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Chapter Text

Crimson Shards on a Vacant Throne

Sunrise over Boston, by YseultNott

I watched the pale winter sun set over Boston. Slow, but inevitable, until it finally dipped behind the city and the rays of sunlight caressing my cold face were filtered through the massive skyscrapers dominating the background. Sunlight reflected off of the pristine snow covering the city, the red brick walls, and the massive panes of glass from the high rises, giving the landscape a golden and almost surreal sheen.

It wasn't as beautiful as watching the sun rise behind the Waterfront from across the harbor, but if I angled my head just right, I could spot a hint of the ship over the harbor; a certain flicker in the air, and the shadow of a shadow peeking through one of the aisles. Even for my sharp eyes, It was way too far away to see anything without binoculars, but if I closed my eyes, I could almost see it:

A majestic frigate in the sky, hovering silently over the water and silhouetted against the rising morning sun. Where the light broke against the shield surrounding it, it would be framed by golden rainbows. The Constitution was a fusion of ancient history and technology that humanity couldn't even begin to grasp, and in a way, it represented everything Boston was and Brockton Bay would never be.

But even without that, it was a truly mesmerizing sight, and together with the bustling masses in the city below and the sparkling Christmas decorations lighting up the streets, the world almost looked safe and whole.

Deep within my heart, I knew that Brockton Bay, for all its bad and good, could never truly compare to this, but I had left it behind now. I didn't have to deal with it anymore… For good, I hoped. This was my home now, and it was as perfect as anything could be in this fucked up world.

I should have been happy, but all I could do was stare blankly over the river Charles, trying to hold back the tears brimming from my burning eyes. Deep below me, the unsuspecting masses bustled through the streets, stressed but happy. Christmas Eve was just around the corner, and their lives were intact. They had their friends and families, and…

…I had no one. Fucking no one.

"You have us," the voices in my head whispered. Something moved in the corner of my vision, and I clenched my fist, keeping my gaze straight so I didn't look. Oh, I was sure they tried to be soothing, but all it did was stir the bile in my throat even further.

Just another reminder of how my life had fallen apart. Boston was supposed to be our haven. A new start, a new life, but what point was there in getting to live all of this, when Dad couldn't? The doctors had said that his odds of recovering – of waking up – were good. Yet, I asked myself. What will he wake up to?

What would I even tell him?

Hey Dad! You've just spent a week in a coma but we both survived! I know you sold our house for a crappy apartment, but now the house is gone anyway and the apartment is uninhabitable. Me? Oh, don't worry about it. I spent some days on the streets in the deepest winter, but now I'm fine and squatting together with fucking Lung in an abandoned drug den.

No. No, I would fucking not.

I hissed between clenched teeth. Dad deserved better, and I would fucking make sure he got it. Even if it meant that I needed to do something horrible to claim the bright future that was owed to us. But what? Sure, I had truly lovely company in my head, with even lovelier advice, but in the end, I was still alone, and for the first time in my life, I didn't know what to do.

Something wet trailed down my cheek, and I blinked furiously.

"It's ok to show weakness," a voice in my mind whispered, soft and soothing. A woman, but I didn't know who of them it was. It was hard to keep them apart sometimes. "We are still alone. You still have a moment."

No. I couldn't afford to show weakness. Not now, not ever.

"Your dad is going to be fine," another voice in my mind murmured. Annoyed, but not malicious.

"Even the dragon respects you, XVI, You'll carve yourself a place. We always did."

Lung. I idly played with the razor-sharp glass shards hovering on my palm – singing to them to let them dance for me. Sure, they respected my song – my power – but that was it. No one respected me as a person…no one cared for me as a person.

Oh, the tiny fraction of mental lodgers who weren't utter monsters sure pretended otherwise, but in the end, they all wanted the same from me. I was their shattered angel who'd tear down anything that stood between the Butchers and their precious legacy.

Songbird, I'd called myself all those weeks ago, when there still was a fraying tapestry of normalcy in my life and the voices had hidden themselves from me. When Dad had still been there and I'd just been a violent teenager with hallucinations and the urge to hurt others.

I was Butcher now, a shatterbird if anything else. For all its beauty, that was all my song was good for.

"God! Depressed teenagers," someone in my head groaned. "Can't you just shut up? Just go ex a bottle of vodkas and fuck a few bitches. That's how you deal with this shit."

"Stop moping, XVI," Butcher sighed in my head. He was the easiest to recognize, the loudest, and when he spoke the others would let him. "You are who you want to be. Keep your end of the deal and we will even let you play pretend hero once in a while if that gets you off. Being the Butcher is a mutual relationship, as long as you respect our wishes."

"As long as we get to beat someone up while saving old ladies," another voice cackled.

Yeah, fuck you too, I hissed at them. They didn't bother to respond, and so I just kept looking at the sparkling world below me, playing with my glass to distract myself. Words rose in my throat, unbidden, but they were my own, and after some hesitation, I surrendered to the urge.

Carefully, I began singing, soft and quiet enough that the wind tore the words from my lips, making them almost unhearable for anyone but myself:

Chapter Text

CSVT Book 1: Storm Clouds over Brockton Bay

"So, what do you think?"

Paul swallowed and turned to glance at his partner-in-training. The bits of sickly sweet dough kept sticking to the inside of his mouth, and he had to suppress a grimace. He swallowed again, feeling the urge to rinse his mouth. "It's…I don't know. Not my thing." Fucking disgusting, but he didn't say that aloud.

"Huh. Well, and here I grew up thinking that every cop loves donuts," Vanessa said, carefully balancing the cardboard box filled with donuts on her lap. "Well, that means more for me then," she exclaimed cheerily, fished another donut out of the box, and began enthusiastically wolfing it down.

"No crumbs… or I will make you vacuum every inch of my car!"

"Yes, sir." Was her sharp reply, precursed by an audible gulp. It was their third night together, and Paul still didn't know what to think of his newest rookie. She was disciplined and enthusiastic, fresh out of the academy. Maybe a bit too much enthusiasm, if he was to be honest.

He reached for his now cold coffee, only to be interrupted by the static hissing and crackling of the radio coming to life: "Calling to all available units for investigation. Suspected 10-17B or 10-15 at Carlington Street 14. An elderly couple, suspecting home invasion."

Paul and Vanessa exchanged a glance, and she quickly set the box aside.

"Ready for your first proper mission? "

"Yes, sir!"

Paul reached for the police radio while operating the mobile data terminal with the other hand. While responding, he pounded in the address: "Sergeant Veder and Officer Swan responding, Car 17. Currently on a 10, but we are nearby. Can handle."

"Roger, Car 17. Response Code 1." The dispatch lady responded.

"Ten-four. ETA 5 minutes." Paul radioed as Vanessa pulled the car from the parking lot. "Any registered 10-666's or 10-333's?"

"Stand by." It took the dispatch several minutes to respond again. "Negative. Armsmaster is currently patrolling at upper Lord Street and is available if there is a cape incident. ETA 10 minutes if rerouted."

"Roger. Ending transmission." Paul spoke into the microphone before turning towards Vanessa. "Alright, rookie. Quiz time. What were they talking about?"

Her answer came immediately and without turning her attention away from the steering wheel. "Vandalism or trespassing. Responding without sirens or lights. No Protectorate operations or stakeouts, and no Parahumans sighted. Sir." Vanessa added, and a smile tugged at her lips. "We were on a lunch break. Past midnight."

"Past midnight indeed," Paul sighed as he stared out of the window. Ice and snow pounded against the glass, obscuring the abandoned street. God, the weather's shit today, he thought dryly.

"Almost there," Vanessa said, steering the car into a side street. "Do you think we'll run into trouble?" There was a hint of nervousness in her voice. Despite common belief, crime didn't happen every day in Brockton Bay, and the Rookie…she was just so damn competent. The girl had a college degree, a body like an Olympic athlete, and reflexes like a special forces veteran, and that made it sometimes easy to forget that this was actually her very first mission.

"You know the drill. Even when it's tedious, always check your surroundings." Paul paused to quickly gulp down the last drips of his coffee and slammed the paper cup back into its holder. "It's probably just some raccoons." Or maybe Hookwolf jumps from behind a corner again and they end up having to rinse the remains of my best friend from my skin, he thought.

For a brief moment, Paul's skin felt slick and sticky, and the coppery scent of blood rose to his nose. He shook his head, and the sensations disappeared again. He was just tired.

They pulled onto the sidewalk as soon as the house came into view, and after carefully scanning their surroundings, they quickly exited the car. Snow crunched under his feet as Paul walked around towards the trunk, attentively scanning the dark and empty streets for threats. His hand crept towards his service gun, and in a brief moment of weakness, he allowed himself to touch it. The cold metal felt reassuring. Calming, like an old friend.

Brockton Bay is supposed to have mild winters, he thought, thankful for his new, padded service jacket. The icy wind pricked at his skin, tugging at his cap and hair, and even though he would never admit it aloud, the atmosphere was kind of unsettling. The abandoned streets were lined with barren, skeletal trees, and the cutting wind carried swathes of snowflakes with it. The few gloomy streetlights barely illuminated the rows of dark two-story wooden houses, each one like the next.

"Surroundings clear," he shouted.

"Sky clear," Vanessa replied, and he heard her briefly speak something into her radio.

Paul opened the trunk door and retrieved the heavy-duty vest from its compartment. He secured the armor properly on his gut, methodically double-checking the straps and equipment in the process. The sidearm, flashlight, pepper spray, taser, and a few grenades with containment foam.

He hesitated but didn't reach for the shotgun. Then, he stepped aside and watched Vanessa do the same. She moved with the accuracy of a soldier, yet he couldn't help but notice her slight trembling as she pulled the straps of her vest close.

"Alright, let's go," he said. He clapped her on the shoulder and made sure to lock the armored storage compartment in the car trunk before stepping towards the house. "You know the drill. It's an elderly couple, we follow standard procedure, so stay polite, assertive, and vigilant. Even if it's just some raccoons…" and not Hookwolf "...we are to be extra polite and reassuring when it comes to the old folks."

"Yes, sir," Vanessa replied sharply.

The small house at the end of the cul-de-sac stood out like a sore thumb. Every light was on, inside and outside. Something moved behind the closed curtains as they stepped up to the front door. It was almost lovingly maintained. Freshly painted and neat, every window was adorned with flowerpots and racks. The garden would be meticulously picturesque if it weren't for the fact that it was the middle of winter.

Someone, presumably a child, had built a giant snowman in the front yard, and for a brief moment, Paul had the impression that it turned to watch him as they strode past it.

A woman clad in an atrocious flowered nightgown opened the door as soon as Paul and Vanessa stepped up to the front porch, and he immediately noticed her supposed husband lingering in the background. The couple was elderly, the sort of people that looked exactly like you would imagine the kind grandmother next door, occasionally waddling over to her neighbors with trays of home-baked goods. The sort of rare but genuinely good people you would ask to babysit your children without any second thought.

The woman's face was a mask of barely contained nervousness. The man just looked tired and annoyed.

"G'evening Ma'am, BBPD, you called us for a disturbance?" Paul tipped his cap and flashed his badge.

"Oh, thank god, officer." The woman spoke as the suspicion faded from her face, replaced by relief. "We heard noises from the backyard."

"She's always hearing things," the man groaned. "In the backyard, on the roof, in the attic. She's convinced that someone is stalking around in our house every or so night." He threw his hands in the air in an exasperated gesture. "She's paranoid". There is no one in this damn house. We have a top-of-the-line security system-"

The woman turned around and nudged her husband with her elbow, but from what Paul could tell there wasn't much heat to it. "Stop it! Something goes on here. For weeks! Everyone sees it, why don't you-."

"Ma'am," Vanessa interrupted after exchanging a brief glance with Paul. "What do you mean? What noises?"

"Well, there have been a lot of suspicious people hanging around lately, strolling around the neighborhood and sitting in that ugly van on the other side of the street for hours. I don't think anyone else besides me has noticed, but I have a lot of free time these days. And a few days ago, a weird man rang at our door, trying to sell us flowers." The old woman scoffed. "No way that slimy bastard was a florist, I got an eye for that. Asked us way too many questions about our neighbors. And then there are the noises at night."

"Noises?"

"Well, sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and there are these noises… it's almost as if someone is walking around on our roof. The house is old and creaks a lot, especially during this season. At first, I just thought it was me imagining things, and blaming it on my husband's paranoia…" A loud scoff echoed out of the hallway, and the woman rolled her eyes in exasperation. "…but it just doesn't stop, you know?"

Paul and Vanessa exchanged a glance. "I will check the house, you check the backyard. Keep your comms on."

"Yes, sir!" Vanessa replied and disappeared around the corner.

"Please, come in." The old woman said and stepped aside. Paul entered and was led into a small but comfortable living room. Even the inside of the house was spotless. Greg could take a bite from this, he thought amused while looking around, blocking out the frantic blabbering of the old woman.

Eventually, she got shushed out of the room and disappeared into the kitchen. Paul turned towards the man. "What kind of security do you have?"

"Tan Industries." The old man grunted and gestured towards a sticker on the window.

Paul raised an eyebrow. "The expensive stuff?"

"Yeah, it's expensive, but the price is reasonable for what it offers. State of the art. They know how to make shit up in Boston." The man gestured around. "From top to bottom, every window and door is secured. Physical locks and electronic nonsense, with motion detectors. Upgraded our old one after my wife first started hearing things."

"When did it start?" Paul pulled a notepad and a pen from one of his pockets.

"Hm, dunno… a few months ago? Few weeks after the Winslow Fire thing." The man's face twisted in disgust. "Daughter of our neighbor got shredded there. Poor thing is more scars than skin. Hurts to look at her. Really, if I ever get the fucker who did that I am going to…" He coughed at Paul's raised eyebrow, "...er…hope they find 'em soon and punish them. By the law and all that."

"Hmm, have you checked the windows?"

"Of course." The man retrieved a surprisingly modern smartphone from his pocket. "Nephew works for the PRT. Helped set this thing up. Every window is locked, I check every night before going to bed, and every time one is opened, it sends a message to our phones."

"That is pretty thorough. You really don't believe your wife?"

"She's bloody paranoid. Nothing's been stolen, even when I put a couple hundred bills on the table one night to try and smoke them out."

"Fair enough," Paul chuckled, "I-." The radio crackled to life, and he raised his hand. "One moment please."

"Officer Swan here," Vanessa radioed, "Nobody's around, but it looks like someone went through the trash. Doesn't look like raccoons to me. Looks like something big and heavy was removed though."

An unpleasant feeling stirred in Paul's gut. "Understood. Come inside, let's wrap up. Over."

"Roger," Vanessa confirmed.

Paul slightly readjusted the radio on his shoulder as he turned back towards the man. He couldn't resist raising an eyebrow. "Seems like someone went through your trash."

The man opened his mouth to speak, but whatever he wanted to say was interrupted by a startled shriek. It came from the kitchen, and Paul barreled through the door in an instant, followed by Vanessa barreling through the still-open front door.

The old woman sat at the kitchen table, staring wide-eyed at a box sitting on the table. "It's gone," she whispered.

"Ma'am," Vanessa said, taking the fingers from her gun holster. "Please, relax. What's gone?"

"The cake. It's all gone!" The woman's voice was shaky. "I knew it, someone is walking around in our house at night. Some t-thief. Oh god…"

"So, where does this go?" Paul asked, pointing up towards the faint outline of a hatch in the ceiling. They had searched the entire house from top to bottom, but even after an hour of digging through everything, there was nothing to be found. Nothing but the cake had disappeared, even the safe filled with jewelry and gold left untouched. Aside from that, there was nothing that pointed to a forced entry.

The whole situation was, frankly speaking, surreal.

"Attic," the old man coughed, out of breath from stomping up the stairs. "Haven't been up there for quite a while though. We cleared it out a few years ago, nothing up there but lots and lots of empty space."

Paul and Vanessa exchanged a glance.

"...you think?"

"Yes. If there is anyone in here, up there might be a good hiding place for a squatter." Paul stared at the hatch, shifting. A frown spread across his face. The folding stairs were an issue. Steep and narrow, and whoever might hide up there had an easy way of defending it.

"We have an endoscope," The old man chimed in. "Bloody old thing, but it still works just fine. We could crack the hatch a little and check if someone's up there. It's just one large room, and no place to hide."

"Great idea, could you please get it?" Paul asked.

"Of course. One moment." The old man disappeared downstairs, and Vanessa turned to Paul.

"Do you think we should call backup?"

"No, but keep your head up." Paul shook his head, glancing at the ceiling. "We still don't know if it's legit, or just paranoia. Could be some raccoons, a parahuman, or even nothing. Maybe she just misplaced or misremembered something. Reminds me of my parents."

"Understood, sir! But…" Vanessa hesitated, and Paul offered her an encouraging nod. "What about these…people Mrs. Brown mentioned?"

Paul groaned softly and moved a hand to his temple to rub it. "Really, we'll look into that in due time, but right now we have to check this. Frankly speaking, if anything about her report is true, it's above our pay grade."

Vanessa looked like she wanted to object, but remained silent. Honestly, Paul couldn't even blame her. Police work nowadays was all about compromises, and no matter how much one wanted to hate it, it was just how life worked. The young generation of aspiring police cadets struggled to understand it, blinded by their idealism. They wanted to make the world how it was supposed to be, and that was what killed most of them in the end.

Thundering steps and wheezing gasps of air heralded the return of Mr. Brown and tore Paul from his spiraling thoughts. He smiled. "You found it?"

"Yeah, here." The old man handed him the ancient device and promptly collapsed on the chair in the cramped hallway which had most likely been set up for that exact purpose. "Button's at the side."

It took Paul a while to figure out how the thing worked, but eventually, it started blinking, and he brought the camera to his face. The camera worked, even though the quality was notably bad. But it'd have to do.

Vanessa carefully climbed up the folding ladder, stopping only when she was almost crouching below the hatch. Then, she carefully lifted it up, and fiddled the endoscope through the tiny crack. They held their breath as she carefully swept the thing around, following the hushed instructions from Paul as he peered through the camera. The lighting was shitty, but it was just barely enough to see things if he strained his old eyes.

"Alright," Paul declared, his shoulders slumping a little in relief. "Unless we have someone able to turn invisible, the attic is clear."

The ladder didn't creak as they pulled it down with the hook, and climbed up the narrow stairs. The attic room was dark and crammed, only illuminated by the little light that fell through the single window. Paul fumbled blindly for the light switch. With a click, the fuzzy lightbulb sparked to life, revealing a barren room lined by raw trusses. It was empty, save for a few old and disused cabinets, and a single wooden chair standing near the window, and Paul couldn't help but notice how clean it was. Almost too clean.

Dust and debris had been sloppily swept into a corner, but the faint outlines of footprints were still visible. They were everywhere, but mostly congregating around the window and the hatch.

"Oh my fucking god. She was right. There was…is…a psycho running around our house! She was right, all this time. Watching us sleep and whatever sick shit they were up to…for months! Officers, you have to do something." The old man trembled, and Paul placed a hand on his shoulder. "Just…why? Playing some sick games, or what?"

"Oh my god," Vanessa whispered, carefully stepping up to the window. She had drawn her phone and was recording. "I think…It's a fucking stakeout. Someone is watching the street from here"

"We have never done anything to anyone. How did they even get in? Window's locked from the inside." The old man mumbled, stepping around Paul and towards the window. He kicked the chair, and it fell over with an audible rumble. "Fucking bastards, but not with me."

Paul winced as the chair fell over. He suppressed his urge to reach for his gun and approached the window. Vanessa spoke something into her radio, but he paid no attention to it as he glanced out and onto the dark street. "Who lives there?" he asked.

"Hmmh." Mr. Brown peered through the dirty glass. "The Coulsons, the Schmidts, and Mrs. Gregory, though that one's hard to see from here. Hmm…"

"What is it?"

"I'm not sure. Well," the old man hesitated, "You…could, well. Yeah. Technically you can also get a pretty good look at the Morsons' and the Heberts' houses from here, but not without binoculars. Too far away, and you would have to look through between the houses here to see them. The angle is not ideal, but it would work."

"Do you know why anyone would want to do that?"

"I…no. They are all just ordinary people. Good ones."

"Sir? Take a look at this," Vanessa spoke up, and Paul turned towards her. She was inspecting the window lock, still filming with one hand, and held something in between her gloved fingers. It took Paul a minute to see the almost invisible nylon thread she was holding. It was tied to the crossbar used to unlock the window, and when he bent closer to follow it, he saw it disappear into a tiny hole in the window frame.

"Cunning," he murmured, more to himself. "You know what you are doing, huh."

Vanessa tugged at the thread, and the crossbar went down. A simple push was all that was needed to open the eerily silent window, and a gust of wind blew into their faces.

Paul had seen many things during his career and had to deal with the most revolting kinds of people, but this? Even if he didn't want to admit it, it unsettled him. Someone was spying on the neighborhood, both with the subtlety and skill to pull it off for months without alarming anyone. It was too planned, too patient to set up to be anything like a sex offender or the like. No, it was almost professional…but then there was the thing with the cake. It just didn't fit in.

Vanessa mumbled into her radio and stepped up to him. "Sir, another car is on the way. I…I don't like this. Got a really bad feeling."

"Me too, don't worry about this." He placed a hand on her shoulder and gave it an encouraging squeeze.

"Hey, what's that?" They turned their heads. The old man was leaning out of the window, squinting his eyes at something. "There, by the trees. Something's moving there! Did you see it?"

Vanessa rushed over to the window. "I don't see anything," she said, gazing around. "Where did you see it?"

"There," The old man pointed, "Those two trees right at the end of Carlington Street. Thought I saw something move there."

"It's quite windy outside. Maybe it was just-"

"No. There, don't you see it?"

"I'm sorry sir, but I-" Vanessa went silent, and suddenly bowed forwards, before rapidly stepping back and turning around, all but dragging the old man with her. "I think someone is hiding behind that tree," she hissed, cutting off the surge of protest from the old man.

The room fell silent.

"Are you sure?" Paul asked.

"Yes. I am sure I saw fingers."

Paul nodded, drawing a knife and cutting the string. "Alright, Mr. Brown. It's probably nothing, but we will investigate. Another car is on the way, please stay indoors. Lock the door, and don't open it unless it is either us or our colleagues."

"Understood." The old man's voice was serious.

They climbed down the stairs and left the house. The silence and darkness around them were eerie, and Paul couldn't help but constantly glance around, peeking into dark driveways cast in shadows. Yet, nothing seemed to be here except for the howling wind shaking the barren trees and bombarding them with snowflakes. His hand rested on his sidearm.

"How long did they say they need?"

"10 minutes, sir," Vanessa replied.

They reached the end of the road, and Paul stared at the two massive oak trees flanking the road on each side. "Here?" he whispered. Vanessa nodded. "Stay behind me."

The trees were tall and gnarly. At least a century old, and coated in a sensible layer of frost. Branches groaned in the wind, and the shadows they were casting looked like they were dancing a twisted dance in the fuzzy light of the streetlights.

Vanessa pointed at something. A series of small bumps roughly at the height of his head, almost looking like fingers wrapped around the trunk. The light was too bad to see, and Paul stepped around the tree to investigate. He choked, and his eyes grew wide.

"Oh my god," he whispered.

Images began to rise behind his eyes as Paul stared at the two flayed corpses strung up on each side of the road like a sick mockery of honor sentinels: A gore-soaked tie, the badge still clipped on. A twisted man with a goatee laughing unhinged as he dodged around the legs of a petrified Crawler while a silent woman clad in bones unloaded a howling spray of destruction from her minigun at him.

The corpses weren't just put up on trees but around them. Gutted and skinned to the point it reminded him of the horror images the Slaughterhouse left in their wake. Bile began to rise in his throat, and he struggled to keep his stomach under control. Next to him, Vanessa emptied her stomach onto the sidewalk.

His fingers trembled, and it took him a few tries to unlatch the safety of his gun holster. He drew it, taking a deep breath, and by the time his other hand closed around his radio, the trembling had stopped. He would not see another of his partners die. Ever again.

"Sergeant Veder reporting. Requesting back-"

The words got stuck in his throat when he spotted the woman stepping around the corner of the house two houses down the street, halting in surprise as their eyes met.

She was huddled in a ratty coat and even from this distance, he could see her shivering subtly when another gust of snowflake-ladden wind howled down the street and tugged at her clothes. Her face was hidden by a white mask, featureless and resembling a kabuki mask barring any openings except a pair of narrow eyeholes. A massive duffle bag was slung over her shoulder, stabilized by her slender hand. The other one held a bloody hammer.

"You fucking Monster!" Vanessa screamed. Gunshots fired as she unloaded her magazine at the masked woman, each of them a startling bang breaking the eerie silence around them. Two bullets impacted the woman's shoulder, and she tumbled backward. Blood spurted from her shoulder, staining her coat.

If there was any sound erupting from behind her featureless mask, it got drowned out by the wind as the woman stumbled backward. Yet she reacted immediately and almost with inhuman speed, slinging the duffle bag from her shoulder in a fluid motion, bringing it up as a shield in front of her despite clearly being unable to properly use her bleeding arm before Vanessa managed to fire more than a few rounds.

She reached into her pocket, and Paul opened fire as well. The bullets impacted the duffle bag as the woman retreated backward. She had dropped the hammer, and yet to draw a weapon of any sort but he would take no chances. Capes didn't need weapons.

The woman retreated around the corner, dropping her duffle bag, and Paul used the opportunity to scream into his radio, overpowering the concerned flow of words coming from the other side: "Crucify! Two dead! We need backu–"

Something sailed around the corner, and Paul's world erupted in white. Steam? He thought in confusion. It felt wet and heavy. Something crackled, followed by a spike of searing pain as lightning flashed, and his world grew dark.

When he came back to his senses again, the cloud of steam had parted, and the world around him was a blurry haze. Paul tried to move, but his limbs didn't obey him. Someone screamed into his ear, and it took him a minute to realize that the frantic voice came from his radio: "Paul? Paul! Goddammit, answer me, you oaf. Paul? Don't you dare bite it too! What am I supposed to tell Sarah? Greg? They need you! Hang-."

Crackling static interrupted the frantic stream of words. Paul tried to answer, to move even a single finger, but he couldn't. He could only lie there and watch in dread as the woman stepped around the corner. Her steps were silent, save for the slightest crunch of snow under her feet, measured and elegant. Almost cocky, if it weren't for the fingers clumped around her bleeding shoulder and her almost ragged breath.

Paul couldn't see behind her mask, especially not in the poor light around them, but he could physically feel her stare drilling into him as Crucify bent down to pick up her hammer. He tried to move again, to reach for the gun that lay just an inch out of his reach, but his body still refused to move. Everything was numb, and he could see his fingers spasm uncontrollably.

A shock grenade?

Crucify stopped next to the spasming body of Vanessa. She had collapsed where she stood, laying face first on the ground. Paul tried to force himself to move, but he couldn't. His hand twitched, but it still spasmed uncontrollably, and the numbness in his limbs kept growing.

He could only lie there and watch in dread as Crucify squatted down next to his partner. She lifted the hammer. Oh my god, not again. Please…

A tear ran down his numbing cheek as it went down again and again and again. Vanessa stopped moving, and the snow below her turned redder with every strike of the masked woman.

"...Armsmaster…..rerouted….hang…," the radio hissed, before dying completely. Paul's eyesight began to blur, and he saw stars as the world around him faded behind a curtain of darkness.

For a fleeting moment he thought he heard the howling of a motorbike over the wet twacking, but even the sounds were starting to blur now. The blurred woman rose and finally turned to him. Her white, featureless mask was splattered with blood - Vanessa's blood -, as was her ratty coat.

She looks young, Paul thought, and the woman tilted her head in curiosity as if she had heard his thoughts. She stalked closer, hammer dripping red, and Paul closed his eyes. He didn't have to see behind the mask to know that she was smiling. A soft jingle carried through the wind, coming closer and closer. I'm sorry.

The last thing he felt was a hard impact on his spine before darkness claimed him.

