And if he pulls hard enough for long enough, the loss becomes permanent.

 

[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

 

[Robert Stadler]

Could anything be more humiliating for Sophia Hess than being taken down by an unpowered Greg Veder? We may find out next chapter.

 

[macdjord]

Send a squad to her place of work, another one to her son's work, and a third one to her child's daycare.

Click to shrink...

I assume this is talking about Sophia's mother rather than Sophia herself? Because you failed to say so.

Her strategy, as she formulated it, was simple;

Click to shrink...

'she' -> 'she had'

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?"

Click to shrink...

And now I'm cheering for Greg Veder. Well, it's less weird than cheering for the nazis...

 

[Ack]

I assume this is talking about Sophia's mother rather than Sophia herself? Because you failed to say so.


'she' -> 'she had'


And now I'm cheering for Greg Veder. Well, it's less weird than cheering for the nazis...

Click to shrink...

About to fix both those problems.

 

[AnonymousMemberNO115]

I really like how the story has been going so far only i am kind of worried that it is kind of going into the direction of a dead end.

• I mean either the story is going to more or less stay out of the cape and gang side of things and then there will not be much of a problem but i am kind of wondering what direction the story will have to go into then?
• The second option is of course that Taylor & Greg find out about the dark side of Medhall but i cant see them joining up with Nazi's so that seems like a dead end more or less. (if they go and try and reform the Nazi's that might work in the story but seems very unlikely to work in the "reality")
• Another option is that coil does his thing and unmasks all the E88 parahumans and well, they still find out about the dark side of Medhall but it will be more like ripping off a bandaid and then the story could focus on keeping Medhall together under new management, maybe even throughout the troubles with Leviathan and the other destruction in the bay but that would also mean that a lot of the characters we have gotten invested in having to more or less drop out of the story so that might be a hard one.

So yea, like the story so far but i am really unsure where this story is supposed to go in the end.

 

[Ack]

I really like how the story has been going so far only i am kind of worried that it is kind of going into the direction of a dead end.

• I mean either the story is going to more or less stay out of the cape and gang side of things and then there will not be much of a problem but i am kind of wondering what direction the story will have to go into then?
• The second option is of course that Taylor & Greg find out about the dark side of Medhall but i cant see them joining up with Nazi's so that seems like a dead end more or less. (if they go and try and reform the Nazi's that might work in the story but seems very unlikely to work in the "reality")
• Another option is that coil does his thing and unmasks all the E88 parahumans and well, they still find out about the dark side of Medhall but it will be more like ripping off a bandaid and then the story could focus on keeping Medhall together under new management, maybe even throughout the troubles with Leviathan and the other destruction in the bay but that would also mean that a lot of the characters we have gotten invested in having to more or less drop out of the story so that might be a hard one.

So yea, like the story so far but i am really unsure where this story is supposed to go in the end.

Click to shrink...

We shall see what we shall see.

 

[Mastersgt]

psychiatric center? Asylum? Pretty sure that with how the Gov. in WORM works, that if they can nail her with those murder charges she would be going to the Birdcage.

Also, I know it does not really fit in this story(since this is not really a lewd, or at least one with Sophia), but personally I always picture Shadow Stalker as a young Teyana Taylor.