► Brockton Bay News

Estrella declares war on the Boat Graveyard!
Estrella, an American-Mexican tech company with headquarters in San Francisco, has opened up shop in Brockton Bay. Six factories and up to eighteen thousand new jobs are expected to open in the Bay over the next few months, a much-needed relief for Brockton Bay's growing unemployment issue.

Given its long history of exporting goods via naval trade and Brockton Bay's well-known harbor blockade problem which only peaked recently in the dissolution of the DWA, many citizens have questioned why aspiring CEO Gabriella Vasques would pick Brockton Bay of all cities, only to get blown away by the announcement that Estrella's sole goal is the revival and prosperity of Brockton Bay itself.


New Wards
Director Emily Piggot of the PRT ENE has announced the debut of two new Wards, Chariot and Spitfire. Their debut will be on the upcoming fundraiser hosted by Estrella, an initiative to help restore Winslow High School and aid in the recovery and treatment of the countless citizens who suffered from the accident that devastated the school and created the Scar.


Coldest Winter in decades
Brockton Bay experiences its longest and coldest winter than we have experienced in three hundred years. According to meteorologists, this is the direct cause of the debris and dust from the last years of attacks casting us in shadow and cooling ambient temperatures, but even if there are critics, everyone can agree that Santa and the children will love their snowy Christmas celebration this year.



Colin Wallis scowled. A flick of his eye caused the newsfeed to disappear, replaced by a file that set a new standard for the word 'sparse.' He skimmed it with one eye as he raced along abandoned streets, hands clenched around the handles of his motorcycle.

Her name was Crucify; a villain they knew nothing about other than that she was supposedly a tall and slender woman with a white mask and favored a compound bow.

A non-entity in the cape scene of Brockton Bay. One that, if anything, would have been labeled as a vigilante or casual villain at best if it hadn't been for the 4 destitute people she had publicly nailed alive against a wall before executing them two months ago. The recordings of that vicious execution had earned her both her name and a good helping of infamy. People thought that she was a serial killer in the making.

Colin didn't know if that was true, but he couldn't deny that the signs were there. The bodies were a message, clear as day, but the lack of any distinguishing pattern made him hesitate. There was no message or manifest, just a bunch of people and kids without a crime to their names.

Colin also didn't know if there was anything to the allegation that Crucify had forced herself onto one of her victims before their deaths, but he was certain of one thing: she wouldn't get away tonight. After that, he'd get his answers.

He skidded around a corner with screeching tires and the hud in his visor informed him that he had just entered Carlington Street. "Armsmaster to console, I have reached the target." He gritted his teeth at the GPS ping coming from the opposite end of the street..

More holographic readouts cropped up as he raced past an abandoned patrol car and a brightly illuminated house. Something moved behind the curtains, and his scanners detected an elderly couple…and the shotgun in their hands.

A ping cropped up on his visor, and the camera in his helmet zoomed toward the woman on the sidewalk. She was examining the fingers of a downed police officer, still holding a bloody hammer. He was still alive, albeit in critical condition. "Spotted Crucify. Engaging."

Colin drew one of his halberds. The woman looked up. She stood up, dropped the hammer, and drew two handguns from the pockets of her ratty coat. His scanners identified them as service guns; Glock, 9mm. 20 shots.

Crucify was bleeding heavily, barely able to aim or even move her left arm. Yet, the way she held herself and trained her other gun at him identified her as a trained shooter. Taking her age into account, she couldn't be ex-military or police… possibly gang connections? He wanted to call out to her, but she opened fire without a warning.

Colin steered to the side as his prototype combat prediction system kicked in, rapidly closing up on the villain. He lowered his halberd, and the tip started cackling with electricity - a nonlethal taser he had designed for non-brutes and civilians - only to drop it a split second later to shield his face with an armored gauntlet.

A stream of bullets impacted his armored fingers, all of them hitting the exact same spot. They had simply curved in midair to hit his unprotected lower jaw. The bullets stopped, and he pried his fingers away. His visor closed, and he extended his arm, calling the discarded halberd back into his hand.

Crucify didn't curse. She simply turned around and bolted around the corner. A trail of blood on the white snow followed her. Only a split second later, a gunshot rang through the night.

Colin skidded around the corner and brought his bike to a violent halt. He gazed around. The street was empty; No Crucify, and more importantly, no blood. He frowned and dismounted his bike, walking away while it automatically parked itself at the side of the road. He stomped off towards the series of footprints that ended in the middle of the sidewalk, looking around for the blood he knew was there just a second ago.

He carefully approached the discarded coat on the ground and lifted it with the hook of his halberd. His scanners detected the outline of a gun, a pair of cheap binoculars, and some candies in a pocket…but no blood. The other gun lay discarded on the ground…next to an imprint in the snow.

"What is this?"

Chapter Text

Monday, 06. December 2010 

As they did every night, my dreams brought me back to eerily familiar hallways. Blurry images of fire and smoke-filled halls, small pieces of debris and molten glass dropped down onto me as I stumbled onwards, trying to escape this hell on earth. 

People were screaming at me, but they screamed at each other just as much. It was obvious that they were as confused and scared as I was. It hurt, but I couldn't see them, couldn't make them stop . A part of me knew that they were trying to help me, almost instinctively, but I just couldn't understand them over the screaming, the noise, and through the haze that was my clouded mind. 

I tried to speak up, even though I had screamed myself hoarse hours ago. To beg them to shut up. To help me. To leave me alone. But as soon as I managed to force my chapped lips apart, I started choking as hot air and the stench of burnt flesh and hair assaulted my throat. I pushed through, forcing a rattling sound out of my mouth. 

I could feel something break inside me, but it didn't hurt. I clamped the wet fabric of my shirt, drenched in water from a tap, over my nose again and continued to drag myself through seemingly endless halls. 

I was exhausted; I just wanted to lie down and forget about everything, but the pain in my head only intensified at that thought. It kept me going. Wet drops ran over my numbing side and cheeks. I couldn’t tell whether it was tears or blood, I couldn't nor cared to stop and check. 

I shouldn't have left the basement where they had locked me up; where they’d left me to die. Nobody would miss me when it happened, so what use was it to leave?

My song reached more glass around me, glass that hadn’t melted yet despite the intense heat, and I pulled it closer to me to reinforce the flimsy dome that shielded me from the worst of the inferno.

The ceiling rumbled, a disgusting cacophony of screeching metal and splintering wood. 

My head snapped up, just in time to see a part of the ceiling crashing down, shattering the flimsy shield of glass around me. I screamed in terror, and so did the voices. I closed my eyes, raising my arms in a protective gesture that was as reflexive as it was useless. 

Suddenly, the air was filled with the screaming and shattering of glass. The ground below me broke away, and I fell into the void. I tried to scream, but no air escaped my throat. I tried to reach out with my song, but the world remained silent. Something eerily familiar grabbed me as I fell, pulling me away.

And then, the pain was gone. So was the fear and distress. There was no more fire, no heat, and no smoke. No voices. There was firm ground below my feet, and I took in a deep breath of warm and clear air, trying to steady myself before I dared to open my eyes. 

In front of my eyes, a corridor stretched into the far distance. It was slightly opaque; countless broken glass shards radiating in a kaleidoscope of iridescent colors, grinding together to form almost pulsating walls around me. The sight was overwhelming, and one of the most beautiful and impressive things I had ever seen. 

I took a step forward, dumbfoundedly staring into the glowing cracks. It took me several moments to realize that they weren't static. There were scenes reflected in the glass, as if every shard, no matter how tiny it was, was a screen playing a blurry movie. The second realization came only a split second later: I was surrounded by glass, and yet it didn't sing to me. I should have been utterly terrified, but somehow I felt safe and at peace.

“What is this place?” I muttered in both awe and confusion, only to get startled by the sound of my own voice. How…normal it sounded.

My hand immediately went up to my head, only to find pristine skin where nothing but scar tissue should be. After confirming that I also had both of my arms back, I started exploring the seemingly endless corridor, driven by a soft but obstinate tingle in the back of my mind. The ground was constantly shifting, yet somehow it always remained firm under my steps. 

A particular shard on the ground caught my attention. I kneeled down, looking at the blurry images moving across the large but splintered surface. I didn't know what urged me to touch it, but as soon as I did, something ripped me away.

I ripped my hand away with a force that would have sent me keeling over if it weren't for my almost unnatural balance. It took a moment for my stomach and mind to calm down again and for a good while I just sat down on the ground, trying to regain my breath and organize the thoughts swirling through my skull. What had I just seen? What happened?

Why did it feel so familiar?

My heart was pounding with adrenaline. I had felt and smelled everything. As if I had been the person to live through these memories, for that must be what they were. My eyes were burning and when I rubbed them, my hand felt traces of wetness on my cheeks. I could still feel these foreign emotions in my heart. The grief, hate, and utter despair the woman had felt upon seeing what had happened to her family. 

Her fury, burning hotter than fire.

What are the Teeth? I thought, effortlessly jumping to my feet. Where did these memories come from? This dream… this place was unlike everything I had ever experienced, and yet it was oddly familiar, as if I had been here before. Before I could restrain myself, I had already touched another shard. This one was small, bland, and rather inconspicuous compared to the cacophony of colors around me. It felt cold to the touch, and once again I got ripped away.

This time it was even more intense, and it took a while for the echoes of the man’s emotions to fade away from my mind. A soft rumble shook the corridor, but I was too caught up in my curiosity to notice it as I continued to examine the walls with newfound awe. 

This time, I touched a fractured shard tinted in crimson fury. 

I stumbled away, shocked and dazed by the sheer intensity of the emotions I had received from the girl. She was angry, so angry. A maelstrom of rage and bitterness, mixed with despair and helplessness. I shuddered, even as the memories left me again, leaving nothing behind but blurry impressions and emotions.

I took a deep breath, my finger already hovering a mere inch over the next shard, when another rumble shook the corridor. Alarmed, I looked around, only to flinch back. The soft glow of the cracks behind me had turned into a deep orange. Before my eyes, the walls started to shift, quiver, and bend in a cacophony of grinding glass as the cracks began to widen. Glass shards began to flake off, raining to the ground with soft clinks, and revealing the churning inferno behind them. Flames started to leak through the cracks and I recoiled violently. 

Terror began to seep into my heart, and I tried to reach out with my song again. Trying to seal and stabilize. Everything to keep it away from me, but once again, my song faded away, unheard and unheeded. A terrified sob escaped my lips as a wall crumbled away entirely, revealing what lay behind it: Fire and eerily familiar halls. My personal hell on earth. The countless scars hacking my skin apart started to prickle and burn, and my entire body trembled and shook as mindless panic drowned out my thoughts. I couldn't fight it, couldn't kill it. I had to get away. Away from the fire. 

Winslow was calling me, and a tiny part of my mind that resisted the panic told me that if I stayed…. if I obliged and submitted to its call, I would be back in the grasp of my nightmare. 

But there still was the gentle nudge in the back of my mind. Almost like a gentle hand trying to guide me, and in my desperation, I latched on to it like a lifeline. I turned around, forcing myself to fight against the pull that tried to pull me into the fire. One step after the other, every single one of them was as hard as if I were the old me climbing a set of stairs, carrying a backpack filled with lead. And yet I managed to push on, stepping deeper and deeper into the shimmering tunnel that still stretched unmarred in front of me, until the pull was gone entirely. 

My bare foot hit wood. I blinked, and quickly found myself gaping at worn wooden floorboards and old red brickwork. The tunnel of glass and memories was gone between one blink to the other, replaced by an almost historic -looking hallway that wouldn't be out of place somewhere downtown. This place felt oddly familiar, reminding me of something, but no matter how much I pondered on it as I slowly approached the wooden door at the end of the hallway, I couldn't put my finger on it. A place from a movie, perhaps?

What the fuck is this?

I stepped closer to inspect the wooden door. Old, worn oak with shiny brass knobs. There was noise coming from the other side. Faint, but undoubtedly the chatting of people. I felt at ease, everything seemed familiar , but a little voice in my head couldn’t help but whisper to me that maybe this was just the next stage of my fucked up nightmares. A lure. Giving me a false sense of security to catch me off-guard. 

Like Emma. 

I reached for the handle, only to hesitate. I took a deep breath. 

Before I could muster up the inner strength to knock, the door got kicked open from the inside, almost slamming into my face in the process. Only a quick step backward saved me from getting my nose crushed to a bloody pulp. 

An eerily familiar girl of Asian descent stared at me, her eyes growing wide with shock. Her visage was the most vicious scowl I had ever seen on a person, before morphing into a blank but cautious expression. She was tall and slender, albeit a tad shorter than me, with long limbs and a long neck. 

She was fucking beautiful, and I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy about it. Raven hair that I didn't even have to touch to know that it was as soft as silk, held up by a scrunchie and a set of matching hairpins adorned with little decorated pieces dangling from delicate chains. I couldn't discern what they were made of, but they almost looked like bones.   

They clattered as she tilted her head, staring at me with squinted eyes.

I estimated her to be roughly my age. Maybe a year or two older. She was dressed in a plain red tank top, exposing powerful shoulders and flawless ivory skin bulging over muscular arms, at least where it wasn’t covered in a carpet of tattoos and scars. Unsettling depictions of bones, skulls, thorny vines, and blades wrapped all over her arms, and together with her many scars, made her look intense and dangerous in a way that went beyond the scope of an ordinary delinquent.    

I also noticed that she definitively wasn’t wearing a bra, and I quickly glued my gaze to a prominent scar on her right cheek that went from her jaw up to near the bottom of her eyes, thankful for the distraction.

Her face twitched, and I quickly lowered my arm, cursing myself for my lack of fucking social skills. Fuck. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” The girl's voice was clear, but with a soft accent I couldn't really discern. A weird mix between irritated hiss and cruel, condescending drawl, utterly butchering what must have been an originally soft and melodic voice. It made her appear even more vicious. 

Her rudeness irritated me, but it was quick to morph into anger: Hot, boiling magma that raged through my guts. I tensed, trying to quench the urge to grab the girl by the shirt and shake her, or just slamming my fist into her face to wipe out that condescending frown. It was tough.  A growl rose in my throat, and I glared her in the eyes. 

“None of your fucking business?” I challenged her.   

The girl met my gaze without a twitch, and I quickly found myself getting drawn into it. Her eyes were hard and uncaring, cruel black pits without a spark of life, and for a brief moment, I felt as if I was staring into a void. A faint glimpse of hollowness I couldn't grasp, buried below layers of cruelty and apathy. 

There was something deeply wrong with that girl.

“Well, then fuck off. Wimp!” She spat. 

Wha-. Before I could even finish that thought, she slammed the door shut in my face. The beast in me roared, and for a good while I just stood there, baffled, staring at the door with clenched fists. Seriously, what the fuck was going on here? What kind of fucking dream was this?

I reached for the doorknob, and the world around me shattered. 

I did not know what it was that finally tore me from my restless sleep, but for a while, I just laid there; Tucked into my warm heap of drowsily comfortable pillows and blankets, my tail lazily coiling beneath the sheets. Unwilling to release its choking grip around Mr. Cuddles and the bedpost. I couldn’t tell how long it took for my brain to finally boot up, to fight back against the crushing fatigue, but when I finally opened my eyes, the room was still clouded in darkness. 

I stared at the ceiling, counting the little tears and cracks, the old splotches of paint where I had attempted to draw something when I had been younger. I didn't even remember what it used to be. The painting was long gone, having fallen victim to age and a ferocious spatula years ago. 

To be honest, I didn’t exactly care, but it distracted me. It was something harmless to focus on while my tired brain attempted to sort through the jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions whirling inside me. It helped me try to ignore the subtle itching and encroaching grouchiness that immediately told me that my mind and body once again demanded more.

I tried to focus, to recall what I had dreamt about, to push through the haze, but it escaped me. All I could grasp was a jumbled mess of emotions and memory fragments: Fire, pain, and drowning terror. A raging inferno devouring familiar halls. Blurry voices and fading faces, familiar but always just a mere fraction of an inch beyond my reach.

I gave up, slamming my fist onto the mattress in frustration. Then, I sighed. Well, at least tonight I didn’t wake up curled up on my bed and sobbing. Or screaming loud enough for Dad to come banging at my door again.

Then terror awoke under my pillow, and I bolted upright, my tail bursting out from its hiding place under the mountain of pillows and blankets I had cuddled myself into, throwing them off. Golden metal segments coiled themselves protectively around me, ready to lash out while my right hand fumbled blindly under my pillow. Eventually, I managed to grab the dastardly offender and smashed it against the opposite wall. Anything to make it stop. 

The ensuing silence was heavenly for my heightened senses and it made orienting myself so much easier. It took me a while to realize what was going on. No one was attacking me.

I tried to blink the sleep out of my eyes, reaching up with my hand to rub them. My jaw cracked as a gigantic yawn escaped my lips, but no sound escaped my throat. God was I tired . Even worse than I usually was. I retracted my tail, pushing off the blanket around me so I could wrap it part-way around my midriff. The firm embrace of metal on my skin felt nice, but it didn't help with the crushing fatigue.

I glanced around the dark room, confusedly searching for my alarm clock. What time was it? Why would it go off in the middle of the night? The realization came a split second later, together with the fate of my alarm clock.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!  

I screamed internally.

I rolled off the bed, stumbling onto my feet. I shuffled over to the wall, dragging my feet over the cold floorboards. My gaze fell on the noticeable crack in the drywall, and when I stepped up to it, something crunched under my foot. 

I stared down at the shattered remains of my alarm clock. Pulped and mangled. My shoulders slumped, then began heaving.  

Fuck! It took all of my willpower to restrain the urge to growl, to slam my fist into the wall over and over and over again. I coiled my tail tighter around me, but even then, the tip coiling over my head was twitching uncontrollably. Carving deep gouges into the ceiling before I finally managed to wrench it down.

I gripped the base of my tail hard enough for the metal to groan in protest while reaching out with my song to trigger the hidden switches. My nerves flared in protest when I severed the connection, but my body remained unbothered. The tail went slack immediately, turning from a part of myself to a thing slumping to the ground. 

My tail gave me a sense of security. It felt like a natural extension of myself. Detaching it felt like I was ripping out my own arm, and I wanted nothing more than to curl up in discomfort, but I pushed that impulse violently away, giving it a few mental parting kicks in the process. 

With that part of my body under control again, I started my breathing exercise, trying to force myself to calm down. Like I had practiced countless times with my therapist. 

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out. 

My thoughts swirled, all the frustration of the past weeks and months coming back to me at once and hitting me like a brick to the face: The problems, the lies. Moments of shame and disgusting weakness. Helplessness even though I was strong now. 

They were grinding at my self-control, all but fueling the raging beast demanding release inside me. The world around me began to drown in a beautiful crimson sheen, gently caressing my shoulders and wrapping me into a comfortable blanket.

In. Out.

In. Out

In. Out.

My eyes instinctively wandered to the large vanity Mom had installed for me several years ago. There was a subtle dent in the glass, where I hadn't managed to fully repair the mirror after smashing it to pieces in a fit of rage. It was only noticeable when you really looked for it.  

In. Out.

In. Out. 

In. Out. 

I dug my fingers into the old wood, controlling my trembling hand just barely, enough to not rip it apart as if it were flimsy paper, and stared at my hunched reflection in the mirror. By now, my shoulders were heaving in tempo with my ragged breath, and my glaring eyes burned with primal rage. A carpet of hair fell over my right eye, but I didn't care.

I hadn't even noticed moving over to the vanity. 

In. Out.

In. Out. 

In. Out.

The breathing exercise helped me cling to self-control, but it was tough. My body screamed at me to release my fury, and a sweet voice in the very back of my mind began whispering to me. The vanity seemed to smile at me, and for a split second, my reflection flickered: Short, black hair replaced by a long red mane. My face was replaced by another. Then, it was gone again. 

A growl rose in my throat, and I failed to hold it in. 

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

‘Just hit me’, the reflection smiled at me. ‘ Stop thinking. It feels good. You deserve to feel good too, you know?’

By now, the world around me had drowned in crimson. There was only me, and Emma. Smiling at me with her unnatural eyes, glowing in a wispy sheen that didn’t illuminate the darkness. The side of her face that wasn’t forever frozen in a neutral expression glowed with love and pride as she beckoned me to embrace her. 

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

‘It’s fine to let loose once in a while’, she said, bowing forward. My gaze wandered over disgusting beautiful scars and a shredded eight-pack; An explosion of rippling muscles that wandered all over her body as she tensed. It was a delicious and impressive display of pure primal strength, just for me, but there was a tiny part of my brain that wondered when Emma had ever looked like that.

The thoughts were silent and drowned out when Emma suddenly surged forwards until our faces were just mere inches apart. She whispered into my ear, but there was no breath accompanying her honeyed words: ` You don’t have to hit Dad again. Hit me. Make me submit. I will like it… you will love it. Trust me, just listen to your instincts, they will guide you. No one gets really hurt, you know?’

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

I jerked my head backward, away from the monster. Emma just smiled softly. It was gentle, utterly contradicting the sheer burn of her eyes. The beast in me roared again, and the pace of my breath quickened in an attempt to quench the desire to close my hand around her throat. Another growl escaped my throat. 

I felt my fingers losing grasp of the vanity desktop, and Emma’s smile widened. There was so much admiration, so much pride in her eyes. I wanted her to keep looking at me like that… to touch and worship me while I carved her eyes out and fed them to her .  

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

The drowning part of me that could still think knew how wrong it was, but it was so hard to fight back. Hard to care… and why did I have to? Why not take what I want, do what I want? In the end, I knew that it was just an old vanity. I had ruined it already, so why not do it again? It was easy to fix afterward. It would be good. 

My fist would smash through flimsy glass and wood, right into Emma’s smiling face. My ears wouldn’t hear the sound of splintering wood and shattering glass but of breaking bones and her screams.

I would like it. I would deserve it.

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

My vision flickered, and suddenly Emma stood behind me. She moved her arm, raising a hand to my cheek. The arm too was oddly muscular; at least twice the size of what it should be, and rippled with sculpted muscles just like the rest of her body. Her touch felt like a hunch of nothingness. The barest hint of pressure as she began caressing the scarred ruin of my cheek.  

‘Why do you resist, Taylor?’ She whispered into the hole that was left of my left ear. ‘I just want to help you. To make you feel good. I want you to be happy. I know that destroying things makes you happy. You don’t have to be ashamed of that.’

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

‘Destroy me. You know it’s not permanent.’ Emnma’s hand dropped below the mirror frame and out of my sight. A cold handle cuddled itself into my hand and I instinctively closed my fingers around it. I felt my control breaking away. 

Yes. Why bother stopping what felt good?

A tiny part of me realized that I had just lost, but desperation kept me clinging to the edge. I forced my lungs to heave one last time, while my eyes darted toward Emma’s iron stomach. 

In - 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, girl. Get your shit together.” A deep voice bellowed into my ear, and my breath hitched, rage supplanted by shock and confusion. For the beat of a moment, my thoughts began to clear, and I pounced on it like it was a lifeline. 

I forced my gaze away from Emma’s face my face, casting it downwards to where my pale and scarred fingers had clamped around the grip of the dagger. I forced my hand open, dropping it onto the ground. Then, in quick succession and before my mind even had a chance to follow up, I formed a fist, clenching down until my knuckles turned white.

I smashed it into my face, trying to beat clarity back into my brain. I didn’t flinch, not even as my nose broke against my hand. Blood splattered onto the vanity and the mirror, staining my fingers. All the while a hushed storm broke loose in my room. 

“Shut up, you braindead fool,” a woman hissed. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I can’t stand it anymore.” The deep voice groaned, “Why do we even do this bullshit again?”

“I said, Shut. Up!”

“No! I am sick of shutting up. It’s always the same. She is getting crazy, no matter what we do. And what if Daddy-wimp gets wind of it, huh? If I have to listen to Miss Johnson again or see that fucking leather couch again, I will kill someone.”

“She is getting better, a lot better.” Another woman spoke up. Her voice was calm, weirdly stilted, yet she too seemed to be deeply annoyed. “I think it’s the restlessness that is getting to her. Few months, but still not a single fight. That would make even me crazy.”

“I don’t c -”

Without thinking, I smashed the fist into my face again. The voices cut off, and for a brief moment, I had the impression of someone getting tackled down by a bunch of bodies. The maelstrom of…almost foreign emotions that had bubbled up together with the hallucinations slowly dissipated again.  

In. Out.

In. Out.

In. Out.

My hand dropped limply to my side, and for a while I just stood there, staring into the mirror and breathing deeply as the crimson sheen slowly dispersed. Only when I felt that I was in control of myself again, did I relax. A deep, shuddering sigh escaped my lips. and I slumped over, leaning heavily onto the table plate.

Fuck! 

My thoughts raced. The…voices. That wasn’t Emma. Wasn’t normal. Dad? I froze. Fear and panic began to rise in me, and I struggled to batter them down as my erratic gaze flickered through the empty room. He wasn’t there. No one was there but me.

My gaze flickered towards the wall, towards Dad's room, and I all but collapsed in relief. He was still there, laying where I assumed was his side of the bed. The rivers of blood flowing through his veins were slow and steady, and his heart was beating at a calm pace. 

I didn’t move much - didn’t have to - as I began sweeping the house and the immediate neighborhood, trying to ignore the tiniest pang of guilt that blossomed from my blatant violation of privacy. My sight was powerful, piercing walls and doors if I wanted it to. Not much use in seeing things ...but people? Nothing escaped me, and I was confident that even Strangers would be betrayed by the very blood running through their veins.  

The house was empty apart from a few rats in the basement, and so was the neighborhood. There was no threat to be seen; People were still deeply asleep, including Dad. My front felt warm and comfortable, and I turned my attention back to the mirror. My foot hit something cold as I shifted, and I kicked the discarded dagger under my bed and out of my mind. 

I had to get rid of it later.

Blood still gushed freely down my front, idly held in check by a delicate line of glass shards just above my waist so it didn’t soil my favorite Alexandria-branded pajama sweatpants. Words bubbled up to the front of my mind; Crazy. Hallucinations. Deranged. Unstable.

I pushed them away, focussing on the bizarreness of just how good it felt and looked. For some reason, there was a rather large part of my brain that couldn't help but notice that seeing myself coated in blood was a stunning sight and that it felt amazing ; Warm and comfortable. A gentle feeling that quenched the stupid, ever-present itching, and distracted me from sprouting thoughts and emotions I didn’t- couldn’t deal with right now. It distracted me from the encroaching shame that I had almost turned into a rabid animal. 

Again. 

I didn’t want to think about the fact that only deliberate self-harm had kept me from desecrating one of the few pieces of Mom’s legacy again, and it took a lot of willpower to finally reach up with my hand and set my maimed nose back in place with a sharp thug. Then, I set on fixing it, mending bones, tissue, and blood vessels as if they were wet clay. 

My biokinesis wasn’t what I would call particularly fast, and while fixing my nose only took a few seconds at best, prettying it up was somewhat more time-consuming. Time that I spent aimlessly pacing around my room, kneading a stress ball I had fastened from elastics during one of my many sleepless nights. 

The sensations of nerves and blood vessels knitting together and moving back where they belonged were just deeply uncomfortable, and together with the other itching made me want to scratch myself like a maniac. My gaze kept flicking over to the drawer below my desk.

Soon, I reminded myself, but first the cleanup

My gaze flickered to Dad again, making sure that he was still asleep. Then I shuffled towards my window and closed the curtains. I started singing a song no one but I would ever hear, and the world eagerly sang back to me. Responding with a cacophony of harmonic tunes so beautiful and pure it made my heart melt.

Sand exploded from every cranny and crevice; Falling from the ceiling, rising from between the floorboards, and pouring out of the suitcase I kept stashed away under my bed. It filled my room, rising into the air as if it were held up by invisible strings. Eager to serve, to envelop and hold me safe. 

It was a peaceful response, but the twinge of a single note caused it to turn into a raging maelstrom. A silent hurricane pounced on the vanity, my body, and the stained floor. Eager to rip and tear and shred, to sand and polish away any incriminating bloodstains that might have tipped off Dad. 

Sand scraped over my skin as I stalked through the room, scooping up my discarded tail and fishing out the dagger from under the bed, before depositing them onto my messy sheets. The sandstorm offered no resistance, parting around me where it was needed despite grinding against my front with a force that should have torn skin from flesh. 

Only when both I and my room were spotless did I allow myself to collapse onto my bed. I buried my face in my pillow, allowing myself to finally let loose the desperate sob that had been building up steadily within me. It was a display of personal weakness that sent ripples of disgust through my body, but I just couldn't help it.

‘It’s fine to let loose once in a while.’

Emma’s words, a thought I had to know had sprung from nothing but my craziness - from a fucking hallucination - kept echoing in my mind as I fished for Mr. Cuddles, finding him discarded on the ground. I wrapped my arm around him, drawing him to my chest as I threw myself backward on my bed again. 

The cuddling brought me comfort as I stared at the ceiling, trying to find solace in my song as I weaved the sand into intricate symbols and animated scenes to distract myself; Geometric shapes. A field of flowers wrapped in barbed wire. Knights dueling with swords. 

Watching two tiny men crossing their shifting sand swords while stumbling over pizza boxes was such a surreal sight it made me chuckle. My thoughts drifted. I knew that I wasn't fine. Far from it, and I also knew that musing over stuff hallucinations had said was something I shouldn't do. Yet, I couldn’t help but think about them. 

Lack of action. Restlessness.

Were they right? Of course, I knew that I was restless, that I craved adrenaline, but was it that bad that I began crawling up the walls? Something almost…foreign inside me churned, like a bunch of people pointedly nodding their heads in unison, and for a fleeting moment I almost had the impression of someone grumbling something about…booze and boobs?

I groaned. 

Fuck it, I thought as I rose from my bed, I need a smoke. 

I scratched my neck as I beelined towards my desk. There was only a slight tremble of my hand as I opened the lowermost drawer, and dug through my stuff, removing little knick knacks until one of the many secrets I kept from Dad was laid bare. 

My…habit always left me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I hated myself for being an utter addict who burned through one or two packs on a bad day, but it helped me calm down and soothed my raw nerves; a lifesaver for coping with…pretty much everything. And there was a lot I had to cope with.

I grabbed the flameless lighter, shoving it into the waistband of my pants. Then, after some hesitation, I grabbed the entire pack of cigarettes. 

Chapter Text

Monday, 06. December 2010

Brockton Bay was supposed to have mild winters, but the wind blowing through my open window was icy, carrying tumbling snowflakes that left prickling sensations on my skin. I paid them no attention. Honestly, it even felt kinda nice. Calming, and I just stood there, leaning onto the windowsill and sucking greedily on my fourth or fifth cigarette as I watched the evidence of my fit getting carried far away by the wind. My song carried it high into the air, where I spread it out, and withdrew my grip. Grain by grain, until nothing was left.

An intricate dissonance carried through my song, growing clearer and more detailed as it crept closer toward me. It was small, an insignificant rock in the giant network of music around me, but those usually didn't move, so picking it apart from everything else was easy enough.

By the time the car finally appeared on the deserted road, every trace of sand was long gone, and my room was clean and tidy. I watched the growing headlights and listened to the increasing intensity of its song as it came closer, barreling down the road at a speed that was definitively criminal.

I almost froze when saw the colors and the blazing lights, but there was no horn, and the car didn't appear to slow down. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with calming smoke, and slowly blew it out as the car went past me. As much an attempt to savor the last shreds of my cigarette as a silent statement to the blue authority that yes I was an underage girl smoking and now fuck off or I break your nose.

Not that I had a problem with cops or anything like that.

I shouldn't smoke that much, I thought, and with a tiny surge of self-apprehension, I jabbed the glowing stump against the barren side of my head before I dropped it on my windowsill and flicked it away.

Crack.

Of course, there wasn't a cracking sound as it sailed into the darkness, but a small, ironic part of myself couldn't help but imagine it. My eyes tried to follow the little projectile, but I lost sight of it before it was even halfway across the road. Yet, something had clicked into place when I had flicked it away, and I knew exactly that it would land in the dumpster of our neighbor across the street. To be reunited with his by now countless fallen brothers.

My lips twisted, and I leaned backward, pressing my back against the window frame to side-eye the plate of cake on my desk as I waited for the lone car to disappear from the street. I did not remember placing it there, but the way it smiled at me, and from my favorite plate on top of that was positively delicious. It didn't take long for me to cave in, and by the time the car had finally disappeared around the corner, my fingers were caked with mouth-melting cake.

I sensed another disturbance, another car coming, and finally, I stepped away from the window. There was a little voice nagging in the back of my mind, reminding me that I was still standing topless at the window, for everyone to see. Something that was supposed to bother me. Had bothered me not too long ago.

Another part of me which had slipped away without me even noticing it.

I used my elbow to wipe the ash from the windowsill and reached up to pull the window shut, only to stop when I found that my fingers were still soiled with cake. I licked them clean before slamming the window shut in a fit of annoyance.

It was easy for me to get riled up about something, but given the farce I called my fuse nowadays that was hardly something novel. I knew that, and shit like the fit earlier was a constant reminder of just how much self-control I was lacking. It was incredibly easy for me to get angry and annoyed, and I tried… but sometimes I just couldn't help it, and the fact that I was a fucking cripple?

Yeah, that was more than a justified source of annoyance.

Finding solace in smoke and sweets that I knew wouldn't add a single gram of fat to my body where I didn't want to usually did wonders to soothe my nerves, but they were also more than happy to bring one of the most glaring issues back to my attention: Eating and smoking with one hand was awkward, but to be fair, many things were; Eating, dressing, showering…I was perfectly able to perform these tasks, but sometimes it was just fucking annoying.

Not so much the fact that I was a cripple, I didn't care about that. It was more about the fact that I had to hold myself back. I could fix everything wrong with me….and go beyond. It was easy to triple the size of my breasts, to fix my hair and scars. To regrow my arm. To give me the measurements of a supermodel. To morph my flesh into whatever form I desired. The lack of an arm didn't have to bother me if I didn't want it to; my powers were eager to compensate for it.

Being a cripple wasn't nearly as bad as having to pretend to be one.

I had to be subtle with changing my body, especially since some of the changes I had undergone hadn't been of my own volition, or else Dad or anyone else would grow suspicious. They would out me, put one and one together, and send me to prison.

Being a disgusting coward grated my nerves more than anything, but it was a small price to pay, and I was more than willing to pay it. Dad had suffered so much because of me. Seeing him every day, putting up a strong front for my sake, trying to pamper me even though he had lost the job he had cared for more than he did me… I just couldn't. Couldn't bear to look him in the eyes and tell him that I was an unstable murderer. It would break him.

I pushed the thoughts away, taking a deep breath to calm down before I would run the risk of losing it again. My nerves were still too raw, even now. I checked on Dad again, but thankfully my little slip-up hadn't woken him up.

Still, some fresh air might be a really good idea.

An idle swipe of my hand and the briefest contact of skin ferried the now half-empty box of cigarettes and the lighter into my small but rather handy dimensional bullshit storage. Then, I approached my bed. The dagger and the tail were still lying on top of it, and I couldn't let Dad see that. The dagger went into my dimensional bullshit storage, but the tail was too big for that.

I reached out with my song, and once again sand began to creep into the room. It rose into the air, forming an arm that seamlessly attached itself to my shoulder. Of course, it wasn't a real arm, and unlike my prosthetic, it wouldn't be controlled by my nerves.

I knew just how absolute my song was when it was closest to me, but I still flexed my artificial fingers in test before I scooped up my tail with both arms and stashed it in a hidden compartment under the floorboards. Once done, I scanned the room for anything compromising, but everything appeared to be in order.

My bed was still a mess, and I made sure to fix that, shaking up my pillows and blankets. Only when everything looked neat and tidy did I step back, and stripped off my pajama pants. I threw them into the laundry basket.

By now, my spine port was covered with fresh skin, but I still made sure to check myself in the mirror to see if it would be convincing. Then, I dressed, slipping into a pair of bike shorts before retrieving a large roll of black gauze which I wrapped around my chest before securing it with a set of stylized bronze pins I had made for this very purpose. Fancy, and it was not like I had to worry about scratching my skin.

Then, I changed into my sports outfit. A matching set, and a surprise gift from Dad when I told him I would be getting into sports. A whole ensemble in black with sleek high-visibility lines, containing everything from underwear to gloves. It looked stunning, especially the way the sleek running jacket accentuated my growing shoulders.

I wasn't sure where Dad had gotten his hands on the money for such high-end equipment, especially since we were knee-deep in debt. He had dodged the question, told me that it was a perk of his mysterious new job and being independent. Was I suspicious? Of course, but I didn't want to pry too much into Dad's business.

I grabbed my wallet and the artificial larynx from my desk and stuffed them into the pocket of my jacket. Then, I donned my sunglasses, adjusting the elastic band that kept them stable as I made my way toward the door.

Sand began to slip out of my sleeve, pouring onto the ground where it crept back into the nooks and crannies it had come from. Soon, the sleeve of my jacket was slack and empty, and I made sure to tie it off properly. My phone was already waiting for me next to the door, floating in the air where I could grab it on my way out. My song faded, and it fell into my waiting hand. I stuffed it in my pocket and left my room on tiptoe.

Dad stirred in his room, and I quickly made my way into the bathroom. I made sure to lock the door before going through my daily morning routine. Prettying myself up didn't take long, I had never cared much about makeup before, and I certainly didn't care now. Eventually, I dropped the razor and looked at my reflection in the mirror, wrapping my fingers carefully around the edge of the sink.

There had been a time when I couldn't look into the mirror without wanting to swallow the razor blades I used to keep my hairline neat, but thankfully those thoughts had faded throughout my therapy.

Even before the fire had burned away everything, I'd almost given up on looking pretty or feminine. I'd always been gawky and thin and had disliked everything about my body except for my eyes and the hair I'd inherited from Mom. I'd always wanted to look like Emma – pretty, curvy, and elegant. Notions I had cast aside, had to – because I didn't know if I'd still be there if I hadn't. A big part of me still wanted to fix it, but even if I managed to come up with a convincing explanation for that, it would mean running away from my problems…and I had sworn to myself that I would never run away like that again.

That version of me had been weak, a body prone to getting pushed around and stepped on, but when I saw myself in the mirror now, I did not recognize the old me anymore. I had… changed so much in the past months, to the point that it eluded me how Dad hadn't noticed anything yet, despite all the things I did to mask my changes and my Tinkering.

I wanted to say how it scared me, how I disliked it, but it would be a lie. Why care about shit like femininity when every scar on my skin was a medal. When I grew visibly stronger and stronger and stronger with each day that passed. Each week the weights on my rack increased, and every time I ripped and reforged the muscles in my body to purge every shred of ungainliness and weakness the fire didn't reach.

A small part of me felt a twinge of regret, or maybe guilt. I was changing my body with my powers, but when I looked in the mirror like this, It was hard not to be proud — not to want more, and more, and more – whenever I witnessed the sheer amount of power staring back at me. People looked at me, and sure, they still saw a cripple, but they also saw someone they shouldn't fuck around with.

In a roundabout way that was affirming as fuck, even more than the sight of my muscles shifting beneath the fabric of my shirt as I leaned forward, and how my already struggling sleeves threatened to burst as I flexed my arm. A faint smile broke through my face, and I stepped back from the sink.

I made sure to close my jacket all the way up before leaving the bathroom and sneaking downstairs where I left a quick, scribbled note for Dad, snatched the shopping list I had composed yesterday, donned my shoes, and left the house, huddled into a warm, black beanie and a scarf that doubled to cover up my throat and protect my lower face from the cold air. At 7 AM, the sun had yet to rise, and even though Brockton Bay was usually known for its mild winters, it was shivering cold outside.

The cold itself did not bother me nearly as much as it used to, which was at least one of the scant positive things that had come along with me getting my powers, but it was still somewhat uncomfortable with how light my jacket was. I fished my right running glove from my pocket and spent a good minute trying to wriggle into the stupid thing without damaging it. With only one hand, it's fucking annoying.

I did a few mock warm-up exercises in the yard, and then I finally headed east towards the Boardwalk at a pace that was somewhere between a brisk jog and running.

Before everything, I'd have never dreamt of going jogging, and now that I had picked up the habit, it was pointless. Redundant. Just another part of my life that was taken from me forever, and I wasn't entirely sure if I should hate that. I would never tire. Never experience the burning of strained muscles, and I knew that jogging wouldn't ever do shit for my constitution. Yet, there was just something appealing about running through a nearly deserted city that was still half asleep, feeling the cold wind on your skin, and being alone with your thoughts. It was a routine I picked up, and I kept to it no matter what. Routine was important. It kept me going, made me feel normal, and I knew that normalcy was important to keep me stable and grounded.

I usually stuck to the main roads and always had my pepper spray with me. An insistence from Dad I tended to oblige, even though there wasn't anything that could harm me, and I certainly didn't fear any delusional fucker that thought that a cripple in fancy clothes was a nice target. But I had to check something today, no matter how much it hurt, so it didn't take long for me to pull out my phone and check where I had to go.

I turned away from the main road, following the directions from my phone. Something inside me churned as I neared my target, jogging through side streets and alleys; faint hints of exasperation and annoyance, but I didn't stop. It was right what I was doing.

I slowed down and came to a stop. Then, I reached for the hood of my jacket, and pulled it up, before using my phone to check if the scarf covered my face. Then, I continued on my way, walking up to a single wooden house, not unlike ours. I used my sight to check on the owners from the corners of my eyes as I walked past. Two of them were still sleeping, and a third was sitting where I assumed the bathroom was. There was a fourth, a young person, but I quickly averted my gaze when I noticed him.

I didn't want to look at him, and I didn't need to. He was still alive, and that was all that mattered. The lump in my throat seemed to disagree, but I tried to ignore it as I walked away, pulling out my phone as I fell back into a jog.

By the time I was back on my route, the sky was colored orange. I shrugged my hood down and increased my pace until I was almost running. Trees and houses flew past me, and when I arrived at the bridge that went over Lord Street, I crossed it without slowing down. The sidewalk ended just a block after, and my feet hit the wooden planks of the Boardwalk.

I slowed my pace to what could be considered normal jogging speed as I weaved through the few shopkeepers and other people starting their day. I wasn't even winded, but a sprinting person was bound to catch attention, and I didn't want to alienate the Enforcers keeping the undesirables from Brockton Bay's shining haven for tourists. Not that I would look out of place in my fancy sports garb, but I had no desire to test it out, and I had already made a few experiences of people thinking of me as a thug.

I slowed down once I found a nice spot from where I would have a nice view of the ocean. I pulled my scarf down, and a cigarette found its way into my mouth. I lit it with my lighter and leaned against the railing, just in time to see the sun rise from behind the horizon of waves. Soon, pale sunbeams caressed my face, but it wasn't a gentle feeling. Cold and impersonal, but… not bad. Peaceful.

I closed my eyes to bask in the sunlight, and a smile spread on my face.

By the time I finally decided to leave, shops were about to open, so instead of heading straight home, I decided to stop at the supermarket I always frequented when I was jogging. It was small and cozy, located roughly halfway between my home and the boardwalk, yet distant enough so I didn't have to go anywhere near the scar or stray too much from my usual route.

I didn't have any sort of bags with me, but my shopping list was short.

A tingle ran down my spine as I slowed down and crossed the street, and I couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching me. I glanced around as I approached the store, but the only other person around was a shabby-looking teenage girl sitting on a bench. She was stick-thin, fully absorbed in whatever she was doing with her phone. My danger sense remained calm, so I decided to shrug the feeling off. After casting one more wary glance around, I tugged down my scarf and entered the store.

As soon as I stepped through the automatic doors, I was hit by a torrent of warm air. It almost felt like running into a brick wall, and I was quick to strip off my beanie and use my teeth to pull off the glove from my hand. I fished out the shopping list I had pocketed earlier and went straight for one of the shopping baskets.

It was still early enough in the morning that the shop was mostly empty, but apart from a few old people and the occasional Joe or Jane that stood in front of the door at 8 AM sharp to be the first one to cash in their discount tokens, it was mostly just the usual people that were here every morning. Familiar faces, even though I had never bothered to learn their names. The young grocery clerk offered me a friendly smile as I brushed past her. I gave her a curt nod.

Almost no one here offered me more than a second glance, and this was why I liked this place. I was a regular, people knew me already; how I looked, that I didn't speak, that I didn't need their pitiful gazes.

The shocking amount of attention I got nowadays was a novel experience. Something I still needed to get used to. Back in the day, no one had ever paid attention to me, but now? Eyes followed me everywhere. Wherever I went, people stared at me. Some with respect, some wary, but mostly just in various shades of sheer, patronizing pity. I could do without the fucking pity, but respect was something I learned to cherish rather quickly. And by now? I couldn't deny just how much I craved it.

Of course, some people were still assholes or just plain idiots, and as I had found just a mere week ago, mocking and needling were something I reacted really badly to nowadays. But I had also found out that it wasn't anything that couldn't be solved by a physical demonstration of Newton's third law, as Mom used to say. In my case, a fist to the face.

Mom had never strictly encouraged violence, but she had never been scared of voicing her opinion loudly. After all, she had run with Lustrum back in the days before feminism became a synonym with castrating men in public. She and Dad had never really spoken much about that chapter of her past, but I knew Mom had never been a saint. She must have done her fair share of things she regretted too. She would have approved putting a boy in his place who thought it fun to pick on a girl struggling with trying on a jacket just because she had only one arm.

Would she have approved her own daughter grabbing a handsome boy with black curls by the collar of his fancy shirt, frail enough for her to break him in half with ease, and give him a headbutt that sent him wobbling backward and into a shelf?

I didn't know, and in all honesty, I didn't want to think about it, but stalking up and down the aisles, awkwardly ferrying goods into my shopping basket with the same hand that held it reminded me of the encounter. I could almost see him sprawled out on the ground before me again. The bedazzled expression on his face, blood running from his ruined nose, and the three blood-smeared incisors shimmering on the ground. That and the pained expression of the blonde and freckled girl that rushed to his side, shooting wary glances in my direction was something I wouldn't forget for quite a while.

After all, that day I learned how my powers feasted on the suffering of others. How hurting others fueled me. I pushed the thoughts away, distracting myself by trying to focus on shopping.

I knew Dad had an important hearing today, and I wanted to cook him something nice to encourage him.

When I had everything I needed, I began to steer back towards the entrance, only to halt again after a few steps. Something held me back, and I frowned in confusion as I gazed down at my already decently filled basket. Was there anything I was still missing? Pre-workout? No, I recalled that I still had half a bottle left at my workshop. My eyes fell on a big shelf filled with a variety of drinks.

"Orange Juice - oh who am I kidding…The booze, idiot. The booze," a woman mumbled from somewhere, barely audible.

"Fuck, yeah, I could go for some beer," a male voice whispered back. I couldn't suppress a small frown. Why were they whispering? We were in a fucking supermarket, and not in a movie theater.

"Eh, beer. T'is just corn soup. Look, they don't even have good brands. or are we talking root beer?"

Someone gagged, and I found myself growing irritated.

What the - I looked around, trying to find the source of the voices. Is someone talking to me?

The aisle seemed empty, but then I caught something from the corner of my eye; a willowy woman standing by the liquor shelf. I turned my head, only to blink in surprise. No one was there. Where had she gone? Had… had I just imagined things?

I frowned again but eventually, I just shook my head and stepped closer to inspect the shelf. I wasn't an alcoholic by any means, especially not after… seeing what it could do to people, yet I found myself drawn towards it. My eyes wandered over the various cans and bottles, and something in me churned in… approval. It was a mute thing, faint to the point I wasn't sure if I was just imagining things.

My eyes fell on an interesting-looking bottle, and I bent forward to inspect it.

"Oh, no no no no no. The fucking Fireball. She is looking at the fucking Fireball. Stop looking there," the female voice whined, and my head snapped around, but again no one but an old lady was shuffling around at the end of the aisle. She caught my glowering gaze and visibly wilted.

I swallowed my blooming guilt as I watched her back away, and activated my sight. Someone had to play games with me, and I really did not need that immature bullshit.

I looked around, and my eyes immediately fell on the three crimson outlines behind the very shelf I was standing in front of. Immature Bullies. I dropped my basket, yanked a bottle of orange juice out of the shelf, and rifled it into my basket. I wanted to reach through the shelf and strangle them where they stood. Drop the shelf on them to make them stop laughing at me. Another bottle followed. Then, I grabbed my basket and marched around the corner, trying to keep my face straight to hide just how much I gritted my teeth.

As it turned out, the three outlines belonged to a bunch of Immaculata students fussing about a bunch of collectible card things displayed on the shelf. I didn't bother nor care to check what exactly. I walked past them without a word, but couldn't resist shooting them a side-eyed glare as I made my way back to the storefront. The fucking assholes didn't even seem to notice it. I wanted to turn around and make them notice me.

I forced myself to continue walking away.

A tiny voice in the back of my mind notified me that the voices had sounded too old to be a bunch of young teenagers as I approached the cash register, but I refused to acknowledge it. I didn't want to deal with any more… craziness today.

The cashier flashed me a smile as I started piling my goods onto the counter. "Good morning, do you want me to bag it for you?"

I simply nodded in response and pulled my wallet from my pocket.

The cashier didn't take offense to my lack of response, and together with the fact that she was able to look me in the face without flinching raised my mood considerably. I watched her quickly pack everything into a big paper bag, paid, and left with a grateful nod.

I had taken three steps towards the entrance when something hit me, the tingle from before, running down my spine like a bunch of spiders crawling beneath my impenetrable skin.

What the-.

I halted. It wasn't my danger sense, more something… instinctual? Something was wrong, and as I looked around with my sight, I quickly realized what it was; There were no people on the streets. I knew it was early in the morning and that most people should be at work since at least a while ago, but Brockton Bay's streets were rarely fully abandoned. Especially not the larger ones. Of course, it did happen occasionally, but usually, there was always someone on the way.

Yet, I could practically taste that something was wrong, and I could feel my body shift immediately, responding to instincts that I didn't even know existed. Something entered my field of vision, wrapped in a melody only I could ever hear. A blob of something marched down the road, suspended in the air and moving quickly despite having no apparent legs.

Something churned inside me, and I felt myself growing nervous. I knew I shouldn't… that I was the bigger monster, but I had… never met one before. And he was coming closer. My fingers were clenched around the handles of my bag, and it took some effort to gently place my bag on the ground against my leg so it didn't fall over, and let go.

Maybe…maybe he would just walk by?

I turned my head to inspect some of the posters on the wall but kept one eye on the entrance. Then, I deactivated my sight before carefully prying the shades loose from my face to not tear the elastic band that kept them stable and secure. They disappeared into my pocket, followed by my hand. With a gentle touch of my finger, I transferred the contents of my pockets into my dimensional bullshit storage and retrieved my phone. I sent a quick message to Dad, that I went grocery shopping and might be a little late.

The automatic doors shifted open, and I almost dropped my phone.

I found myself staring up at a pair of small eyes, framed by a round face with acne-scarred cheeks and hidden behind goggles. The Parahuman cut an imposing figure, a mass of crude riveted metal tall enough that he had to slightly crouch to fit under the doorway. Hot, stinking smoke bellowed out of a spout on his back and as he stepped over the ledge and into the store, rising up to his full height, he dwarfed me by at least a few feet. His metal hands were giant, almost comically.

His power armor, combined with the fact that he used steam as I did should have made the Tinker in me squeal in delight, but all I could do was stare at his hair. It was disgusting; an unwashed, greasy mess tied back into a ponytail. A retch rose in my throat, but I managed to swallow it down. How…just how could anyone do this to their hair. Didn't he have at least a semblance of self-respect?

Our gazes met, and the Parahuman frowned at me. I broke my gaze first, even though it made my guts churn with self-disgust. You are not a coward, I reminded myself and took a small step back. I had to play my part, otherwise, he would get suspicious.

Immediately, the Parahuman reacted. "Don't move a fucking finger, girl." He spoke to me, before striding forwards until he was standing right next to me. Silence had fallen over the area, and even though I didn't look back I knew that everyone had frozen. Probably staring like frightened sheep, but for that, I couldn't blame them. I knew how it was to feel helpless. "Everyone else, I want your cash, your jewels, your valuables. Bitch, open the register. Collect everything and bag it for me."

Of fucking course I have to run straight into a robbery, I thought, turning around to see him point his giant fingers at the nice cashier girl. She looked close to crying, and I found myself growing angry at the sight. I glanced at the Parahuman from the corner of my eyes. He stood close enough that the smell of smoke and water drifted into my nose, carrying the taste of oil and rust… but still far away enough that I would have to throw myself at him to reach his legs.

My danger sense flared, and only the prospect of unmasking myself, of what it would mean for Dad, prevented me from lashing out as giant metal fingers closed around my head. I stilled, hoping that he would mistake my trembles for fear. Then, the Parahuman balked: "If you think of doing something funny, the cripple here will die. Now hurry the fuck up."

I stilled. Oh, don't your dare….DON'T YOU FUCKING DARE …

A growl worked itself free from my throat, but I managed to remain still. Even though I was spitting and foaming on the inside. The audacity, the guts that he dared to use me as a fucking hostage. Oh, how did I want to reach for his tin can arms, tear them apart, and drive my fist into his armored gut over and over and over again. Peel the squid from his shell, mangle him into a bloody pile on the ground, and force him to devour glass shards from my palm like a pet.

I didn't feel bad about losing myself in violent fantasies, even if I were to be in a headspace where I would have actually cared about anything other than beating the offending party to a bloody pulp. They kept me from actually lashing out, and thoughts didn't harm people as much as my fist would.

People reacted quickly, dumping their valuables on the counter, where they were bagged by the nice cashier girl; Watches, phones, and wallets, as well as the contents of her register, wandered into a big plastic bag, all the while tears were streaming down her cheeks. A part of me wanted to scream at her for being such a pathetic wimp, but there was also a larger part of me that wanted to hug her, to tell her that everything would be well… to kiss her and hold her safe?

I mentally shook my head; Where had that come from?

A second bag landed on the counter, filled with canned food and what little medicine the store had. The Parahuman's fingers around my skull relaxed. Then, they suddenly disappeared, and the Parahuman approached the counter with thundering steps. The nice cashier backed away until her back was pressed against the shelf behind her. She trembled, but the Parahuman just yanked the bags from the counter and turned to leave.

As soon as he had left the store, the Parahuman broke into a sprint. Yeah, run you Bastard, I mentally spat as I watched him cross the street and disappear into an alley. Only when he was almost out of my sight range did I leave the store, hand clenched around my shopping bag and brushing off any calls and questions about my well-being.

I crossed the street and headed into the next alley instead of following him head-on. My mind was filled with seething anger, but I still had enough self-awareness to know that people from the store might see me running directly after him and think of me as an accomplice or a Parahuman at worst.

As soon as I was out of sight of everyone, I broke into a sprint. There were some loose pieces of glass around me, broken bottles and other things dumped into trash cans, onto flat roofs, and into the dark, abandoned corners. It wasn't nearly enough, but it would do to obscure my identity. I sang it towards me, tearing apart bottles until I was surrounded by a small cloud of glass shards. They rearranged, creating a light shield of colorful glass shards over my face, before creeping into my sleeve. They were razor-sharp, yet didn't even nick the tight fabric of my running sweater and jacket as they bulked together to mirror the shape of my organic arm.

Chapter Text

Monday, 06. December 2010

My feet were all but flying over potholes and frozen puddles of water as I followed the Parahuman through the maze of back alleys separating Lord Street from all the places you shouldn't wander alone. I had barely stopped long enough to stash my groceries in the maintenance hatch of a rusty AC unit, shed my expensive workout clothes for a thin black and red bodysuit, and donned the armored gas mask I was always carrying in my interdimensional bullshit storage. Given that I could pull my shoes and clothes directly into it with a mere touch of my finger, it had only taken a few seconds. Yet, it had been enough for Greasecan to be near the edge of my sight, and when I finally turned to step out of the alley I had ducked into to change, the oddly shaped blob of crimson veins disappeared like a snuffed-out candle.

I wasn't too concerned about that. He had been moving in a straight line, and even if he was surprisingly fast for a piece of garbage on two legs, I was confident that tracking him down was easy enough once I was in the air and had access to the full scope of my mobility.
I knew that I should take him in because he was a criminal. A bully.

I knew that I should confront him because he was a villain and a criminal, but right now, I found it hard to care because all I wanted was to tear him a second asshole.

I tried to take a deep breath, but it quickly devolved into jagged bristling as I glared at the wall. Dirty, barren concrete, slimy and coated in a faint layer of frost. It was covered in senseless scribbles and more or less artistic graffiti. One caught my eye, a cute scribble of a cartoon dog, tail wagging and a panting tongue dangling from his open mouth.

He had humiliated me. Used me as a fucking hostage in a grocery robbery. He had made the cripple girl the fucking laughingstock of everyone. Was fate mocking me? Why did this have to happen to me? Didn't I deserve a single fucking day where I…everything could just be normal?

My morning was ruined thanks to my god-fucking nightmares. A nice jog and the desire to do something nice for Dad ended with me being humiliated and victim of the day to some disgusting tin-can shithead fuckface robbing grocery stores for a living. Everything just kept adding up, and up and up.

Deep within, I knew I should feel bad about these thoughts, but right now I just did not fucking care. It was too much. Just too much, and even if it made me act like a –

"Dog", my mind whispered – snickered at me. A furious growl rolled out of my throat. My fist twitched and a ripple ran up my arm. Suddenly, the fabric of my sleeve was uncomfortably tight, and I forced myself to back off a little. Ice groaned below my feet, and I–

The dog was laughing at me.

I managed to catch my fist just before it crashed into the wall, forcing my trembling fist to still barely an inch away from the wall as I wrestled with the urge to wipe him from oblivion. To carve my fingers through the concrete, tear, punch, and shatter until the whole fucking wall was gone.

No, no. This was irrational. I had to calm down. Had to breathe and–

Oh, fuck that!

I snarled and stomped down. Ice and crumbling pavement cracked and buckled below my heel. I stomped again, putting more power, more finality into the blow. The pavement shattered with a splintering sound, and little bits of debris sprayed through the air. Cathartic. It felt good, and with a silent roar, I brought my foot down again and again and again, until I was standing in a small crater, panting, and heaving not from exertion but pure adrenaline.

Finally, I clenched my fists and took a few deep breaths to try and force the churning adrenaline down. Fucking Ice. I spat into the crater and stepped over it without a second glance.

I spent a few minutes pacing, waiting until I had gathered myself well enough before I left the alley, followed by a shimmering trail of glass. It wasn't nearly enough to lift me up, but it was better than nothing. I made sure to check for civilians before I stepped onto the street. I was a cape now, which meant people would pay attention. Thankfully, there weren't many people on the street, but I could feel the gazes of those around me.

I could sense the music shift around them, from the depths of their pockets and into their hands but I chose to ignore them as I hurried into the next alley and out of sight again. Something bigger called for me, and I let myself be guided by my song as I delved deeper into the maze of alleys hidden behind the pretty facades of the main streets.

Even with my cranky mood and the brooding anger in my gut, I felt a smile tug at my lips as I turned around a corner and came to a halt in front of my prize.

A pair of large, almost industrial-sized glass containers smiled at me from their little spot, safely nestled away from any prying eyes on the main street. They sang to me, eager and happy. A song about glass packed to the brim, confined and trapped. A desire to be set free, to join me, help me, protect me, and sing with me.

The glass was my friend, and I gladly obeyed its wish.

Even though I didn't have to, I spread my arms, both in glass and flesh, like a conductor at a concert. Then, I unleashed my song. It wasn't a trickling melody or a harmonic hymn but a sonic blast tearing into the container, wrapping itself like a prison around my friends. Like an unstoppable tsunami that rippled through the ocean.

The flimsy containers exploded, torn apart by a flood of splintering glass tearing through the pathetic plastic that sought to keep them trapped. It couldn't withstand the might of my song, and a spark of happiness rose in me as I watched my friends rise for me. As destructive as my powers were, they were simply too beautiful.

They rose into the sky, a single vaguely ball-shaped mass of grinding glass in all forms and shapes. It looked kinda ugly, and a few dissonant notes were enough to shatter it into a cloud of shimmering beauty above my head. Bottles, jars, and plates tore each other into shimmering razor-sharp, jagged stars. A swirling galaxy of color wrapped itself around me, silent and surrounding me from all sides, filtering and breaking the little sunlight that fell in from above.

I took more control of some shards around me, forming a flowing mantle that hugged my body. More shards began assembling around my head, forming a jagged crown while others formed thin layers of colorful shards covering the bare skin of my head to mask my scars. As much as the notion of hiding them disgusted me, they were simply too recognizable.

I raised my left arm and swapped the delicate glass fingers of my hand for a jagged, spiky claw that all but begged to be raked across someone's face. Then, I stepped on the slab of shards assembling in front of me, constantly shifting, yet remaining steady below my feet as they carried me into the air. Of course, I didn't technically need the slab, but I found it to be more comfortable.

Flying was great. It was hard to describe why, but the first time I had taken to the skies, something had awakened in me, something as basic and instinctual as could be. I needed it – craved it – like my body's need to breathe. The sun and wind on my skin, the unboundedness from being removed from the shackles of earth. The sheer freedom…It gave me peace in a way few things could nowadays.

It made me feel powerful, and even the lurching beast in my subconscious agreed with that. Show them your might, it whispered to me. Show them your beauty. Become Brockton Bays' vitreous angel of destruction. Rise and dominate. Shine and shatter.

Even now, as I surged through alleys and over rooftops, careful to not draw unwanted attention or trigger the radar for flying capes the PRT was supposed to have, this… desire… in me nagged at my thoughts. It was always in the back, always second to my anger, and everything else I was aware of that made up my mind. Like a slow push urging me to display… might. To yearn for respect. To create a legacy.

I wanted to destroy the one who had humiliated me. I wanted to show him what I was truly capable of. Dominate him. Bury him under a city's worth of glass. I wanted to show everyone what I could do. Yet, I didn't, and even when I finally caught sight of him again, I simply chose to slowly follow him at a distance even though every inch of my body wanted to strangle him.

There were simply too many people around. People who could get hurt.

With a sigh, I landed on a rooftop. Gravel crunched below my feet as I carefully stepped forward toward the edge and knelt down to lower my profile. I stayed close to a chimney, and in an attempt to further blend in at least somewhat with my surroundings, I gathered what I had on darker or dirty shards and brought them around me. I wasn't sure how effective it was in broad daylight, but at least it wouldn't make me stand out like a Christmas tree. On the street below, Greasecan had stopped in front of a rusty chainlink fence, and I took the opportunity to look around.

My building wasn't tall, a squat three-story apartment block. Yet, I could see the city unfold before me. Towards Lord Street and Downtown, the buildings rose higher and higher, peaking at the high-rise towers and the Medhall building ruling the skyline in the far distance. But here, at the fringes of the residential area, the buildings were as squat as the one I stood on, giving me a more or less unimpeded view over the city. I couldn't see my home from here, nor the smoking ruins of fucking Winslow.

Big, blocky buildings greeted me from across the road, illuminated by the rising sun and covered in a blanket of fluffy white. It was a pretty sight, yet my stomach rumbled in disgust. I gritted my teeth, and it took me a moment to notice that I had involuntarily clenched my fists again. My Dad had grown up here and worked – wasted all of his life. I loathed the place, a shitstain on this shitstain of a city. An ulcer that took and took and took from Dad, leaving him a drained-out shell, a hollow husk of the man I used to know, before spitting him out. Discarding him like a piece of trash.

Just looking at this place made me angry. It was a shame that the Winslow Torcher hadn't burned it to the ground too, and a small part of me hoped they wouldn't catch them long enough to do it. I would have done it myself if I could afford not to care about the consequences.

I couldn't resist spitting on the ground. Stones creaked below my sole as I dug my feet into the roof, but I resisted slamming my heel down. But the building I was on was inhabited. There were people below me, and I didn't want to accidentally punt a hole into their home. I could see them, going on with their daily lives as if they had no care in the world.

Like I should.

Down on the street, my target finally seemed to lose his temper with the fence. I watched as his cartoonishly large hands tore through the thin mesh, tearing it to pieces as he ripped a hole large enough for his body to squeeze through. I noted that he had gotten rid of his ill-gotten gains at some point along the way.

There were two figures in the alley with him; a stocky dark-skinned man who was clearly bored and a young woman with short black hair who I could only describe as a "lesbian punk bouncer" in my head. She was the only one of the duo who seemed to be dressed inappropriately for the weather, wearing a sleeveless vest showcasing muscular arms that seemed positively gigantic on her otherwise slender frame. I couldn't make out too many more details from my position but from what I could tell, the cold didn't seem to bother her that much.

Oddly enough, the duo didn't seem to bother Greasecan in the slightest and I watched with growing incredulity as he simply stomped past them and through the hole he had torn into the fence without so much as sparing them a glance. Despite the woman – who clearly was the less stoic of the two – giving him the finger as he briefly looked in her direction.

The man ignored me, but the woman looked up when I surged over them. She raised her arms, and I couldn't help but let my gaze linger. There was something entrancing about seeing the play of her massive—

…Was she trying to shoo me away? Her raised hands flicked at the wrist, her face a mask of disappointed judgment.

Fucker. The thought was sudden, subconscious. Nice guns though. Something moved in my guts as I passed the remains of the chainlink fence, and I couldn't tell if it was anger, excitement, or the feeling that I was about to make a big mistake.

Entering the docks was almost like entering a new world. The noise of the city, the constant background chatter and clatter of cars and people simply faded away behind me, replaced by an eerie silence and steadily accumulating neglect as I surfed into the not-so-proud landmark of Brockton Bay's decline. Blocky buildings and towering warehouses rose around me, and there was no way I could miss the steep decline in quality the further I went.

There were nicer areas in the docks, but I had been here often enough to know that most buildings were just decrepit shells. It was a place for the hopeless, ruled by the gangs. Usually, the only people you would find here were criminals and prostitutes, or the various druggies and destitute that used the abandoned buildings as shelter. A fitting place for the oversized trash can on legs to hide.

Even without my sight, it was easy to discern which buildings were inhabited and which weren't. Most buildings in the area lacked everything from water to basic power, and the squatters had done their best to insulate them against the cold. Tapestries of cloth and rags had been stuffed into the gaps of intact windows, and the broken ones were sealed by cardboard and rotting wood. A makeshift pipe construction poked out of one building, spewing stinking smoke into the air.

No one was outside, the faint layer of almost-white snow on the street unmarred. It made the place look almost pure, but when I slowed down, the scent of stale piss and garbage stuffed itself up my nose.

My face twisted as I looked around and scanned the buildings, inspecting them for life. There were surprisingly few people around, no more than a dozen at most. I could see them hiding inside, huddled around whatever, or cramming together inside shabby apartments.

They could go fuck themselves and die for all I care, I tried to tell myself. It would be mutual. They didn't care for me either. It wasn't my problem. They were pathetic losers. Backstabbing criminals. They would take my help, and it would turn out just like with Dad. I would pour my life into theirs, and they would nod and smile, call me a hero…and drop me as soon as it got inconvenient. They didn't deserve my pity, but…

…but why did I feel so sorry about it?

Why did I feel encouraged by these thoughts?

A tingle ran down my spine, and when I turned around, I stared right into the face of a man watching me from behind a window. Stained, dirty glass. Little rectangular pieces framed by metal struts. An old, withered face with sad eyes framed by a shaggy salt and pepper beard. I met his eyes, and I could feel a wave of burning shame boil over me. My cheeks heated, and I averted my gaze. I couldn't…I thought…

I thought badly of them, even though I knew better. I know I wasn't wrong about it, but…it wasn't fair. I was a monster and murderer. Why did he look at me like I was the most beautiful being in the world? Why did I make someone with such sad eyes smile? How could there be such kindness in a man like this, towards a stranger?

My hand rose almost on its own. Glass shards assembled on my palm, grinding together…and then I sang to them. Sang, and formed and twisted and shaped, altered and adjusted colors and composition. I floated up to the old man's window, and surprisingly he didn't flinch away. Carefully, I placed the delicate flower on the windowsill and fled, refusing to meet his eyes, surging upwards and over the warehouse roof as fast as I could.

Emotions bubbled and boiled in my guts; anger, shame, desperation, annoyance, amusement. A violent maelstrom of emotions that were mine, but somehow they almost weren't. I refused to think about it, to think about the man and the story he might have to tell me. Instead, I focussed on the formless blob of veins currently ambling below me.

I clenched my fist and drew a long, shuddering breath. My gaze remained locked on my prey as I took all of my thoughts and emotions, and slammed down on them, distracting myself by focusing on the smoldering pot of anger in my guts. The beast inside me that urged me to hurt and dominate.

It was shockingly easy. Easier than having to deal with the guilt, the weakness, and the emotional crap. There was no one around but me and him. I didn't have to hold back anymore. I forced myself to relax. Then, I started breathing. Focusing on the soothing music around me and breathing the anger out of me as I had practiced countless times. Three windows shattered before I managed to visualize my checklist.

Take a deep breath and pause.

Recognize your emotions.

Challenge your thoughts.

Choose your response.

Self-compassion.

I could almost hear Miss Johnson's soft voice as I recited the list in my mind, accompanied by the smell of ancient books and the soft leather of her couch.

I was angry. So very angry…but why? Why was I so angry? Why did I want to hurt someone so desperately? I wanted Greasecan to apologize to the nice cashier girl. I wanted to bring him in because it was the right thing to do. Because he was a criminal. Because I wanted to redeem myself.

So why did I want to humiliate him? Why did I want to hurt him… break him piece by piece? Peel him from his armor like a chestnut, and strip him from everything he cherished before mangling and crushing him like an empty can? Why did I have these violent fantasies, these…foreign things in me?

I am in control of my actions, I told myself, but was I truly?

Just what the fuck was wrong with me?

I didn't know.

I just didn't know.

I will take him in, I swore to myself, and I won't do it because I want to break every bone in his body. I'm going to do it because it's the right thing to do.

And it was about fucking time.

I lowered myself down behind Greasecan, keeping all glass but that of my costume out of sight. Once my feet touched the ground, I lifted my organic hand above my head and snapped my fingers once.

A glass bottle on the floor next to me exploded like a shrapnel grenade. Splinters of glass sprayed everywhere but I ignored those who doused me. They couldn't harm me anyway.

Greasecan whirled around, giant fists raised like a boxer, his face a startled grimace of hostility. I could tell from a single glance that his stance was pathetic. "Wha– hey. Who the fuck are you, clown? What do you want from me?"

Wash your mouth with bleach, I thought, but I didn't speak up.

"Why use bleach when you can just tear out his tongue," my mind whispered to me. I tried to ignore it. "Kill him. Make him pay. He deserves it."

“I already told you fuckfaces where you can shove your–” Greasecan fell silent, and his eyes widened. ”Wait…you’re with them , aren’t you? The fuck do you want from me?”

I shook my head, not trusting myself to form the words without screaming. What the hell was he talking about? 

“Then why are you glaring at me like that? You–” Greasecan fell silent again, and most of the tension seemed to leave his body at once. Yet, he didn’t drop his guard. A soft noise began to emanate from him, and it took me a moment to realize that it was laughter .  

The bastard was laughing at me. My vision snapped into a deep shade of red but I managed to restrain myself. Barely. His next words, though, were like an ice pick into my brain.

“No way! You’re that steroid cripple chick from the store,” Greasecan snorted. “I can’t believe it. Look, it was nothing personal. Really. Why don’t you turn your pretty ass back around, fuck off back to your gym, and if you meet her, tell the trenchcoat bitch that the next asshole she sends for me will get a bolt through their head. I don’t want anything to do with you freaks.”  

"No," I growled at him. It was as if his words dug directly into my skull, together with a vice that was squeezing tight around my heart. He had recognized me. He was a villain. What if he tracked me down, or followed me home? What if he found Dad, and –

No, I had to end this, and I had to end it now.

"No? Girl, what are you going to do? Throw bottles at me?" Greasecan said, suddenly dead serious. He trained his hand on me, and my danger sense tingled. I noticed a series of small holes in his palm. "Look, kid. Fuck off. Just go home. We don't have to do this, and have you ever even been in a real fight? I don't want to hurt you but–"

His words were cut off by a tendril of tightly packed glass pouncing through an empty window frame and right into the side of his face. He stumbled, swaying his hand wildly in my direction. My danger sense flared before I heard the mechanical 'plop', and I twisted where I stood. Moving sideways, I kicked myself off the wall and into a cartwheel that sent me surging through the air and onto the other side of the alley.

Just a split second later, thick metal bolts embedded themselves in a messy spray along the wall where I had just stood. Most of them wouldn't have even hit me.

The tendril retracted, only to slam into Greasecan's armored back. This time, he barely swayed. He began charging at me, raising his other hand to fire a second volley of bolts at me. They were much better aimed, but I dodged them with ease. Our eyes met as I raised my hand again.

I snapped my fingers.

Greasecan's charge stopped as if someone had cut the strings of a puppet. Carried by his momentum, his now immobile suit fell forward. He tumbled a good five feet, ending right at my waiting feet, and I had to quash down the urge to place my feet on his smeary cheek and step over him.

Yet, I couldn't hide my triumphant smile, and I didn't want to. So many juicy electronics. So many delicate parts. Torn apart by a single hum of my voice. I'd call it a shame if it wasn't so satisfying.

"You BITCH," Greasecan screamed as I stepped around him, and began peeling him from his suit using my strength and my reshaping power. "What did you do?"

He kept wiggling and struggling, even as I pulled his main body free from the ruins of his suit and lifted him up by his throat. He looked…weird. Almost like a slug. There was a weird symbol on his chest, but as I moved to inspect it, he spat into my face.

I dropped him immediately, kicking him in the side with my boot. He screamed in pain and I reeled back immediately, looking at him with my sight for internal injuries. I…hadn't meant to do that. Why did I do that? I opened my mouth to apologize, but instead, I knelt down and reached for my belt.

My mind was a mess. The rush from hurting him and my guilt for lashing out fought a bitter battle inside me, mixed with the confusion of what to do now.

"You idiot." Greasecan wheezed through gritted teeth. He was still struggling in my grip, but his voice had lost its anger. He sounded resigned. "Please, just listen. I'm –"

I clamped my glassy hand over his mouth, shedding some shards to gag him. My first cape fight…and it was more akin to an execution. I didn't know how to feel about it. My gaze drifted to my squirming prey. How would I even restrain him? I didn't want to show myself to the heroes. Of course, I had bought some zip ties for occasions like this, but how would I even –

Something hot surged past my cheek, interrupting my train of thought, followed by a high-pitched crack that rang in my eardrums.

Disoriented, I shook my head. Greasecan jerked in my grip. I looked down, and –

Gaunt fingers closed around my face, choking me and digging into my mouth as acid bile ran down my throat. I screamed and screamed and screamed, until they let go, leaving crimson trails on my wet cheeks.

The memory faded as quickly as it had appeared. Blinking, I stared down at my hands. My wet hands. Why was there so much red?

Why was there blood everywhere?

"She is totally unresponsive. Miss Shen, please do something."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"How am I supposed to know? It's why I pay you, after all. To do things I can't do. Use your motherly charms or something."

The world around me drowned in heavy fog. My thoughts were sluggish. There were hands on my shoulder, voices in my ear, but I barely understood what they said. It didn't matter. The wound mattered. It just didn't stop bleeding, no matter how hard I pressed down. No, wait…I had filled it with sand to stop the bleeding. Clogged veins and the nicked artery...I just didn't know what else to do. It was gone now, as was the body below my hands. I didn't know why.

"Motherly charms? Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? Do I look to you like I know what that is?

"I don't know. Just do something."

The drone? Where was the drone? No...I had destroyed it. My song couldn't reach it. Not until I threw the javelin. I kept staring at my bloody hands, disregarding the glass shifting below my knees. There was an odd sensation on my cheek, but I disregarded it. Hands moved into my field of vision, holding a wet towel. I slapped them away.

Then someone grabbed my hair, and before I could react, the world grew cold.

Holy motherfucking assholes in hell cold!

Clarity hit me like a sledgehammer to the face. I flailed and twitched, gasping for air, but all that filled my lungs was cold, cold, cold water. My flailing hand caught onto a cold rim, and I yanked my head out of the water, coughing and spitting from every orifice.

"Miss Shen, when I asked you to use your motherly charms I envisioned something more…gentle."

Someone had dunked my head in a barrel of water.

Someone had fucking dunked me in a fucking barrel of water.

I howled in rage as I stumbled to my feet, looking around for something to smash. Then my stomach churned and I fell to my knees as I proceeded to vomit my guts out. Only now did I notice just how cold I was. The thin fabric of my bodysuit did nothing against the icy air.

"Well, it's working, Boss. isn't it," the female voice muttered. "Wa– careful! Supe looks like she can crunch your bones like paper. "

"Well yes," the other voice – a man – replied rather drily. "Thank you very much for raising this to my awareness, Miss Shen. I wouldn't have believed it otherwise. Oh...my, look how she shivers."

Something warm draped around my shoulders, and I instinctively reached for it with shivering fingers as I tried to blink the water from my eyes. My fingers met silken fabric, and I pulled it closer around me. Holy fucking hell did I suddenly feel cold.

Disoriented, I looked around and came face to face with a purple tie and a neat white dress shirt, fancy enough that an idle part of my brain was almost surprised that there weren't any gold buttons. Or, a part of my dazed mind suggested, so incredibly cheap that there should have been holes in it.

I wanted to pounce at it and break the neck of whoever wore it. Then everything that had happened came back to me in an instant, and I jumped to my feet. All around me, glass shot into the sky where it had fallen to the ground.

Someone next to me yelped like a little girl.

My danger sense tingled, and I whirled around.

In an instant, I became aware of several things. There was a man on the ground, sitting on his ass and looking at me like a scared chicken. The alley was empty. The remains of Greasecan's suit still smoked on the ground, and there was still…blood…everywhere, but Greasecan himself was nowhere to be seen. There was a woman, training a small handgun on me. Her hands were wet, as were the sleeves of her grey business blazer.

I growled at her as my head made the connection.

"Woha, easy now. We helped you." The woman didn't even flinch and despite her calming voice, she didn't lower her gun. She kept edging closer and closer to the man, who was slowly getting up from the ground. Everything about her screamed military to me, from her look to the way she held herself. A bodyguard, I realized.

"Yes indeed, fearful heroine! Our intentions are as pure as our golden hearts…" The woman rolled her eyes, which the man promptly ignored. He started brushing off his clothes. "You see–"

"Who. Are. You?" I growled at him, choking the words from my throat.

“Michael Carson, entrepreneur and opportunist, at your service.” The man beamed at me, not even skipping a beat. Before his companion could stop him, he stepped into my face and practically pounced on my hand like a hungry hyena. My danger sense remained silent, so I let him, too confused and dazed to react. Just what the fuck…?

“I must say, meeting such a strong and dashing young heroine in the flesh…it’s an honor. Truly an honor! I heard so much about –” he paused, and I used the opportunity to yank my hand back. I idly noticed that his voice carried the faintest trace of a Boston accent. “Ahm. Yes, yes. Apologies….I mean, are you alright miss? Are you hurt? How many fingers am I holding up?”

Irritated, I slapped his hand away. 

Everything around me was wrecked. Broken glass covered every surface. A memory rose in my mind; a shaky, hazy image of me screaming at the disk in the sky. A violent, unfocussed blast. 

Shit. Just what…

I felt funny as if a part of myself was missing, and I glanced at the duo as I tried to make sense of just what was going on. Just who were these people? What had happened? The memories were there but my thoughts were a jumbled mess; the fight, the takedown, the…assassination? Someone had shot at us!

Had they aimed at him? At me? Now that I looked closer, I could see that both Carson and his bodyguard sported light scratches on their faces. It wasn’t serious – not even bleeding – but it told me enough. He had stepped back, wincing as he clutched his wrist, and a lump formed in my throat at the sight. The woman by his side had lowered her gun, but her gaze was wary. The dark-skinned sentinel at the end of the alley just glared at me, and I wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or concerned. 

I didn’t glance back to confirm.  

This is not how I imagined my day to go , I thought. Shit! “Sorry,” I forced myself to say. “…still disoriented”

“Ahm. Well, not a problem. Not a problem,” Carson smiled at me, still clutching his wrist. “I must say, even with how your costume…flatters… your strength – Quite extraordinary, I must say! – Of course, I realized my… misjudgment rather quickly but here I am, underestimating your grip, haha. It's entirely my mistake, really.” 

I glanced down at my arm as I parsed his words in my mind. There was blood everywhere, coating my hand and arm, and I had to remind myself that it wasn’t mine. My right sleeve was still intact, but the glove was ruined. I’d have to buy new ones. My left sleeve was even worse. The fabric was badly damaged and hung in tatters. Torn to pieces when my arm had fallen apart. 

I sighed internally. Something in my mind clicked into place, and the only reason I didn’t choke Carlson on the spot was because I was still wearing his now-dirtied suit jacket. I wasn’t a boy ! No, Taylor. Get a fucking hold of yourself , I told myself, hoping that my face didn’t twitch. As smarmy as he seemed, he had been kind and wasn’t wrong after all. I doubted that there was much femininity left in me. But then again, fuck that. 

“Sorry,” I forced myself to say again. “What…happened? Where’s Greasecan?” How did he even know my name?  

 “I am honestly not sure,” Carson replied. “Miss Shen and I were in the area when we heard explosions and I heroically decided to throw myself –”

"–like a fool–”

“– into unexplored danger for the benefit of the greater good!”

I just stared at him.

“Ahem, well, and when we arrived, there was this rather…fiery lady screaming at you.”

“She slapped you a few times,” the woman – Shen – added. “and then she saw us, screamed at us to whack sense into you, and…poofed away.”

“Most curious indeed,” Carlson said. “Then there were a lot of explosions. And strange noises. I could have sworn that one of them sounded like a bear . It went very fast. I may have never personally met a cape before, but we figured we’d best move you away, so…” he gestured to a nearby entrance. Like the rest of this place, it was broken and abandoned. “...I had my employee move your friend out of sight.”

I bit down the remark that danced on my tongue and switched to my sight. The colors around me faded, replaced by intricate weaves of crimson. To be honest, I had no fucking clue what to make of Carson, his friends, and the entire fucking situation. He reminded me too much of the smeary corporate pigs Dad loved to whine about. But, as he said, I could make out the distinct outline of my supposed… friend and that of another person crouching beside him. 

It meant that Greasecan was still alive, which - all things aside – was a relief. 

And someone had been after Greasecan, that much I remembered from his words. Someone had killed him –tried to? I didn’t know. What if they came after me next? 

I rushed into the building, barely noticing that Shen and Carlson were following me at a distance. What was I supposed to do?  I needed answers, and I needed them now . But how?

“Ahem,” Carlson coughed behind me. I didn’t bother to turn around. “I really don’t mean to impose, but your friend doesn’t look too well. You wouldn’t happen to have a working cellphone with you? Also, I don’t think you ever introduced yourself…?”

Truly , I thought bitterly. Fuck this day, and fuck it sideways.

Chapter Text

Monday, 06. December 2010

I was still shaken by the time I neared home, trodding through the increasingly familiar streets of the neighborhood I had grown up in. Something about it all was wrong this time though; the warm sun on my skin, the white snow, and the blue sky that had helped me feel at ease when I'd stared out onto the ocean this very morning had turned into something that unsettled me.

It almost felt like a mockery: the shiny polish and pretty facade that made you lower your guard and feel safe and protected. Safety. It was a lie. This entire morning had been nothing but a mess I could have gladly gone without.

It wasn't supposed to have gone like this.

The walk home had given me much-needed time to think and sort my thoughts and emotions. In retrospect, the whole encounter this morning felt almost like a setup to me, and on a theoretical level, it made sense. Trying to draw out a cape to get a hang of their abilities. I could understand that. I – Kaleidoscope – didn't do hero-ing. Hadn't done it in the month since I'd debuted as her. Not because I didn't want to…

…But because I didn't dare.

Ever since I was old enough – and even after my embarrassing Alexandria-fangirl phase – I wanted to be a hero, and I had always dreamed about getting powers one day. Naturally, back then I neither knew nor understood what that truly entailed.

Now I had them, and I didn't know what to do. Just thinking about going out and helping people caused a muted part of myself to explode with revulsion and annoyance, up to the point that I got a brutal headache the first time I thought about turning myself in to the authorities.

For someone who hadn't been able to feel pain anymore for several months at this point? It had been bad, and I'd vomited my guts out at the doorstep of the PRT office downtown while a part of my subconsciousness literally screamed at me for being a dumb bitch who should stop and think for a moment before committing suicide.

And that part of me was right, in a way. Joining the Wards had been out of the question from the start. Ever since I'd gotten these powers, my temper had been on a short fuse, and when I got angry, I got physical. What hero team would accept someone like that joining them? Hell, what hero team would accept someone like that in their city?

Not to mention the fact that the destruction I'd caused was probably enough to send me to prison anyway… if not some supermax prison where I could actually be contained along with some of the worst villains in the country.

And then there was the fact that both Dad and I would be gone from Brockton Bay by the end of the month – hopefully for good – so was there even a point in building up anything permanent? I didn't know what awaited us in Boston, but I knew that it was a chance for a fresh start, and in all honesty? I liked that idea very much.

Maybe I could even be a hero there, without people connecting me to an event that had ruined their lives.

I had constantly checked the news during my stay in the asylum, so I knew that at least in public, people usually connected the Winslow Fire and the Scar. Even months after the incident, the online message boards were still brimming with speculation, and some of them hit uncomfortably close to home. Thankfully, those voices were few and far between, and most people blamed either the Four or the Winslow Torcher for everything.

I wasn't sure why a group of stylish bio-terrorists would blow up a high school, but people seemed to view it as a revenge action for them getting kicked out of Boston by the notorious Dark Society earlier this year, and I was very thankful for that.

(I also really didn't want to live in the same city as a bunch of superpowered terrorists.)

No one suspected Kaleidoscope, even those who had met me when I went out as a cape. Yet, I also knew that people weren't stupid, and it would only take a little slip-up for them to connect the dots between Kaleidoscope the Glass-Shaper, and the Glass-Shatterer who had killed over 200 people.

Ever since I'd crafted the identity, both to get money and to cover for some of my other work, Kal had always been nothing but the shy cape girl selling photography, glass sculptures, and art on her ratty blanket, and despite me sometimes struggling with the sheer idleness of it, it was kind of nice. The smiles of the people browsing my wares, as meaningless and superficial as they were. The space of calm and the mere thought that I was doing something with my own hands – with the utterly destructive powers I wielded – to help Dad even though he didn't know it.

That I was using my powers to create, and not to hurt and destroy.

There was another cape in the city – Parian – who also didn't seem interested in traditional hero or villain activities. I had never met her in person, but I knew that her powers involved animating plushies and that she sometimes partnered with stores and shops downtown to make puppet shows or animate large store mascots for advertisement.

I was also aware that parahuman gangs had shown interest in her before, openly sending goons and capes to intimidate her into joining or affiliating with them, so from the start I always knew that it was only a matter of time before the villains would show interest in Kal too.

Maybe I could ask her about how she deals with it.

It was an enticing thought. I had never spoken with another cape before, save for a few quips and dodged recruitment attempts with the Wards. I could show up in costume to her next performance, and try to strike up a conversation. But Parian hadn't been seen for a few weeks now, which was a little weird. Then again, it was nearing Christmas, and even Capes had family, right?

The more I thought about the whole situation, the weirder it felt. Despite being active for almost a month, the gangs hadn't approached me on the Boardwalk or the Market yet. And now this? It didn't match what little I knew about the villains in Brockton Bay.

I was actually fairly confident that I hadn't been the target of the attack that had nearly killed that lowlife cape…but I had been there. I was a witness. What if they decided to come after me too? Who had wanted to kill Greasecan, and why?

It was thoughts like these that distracted me as I approached the familiar wooden house with the rotted porch step, so I only noticed the shiny car next to Dad's battered truck when I had already stepped halfway around it.

Oh right, I thought to myself, my gut churning. Today is the fucking day that decides our whole fucking future. Great fucking start indeed.

I battled the desire to smash something in frustration as I approached and – after a quick look to make sure that I was smiling and sufficiently presentable – stepped up to the front door and hit the doorbell with my elbow.

Steps sounded, and a moment later, Dad opened the front door with a befuddled look that quickly shifted into a smile. Even though he hid it well, I could tell immediately that he was tired and tense, even more so than usual. It had to be because of the lawsuit hearing. He'd be leaving me alone for a couple of days while he went to Boston for some legal whatever, and it had been keeping him antsy all week.

"Taylor. How was your run?"

My breath turned into an involuntary gasp, and I sneezed into his face, followed by a rush of heat flowing into my cheeks. I tried to play it off by lifting the shopping bags and holding them up to his face. "Breakfast," I rasped with a shrug.

"Ouf, young lady!" Dad pretended to recoil in disgust, and I forced myself to crack a smile. "I'll take those."

I handed my spoils over, and used my now-free hand to reach into my pocket, fishing for my electrolarynx, and pressing it against my throat. The voice thing was by far the most annoying issue I had to deal with, and honestly? I'd use even the most flimsy of excuses to get rid of it. For now, though, I had to content myself with stealthy and subtle improvements.

"Run was fine," I buzzed.

Another sneeze forced itself out of me. Dad scrutinized me for a moment. His gaze flickered to the thermostat next to the door. "Are you alright? You look a bit winded."

"Yeah," I lied. I didn't feel very bad about it. "Cold outside."

Dad sighed. "I know that getting exercise is important to you, but going outside when it's this cold–"

"I'm fine, really," I said. Maybe it was a gut feeling, but I could feel that there was more to Dad's statement. Ever since the accident, he had been more protective of me, and I knew that he only half-heartedly tolerated my morning runs.

"Can't you run at that gym of yours?" Dad asked. "I can drive you there in the morning, no problem. Maybe I could even join you. Feeling a little bit out of shape recently."

I didn't react to his attempt at humor, instead just shaking my head, trying to keep the brief surge of panic off my face. "No. Please. I am fine, really. Just going to take a long, hot shower, and I'll be okay." I am strong, I wanted to add – show him – but I held my tongue.

Dad smiled gently at me, before leaning forward and taking an exaggerated sniff. "Puuh. Yeah, maybe you should."

A part of me wanted to complain, to argue. A few insults even floated up from the bottom of my brain, but I ignored them, just nudging Dad playfully against the shoulder with my fist as I weaved around him and into the hallway, kicking off my running shoes with well-practiced ease in the process.

"Do you need help with the jacket?" Dad asked. I shook my head, stepping away before he could get the idea of touching me anyway. Not that I minded Dad getting in my space or anything, but given the lengths I went to obscure the true changes in my body from him, I didn't want him to question why his daughter's arm suddenly had the consistency of hardened steel.

I made sure to offer him another smile over my shoulder before I moved further into the house and pretended I didn't see the wince he failed to hide from me, and the flicker of his eyes.

Oh, right, I remembered with a sudden pang of sadness. I shouldn't smile too wide when he looks. Was it sad or funny that Dad still couldn't look me straight in the face if I didn't keep my expression under wraps?

The fire that had scorched the left side of my body had also damaged the nerves and muscles, turning most of my cheek numb and mostly paralyzed. It didn't bother me too much, apart from the fact that it was yet another trivial thing I could easily fix with my powers.

I could still eat, drink, or speak without issue. Just when I smiled too wide or tried to create a specific expression, the damage showed.

It took me a second to fix my expression after extinguishing that train of thought, and when I entered the living room, I made sure to offer the by-now familiar woman sitting on the couch a normal smile when she looked up.

It gave me character, right?

Hello Mrs. Dallon. I greeted her with a nod, before speaking a single word. "Breakfast?"

It would only take three words. Three words to her face. Easy enough. Easier than going to the Protectorate, I have powers. Yet, something in me twisted – screamed – at the very thought, as if every fiber of my being told me that it was a fucking bad idea. Which, admittedly, it was.

"No thank you. We have to leave inside of an hour." Carol looked up from the shaky couch table aching under the load of paperwork she was brooding over. She also scrutinized me for a moment. "Are you alright, Taylor? There's no reason to be nervous."

Yes, I am fucking alright, I thought sarcastically but all I offered her was another nod. "I can make some lunch boxes for the trip?" I offered.

Carol blinked at me. Again, she looked like she wanted to reject the offer, but it seemed like my puppy-dog eyes worked because eventually, she relented. "Thank you. That's …very kind. Say, Taylor. I know I offered before, but are you sure that you don't want to –"

"No," I smiled at her. Trust me, it's better for all of us.

I had met Amy Dallon once before, and even though it was a very enticing idea to use Brockton Bay's local miracle healer as a valid reason for "sudden improvements to my quality of life", it would also immediately unmask me as a parahuman, which I couldn't allow at any cost. There was also the issue with her utterly grating and caustic personality that had urged me to punch some respect and humility into her after spending less than 5 minutes in the same room as her.

That… well. I wasn't sure if I could control myself well enough, but I was very sure that raising my hand against Amy Dallon would burn many bridges with her, her sister, and the entirety of New Wave.

Carol just shrugged, and I used the awkward silence to bolt up the stairs and into my room. Maybe I could pretend to have met Amy by chance, I mused. No, it wouldn't work when her Mom frequented our house on an almost daily basis recently.

Down below, I could hear Dad return from the kitchen.

"So, Mr. Hebert," Carol said downstairs. "We are primarily aiming for a case of negligence and reckless endangerment, and I want you to–"

I closed the door, banished all thoughts from my mind, and for a moment, I just allowed myself to fall back onto my bed and scream wordlessly into my pillow.

Half an hour and one deliciously hot shower later, I – appropriately dressed in a very fluffy, oversized Christmas sweater – made my way downstairs and into the kitchen. The door to our little living room wasn't fully closed but I didn't pay much attention to the voices that drifted into my ear. Dad had placed my bags on the cooking table, and I quickly started unpacking my spoils and spread them on the plate in front of me.

Carving and woodworking was one of the hobbies I had found myself picking up a while ago – even though it was technically trivialized by my ability to reshape materials with a simple touch – and a quick rummage through our overstuffed cupboard rewarded me with two ornate bento boxes I had fashioned from pieces of scrap wood.

Running more on autopilot than anything, I started chopping away. Cooking with one hand was a bother, but I still liked it, and since I was alone, I could simply cheat by throwing something in the air and bisecting it a few times with my favorite chopper.

Preparing the boxes didn't take long and despite my worries, I forced myself to concentrate on the task at hand. I wanted to do something special for Dad. A special lunch for a special day, so I made sure to arrange everything neatly and even found myself carving funny faces into the snack carrots I put into the boxes before sealing them.

It truly looked delicious – appropriately fancy – but for some reason, I wasn't feeling hungry at all. There was a leaden feeling in my stomach, a dark, worrying sensation that just didn't want to go away.

Dad and Carol would be gone for a few days, and even though it gave me much-needed breathing room, it also was a stark reminder that now was the time that would decide my and Dad's future. I should be worrying about that – about trivial things like finishing the school work I had to hand in today – and not about assassins.

I still remembered the face that had greeted me the first time I woke up after Winslow – my sight blurred and a gaping black hole in my memories. The tears that ran down Dad's haggard face as he gripped my hand like a lifeline. The broken, hoarse voice and reek of alcohol as he slurred – promised me that he would get me out of this dumpster of a city. I would never forget it.

I never wanted to see Dad like that again.

The school administration – cowards that they were – had wanted to settle, but Dad would hear none of it. I didn't know what he'd done, how many of his former friends and contacts he'd rallied, or whether he'd threatened Major Christner with a box cutter, but only a day after I had been released from the asylum and witnessed just how far Dad's life and self-respect had fallen apart while I was gone, Carol Dallon had rang at our doorstep carrying a suitcase.

It was me who had answered the door on that day, and so it was me who had learned that the legendary Brandish of New Wave was willing to take our case pro bono. While the thought of being dependent on the generosity of others was grating, we weren't in any position to deny her.

Let's just hope that this doesn't end like my morning has, I thought to myself as I stepped out of the kitchen. Because if it did?

Then I'd either have to clear my head by going somewhere secluded and tearing down a building with my bare hands followed by a solo bank robbery so we wouldn't lose the house he had already sold… or pump myself with medication until I turned into a zombie for the rest of the week.

Dad and Carol were still absorbed in their work and didn't notice me until I put the boxes down with an audible clonk. Seeing him like that, bowing and chatting about piles of legal nonsense – engaged – like I haven't seen him for years… it reminded me of better days.

Somehow, that made the smile on my face mostly genuine.

Dad looked up. "Hey, champion. Refreshed?"

I nodded.

"Just give us a moment," he said. "We're almost done here."

Since the couch was occupied, I moved back into the kitchen and sat down at the table, watching Dad and Carol from an angle through the open door. Looking around in daylight made me realize just how empty our house was without all the personal clutter we had assembled over the years. Most of our stuff had already been sent to a storage unit in Boston, and I found that the house almost looked…sterile as it was now. It was kinda weird. On the one hand, it made me uncomfortable, but on the other hand? It was perhaps the biggest proof that Dad was willing to change his life for me.

My heart didn't know how to feel about that. We'd leave so much behind. Not everything – even Kurt and Lacy and many of Dad's friends were coming to Boston with us, now after the dissolution of the Union and without any other option – but we'd be leaving Mom behind.

I didn't want to think about it, especially now, and in an attempt to distract myself, I started sorting through the stack of unopened mail sitting on the table. It was mostly just junk, including one of the Wards brochures we seemed to get with suspicious frequencies these days, and oddly enough one that warned about the misuse of…steroids? What the fuck?

I threw them into the trash before I went to grab a bite from the fridge. I sat there in silence, battling my body's never-ending appetite with all the leftover food from the day before.

Thankfully, it didn't take long for all the papers to disappear back into Carol's black briefcase, and after a brief conversation I didn't bother to follow, she offered me a wave and left. Dad followed with the travel bags, but he returned shortly after and came to me into the kitchen.

We stared awkwardly at each other, Dad shifting on his foot.

Sooo, uhm, I thought. it must have shown on my face, because Dad offered me a reassuring smile, and I quickly offered him a raised thumb in response.

"We'll be leaving now," he said. "Stay safe. We'll be back in two days, so…is there anything you still need? Money is in the drawer in my room, tucked under the shirts…"

He paused, and I could see the lump in his throat move. Suddenly, I felt nervous. Something was wrong, and I reached for the electrolarynx in my pocket. I knew that our relationship wasn't the best – that there was a distance between us that shouldn't be – but this wasn't normal.

I looked Dad in the eyes, and what I found there shocked me more than everything. He was scared.

"Dad," I rasped. "What's wrong?"

"I–Taylor," Dad paused and reached out to place a hand on my shoulder. "There is nothing wrong, really, but…" he paused again, and it took a moment for him to respond. When he finally did, his voice was dead-serious. "Look, the police just found two corpses in our neighborhood. That cape serial killer – Crucify – was running around just a few houses down, and I am scared that something will happen to you when you go run so early in the morning. Stay at home when the sun goes down, don't open the door, and if anything happens, call the police and scream for help. Understood?"

I was convinced that his grip around my shoulder would have hurt if it weren't for my physique and powers. I just nodded, too stumped to say anything. My thoughts swirled, but a surge of determination quickly drowned out the spike of terror in my mind.

Dad was out of town for a few days, and if that Crucify-bitch was knocking at my door? I would show her, and it would be nothing that she liked. Was I overconfident? Maybe I was because as soon as I had finished the thought, a part of my subconsciousness scoffed at me.

"Understood," I rasped.

"I…you know I wouldn't leave in a situation like this, but I have to."

"I know," I responded.

"Stay safe, and try to have some fun."

"Yes, Dad."

"But –"

"I'll be careful and be back long before it gets dark."

"Good," Dad smiled at me, but it broke from his face as quickly as it had appeared. "If…if the police don't make it in time, there's a loaded revolver in my drawer, and more bullets in the carved little box next to it."

Oof. That's a bit hardcore, even for you, I thought in surprise. Dad owned a gun? I didn't even know that. Well, I'm never going to need it anyway.

I smiled at him, and before he could react, I rose from my chair and gave him a quick and gentle hug. "Good luck with the hearing," I said.

We both said our awkward goodbyes to each other and soon Carol's car pulled out of our driveway, leaving Dad's battered old truck and me behind. I tried to relax for a bit after they were gone, but barely an hour later, I turned off the TV and jumped to my feet with a defeated sigh. There was no point. My body and mind simply couldn't go to rest. Also, morning TV was nothing but trash again. I tidied the house for a bit before I went up to my room and packed everything I'd need for the afternoon.

I had two days to turn this house into a motherfucking tinker fortress, and it wouldn't matter if it was Assassin or Crucify, no one touched Dad. But first…school.

Ever since Winslow had burned down, I was essentially homeschooled. It was a stopgap measure for all the students who couldn't be folded into the surrounding high schools until Winslow got rebuilt. For me, who had been out of the cycle for a few months as I recovered, it had been a welcome surprise.

I wasn't weak. The prospect of school didn't scare me as much as it would have, but if there was one thing I knew for certain, it was that I wouldn't stand down to any high school shit they could throw at me anymore. I also knew that there was one and only one response I'd ever give someone – no matter who it was – who talked shit to my face.

A fist into theirs.

I was aware that once we'd settled in Boston, school was likely back on the menu, but that was a problem for then. Now, I had to focus on other matters, and I liked my current arrangement. I just needed to occasionally drop by to fill out forms or pick up new material, which limited my exposure to the social phenomenon of high school teenage bullshit.

The bus ride downtown was calm and silent, and since there weren't many people, the amount of shocked and pitiful stares was limited to a bearable amount. It probably also helped that I sat in the very last row of the bus, which was my favorite spot anyway.

I closed my eyes when the melody around me changed, trying to flee into happy memories, but the Scar was merciless. I didn't have to see to know that the houses around me were now bare and stripped, that there was a breach running through Brockton Bay, all the way from Winslow into the docks.

I didn't remember how I'd triggered, thanks to the gaping hole in my memories, but I didn't need to. It was obvious what had happened here – who had done this – and it was a stark reminder of just how destructive my power's voice really was.

Many people had died when my scream tore through the city, shattering and tearing everything apart. Thankfully, it had only affected a two-block-wide area, but even months after the incident, the city hadn't yet managed to replace all of the glass. It was depressing, dangerously so, and in a much-needed attempt to spark other thoughts, I fished for an abandoned newspaper on the seat in front of me and started digging through the pages.

I needed something strong – depressing, but in a different way – and I quickly found the pages listing the depressing stuff no one wanted to read anyway; missing people, obituaries, and of course supermarket advertising offers. I wasn't sure why it worked, but it did. There was only one entry:

Has anyone seen Sabah?

A snapshot of a dark-skinned girl smiled back at me. She seemed Middle Eastern, with dark skin, full lips, and large, dark eyes. Pretty small too, based on those around her. Missing for almost two weeks.

Maybe the Empire? I mused. They were notorious for going after minorities, as expected of a group of wannabe-nazis. You didn't have to live a rough life to be a target, those animals would snatch even someone like a distinguished college student. Maybe I could go looking for her?

I didn't know where the thought came from, my gut suddenly churning, but I decided to file it away for later. I turned the page and by the time the bus stopped in front of Arcadia, I had read the newspaper three times over.

Well, I thought as I got off the bus, clutching my bag like a lifeline as I stared at the large building in front of me. Time to step into hell.

Arcadia High was in many ways the stark opposite of Winslow. It was by far the nicest public school in the entirety of Brockton Bay, known for its plethora of vocational courses and top-of-the-line facilities. It was also the school that the children of New Wave and -- according to the rumors -- the Brockton Bay Wards attended.

The building was four stories high, with two wings connected by a shorter piece, forming something like a capital H in shape. The whole building was also outfitted with a Faraday cage to stop students from messing around with their cell phones during class.

Just half a year ago, I would have sacrificed a leg to go here, but now as I stalked through the empty halls, all I felt was a massive rush of insecurity and anxiety. My personal issues aside though, my trip didn't turn out as hellish as I feared it would be. Perhaps it was luck or just the right timing, but I had just arrived by the start of a period, and by the time I left the administration office, I still had a decent window of time until the students would crowd the hallways again.

It wasn't so much that I feared running into Victoria or Amelia Dallon, but more of a general uneasiness that came with this place, students, and everything related. People stared at me, but teenagers? God forbid, maybe they'd even start touching me like I was some kind of exotic exhibit.

I couldn't trust myself not to lash out.

I could deal with a few teenagers, but not a whole crowd. It wasn't something I felt comfortable with just yet. Even before the Winslow Fire, my high school experience hadn't been good, and even though there had been…improvements – as minuscule as they were – with everything that had happened?

I didn't associate anything good with high school. Only suffering, and while I had many talks about the subject with Dad or my therapist – to the point I was actually willing to give the subject another shot – it wouldn't be here in this city, and not with Emma around.

I still wanted to murder her. Cup her pretty face between my hands and pulp it. Maybe I could take a knife and turn her false smile into something real for–

A noise echoed through the hallway, cutting through my increasingly darker fantasies. I paused for a moment, but only a moment, before I whirled around and walked back into the hallway I had just passed. I knew that voice. With every step I took, my vision became narrower, and crimson red began to tint the world around me, turning around everything around me except for the sickly sweet voice ahead. Something black and ugly began festering in my heart.

Madison fucking Clements. She was one of the three people who had made my entire high school existence hell, who had bullied me every single day together with Emma and that psycho Sophia. A cutesy bitch without tits or spine, hanging off of Emma's side like a wart on a foot.

"Ah, the Shortstack," someone whispered, but I didn't care. Didn't listen. This was a personal matter. Kill her break her Ignore her Fuck her Break her bones…

It didn't take long for voices to reach my ear, and the nonsensical gruel of whispers stopped abruptly when I reached out in passing and slammed a door close that had been open a crack.

"…oh my, Veder, what's wrong this time?" Madison's sweet voice drifted around the corner and into my ear.

Greg, I thought. Figured that they'd pick the next person up the pecking order once I'm gone.

I was tempted – so tempted – to just turn around and leave the loser to his fate. Greg wasn't a bad guy, but he had never helped me with the bullying either. He was an immature, whiny coward and an idiot…but I owed him. In a way, at least. Dad had told me that Greg had stood up to testify when I had been practically locked up in the mental hospital. Without him, there might have not even been a lawsuit to begin with.

That, and my overwhelming desire to murder the cutesy garden gnome for what she had done to me.

I turned around the corner.

For everything that had happened, Greg and Madison still looked like they always had. The short, soft boy with blonde hair in a bowl cut that really, really didn't do him any favors. Currently, he was fidgeting around next to what I assumed was his locker, looking like he wanted to do nothing more than curl away and disappear. Like a kicked puppy. He looked exactly like I had not too long ago, and it hurt.

I couldn't help but notice that he indeed looked awful today. He was unnaturally pale and even a bit skittish as if he was on the verge of collapse, and the bags under his eyes spoke volumes. He was a nerd and gamer, so maybe he had discovered a new one to plunge his brain into last night?

Madison, however…just looking at her almost made me retch in disgust. She was still the same late bloomer, playing up her "cute" appearance with her clothes and a demeanor that was so fake that I wanted to beat it off of her face. She was decidedly underdressed for the cold weather, and it worked, even on me. But when I really looked at her, all I could see was a colorful bird trying to chirp along with the vultures.

Her laughter turned tittering as our eyes met, before breaking off completely.

"Uhm, Miss. Are you lost?" She said.

"Ta-Taylor?" Greg looked at me wide-eyed, fully aghast. "Oh my god, what happened to you? Oh my god, you look like half–"

Madison simply clamped her hand over his face to stop the waterfall of verbal diarrhea that was undoubtedly about to erupt from his mouth. "Shut it, loser."

To my surprise, Greg didn't even blush. Thankfully, he did shut up though.

Madison turned back to me, and her smile faltered, falling off her face as she scanned me top to bottom like a piece of curious meat. Her gaze lingered on my frozen face, my tied-off, empty sleeve, and my midsection. She seemed lost for words or just outright lost. What, can't stomach mocking a cripple?

It made me mad, furious, that she might think I was somehow off-limits now, after all of the shit that she'd helped cover for with that simpering smile. Every time she'd played at being a dumb, innocent bystander, taking their side to the teachers, screwing me over.

"Taylor," she said, almost forcing the word out. "I.. I…"

I didn't even wait for her to finish spewing her excuse before I shoulder-checked her into the row of lockers as I passed.

"Fuck you, Shortstack," I growled as I stalked past her and down the hall. I didn't fight the scowl that grew on my face. How dare she, treat me like I was less now than I was before. I wasn't weak, wasn't vulnerable. I was stronger than I'd ever been.

"Taylor. Wait!" Barely a heartbeat after I turned around the next corner, I could hear Greg's voice calling out for me, followed by rapid footsteps accompanied by the heave of a steam locomotive. I cast a longing gaze toward the exit in the distance before I stopped and turned around. I wasn't even sure why. Did I want to talk to Greg?

No.

What do you want? I stared down at Greg.

"T-thank you," he coughed.

Mhm, I thought dryly. I am not sure if you deserve it.

I shrugged at him.

"Wow, you are sooo cool! What happened to you? You are so – so big. Like a barbarian, from DnD you know? You know…"

I mentally covered my ears to avoid thinking about the sheer tsunami of garbage Greg started showering me with, not even giving me a chance to answer his flood of questions even if I wanted to. At some point, I even started walking again, but he either didn't get the message or didn't care, and just followed me as I strode toward the main entrance.

Where is Sparky when you need him? I groaned in annoyance. Seriously, it was almost as if he had missed me for whatever reason.

"...and then I tried this new game and, I…I–" I only looked up when Greg's voice suddenly broke, and when I looked at him, his eyes were suddenly swimming.

I barely had time to be surprised before I got tackled by him, and he bawled his eyes out against my chest like a little child.

Help…please. Oh, god, what do I do now? I thought in panic as doors began to open all around us, and curious heads turned to look at us.

Chapter Text

Monday, 06. December 2010

"You sure you're okay?" I forced myself to ask. It felt like the right thing to do, the polite thing, even though he was the one who'd been rude first, clinging to me and dripping snot like a toddler while half the school passed by and stared.

I'd had to take him to the Nurse's office to get us out of the way and hopefully to pass him off to an actual authority figure who was paid to deal with this shit.

I hadn't known his dad was a cop. I hadn't known that it was him who got brutalized by a crazy serial killer just a few houses down from where I slept, and since Greg hadn't managed to get anything but hiccuping sobs out of his mouth, it was the nurse who had taken me aside and explained what was going on.

Seriously, why was he even in school?

I knew what it was like to lose a parent. How it could break you in a way you never really came back from. But I wasn't Greg's… well, anything. We'd been two outcasts at Winslow, only connected by a lack of connection to anyone else, and now Winslow and everything it stood for was gone. Behind me.

I felt bad for Greg, I really did, but it didn't mean I had to play the role of 'mom' for him.

Honestly, I wanted to care more about this sniffing idiot. It was the right thing to do, I knew that, but I just…couldn't find it in me. Not now, and after everything I'd gone through this morning. Having to deal with Greascan and how my day had spiraled from there…I was emotionally spent. All my fucks were currently busy elsewhere.

The nurse had left us a bit ago to call his Mom, and now I was stuck with him, shooting him signal after signal that I just wanted to leave. Obviously, Greg was either too dense or too selfish, and so here I was, trying to keep the frustration from my face.

Not that that mattered either, given how he kept ogling my abs while not even bothering to pretend to look me in the face or literally everywhere else. I was sure he was trying to be cool about it, but no matter how much effort he was putting in, Greg was about as subtle as a bull in a communist china shop. At least he'd moved on to my abs, which was arguably better than staring at my tits.

Maybe that thought was hypocritical of me, given that I had chosen the tight shirt on purpose, but at this point, I either wanted just to close my jacket or straight up sock it out of him. But I didn't, and instead, I'd even found myself flexing a little at the attention, unconsciously, before I noticed what I was doing and got even more annoyed with myself. Honestly, I just wasn't used to having something I could be so proud of.

I knew from first-hand experience that ogling wasn't exactly appropriate or natural grieving behavior, and even though Greg was far from what I'd call normal, he still should have known better. Maybe he didn't even notice what he was doing, or he did it on purpose to desperately try and distract himself from his dad's situation? Something to cling to mentally, so he wouldn't break down again.

I didn't know and didn't care, and when my annoyance finally took over, I snapped my fingers in his face. Oi, eyes are up here. Idiot.

"Uh-uh, y-yes. I–" Greg stammered. "Uhm, sorry Taylor, what did you say?"

I groaned, both mentally and physically, and shot him a thundering glare. "You sure you're okay?" I repeated.

I noticed that my hand was clenched around the handle of my electrolarynx hard enough for the plastic to groan, which wasn't hard but I still forced myself to relax my grip before I accidentally pulped the expensive device.

I really hated having to repeat myself.

"Yeah, thanks," Greg murmured sheepishly. He still refused to meet my gaze. "They say the next 24 hours will be critical…whether he –"

His voice hitched, and I found myself reaching out and awkwardly patting his shoulder. With my fist, because I was still holding my electrolarynx.

It didn't matter if it was Greg, boys, or girls, but I found it increasingly frustrating to deal with people. I knew who I was, and I knew what I wanted. But sometimes…sometimes there were things in me that didn't make sense.

A part of me loved the attention, the stares, ogles, touches, and flirts as much as I hated them, and I didn't know how to deal with that. I wanted to show my body, I wanted to be confident, unashamed, proud even, and sometimes I even wanted to go further. A lot further…and without giving a flying fuck about other people, until something in my mind clicked, and I suddenly realized what I was thinking about.

It went against everything I thought I was, and I wasn't sure why. Was I just that repressed, was it just a phase of puberty and self-discovery…or was there something messing with my mind?

I knew that I was touch-starved, and it was something that needed to be dealt with very soon because every single urge battling within me managed to agree that living like this wasn't right for me. Fuck, I barely even cared about romance at this point, and it was just so… Fucking. Confusing.

"Good luck," I found myself saying. "I gotta go."

"Bye," Greg smiled at me, sitting on the medical couch like a heap of misery. He kinda looked a bit like molten pudding, I thought. All flabby and weak, but I didn't want to think stuff like that, so I turned around without saying goodbye.

"You know," Greg said behind me, barely audible to the point that I was convinced that he was talking to himself more than me. "It doesn't feel like they say it will in the anime."

I turned around at the door. "What?"

"Oh, sorry," Greg looked up, and for the first time, he met my gaze. He smiled, but his blue eyes were still swimming. Subdued and detached. "You know, in the stories, it's always like this. Something bad happens, but it only makes the hero stronger. I don't feel stronger."

I shrugged, unsure how to respond. Stories aren't reality, I wanted to say, but I didn't.

I was halfway through the door when Greg called after me again. "Taylor!"

A surge of annoyance tore through my veins, but I forced myself to turn around and smile at him. What the fuck do you want? I didn't say. Can't you just leave me alone?

"Look," Greg murmured. "People don't believe me. They mock me, you know. But I know it. Something is going on in this city. Something bad. Be careful, please."

"Will do," I grunted, and unwilling to idle further, I slung my backpack over my shoulder and closed the door to the infirmary behind me with a kick of my foot.

Ironically, for as much as I despised the Docks, they were the prime location for every aspiring Cape and Tinker, given that it was full of abandoned buildings and trash that could be salvaged. So, It was only natural that I had set up shop here too.

Given that I didn't see much point in establishing myself when I was about to move into an entirely new city, my workshop consisted of a tiny warehouse barely large enough to fit my Sentinel. It was all I needed.

It was a humble building near the water, an old chop shop or something like that, consisting of a small office area where I'd set up my stuff and an assembling hall that was a bit larger than a double garage. There were three entrances to the building, five if you counted the roof hatch and the escape tunnel that led down into a storm drain: there was a docking port for a truck at the back of the building that connected to the main hall, a small side entrance that led into a cramped alley between the buildings, and a larger main entrance with two massive steel doors.

Like the windows, I had sealed that one up from the inside with steel bars and sheets of metal before melting the locks and welding the two door panels shut. Then, I had piled a bit of trash and debris in front of them to add to the illusion that the building was nothing but an abandoned wreck.

I carefully looked around with my power-sight, before ducking into the alley next to my workshop. No one around. The area was devoid of life, which suited me well. I entered my workshop, wrenching the rusted side door open with my super-strength, before closing and barricading it behind me.

It was dark and freezing cold inside. The building was off the grid, without electricity or plumbing, and I didn't dare to change that. An abandoned building in the middle of nowhere suddenly consuming large amounts of utilities? It would only raise attention, and I didn't need that.

But I didn't need light to navigate the dark office area. Not much, at least. My eyes and senses were sharper, I had a constant spatial awareness around me, and the sand cushioning the floor below my feet acted like a sonar that guided me safely through the darkness.

Something in the gloom clicked and when I turned my head, I came face to face with a triangle of burning red eyes. I recoiled, startled, but the eyes didn't move, and the realization hit a moment later.

Stabby is fine, I thought in relief. So at least my security system is still intact.

"Good boy," I buzzed through my face mask.

Stabby naturally didn't respond. Wasn't he adorable?

I continued toward where I knew the rear of the office area was, walking up to the wall and fumbling around in the darkness until my fingers caught smooth glass and cold metal. I followed the surface until I found the switch I was searching for.

Clack.

A subtle hum filled the room, barely audible and nearly drowned out by hissing and clanking sounds, followed by a high-pitched wine. Light flickered, and then the room was suddenly bathed in dim but soft light as the old light bulbs I had rigged up came to life.

I squinted at the sudden change, but it only affected me for a split second before my body shrugged it off. Then, I spent a moment inspecting the portable steam reactor for damage, but to my satisfaction, everything was running as smoothly as ever.

I stepped back, and after triggering an old light switch, I approached the small internal window leading from the office area into the main work hall. A way for the suits to oversee the workers, I assumed.

I stared at the piles of tools and scrap piled everywhere around the massive, tarp-covered object in the center, illuminated by light bulbs from the ceiling and two old spotlights I had managed to salvage and repair.

Battered metal shelves lined the walls, filled with boxes of electronic trash, more tools, and more scrap metal. There were massive industrial barrels in a corner, filled with sand and glimmering glass shards.

Then my eyes fell into the corner of the room where I had set up the unwieldy converter and my vaporizer, and I winced. The shelf I used to store my vials wasn't even a third filled, and the piles of tin and copper on the ground were neatly organized but more akin to pathetic molehills.

I had water, I had electricity, and I had gathered enough resources over the past months… but the special parts I needed to get my stuff to work? I didn't have enough. There weren't enough parts to finish both my Sentinel and the rest of my gear, and even if I focused just on the Sentinel, there was no way in hell I'd manage to finish it in time.

Fuck. Rage welled up with me, and with a furious growl, I smashed my fist through the tiny window. I hadn't even started, and my plans were already falling apart around me.

No, there was no time to waste. I took a deep breath, pulling the shattered window into place again, and melting it back together. "Stabby, stove," I hissed, before making a beeline towards my workbench.

My notebook and the crappy laptop I'd bought from a thrift store were hidden behind a set of innocent bricks in the wall, and I retrieved them before I dumped the contents of my backpack on the table.

I hadn't wanted to trek all the way home again after dealing with my Arcadia business, so I had simply smuggled my tinker-tech tail with me, hidden beneath my work clothes and school supplies.

Risky perhaps, but fuck if I cared right now.

I waited a bit for the room to get warmer before I stripped down to my underwear, neatly folding my "civilian" clothes before putting them away. By the time I was done, the skin and flesh around my shoulder and rear had parted enough to reveal the docking ports for my cybernetics.

I grabbed the base of my tail and plugged it in. The nerves in my body tingled as I triggered the hidden switches to lock it in and connect it to the nerves of my spine, like a wave of itchiness traveling all through my body…

…and then it was a part of myself again, and my tail unfolded behind me, fishing for my arm prosthesis while I started rummaging through my drawers for my tinker outfit. Sand rose from the ground, forming fingers and tendrils to help me as I changed.

My costume was as barebones as you'd think for someone who was trying to avoid attention; sturdy boots, cargo pants with lots of handy pockets, and a snug tank top upgraded with a warm jacket because anything else would be suicide for a normal human at this temperature.

I didn't bother with the jacket.

I reconnected my arm, working the crude pincer I had installed instead of a set of fingers, before bringing the tip of my tail to my face. I disconnected the stinger module and switched it for another pincer. Smaller and more fragile, but the more limbs I had, the better I could work.

During the bus ride here, Dad had called me again, only a few hours after he and Carol had left for Boston. He'd been worried and guilt-ridden about leaving me alone and told me that I needed to stay with one of his Dockworker friends he trusted until they came back.

I had pushed back – I didn't need nor want anyone to look after me – but he'd refused to listen. Fuck, he had pleaded with me, during a fucking car ride. Even though he wasn't driving himself, that had been like a punch to the gut. So, I'd relented.

It was annoying, and a setback for my plans, but I'd manage. I still had a good few hours before I was supposed to show up there, and I'd squeeze as much out of this time as I could.

But what to do, I mused as I began flicking through my notebook, looking at sketches and clumsy handwriting. Something crawled over my foot, but I ignored it the same as I ignored the scuttling, clicking, and other noises my adorably dumb assistant made as he attended to the stove.

I needed gear. Weapons. Something to keep Dad and our house safe, and because I had only focussed on my Sentinel, I had literally nothing but what I was wearing right now. I needed to get it operable before Christmas because if I didn't, two months of my life and two thousand bucks would have gone right down the drain.

But Dad was more important, no question. Maybe our relationship wasn't the best, but I loved him – didn't have anyone else left, and I'd fucking burn the world down if anything happened to him.

Something next to me clicked, tearing me from my thoughts, and when I turned to look, Stabby stared back at me, sitting on a pile of biology books I'd rented from the library. The way he sat there, little golden head tilted, wearing his tiny pink bunny backpack…

Without thinking, I picked him up, hugging him against my chest as my tail wrapped itself around us in a soothing embrace. He shifted and squirmed a little, occasionally exhaling tiny plumes of steam that brushed warmly against my skin before they condensed in the still-cold air. He didn't resist, but it wasn't his place to resist.

Then again, he wasn't really sentient either. A clumsy adorable idiot with –

…blood on his stinger?

With a frown, I sat Stabby down, inspecting him before simply picking him up again, prodding and turning him in my hands to inspect every nook and cranny of his little body. But apart from a little dirt and blood on his stinger and pincers, he looked fine. The golden bronze armor panels were intact, as were the colorful glass patterns I had decorated them with.

Rats perhaps? Feasible enough.

A soft smile spread on my face as I regarded my little companion. I placed him back on the table. Then, I started polishing Stabby with a clean rag, carefully rubbing away dirt, dust, and blood, until I was satisfied.

Wasn't he diligent and adorable? I'd need to update his stealth, targeting, and ambush routines, but he was small enough to keep an eye on Dad during the night. It would be a start, at least.

Just have to make sure he doesn't murder the mailman, I thought with a smile, but that was something I'd deal with later. First, I had to get gear, but now that I thought about it, maybe I could build more security bots too. Idly, I flicked to an empty page, grabbed a pencil, and started sketching.

My tinker-powers had some oddities. I knew that, and I had thought about it a lot in the past. It was pretty flexible – I could build almost anything as long as it hit two criteria; It needed to be steam-powered in some way, and all the special parts needed to be created from bronze, from the simple gears and tubes to the more complex machinery I could make.

Naturally, high-tech sci-fi bullshit was out of the question, but I could rig surprisingly versatile and sturdy steampunk bullshit together; primitive bots, weapons, utilities, and power armor.

Yet, for the lack of a better word, it felt sluggish. I liked tinkering, and I could lose myself in it for hours, but sometimes it felt hard to come up with designs or inspiration. It was something I had to actively think about, which didn't match with what I heard about Tinkers.

It was almost like I had no natural drive for it beyond my own personal curiosity and interest, which honestly was kinda nice because I liked being able to look at a toaster without wanting to take it apart immediately.

With a hum, I set the pencil away and looked at the crude sketches and scribbles before me. It was a spider bot, about the size of a medium-sized dog, sporting four legs and a heavily armored lower body. There were no tails, claws, or even a dedicated head. Instead, it was outfitted with a steam-powered quad bolt thrower tower, based on the design of a handgun I'd whipped up a while ago.

Honestly, it did look a bit primitive, but I was confident that I'd be able to chunk out a good few of these with what I had available. It would have to do for now.

I contemplated for a moment, before titling the design Defence Bot V1.

Maybe I should build some personal gear first, I thought. This was going to be a long day.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

"Well, well, well," a voice exclaimed behind me. Thick, and with a garish accent I barely understood as English. They sounded gleeful, but not in a nice way. If I were any other person, it'd have made my skin crawl. "A little trash-collector, in our territory."

"Get out of there, little rat," a girl purred, immediately followed by something blunt hitting my shoulder.

I resisted the urge to lash out immediately, and with a stifled sigh, I slowly extracted myself from the E-waste container I'd all but dived into headfirst. I turned to see who was harassing me. ABB scum. Two guys, and a girl who couldn't be much older than I was, all dressed in red and green. The girl wielded a baseball bat, which I assumed she'd used to poke me in the shoulder. Shit, I'd hoped they'd ignore me, and stick to their beer bottles. Guess I'd been too noisy.

Over the past two days, I'd been tinkering whenever I could, but I could only do so much until my bronze ran out, and thus I had to go scavenging again. The family I was stuck with till Dad came back was nice enough I guess, if a little patronizing. Geoff and Martha knew me – the old me – and I knew them reasonably enough. But they also clearly didn't know how to handle me so they largely left me alone, which suited me well.

I had to stay at their home during most of the day, but they didn't stop me from 'exercising', and sneaking out at night was pathetically easy.

"We don't want your kind–" The third guy fell silent mid-sentence when I drew myself up to my full height and turned around to face the fuckers who polluted my personal space.

The ABB ruled the east end of Brockton Bay, including large parts of the destitute docks which put them uncomfortably near my workshop. Next to the Empire, they were one of the most prominent gangs in the city, infamous for both their leader and the vile shit they pulled; Slavery, prostitution, and drugs.

They had never bothered me before, mostly because I usually kept away from their territory when I scavenged. Yet, the possibility of Lung – or his flunky Oni Lee -- knocking at my door had crossed my mind before.

For a brief moment, I considered running away. I didn't want to stir up trouble, I just wanted to get by until we could get out of this shithole of a city, but that desire quickly drowned in the whirlpool of emotions swirling through me. No, running away was not an option.

My hand darted forward, closing around the girl's wrist as I stared down at them.

I dismissed the two guys after a brief examination. They seemed to be older than me, with shaggy hair, and an attitude that immediately identified them as wannabes and morons. One of them pulled a knife out of his pocket as I scanned him, but the one with the awful slouch just glared at me as his eyes darted between me and the girl. A boyfriend perhaps?

Goons. They weren't worth my attention. One of them slurred something at me.

The girl was petite, with purple eyeliner and a ring through her nose. I felt her trying to pull away as I met her gaze. Futile. There was something in her eyes I didn't like, something that reminded me of what festered in myself. I stepped forward and into the light of the street lantern, pushing her with me.

"Let me go. Do you know–" The girl paused as she saw the mask covering the lower part of my face. "Shit, cape. Sugita!" she shouted.

Shaggy hair pulled a handgun from his pocket. "Step back," he said in a surprisingly calm tone. "Let her go, or I'll put you down."

"No," I said. When I met his gaze, there was nothing but ice in his eyes. Unlike his friends. He'd probably killed before, be willing to do it again. Not that it'd help him. "Leave."

My danger sense bristled, and I shrugged backward, allowing the girl's clumsy bat strike to miss my face by a mere fraction of an inch and glance off my shoulder. I lashed out an instant later, moving forward to close the distance between me and the one with the gun, sliding my pincer-hand out of my pocket to secure it around Sugita's throat, lifting him off the ground, whirling around, and slamming him against the dumpster behind me.

Something cracked audibly, like a dry stick snapped in half, followed by a howling scream as the girl buckled in my grip. I only had a split second to realize that I'd simply pulled her with me without any regard – and had most likely broken her wrist when I'd twisted – before the sweet scent of her fear and pain slammed into me in a rush of energy and endorphins.

I instinctually squeezed again, eliciting another howling scream from her, before my mind caught up with what I was doing and I let go of her. She fell as if she was a doll whose strings had been cut, her baseball bat clattering on the ground. She curled in on herself like a dying pillbug. A faint noise drifted into my ears over the grunting and struggling of her companions, and it took me a second to identify it as choked sobs.

I felt a faint stab of guilt, but my danger sense tickled again, and the twinge got consumed as I rode on the high that enveloped me. Her pain – and that of her friend when I lifted him up again, headbutted him, and punted him into the ground – fueled me in more ways than just on an emotional level; I could feel my bones grow harder, my muscles swelling and pulsing. It made me stronger, faster, and tougher.

I wanted more.

A knife approached my face, and I didn't bother dodging it, using the opening as it glanced off my cheek and sliced through the fabric of my hood to bury my fist in the surprised slouch-boyfriend's gut. He wobbled a few steps backward before crumpling to the ground like a sack of potatoes.

He didn't look like he was getting up again, and neither did his friend I'd punted into the ground. I still kicked the handgun away from Sugita – just to be sure – as I stepped over him to approach Slouchy. Now, I could almost taste their pain on my tongue, and there was an unmistakable acrid trace of urine and vomit in the air.

He was still on the ground, a pathetic, panting heap, and the sight rode me high into a feeling of power.

More.

He managed to glance up at me as I stepped squarely on his shin. I couldn't keep the grin from my face as I met his gaze, and gently pressed down with my foot, slowly increasing the pressure until something snapped below me. A new wave of his pain hit me, even sweeter.

Something began rising in my subconsciousness, a whispering that encouraged me …urged me to go further. He deserved to suffer, no doubt. He was a criminal, a slaver, and he had bothered me. It was fine to blow off some steam. It felt so good, how could it be wrong?

"He deserves it," my mind whispered. "Just think about how many people he hurt."

Something else snapped below my feet, and this time a pained wheeze reached my ears.

"Geez, she is high as fuck. First time she's gone that far," one of them chuckled. Slouchy?

"Yeah, she's really enjoying herself," the girl on the ground said. "It's about time, yeah?"

"Mmm, but shouldn't we do something?"

"Nah," Sugita growled. "Just let her be for now. My power is pretty potent. It'll get better with time, but the first rush is always the hardest. Fuck, reminds me of my own first time."

Thank you. With a smile, I closed my hand around a slender finger, looking Slouchy in the eyes before I abruptly twisted it. He buckled below me, and I only now realized that I was straddling him.

"Good girl," the girl whispered into my ear. Someone else spoke, but I ignored them. I felt so powerful. Light-headed, and-

Am I not strong? I thought to myself, flexing my arms on impulse. I could feel something straining against my biceps until the pressure suddenly gave away. Heh, nice. Did I just fuck up my jacket?

"Wow, hot," the girl spoke. "Do we have to worry about her discovering the pain blast?"

Pain blast? I frowned. Did I have more powers than I'd realized? A hand caressed my face, and I slapped it away. I looked inward, into the well of my power, for the lack of a better word. Something nudged back at my prodding. Something new. Yet when I tried to reach for it, it backed up. Almost as if someone pulled it away from me, keeping it barely out of reach.

Weird, I thought. I found something else, akin to a leash, but when I pulled at it, it resisted. Like a tug of war. Someone spoke, but I didn't listen. They kept speaking, and finally, I forced myself to focus.

"Please. Please. Please," someone said – sobbed and choked so I could barely understand their words. I realized that it was the guy I was still straddling. "S-sorry. S-sorry. I..I s-sorry."

I rose to my feet, frowning. What was I doing? I tried to get my head back into the present, but I felt so good, strong, and happy. My mind was cloudy, my thoughts were heavy. No, wait, I was doing…?

A sharp stab of pain jabbed into my skull, and for the briefest moment, the fog of my mind cleared. I looked around, blinking, and my eyes fell on a rusty barrel. It was filled with water.

I shuffled toward it, and before I could make up my jumbled mind, I dunked my head into the water.

It was cold. Holy motherfucking hells cold.

I didn't squeak like a little girl. Definitely not, and if anyone said differently, they'd be a vile liar. But it helped, and when I pulled my head from the barrel, my mind was clear again.

I wiped the water from my eyes before I looked back at the scene. What had happened?

I winced. Oh shit.

My handcart still stood where I'd left it, as did the modified metal detector, but the dumpster was now decorated with a big human-sized dent. Three people lay on the ground, crumpled and curled in on themselves. The stench of urine and vomit assaulted my nostrils. One of them wasn't moving, but the other two were trembling and sobbing. An idle impulse had me switch to my blood-sight, but none of them seemed to have internal injuries.

Shit. Fuck. Fuuuuuuck. I slammed my fist into the wall. It helped a little, so I did it again – over and over and over until the filthy concrete was reduced to powder and my tension low enough for me to dare and step back.

I took taking a deep breath. My thoughts swirled, guilt and panic intertwining, but I forced myself to concentrate. No Taylor, stop and think. There's no time for panic. Don't get angry. Oh shit, shit shit, what do I do now?

My eyes darted around, looking for something – anything that could help me resolve this. I needed to do something about them, couldn't just leave them here. I had gone too far. They had deserved some roughing up, sure, no doubt, but I hadn't just scared them off or beaten them up. I had brutalized them. Even ignoring whether it was the right thing to do, this was the kind of shit that got a price put on your head.

I couldn't…fuck! Not now!

My eyes fell on Slouchy's knife. A dark thought rose in me. Vile, disgusting, inhuman, but I…I…I had no choice, did I?

My eyes burned – stung, and something in me twisted while something else started celebrating as I picked up the bent blade.

I approached Sugita, flipping him over. He was out cold but at least he was alive. I gave him a brief touch-down. Nothing seemed broken either, from what I could tell, which was a miracle given how I had used him. He'd been the one with the gun, with the cold eyes. He was the dangerous one.

He'd have to do.

Bile rose in my throat as I brought the knife to his face, pulling away the shaggy hair over his eyes so I could carve the swastika into his forehead.

"This won't be necessary," a voice spoke in broken, heavily accented English. I was startled, but by the time they finished speaking, I had already backflipped from where I'd crouched down, backward into the alley while my tail unfurled from below my jacket.

It coiled out like a whip behind me as I instinctually assumed a combat stance and a twinge of my song caused the razor-sharp obsidian blades running along its entire length to unfurl.

I froze.

"I am not here to fight you. Why did you attack them?" The parahuman asked. I recognized him immediately. A leering demon mask, crimson with two green stripes down either side. A simple black bodysuit, with belt and bandoliers bristling with knives and grenades. Oni Lee.

Lung's right-hand man, and a murderous sociopath if one were to believe the internet. He could teleport, duplicating himself as he did, along with everything he carried with him. He was a skilled and deadly opponent, an immortal suicide bomber that was almost impossible to counter.

"Why did you attack them?" Oni Lee repeated. His voice carried even from behind the mask, but it was flat, emotionless.

"I defended myself," I replied. "I told them to leave, they made the first move."

Oni Lee nodded, barely noticeable. Could I take him on? Maybe. He was dangerous, but if I created a storm of glass, and stayed in there, I could be safe from direct attacks. I didn't know how his powers worked, but I knew that he couldn't fly, and I was convinced that he wouldn't be able to teleport into a meat grinder of glass without actually killing himself for good. But if I did that, then I'd blow my cover.

My Tinker-self couldn't defeat him, not as I was now, without any gear or preparation. By the standards of a normal Tinker, I'd been caught flatfooted. Shit.

What do I do now?

Honestly, I wanted to fight him. More out of a desire to test my mettle against one of the biggest threats in the city than of a desire to see him brought to justice, but I was self-aware enough to realize the repercussions of lunging at him.

"I understand," Oni Lee pulled something from his pocket, and casually flicked it at me. I easily caught it with my hand. A burner phone? "Proceed with them as you please. The ABB apologizes on their behalf."

I stared down at the phone in my hand. "Why?"

"To contact us if you are in dire need."

"Why?" I asked again, too aghast to care that I was pretty much repeating myself.

"So we can come and help," Lee stated as a matter of fact. He might as well have been talking about the weather. Fucking creepy.

"Why do you care?"

Lee paused to look at me, and for the first time, I had the impression that he really looked at me, cocking his head as he visibly thought about what to say next.

"Balance," he finally said, gesturing with his hand, and I could only gape, stupefied, as the Oni Lee in front of me suddenly fell apart into a cloud of ash, leaving me alone with the three brutalized gangers. The situation was surreal. Did he just let me go? Why would he not fight me? As thankful as I was for that, a part of me couldn't help but feel rejected – insulted – that he didn't seem to consider me a threat, and hadn't taken me seriously.

The thought that he disrespected me – treated me as someone unworthy – had me seething, but it only was a brief spike of anger that I quickly managed to wrestle down and rationalize apart. No…that didn't make any sense. It was silly. Immature.

I sighed as I looked around, but Lee was nowhere to be seen. Even when I switched to my blood-sight, the only things I could spot were the three goons and some rats in the dark. To think that someone had once again managed to get the drop on me was unsettling.

I needed to get out of here.

I quickly zip-tied the three gangers together. One of them had two broken legs, so they wouldn't get far even if I left them alone. A darker part of my mind whispered at me to simply get rid of them – kill them and string their corpses up on a streetlight – but I didn't. Instead, after gathering my things and scooping up the gun and the baseball bat, I called the police with my new burner phone, before dropping it into my dimensional bullshit storage where it would be untraceable until I retrieved it again.

I was about to leave when a glint of light in the corner of my eye caught my attention. A delicate heart-shaped necklace, sitting around the neck of the girl and reflecting the light of the streetlight above. It must have been tucked away beneath her shirt, and fallen out when I'd thrown her around.

It was in my hand, the chain snapped before I knew what I was doing. Well, I thought as I pocketed it, before reaching out to grab the handle of my loaded handcart. Police sirens sounded in the distance, closing in. It could make for a decent memento, but enough stalling. Time to get the fuck out of here.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

If there was one thing that could be said about the house I grew up in, it was that the insulation was crap. Not horrible, mind you, but the kind of thing you noticed. Especially in winter. The insulation of my workshop, though well. I wasn't sure if there even was any in the first place, but two days of nearly non-stop forging and Tinkering around the clock had turned my lair into a fucking miniature Saharan desert, neatly contained by four walls.

By this point, I had not only dared to open the skylight but had unapologetically discarded most of my clothes except for the pants I was wearing and my blacksmith apron. Yet, rivers of sweat were running down my bare back as I brought the hammer down and down and down again onto the delicate slab of glowing hot Tinker bronze on the anvil in front of me.

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts thundered from the speaker of my phone, but it didn't drown out the thundering strikes echoing in my ear. Couldn't dare to rest. Couldn't dare to stop.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Even with my increased natural resistance and the barrier I'd erected between myself and the forge so I couldn't see the glowing fire, the heat now emanating from my steam forge was uncomfortable, and every so often a wave of hot air caressed my back.

That actually didn't bother me too much, and neither did the sweat. Sweat was the athletes' perfume, after all.

In a way, it even pushed me onward, invigorated me, and made me feel alive in a deeply satisfying manner. The sight of my rippling, sweat-glistening arm was nothing short of euphoric, and a big part of me couldn't help but feel sorrow that I'd never again feel the sweet soreness after working myself to the brink of collapse.

Not too long ago it had been something I'd dreaded, as much as I'd dreaded the infamous phrase "gym class." I'd never been a fit girl. Now though, and in retrospect? It was just one of the many little things my powers had taken from me. Taken along with my ability to feel pain.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Finally, I dropped the hammer, using the pause to wipe the lenses of my protective goggles before I adjusted my pincer's grip, and lifted the piece of metal to inspect it. It looked good, and after a few minor adjustments with a smaller hammer from my apron, I carried it over to my work table and dropped it onto a tray of sand to cool off.

Stabby and his new partner skittered around in the back but I paid little attention to my mechanical minions. I stretched, lifting my arms – both my metal and the flesh one – over my head and pulled them with a delightful crack of my joints before I regarded the things laid out in front of me.

My gaze only lingered a moment on the array of components, before immediately flickering to the thing on the table for what must be the hundredth time in the last hour. The stupid little enigma of a Nokia brick, holding six contacts; L1, L2, and, L3, as well as O1, O2, and O3, never more than an arm's reach away from me at all times.

I caught myself quickly, looking away as I fished for a fresh towel and dried myself off, but it was too late. Every glance brought me back to the alley, to the girl's sobs and my own arousal as I broke her bones one by one. No doubt, she'd deserved getting taken down a peg – even getting beat down – but what I had done to her had been excessive. Like what a fucking monster like Hookwolf did to people.

I ground my teeth, but I restrained myself from lashing out against something. I wanted to cry in frustration, with the full knowledge that it was fucking weak of me, but I just couldn't help it.

I stood there, mere weeks away from getting my rosy future with Dad, and it had gone so smoothly until now. I'd tinkered away for months, enjoyed my last weeks in the Bay, and within two fucking days, everything around me had derailed.

And now… now…

I'd crafted three defense bots, a bunch of grenades, two guns, and even a beautiful glaive for Kal in the span of two fucking days, sneaking away whenever I could, tweaking and fucking up my own biology so I could prolong my time without sleeping even though it made me jittery and twitchy as fuck…

…and it wasn't enough. I needed to finish my Sentinel. I needed resources. I… fuck. I'd never make it like this. I needed to focus on my tinkering, and here I was now, with Lee and Lung on my fucking speed dial, and fuck did I know why. Why me, of all people? I wasn't even Asian, goddammit. I wanted to be a hero, and here I was practically associating with the fucking ABB.

I slammed the soaked towel against the wall and forced myself to focus back on the task at hand. I was sick of it – of worrying about shit I couldn't control. Did it help me? Could I even help it? Of fucking course not.

Just two more weeks Taylor, I told myself. You can do it.

To my surprise, it helped.

The confiscated aluminum baseball bat from the ABB girl I'd massacred dealt with just two hours ago now sat before me, stripped off its red and green paint job and split in half like one of the sand casts I used for forging, revealing its hollowed out interior.

A baseball bat was a classy and versatile weapon, non-lethal and simple enough, and so I'd decided to upgrade it instead of turning it into scrap metal. And with the last piece done and now cooling off next to me, it was time to assemble it.

My mechanical hand was powerful with the tradeoff that it struggled with fine control, but the delicate pincer on my tail was well suited for precise manipulation. With my three limbs working in accord, assembling the three main components for my new weapon was easy.

The whole construction was almost trivial, consisting only of three components: a power cell, connecting cables, and the taser head. I carefully grabbed the slender cylinder housing both the intricate steam dynamo and the steam cell I'd recycled from one of my shock grenades, slotting it into the lower handle of the bat. Using my reshaping power, I narrowed the aluminum cylinder for a good fit. Next, a series of bolts anchored it into place, protruding a little out of the original casing. The body transitioned into the custom pommel I'd crafted for my new weapon, a masterpiece made from black glass and golden bronze.

The connector came next, a series of simple tubes and cables for steam and electricity, carefully cushioned with loose sand and wrapped in a cable housing spooled from fine bronze threads. They were surprisingly flexible, albeit a nightmare to make, but they'd protect the fragile shit inside.

Truly a must-have, given that the overlaying purpose of this construction was to smash in heads like a barbarian. I found myself humming along to the music as I slotted it in and took a screwdriver to the delicate bronze screws I'd cast just for this. They'd follow along in the center of the body of the bat, connecting the lower parts with the war-head.

The tip of the bat was the main damage dealer. While the weapon would usually be just a Taser beat stick, designed to fry people with hopefully nonlethal amounts of electricity, the fiddly things I'd stuck into the central cylinder allowed me to use the discharge vents for the steam as an impromptu backup weapon that would allow me to heat the bat up by wrapping it in clouds of superheated steam, or straight-up douse my surroundings like a flamethrower when I was in a pinch.

Since the sides were the part of my weapon that would bear the brunt of most impacts, I'd made sure to add additional armor plating as well as a layer of pressurized steam sandwiched in between the two layers of metal – like one of those impervious Prince Rupert drop things. A total of twelve pockets of pressurized steam were arranged tightly around the head in two rows.

Tubes providing the compressors with steam were hooked up to the connector and securely bolted into the original aluminum case. Fiddling the taser prongs to where I wanted them turned out a bit of a challenge since I couldn't just melt them into place without potentially fucking up the conductivity, but, eventually, I was holding a finished product.

Well, mostly finished, I thought. The new interior components aligned perfectly with the hull, but there were still large gaps where I hadn't been able to cram in more gear without throwing off the weight. I put some last finishing touches on everything – checked screws, bolts, and contacts – before I reached out with my song, and called.

Sand rose from the bucket next to me, crunching together as I filled it into every empty space, squeezing and compressing it as much as possible. I held it in place there as I resealed the bat, melting the aluminum together seamlessly as if it was never split apart in the first place before I released the hold of my song.

I hummed another melody and the bat rose from the table, hovering and rotating slowly in midair in front of my face. I'd still have to coat the outside in another layer or two of bronze and add some decorations, the shock prods, and other knickknacks, but now I had another serviceable weapon.

I couldn't help a bit of smugness as I watched it hover in front of me. Initially, the idea of wasting my precious Tinker bronze on such a… well, primitive weapon had seemed like a waste of resources, but I needed something durable that I could fight with, and honestly, when I looked at it now, I couldn't help but feel proud of my newest creation.

In my mind, I could already see how it would look when it was done. Golden bronze shimmering like a nova under the light of the lightbulbs above me. A smooth handle wrapped in red or black leather, cuddling into my grip. Intricate lines of midnight glass – maybe even obsidian if I managed to get my hands on more of that – covering the surface, reflecting the cycle of lightning when I punted it over and over and over again into Emma fucking Barnes's face before I shoved it into–

I coughed, my wince at the train of thought giving way to a smile. Yet, the mental slip-up didn't impact my mood, and when I regarded the actual interplay of black, shimmering gold, and sallow aluminum before my eyes, I could, for the briefest moment, swear that the bat smiled back at me.

"Oh my god, it is just a fucking bat, keep your shit together girl," The bat cackled silently at me, but I rebuked him. Not just a baseball bat, but a beat stick for the gods, I thought smugly. Now I just had to give it a quick polish, and I could go and use my new toy to break something while pretending it was Emma's face.

The experience of moving from my den to the outside world was like stepping from an oven into a freezer. A wall of cold air slammed into me as I hovered out of the skylight and onto the flat roof of my abode. In other words, it was almost heaven, and after brushing the fresh snow off the old lounger I'd carried up here ages ago, I allowed myself to lie down and relax.

I knew I shouldn't… but just a little, fleeting moment of peace wouldn't hurt, right?

I kept my eyes open to gaze up at the stars and for a while, I did just that.

I loved the peace, the relative quietness compared to the thrum of my workshop or the never-sleeping city. To just sit there, and gaze up into the endless sky.

Cold snowflakes drifted past my vision, prickling where they landed on my face. The dark sky was overcast with clouds, but I could occasionally spot the moon peeking through the tears in the dark curtain. A cold, pale entity smiling down at me with its silvery light. Warming my face even though there was no warmth to be found.

There were no stars this deep in the city, but the glass around me rose at my command, catching what bits of light there were and forming a shimmering galaxy above my head.

Beautiful. Mesmerizing.

I wanted to strip off my worries, put on some light music, and just dance in the moonlight, at the center of my own galaxy and entranced in the weave of glass I'd cast. I would have if there was a clear sky and a full moon, and fuck the cold…but I didn't. Instead, I just closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to drift.

I didn't want to think about Greasecan – didn't want to think about shit like assassins or serial killers, or how I'd even manage to cart my fucking Sentinel and all my shit to Boston without Dad or anyone noticing. I wanted to think about normal stuff. Stuff I could worry about.

How would my life continue?

What would I do?

What would happen if Dad lost the lawsuit?

What future did I even have?

I was about to move to an entirely new city – thank fucking god – but what would await me there? Of course, I'd read the brochures about Boston, about the new "luxurious apartment" (hah!) Dad had managed to organize in such a short amount of time. I'd even googled up images of the lovely 26-story concrete block with fortunate placement right next to the famous Jamaica Pond itself.

I'd read up what sparse info I could find on the topic of the city's major capes. Boston was at least twice as big as Brockton Bay, and just looking at their Protectorate lineup was baffling. All the official heroes, plus Sacred Heart, Yago-Kay, Dark Society, Accord…

So many names, so many capes, so many gangs. How would I even fit in there? Would I and Dad settle in Boston, or would we just end up on the street? Another missed shot, taken amongst so many others. Fuck, it reminded me of school, of how it'd 'worked out' when I'd gone back for the first time.

Would I snap? What would people see in me when I walked through the door with all my glorious two hundred pounds of disfigured, scarred muscle and anger issues? Would people even try to get to know me, or would they just see a violent thug?

I wanted to say 'fuck people'. No one would ever look down on me again, step all over me, or talk shit into my face without paying the consequences. No one would disrespect me ever again, and I'd rather die than go back to the way things had been.

But – and as much as I hated to admit it – it wouldn't matter much if people avoided me because I was a victim or because I was a predator. I'd be alone either way.

I guess I wanted to be left alone…but I didn't want to be alone. I really didn't.

I lifted my hands – first the flesh one and then the crude metal cybernetic – skywards, sighing. I was damaged, so fucking damaged, and there was no point in denying that…but every scar made me tougher, didn't it?

Emma's face flashed before my eyes, and her soft voice dripped into my ear. "You are weak, Taylor. A pathetic little mouse and I don't need you anymore. Why don't you just die?"

No. I looked to my left, finding the brick person I'd assembled for my target practice a while ago, and without getting up from my lounge, I yanked my new bat into my fingers and smashed it right to left over my body and into the statue's face.

I rolled onto my feet, triumphantly grinning down at Emma's shattered face. Weak? You call me weak, little bitch. I'll eat you alive, you pathetic sheep.

I kicked into the pile of rubble, and then, without looking, I hurled my weapon at a series of old cans aligned on the ledge of the roof, mowing them down, and before the bat could drop down and out of my sight, I'd already yanked it back toward me.

I grabbed it without looking, swirling around in the same movement, and bringing it down on an invisible target. Ha!

I cleared the roof from anything suspicious before climbing back into my now slightly cooler dwelling, immediately throwing off my scarf, jacket, shirt, and everything else unneeded so I could avoid having to take a second shower before I left for home.

I carried my bat towards my weapon safe, a heavy chest made from pure, inches-thick scrap steel and without any visible lock or opening. It was something I'd designed myself, and without my telekinesis, it was unopenable.

There was no sound – no clack of locks and bolts as I sang it open, using my super strength to lift up the insanely heavy lid so I could place my bat in there with everything else–

And then a phone rang into the silence, and my head whipped around, eyes darting towards the lump of evil plastic on my desk, and–

I managed to pull my pincer away before it got mangled, followed by my mind catching up on the fact that I'd accidentally let go of the safe door, and again followed by another realization that shattered the lump of ice suddenly stuck in my throat.

Oh, no, wait. Just my personal phone. Holy fuck did that just scare me, I thought. The weight that dropped off my shoulders was almost physical, but who could blame me?

A flick of my finger deactivated the voice changer in my mask, and a silent hum yanked the sleek smartphone into my hand. I brought it to my ear. "Da–" The word got stuck in my throat when realization hit me. No, no, no. It's like fucking three AM. This can't be Dad.

I would have cleared my throat if I still needed to do that. Who the fuck was calling me at this hour on my private phone? Did Martha notice me sneaking out? Shit, shit, shit.

I shot a glance at the display. Then another one. Big C? Who the fuck was Big C?

"Yes?" I rasped.

"Hello. Hello!" A voice exclaimed excitedly. A bit like a kid getting their candy, which was weird because it was clearly an adult speaking. "I'm connected to Songbird, right? The independent hero?"

I dropped the phone, flicked the switch of my voice changer back on, and caught it again within the split of a second. Only then did I allow myself to freeze like a deer in headlights as my thoughts began stumbling upon each other like a panicked mob mass pile-up.

I vaguely recognized the voice but w-what the fuck? I glanced at the display again, just to make sure. The letters spelling out 'Big C' still smiled out at me, leaving me none the wiser.

"Hello?" The voice asked again, audibly less cheery. Images of Greg flashed before my eyes, giving me the exact sick, beaten-puppy vibes I had no fucking use for right now, goddammit.

Who the fuck is Big C, I wanted to scream into the phone. Why did he have my private number that less than a handful of people knew, and why was he calling Songbird on my personal phone?

How do you have my number? Who the fuck are you, and why are you calling me at fucking three AM? I took a breath and uttered a single "yes" into my phone. Songbird; It had been the name I’d come up on the fly during my meeting with Carson. 

Then, after a pause, I offered a careful "Who are you, and how can I help you?"

In times like these, I was truly thankful that my mask, voice modulator, and still-mutilated larynx allowed me to bypass most of the awkward "uhms" and "ehms", and the truly unprofessional nervous stuttering that would have undoubtedly poured from my lips.

"Great, great, I come bearing news regarding our mutual friend," the voice exclaimed. The cheer was back in full force now. "I am Carson, Michael Carson, at your service! You gave me your number, remember? A few days ago, the …encounter, you know?"

Oh. Oh, yes, fuck, I did remember that shit. I also very much remembered that I had not given this guy my fucking number. Had he just added himself to my contacts when I'd lent him my phone to call for a cab or whatever?

"Yes," I responded, used to my mouth working more or less on its own when my temper got like this."So?"

"Well, I bring some very exciting news!" Carson said. "Your friend, the Cee Fifty-Three made it through. Barely, but he'll live. I know that you Capes are tight about your secret identities and the like, so I brought him to a discrete doctor I'd heard about. You'll have to negotiate pay with him directly, though I can forward you the contact details and address. Say… were you aware that your friend is being searched for by the police?"

I balked at his curious voice. Are you mocking me? It took me a moment to identify the phrase he'd used. C53: Monster Capes. Inhuman-looking people with powers, randomly appearing all over the world with no memories, and no recollection of their past One of those 'messy' outcomes of getting powers, though a bit different from mine.

I considered simply hanging up and blocking his number.

Sure, Carson had helped me deal with Greasecan – civil courage or whatever bullshit you'd want to call it – but I hadn't expected to ever meet him again, let alone having to deal with that lowlife pest…who wasn't even my fucking friend, goddammit. I knew nothing about this fucker ...either of them!

And here he was, calling me at three in the fucking morning and d-demanding payment from me to help a supervillain? Why are you bothering me with this, I wanted to say. What do you even want from me?

It made me speechless, and frankly, the urge to wash my hands of Greasecan and let him rot and die in whatever hole he'd ended up in was very enticing. A simple 'he isn't my friend, we were fighting, and you can turn him in to the authorities' would be enough. Yet, as I started to say just that, I found myself hesitating.

I ground my teeth in frustration. I shouldn't get involved with the shit the Bay threw at me, not so close to my departure… but I knew that Greasecan knew something. I needed to know what the fuck was going on – if just to be prepared when someone targeted me.

I knew about the great game – cops and robbers – and I knew that it wasn't played by a sniper round into the head. It meant that whoever was behind the attack back in that alley didn't play by the Unwritten Rules. If they came after me, I doubted that it would only be in costume.

That was unacceptable, and Greasecan… he'd said something moments before he bled out beneath me, hadn't he? Trenchcoat-woman, he'd said. I was by no means an expert on the local cape scene but I was pretty sure that I'd never heard about a woman in a trenchcoat before, and none of the local capes I knew of hit anywhere close to that description either.

If she was even a Cape.

"Thank you," I said.

"It's of course not my business, but you don't sound particularly enthusiastic about your friend…"

I almost growled into the phone. He isn't my friend.

He could die for all I cared, truly, and even if I shouldn't think like that, fuck it. Still, I'd need to talk to him, at least once. If that meant that I'd have to pretend to be his friend just once? So be it.

"It's three a.m.," I said. "Sorry. It's a bit late, and I am tired."

"Oh, no problem!" Carson exclaimed. He chuckled. "I always thought you capes were night owls… well, anyway! With that out of the way, would you be interested in a highly profitable job?"

I blinked.

"A job? What job?" I asked. "How much?"

"Oh, well, how about 3 thousand dollars for a single evening of your services? I am in need of a bodyguard for an entirely legal occasion, I truly swear."

Why do you need a bodyguard then? I thought with a mentally raised eyebrow. Honestly, that caught me pretty off-guard. Was this… a trap? I didn't trust this guy… fuck no, but three-fucking thousand dollars for a single night? That sounded like a dream – it was more than Kal had made in her entire career as an artist.

I could do so much with that money, I thought, but who even was this guy? Some kind of businessman, if I remembered correctly. With armed bodyguards. A gangster maybe? One of the old mobsters still clinging to relevance after the rise of Parahumans had overthrown organized crime?

"One moment," I spoke into the phone, before putting the speaker on mute. Then, I started clicking through the radial menus of my smartphone, opened the web browser, and did my best impression of Sherlock Holmes.

I googled him.

To my surprise, only a few types later I found myself on a barebone website and was indeed greeted by the smiling face of Michael Carson, and the truly informative phrase 'My business is your business' followed by an email address and a telephone number that matched those in my phone.

There was nothing else on the website.

At first glance, he seemed to be legit, in the way the stereotypical smarmy loanshark-type CEO villain from crappy television drama did. He didn't seem to be a cape, at least.

Then an idea hit me. If he was a businessman, then maybe…?

"Business is a pretty broad field," I spoke into the speaker after unmuting myself again. "What do you actually do?"

"Oh, many things," Carson answered cheerily. "I organize, buy, and sell things, facilitate connections-"

"I need bronze. Is that something…"

"Uhm, pardon…bronze?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's an… oddly specific request.," Carson answered. "If you forgive my curiosity, why bronze?"

"Stuff," I elaborated.

"Oh," Carson answered. Based on the awkward pause following my statement, he'd obviously waited for me to elaborate. Sucks to be him, I guess. "Well, yes…ok then. If you excuse me for a moment…"

I could hear whispers and hushing through the phone, but it was too silent for me to understand. But only a moment later, Carson's voice returned to full strength.

"…well Miss Songbird, I think I can help you out, and the service will even be free as a show of our blossoming friendship! But, the cost of materials will be subtracted from the original payment, of course."

Fuck yes! I thought. My mood had done a one-eighty turn. Not that I trusted any of this – or this guy – further than I could spit, but I was due some good luck, and this looked like it.

"How much can you get me?" I asked.

"Uhm, for two of the three thousand dollars… how about a metric ton? Well, more or less."

I did not squawk, and I certainly did not drop my phone either.

"Let's meet up," I said. "Now."

I still had around two hours before I needed to be back in bed like the good teenage girl I pretended to be, and it would be enough to check this guy out. Or, a darker part of my mind whispered, to get rid of a potential threat.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

I hovered in the sky, carried by my shattered wings as I stared down at the three crimson outlines shining through the roof of the warehouse below me. There was a single skylight, but I kept myself out of their view.

One sitting, one standing in a corner, arms crossed, and one who seemed to be sleeping. Perhaps in a side room, though I couldn’t tell for sure. Three people, three potential threats. I was nervous – of fucking course I was – and I had been for the entire time I’d flown here. 

Random guy calling me at three A.m. for a suspicious job offer? He’d wanted Kal the artist, so it was unlikely he was looking for anything illicit, and yet…  It was beyond fishy, but I didn’t dare turn him down without at least hearing him out. One fucking metric ton of bronze? It would solve all my problems in one swoop. Hell, it made the impossible feasible. 

A solution to such a fucking ridiculous problem that it should have me scoffing at the sheer… triviality. Bronze was trash, no one needed it, and no one used it save for artists and retro-fuckers trying to cling to the past.   

Sure, it was still a fancy metal, costing roughly five hundred bucks for a hundred pounds, but since I never had enough money to even think about buying it in bulk – let alone the attention that might bring me – I had to resort to trash-diving. Which, again, fed back into the issue of no one really using bronze anymore. 

In hindsight, it was a wonder that I’d ever gotten as far as I had now.

Fuck . I sighed, looking around. It’s not like I wanted to have an ambush waiting for me, but no matter how many times I checked, my sight revealed nothing but emptiness. A whole block around me, devoid of life save for the three shapes below. 

No point in delaying this any longer , I thought to myself, and after taking a long, deep breath full of nicotine, I snipped my still-glowing cigarette bud into the darkness and readjusted my mask. Then I coiled my wings together, moved over the skylight, and simply let myself plummet down. 

I crashed through the skylight, glass shattering around me, wrapped in my beautiful crystalline wings. 

Heads snapped up, eyes wide, and in the fleeting moment of free-fall, I met Carson’s startled gaze before I crashed feet-first into the ground. To my disappointment, the clean concrete beneath my feet didn’t shatter upon impact, and after absorbing the force with my knees, I nonchalantly took a step forward and extended my right hand.

“Hello,” I said, internally wincing and ignoring my cracking knees. “So you wish to hire my services?”

Carson – to my surprise – quickly gathered himself, jumped from the couch he had occupied, and pounced like a rabid animal onto my hand as a wide grin split his face ear to ear. He still looked like he had back in the alley; nice suit, clean-shaved face, and short black hair neatly cropped and styled like you’d expect from a brave momma’s boy. A small and slender man in his early thirties, exuding so much slime from every pore of his demeanor that I almost feared slipping and tripping on it. 

A woman’s voice snorted, “Hah, nice entry, kid.” It was just the bodyguard, now once more leaning against a nearby column with her arms crossed. I recognized her, but I couldn’t remember her name.

“Miss Songbird! What a pleasure, I almost feared that you wouldn’t show up…and in such a dramatic manner…my poor heart!” He laughed in an almost revoltingly charming manner, gesturing to the remains on the window on the ground with his free hand. “Ah, don’t worry about the window. I’ll just dock it from your pay after the mission.”

I… shit . I cursed internally. I wanted to slap myself. “…sorry,” I mumbled. “Can fix it, if you’d like.”

“That would be very much appreciated!” Carson exclaimed. He still held my hand, and I yanked it back without any regard for him. When I looked around the warehouse, I noticed a series of cots with disarrayed blankets set up in a corner. Was the guy living here? 

Apart from that, the warehouse looked very much…professional. A single massive cargo hall, gloomily empty save for a fancy car parked next to the main roll gate, a few shipping crates on one end, the apparent sleeping area, and the little furnished corner I found myself standing next to.

It seemed to be an impromptu office space, dominated by a large table in the center littered with paper and all the other little bits of office shit I knew from Dad’s old office in the DWA building. There were three laptops, a cup-holder tray with empty cups of takeout coffee, and a large couch set up against the rear wall. 

Not quite how I imagined the working space of a legitimate businessman. Frankly, it would have made me very suspicious if not for the sheer mundaneness of everything.   Criminals were supposed to be flashy and ostentatious, weren’t they?

Given how the building looked from the outside, it was in surprisingly good shape. The walls were spotless and freshly painted, and the ground was so clean I could have eaten off of it. The halogen lights shining down from above were so modern that I only needed to look at them and the imaginary smell of fresh factory goods hit my nose.

Someone – Carson presumably – had obviously dumped a lot of money into this building. But why would a businessman from Boston do that, in a dying shithole of a city hundreds of miles away? 

Since I’d grown up as the daughter of a Dockworker, with a history that went at least a few generations back from what I knew, I had just a little experience of blue-collar work, and ever so slightly less about the white-color work when Dad had switched to administration as the hiring head of the DWA.

I couldn’t really say that I’d ever cared much about Dad’s work – at least not enough ever to consider looking into it – but I’d visited him often enough at his office to pick up a few things here and there over the years. 

Still, at the end of the day I still really knew shit about it if I was being honest, and thus the assumption that whatever Carson was doing here was probably some legit business stuff seemed fair enough. It wasn’t like he operated out of some shady basement. and as long as he paid, and didn’t trick me, I didn’t care. 

“I will accept the job,” I confirmed again. “But I need to know more details, and I want the bronze. Upfront. I will not aid you with anything illegal.”

For a moment, Carson looked like he wanted to object, but he just shrugged and gestured for me to follow him deeper into the warehouse. “Of course, Miss Songbird. Unfortunately, I can’t deliver all of the bronze immediately, but I have a decent amount here I can offer.” He shot me a glance before continuing. “You said the shape doesn’t matter, right?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Uhm, forgive me my curiosity but–”

“Art,” I elaborated again. “I sometimes sell it under a different name on the Boardwalk. You will never speak of this to anyone else.”

“Oh, of course. Right. I understand the want to avoid attention. My lips shall remain sealed,” Carson said. The smile never left his voice, but something in his eyes sparked in a way I didn’t like. “So you must be Kaleidoscope then. I’ve heard a little about you and your art.  Could I perhaps ask–”

“Sure,” I said. “Pendant? Ring?”

“A pendant would be lovely, and one of your flowers, if you can.”

“Fine,” I said. That would be easy enough and only cost me a few minutes at best.

The crate Carson directed me to was located at the other end of the warehouse, and I idly plucked some glass from the air around me and started assembling a rose for him. Blue, black, green, red…a swirling mess of colors, shimmering and melting into each other until I held a delicate flower radiating in a kaleidoscope of shades. I made a second one, and a third, wrapping them into an impromptu bouquet, which I then shoved into the surprised man’s hands when we finally stopped.

“Consider it a gift,” I explained. 

The crate in front of me lay on its side, with one wall pried off and sitting on the floor. It was big, reaching up to my shoulder, and when I peeked inside, I was greeted by loads and loads of what seemed to be wood wool stuffing. 

“Can I look?” I asked.

“Sure, sure,” Carson smiled. “It’s all yours, upon agreeing to the job of course. If you need help transporting it, I can lend you one of my drivers for a token fee.”

I reached into the wooden wool, and my fingers found hard shapes. I grabbed one, pulled, and was rewarded with a vaguely human-shaped thing, wrapped in crispy paper. It was at least three feet tall, but I could barely feel the weight when I hoisted it out of the crate and carefully sat it down on the floor. A statue? I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.

I tore off the paper wrapping, and my eyes widened. 

What the fuck is this. Oh my god. Why? Jesus fucking Christ. 

“The crate holds a dozen of them.”

I turned to stare at Carson. Who the hell would want something like this? And he had like a metric fucking ton of them? Oh my god…were they all like…this abomination?

“Serviceable,” I nodded, but I couldn’t suppress the disbelieving, “ why ?”

“Uhm, why what?” Carson asked innocently, but I could fucking see his lips twitch . This…this bastard! Defiler of the arts. This was a national and cultural crime, and nothing else. 

“Why do you have…” I gestured helplessly at the large abomination of an amorphous but clearly suggestive sculpture. A metric fuck-ton of not so very-subtly phallic statues of liberty. “...this! This is an insult to art. ” 

Carson winced a little. ”Well, please trust me when I say that I am very happy to get rid of them. I made a deal with an aspiring…erotica artist, and well…” He coughed and shrugged. “Let’s just say I made a mistake, leave it at that, and never speak of it again.”

“Works for me,” I shrugged, I’d melt them down anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. Pure, unsullied bronze, in large quantities. This was an eyesore for the ages, but very much what I needed.

I turned my attention away from the statue on the ground, and back at Carson, standing up to my full height as I faced him. “What is this job you need my services for?”

“Ah, well. You see, I have recently acquired an invitation to a gathering of a bunch of very influential figures – next Friday actually, not this one – and I need a dashing companion to accompany me there.” Carson eyed me. “Your company would truly be an exquisite enrichment for the eveníng.”

I didn’t like the way he eyed me. There clearly wasn’t anything sexual about his gaze, it was purely calculating…but in a way that just rubbed me wrong. He checked me out like a cow for sale – like a slab of meat – and a part of me wanted to sock it out of him, whether it was just my imagination or not.   

Yet, I stayed my hand, neutered my ego, and eyed the phone screen he held in front of me. Some kind of event announcement – a fundraiser? – plastered across a website. 

I only caught a few names before Carson pulled the screen away; Stansfield, Anders, Estrella. It sounded…familiar, and now that I thought about it, I did remember reading about it before. What was that again…

Oh, oh , right. That massive fundraiser event this new company was hosting to rejuvenate the city. All the big fucks of Brockton Bay would be there…and that’s where Carson wanted to drag me along to? 

A part of me felt intrigued. If I really wanted to present Songbird as my official hero persona, which I now all but had to thanks to my hasty decisions with Carson, this was a beneficial move that would play well into the more flashy nature of my powers. It could give me a lot of clout, to get into one of those events. But…why? Why would he need me there? It wasn’t the kind of place where you’d need muscle to save your hide or bust in some faces when things went wrong…fuck, I was pretty sure even some of the Protectorate heroes would be attending.  

It would be a safe event, especially with the rich fucks like the Standfields and the Anders attending. As far as my knowledge went, they were among the most influential families in the Bay, with all the social bickering and hoity-toity events that entailed. They controlled some of the largest businesses in town, like the Medhall Corporation. 

He wasn’t looking to hire Songbird as protection. He could have brought fucking Armsmaster as his plus-one, and all that would accomplish-

Oh . Something in my mind clicked, and just like that, my self-esteem collapsed back into nothing. My cheeks started to burn, but it wasn’t anger.

“I will call,” I said, and without giving Carson a chance to speak, I excused myself with a curt nod, and surged into the air and out of the skylight before I did something I’d regret. I surged through the night, and I didn’t stop, neither to think nor to contemplate. 

As I glided over the sleeping city, I caught something in the corner of my eyes, and together with the sensation of someone watching me, I turned my head. Yet, the figure I thought I noticed watching me from an alley below me wasn’t there, and even when I switched to my blood-sight, there was no one around. Fucking Carson and his fucking offer, making me so stressed I was seeing things.

Eventually, I continued my way home, and only when I was lying in an unfamiliar bed, staring up at an unfamiliar ceiling while people who weren’t family snored innocently in the adjacent room next to mine did I allow myself to fully process this new turn of events. 

I wasn’t even angry with Carson, not really, even though I’d wanted to strangle him on the spot. No, I wasn’t angry… I was mortified …and that was so much worse. Sure, I pretended to be just an artist…tried to stay out of trouble, but with a distinguished merc crew like Faultine’s in the same city, the thought of hiring out my services had crossed my mind before. 

I couldn’t help but scoff bitterly at the ceiling, digging my hand into the unfamiliar blanket that never quite itched on my skin, trying to fight down the waves of indignance and humiliation boiling through my mind as I buried my face in my pillow. 

Sure, I’d fleetingly thought about the idea now and then, but I’d never really engaged with the topic. When Carson had contacted me a few hours ago, I hadn’t known what to expect. Fuck if I did now…but a part of myself had thought that someone saw a new and inexperienced cape, and saw something in her. Potential, maybe. 

A part of me had thought that I’d earned someone’s respect. Enough respect for them to entrust me with their safety. Sure, I might have turned down the offer if it was a hit job, something where violence was inevitable, but… I’d figured that I might at least have to bust some heads, intimidate someone, or bruise a few egos.

Not exactly what I wanted to achieve in life, but I could live with the thought of being some hired thug now and then, fair enough. But to be…reduced… to fucking eye candy …for some rich g-grease-fuck to brag about with his fucking rich friends…

That wasn’t what I’d expected, and it left me speechless. No…I didn’t blame Carson, but it stung in a way I didn’t know it could. I was an artist, sure, pretending to be a little fish in a pond of sharks. But who was I really? 

I was a shattered angel who could weave songs that tore cities apart. I could burn a mark into this city – this whole fucking country – bright enough for the fucking Slaughterhouse 9 to come knocking at my door, begging me to join them. 

…and I hired myself away as an arm warmer for rich fucks like a prostitute. Wasn’t that a lovely prospect? He could have as well asked me to get on my knees and suck him off for a hundred bucks, and I wasn’t sure if that would feel worse. 

Maybe I was overreacting – overthinking things, but this revelation had so thoroughly shattered my ego that I just didn’t know how to deal with it. It was insulting, disrespectful, humiliating… and I’d still fucking do it, for fucks sake.

Gaaaaah.  

I closed my eyes, sulking into my pillow as I waited for the dreaded sleep to claim me. And when it finally did, I soon found myself stalking through eerily familiar corridors. There was fire everywhere, but no matter where I ran, the searing flames always followed, and the iron door would always wait for me. And when I finally stopped, exhausted, defeated, and scared for my life, slender, emaciated fingers closed around my throat and jaw from behind.

Hot, jagged breath panted into my ear, and something wet dripped onto my shoulder, but I couldn’t turn around – couldn’t see the thing behind me.

I screamed, sobbed, and begged until my throat gave out, but the fingers were merciless, and the grip as unyielding as wrought iron. Something hard was forced into my mouth, followed by acid tar pouring down my throat as I flailed and buckled, and retched, held by pale hands that never let go.    

I screamed, and as I did, the world around me shattered in crimson and smoke.

The man waited until the flying cape had left his field of view, and then he waited even longer, mentally counting down five minutes before he finally dared to move again. Slowly, he pushed himself off the wall he’d pressed himself against. The rough stone texture of his skin slowly receded as he released his grip on the grimy concrete, and after picking up the tray of now-cold takeout coffee from the ground, he reached into his pocket and fished out a burner phone. 

He dialed the only contact. “Yo boss, how’d the meeting go?”

“Interesting,” the woman on the other side replied. “Skidmark made his move, and he made it surprisingly well. The gangs will focus on him, so we’ll be covered for now. Where are you? You are late.”

“Found a new Cape on a night stroll,” the man said. “Purely by chance. She didn’t see me.”

“Interesting,” The woman said. “The teleporter?”

“Hard to say. She can fly though.”

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

"Miss Militia. Excuse me."

Hannah stepped aside to let the tall man in the suit pass before she entered the laboratory, knocking lightly at the reinforced doorframe in passing.

"Hey," she said. "Am I interrupting something?"

As usual, the room fell somewhere between office and workshop, but that was just Armsmaster and his little things. After so many years of working with and under him, she was used to his eccentricities. Two spare suits stood at one side of the room, and a series of different Tinkertech halberds were arranged on a rack behind his actual desk. There was other stuff; machines, loaded workbenches, and knickknacks she didn't even bother to try and comprehend.

The massive spy board dominating one of the back walls was new though.

"No, please do come in," Armsmaster replied, gesturing to a chair across from where he sat. A little glass Armsmaster and some kind of device stood on the desk in front of him. The device resembled a futuristic tape recorder and was hooked up to a sleek laptop. "What's up?"

"It's past midnight, Colin," Hannah smiled. "What are you working on?"

"Dammit," Colin murmured. He sighed audibly. "Just, trying to make sense of…" He gestured towards the recorder. "This. I managed to catch some odd fluctuating soundwaves when we checked out the explosion site at the docks. I wouldn't have noticed if it weren't for Dragon being available by accident. The echoes are almost untraceable."

"Maybe something from Uber and Leet?" Hannah suggested. "I heard they got into a fight recently."

"Maybe, but I don't think so."

"Hm. Who's the cute little guy on your desk?" she asked.

The corner of Colin's mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. "A little piece of hubris, admittedly. Also a very fascinating construction. I put it through several scans, and it seems like the rogue cape Kaleidoscope can alter materials on a molecular basis. It's tougher and more durable than glass has any right to be."

"And pretty," Hannah replied. She eyed the little statue before picking it up with her free hand to hold it under the light. It was about five inches tall, made from dozens of colors that swirled and molded into each other, forming a shimmering, lifelike mini-Armsmaster with a triumphantly raised halberd.

"Pretty indeed," Colin smiled. "What's the cake for?"

"Oh," Hannah said. "The new girl, Spitfire, brought cake for everyone. Do you…?"

"Sure, thanks, just put it over there," Colin gestured towards his office desk.

"She's a nice girl," Hannah said, returning the figurine to its place and setting down the plastic-wrapped paper plate. A preemptive measure. She knew him too well; he'd forget about it, and by the time he'd remember, the cake would be dry.

"She burned down a school," Colin said flatly.

"Yes, but it wasn't her fault. You know that."

"Yeah, I know," Colin sighed. "All things considered, she isn't… bad. How's she doing?"

"Surprisingly good," Hannah answered. "She's settling in very well, thankfully, and the other kids like her. Most of the staff too. She still has issues, lots of them. Guilt, nightmares. But she says the sessions are helping."

"It could have gone a lot worse," Colin mused. "It's fortunate that Assault managed to stop her in time…" He trailed off.

"...yeah," Hannah admitted after a second. Parahumans had it bad, she knew that from firsthand experience. It was easy to see what kept Emily up at night; the worst day of her life came for her, and the first thing she did was burn down a high school full of kids. Despite herself, Miss Militia could admit that she might feel differently about the girl if that particular tragedy had come with a body count.

Even after all these years, thoughts like those stung, but the image of a completely broken, crying girl flashing in front of her eyes- moments away from making an irreversible choice- hurt more. Emily was as much of a victim as everyone else involved.

"It's good that she's with us now. Better than…that, or another Shadow Stalker. Speaking of Stalker…" Colin pulled his laptop closer to him, unplugged the recorder, and began tapping away. Hannah found that he looked oddly pleased, given the sore topic.

The girl was an edgy vigilante type, rather famous for her violent tendencies. She'd been a prominent fixture of Brockton Bay since 2008, and after nearly killing one of her victims, she'd become Armsmaster's new target. They'd almost managed to corner her before the Winslow Fire and the ensuing chaos with the Scar had derailed any and all of his plans in that regard.

Colin being Colin, he'd taken to that poorly, and when he hadn't been busy working himself to death, he'd been silently sulking about it for weeks.

Stalker's disappearance shortly after the summer break had been worrisome, especially with her personality type: hot-headed and impatient. Not someone who could sit down for months and do nothing. Nobody had claimed to have killed her, and she hadn't been seen in any nearby cities. That left a few equally unlikely options, including some based on the recent rumors that had been going around the online parahuman scene in the city.

And so she found herself intrigued, leaning forward when Colin finished typing and turned the display towards her. The website of the Boston Globe greeted her. Cape news.


► Boston Globe, Cape News Section

Boilerplate takes out Drug Lab
On the night of the seventh of December, Southie's cherished indie bulldozer heroine managed to deal another blow to Morning Glory and their hold over the predominately Irish neighborhood of South Boston. While the PRT criticizes the ensuing collateral damage to infrastructure and the building itself, a resident interviewed…


Boston's edgy new protector. Hero or Villain?
A new cape, later identified by authorities to be the prolific Shadow Stalker from Brockton Bay, has been spotted engaging the villainess Jade in Downtown Boston. No one knows yet what drove her to Boston, and what feud she has with Lotus Garden, but given her brutal methods in the past, citizens are concerned about another Peacekeeper or Huntress lurking in the alleys of our beautiful city…


Bold Heist: 'Crash and Dash' steals Mayor's Car in Brazen Daylight Robbery
In a jaw-dropping display of audacity, Dorchester's troublemakers pulled another disrupting and juvenile stunt that left citizens and officials stunned. "I am not sure what Jolly Roger is thinking when she and her lackeys ambush our mayor during morning traffic and right under the nose of the Protectorate" local police spokesman Jeff Gunderson tells the press…


"...they kidnapped the mayor in broad daylight?" Hannah asked incredulously.

"What? No," Colin frowned. "They just kicked him out of the car and drove away with it. No one was hurt, thankfully. Anyway, I think this solves our case of the missing vigilante, and I am not sorry about it."

"Yeah," Hannah said. She sighed, shaking her head. Thank god. She couldn't say that she liked Stalker and her methods, hardly so, but she was still a minor. A kid, and dead kids lying in a ditch wasn't what America stood for if she and her conscience had any say about the matter. "Boston huh? So she knew we were after her and ran away?"

"I don't think so," Colin replied. "Or at least, only partially. Given our estimates, she most likely attended Winslow as a student, and a case like a missing student would have caught our attention."

"You think the family moved after the Winslow fire?"

"It's our best hunch, yeah," Colin hesitated for a moment. "In any case, with Director Piggot's permission I have forwarded all of our data on her to Boston, and with that, the topic is now buried. As long as she doesn't bounce back, she isn't our problem, and if I'm honest, I'm glad to wash my hands of her. Especially when we're dealing with so much else right now."

He sighed again, shoulders slumping as he glanced toward the spy board at the wall, and for a moment, Hannah could have sworn she saw the sheer weight of everything lumping on his shoulders like a black mass of swirling tendrils ready to choke the life from him. Yet it only lasted a fleeting moment, and after she blinked, Colin had already reassembled himself again.

He was back as he was before, stalwart, professional, and unflinching, and despite the little show of weakness she'd witnessed just now, Hannah couldn't tell whether it was just a mask or not.

"Speaking of that. Any new insights?"

"Unfortunately not," Colin grumbled. He gestured toward the spy board. "I've got it all here, but I can't help but feel like I'm missing something. Something simple and important."

"I was meaning to ask why you put all that together," Hannah snorted. "It's a bit cliche."

"A suggestion from Mr. Calvert. You just met him, I believe. He suggested an alternative approach to the issue, more old-fashioned than my tools," Colin snorted. "Human heuristics, he called it, I think. So far, it's not really working."

"Hmm, can I…?"

"Sure, go ahead."

Hannah rose from her chair and stepped up to the rear wall. The spy board looked like it was ripped right out of a movie, with note sheets, pinned images, and lines of red threads connecting everything neatly. To her surprise, a familiar double photo smiled down at her, posted near the very top, just below a photo of Winslow's ruins.

The left half showed an awkward, lanky teenage girl with large glasses in a big hoodie, blinking shyly into the camera. A yearbook photo. The right side showed a scowling tank of a girl. The quality was bad, a grainy black and white that clued Hannah in that it was probably the feed of a security cam, but it was roughly the same angle, catching her at the moment she was facing the camera. The girl glowered – glared into the camera with a frightening intensity, her face twisted in rage. Uniformed arms were wrapped around her midriff, struggling to hold her back.

Despite the bad image quality, the difference between the two images was clear, and if it wasn't for the girl's face (or, what was left of it), Hannah wouldn't have recognized her at all. Taylor Hebert, but several inches taller and given how the sleeves and shoulders of her sleek workout jacket bulged and strained, at least three times as heavy as the meek girl shown in the other photo, presumably the most recent one that had been taken before the fire.

"Wow," Hannah said. That kind of change didn't happen overnight without superpowers, except in maybe two or three exceptional cases.

"Yes," Colin chuckled mirthlessly. He'd stood up at some point and now stood next to Hannah. He didn't say what didn't need to be said. It was a common practice to keep loose tabs on people who'd gone through severe traumatic experiences, had reached a crisis point, and were deemed likely to have gone through a trigger event.

Given what Taylor Hebert had been through, and how she looked now – just a few months after the incident – there was only one conclusion that made sense. A Brute trigger, most likely, Hannah thought, but there weren't any one-armed capes or brutes around the Bay.

Maybe a powerful Stranger as well? Unlikely, since that usually resulted in crime scenes with a unique lack of evidence, but the idea wasn't entirely unfeasible. "What happened there?" She asked, pointing at the 'after' image.

"There was an incident in a clothing store a few weeks ago," Colin answered. "An argument between teenagers turned into a brawl. Nothing exceedingly out of the ordinary, but it was recorded by the security cameras present."

"Violent outburst…" Hannah mused. "Do you–"

"No. I already ruled that out," Colin shook his head. He tapped at Taylor's datasheet, using his finger to draw lines and point to several other clues. "Miss Hebert was only deemed stable enough to be released from medical and psychological care in early October. Crucify had already murdered three people by that point. Besides, after my encounter with Crucify a few nights ago I was able to confirm that Taylor Hebert has a much heavier build and a different body type than her."

Hannah regarded the snapshot of Crucify, taken by Colin's helmet camera; Tall and slender, with straight black hair and long limbs. A white, featureless kabuki mask, eerily illuminated by the streetlight above her. A tattered trenchcoat, fluttering in the wind. The raised handguns, pointing straight at the watcher even though rivers of blood were gushing from the wound in her shoulder.

A bunch of victim cards were arranged around her. The first suspected victim was a narrow woman clad in black with a severe, dirty blonde bowl cut. Found in her apartment by her boyfriend, with her throat slit from behind with a kitchen knife. The principal.

Hannah remembered the accusations. They'd been plastered all over the news. Local school ignores the existence of a systematically bullied teenage girl. As overblown as those headlines usually were, they often still carried enough of the truth to paint a picture.

They'd only noticed her missing during the yard assembly when it was already too late.

Two police officers were the next targets, found in their patrol car with arrows sticking from their throats. They had been killed in mid-September, and it had been the first time Crucify had been spotted in person. Based on Colin's notes, the department's internal notes on the two had contained a long list of citations and complaints of corruption, but apparently, the Police union had intervened to keep them on the force.

"It did paint the image of a vigilante at first. Someone ruthlessly taking revenge, and it matched with my first theory," Colin said next to her. He tapped another image by the side of the board, connected with both Crucify and Taylor, and Hannah leaned forward to look at it.

The image showed a blurry scene shot with a phone camera. A soot-covered figure, bare and visibly muscular arms covered in welts and burn marks, hunched as if in pain. Yet the limp, charred person in her arms was unmistakable. Several other photos and digital renders arranged around the original showed the same person, presumably digitally cleaned and touched up.

A girl of Asian descent, around 17 if Hannah judged her right. She remembered her– had seen her back then, being on-site as one of the first responders the Protectorate had dispatched. She'd run away right after dropping Taylor off at the paramedics.

"The mysterious savior. First, police treated her as a simple witness, a moral courage hero, friend, or girlfriend perhaps," Colin continued. "She was my first suspect, but someone from the police found a few odd clues while investigating. Miss Hebert seemed to be something of a social outcast, isolating herself from her peers- so, not the type to have friends – and when they asked around – interviewed, and questioned staff and students, it turned out that no one had ever seen this other girl before. Including Miss Hebert and the father."

"I remember," Hannah said. "Did you manage to find out more about her?"

"Yes, and no," Colin said. "You know I arrived too late to see her myself, and all we had were some spotty camera images of her. Her general build and ethnicity is enough to tie her tentatively to Crucify, and after the kills racked up, I asked Dragon to put her through a prototype facial recognition program she's been working on, but the only match above the mean that she could find was a ninety-nine point two nine percent connection with one Saiko Tanaka, born in 1990 and reported run-away by her grandparents five years ago in 2007. Impressive rap sheet, rumors that she ran with the Teeth back when they were still a thing, but she dropped from the earth ever since."

"How accurate is this program?" Hannah asked. "She should be over 20 by now. It's been five years…she should look older."

"Indeed, but she doesn't," Colin said. "The algorithm misses about as much as it hits right now, despite the derivative data it can provide. It's still a prototype. Still, I think something doesn't add up here, especially with this." He pointed at the second batch of victims.

Three clearly homeless men and women of various ages and ethnicities, obviously tortured before they'd been nailed to a wall and executed. Another homeless teenager, found dead in a warehouse, chained to a chair with his pants pulled down. It was how she'd earned her name in the media, and the rumor of being a rapist.

"A bit like Shadow Stalker," Hannah mused. But at least she had only aimed to wound, and she hadn't targeted helpless civilians. "Torture indicates that she questioned them about something."

"It doesn't fit with her previous MO," Colin said. "The first few kills paint the image of someone having an agenda, and then she suddenly makes a full turn. She kills quickly and efficiently, moves around avoiding contact, and keeps her head down. She doesn't do vigilante work and calls it justice or robs stores for supplies or food. And then…"

"And then she escalates."

"Yes," Colin stated flatly. "And now we have this. One cop dead at 24, and one distinguished and adored police veteran fighting for his life in the intensive care unit. We've got two unknown persons with military backgrounds strung up and flayed across two trees and a stakeout post in a random neighborhood, and it just doesn't add up. The entire BBPD is on my heels like a Bonny and Clyde-lynch mob, screaming bloody murder for revenge."

Hannah could hear him grind his teeth in frustration, and she reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder. She understood him. Apart from the most famous of them all, there weren't many Parahuman serial killers around. Monokeros, Flailer, the face stealer…This was a side of life even she didn't want to deal with. But she had to because that was what it meant to be a hero.

"The first kill makes Crucify look like someone taking revenge for what happened to Miss Hebert, and her build even matches with the presumed Miss Tanaka, but even putting aside the unlikely chance that Miss Hebert is some kind of pseudo-Glaistig Uaine who can summon ghosts from the past, it still doesn't make sense," Colin shook his head. "By all accounts, they never met each other in life, and if she felt the urge to claim some twisted justice for a student she never met, why would she then go and kill two police officers who had also never interacted with Miss Hebert before?"

"Maybe she is just that, a Vigilante seeking justice? There doesn't have to be a clear connection." Hannah suggested. "The Winslow Fire was all over the news and would make a justified target for someone with a twisted sense of what's right. Maybe she even triggered during the blast."

"I'd considered that too," Colin admitted. "But this is where I fall short. The way she escalated… it's almost like we are dealing with two separate capes. It doesn't make sense, and then there is also this."

He pulled something from a drawer and placed it on the table. A bag, containing a round object. Bright, beautiful gold shimmered through the transparent plastic.

"Before I neutralized it, it was a grenade," Colin explained. "Crude but obviously Tinkertech. A simple design. Bronze hull, some form of steam-powered dynamo that unleashes electricity into a cloud of cold steam mixed with powdered iron particles. It's basically a refillable taser grenade."

"Maybe she's working for or with someone?" Hannah suggested. "Or maybe she is a Tinker? She is definitively a Parahuman, yes?

"Yes," Colin replied. "At first, we just assumed it based on her mask and costume, but when I fought her…It reminds me of someone I fought years ago, Hannah. She didn't wear any kind of Tinkertech except this single grenade, and yet the bullets she shot at me curved in midair. The last time something like that happened was with Butcher. Her arrows did that too. She almost killed me back then. My current suits still have innovations I developed to deal with her."

"Butcher?" Hannah asked in disbelief. "But… she's dead, right?"

"Yes, and it was confirmed with Thinker support from Watchdog that there was no new inheritor after the battle," Colin said. "But her power, the Tinkertech, and the way she just…teleported away that night… I am missing something here, something obvious, and I just don't see what it is."

"There's that rumor, right? About the Dockside Tinker," Hannah offered. "There's also a new C53 Tinker in the old train yard. He was involved in a robbery a few days ago. It's a lead we can follow."

"True." Something in the background began to beep, and for the first time during their conversation, Colin cracked a sly smile. The sound came from the futuristic console set-up dominating one side of the room.

"What's that?" She asked.

"I may or may have not discovered a few of Crucify's equipment stashes, and added a little friend to each of them," Colin answered smugly. He brushed past her, and toward the station holding his current set of power armor. "If we're lucky, we'll get our answers tonight."

Hannah watched as Colin donned his power armor and gathered two halberds from the rack. She didn't need to switch into her costume, and the swirling energy that was her weapon never left her side. She was already fully geared up, and all that was left was to pull up the American bandana around her neck to mask her face.

"Let's go," he said, striding out of the room with long steps. Hannah followed, holstering the combat knife that materialized next to her. Even at this hour, the hallways were bustling with activity.

"Armsmaster here. I have successfully bugged Crucify and I am tracking her now. She's moving eastward," Colin spoke into his comm. "Requesting immediate deployment to detain her."

"Director Piggot speaking," a voice replied over the comms, almost immediately. "Request granted. We have visual confirmation. A BBPD patrol spotted her in Midtown. Every hero on base will participate in this mission, but no Wards, and that is my last word on that matter. I don't care how you do it, but I want this creep off my streets yesterday. Catch her. You'll get all the support that you need."

"Understood," Colin replied. He glanced at Hannah, and she nodded in confirmation. "I am currently with Miss Militia. We are ready to deploy."

"Meet the rest of the team on the roof. Triumph and Dauntless are on base, and Battery and Velocity will join up on the way. Eta 10 minutes. We'll deploy two strike teams, and you will have joint helicopter support from the PRT and the BBPD once she is cornered."

Helicopter support? Hannah thought. That was uncommon. But it was good that the director was willing to go to such lengths in this matter. A serial killer was an issue this already-smoldering city didn't need, and there was something else in the air. A foreboding feeling…something that made Hannah nervous, even though she couldn't put a finger on what exactly.

They didn't speak on the elevator ride up, and neither broke the silence as they approached the armored hatch leading up toward the helipad on the roof of the HQ. The dark sky was overcast, but tonight the icy wind tugging at Hannah's bandana didn't carry any snowflakes with it. Yet, out here in the bay, and even with the forcefield around the oil rig, it felt like tiny knives stabbing her everywhere the fabric of her winter costume didn't reach, over and over and over again.

Triumph and Dauntless were already waiting for them, and a crew of drowsy, bad-tempered technicians was bustling around a single black helicopter with pale purple stripes and a winged PRT emblem. The two heroes didn't look particularly happy or awake either, but Hannah didn't blame them.

Hannah idly noticed that the pilots were nowhere to be seen yet, but only a moment after they'd stepped out of the complex, the door behind them opened again, and a squad of four agents stepped out. They were fully geared up, with kevlar vests, protective chain mesh, and faceless helmets.

When she turned her head slightly to glance at Colin, the part of his face visible beneath the mirrored visor of his helmet was set in a tight-lipped frown. He kept subtly fiddling with a device on his belt. A new gadget, perhaps. She didn't know what was going on in his mind, but it was probably similar to what went through her own.

They still hadn't found out how the Winflow Fire had turned into a blast tearing through the entire city, there were new cape sightings they had to look into, the gangs were restless, and over all of it hung the dark cloud that was Crucify.

They had to find out what was going on here. Whether the Butcher or not, Crucify's latest killings had some eerily familiarities with the sickening displays the Slaughterhouse 9 left in their wake, and with the rapidly growing waves this whole ordeal was making in the media and on the big message boards…

Admittedly, neither Crucify nor her killings were flashy enough to really warrant the suspicion, but given how luck seemed to shit on Hannah these days…It wouldn't be the first time the Slaughterhouse 9 came to spontaneously visit a place where wannabe imitators lurked around to remind them happily just who the real deal was.

Chapter Text

Wednesday, 08. December 2010

"Are you sure you want to get dropped off here, girl? This ain't a good area. Not at this hour, and not for a pretty lady like you are," the bus driver said, frowning. He was a little overweight, with a shaggy greying chin beard and more wrinkles on his face than someone his apparent age should have. "Unless you belong to 'dem of course… not that I want to imply anything, Missus. It's just, this is almost–"

"Yes," the girl interrupted him, stepping out of the bus before the driver could change his mind and lock the door. "I'm fine, and just because I'm a fucking Jap doesn't mean I'm ABB. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah. Say, you really don't want me to bring you to a hospital? My shift's over and that eye of yours looks really nasty."

"No, bye," the girl muttered, before walking away at a fast pace. The guy had been unbearable for the whole ride from downtown to this lovely dump in the docks. Fucking kuso.

Why was he so nosy… why did he care? Did he see a pretty face and think that being considerate got him that much closer to getting a suck-off for free? No, he looked genuine, which was even worse. She didn't know how to deal with that.

It had been so long since someone had been nice to her just for the sake of it. It was usually either fear, or they wanted something. They always wanted something from her. When was the last time it hadn't been like that? She couldn't even remember anymore.

Wasn't that pathetic? Lost to the fog of the years, and the black pit she refused to look into.

The girl sighed. At least the quick hump she'd treated herself to had been good. The nerd had been oddly off tonight when she'd knocked at his window, but she hadn't bothered to care enough to ask what was on his mind, and he hadn't protested when she'd bound his wrists to the frame of his bed.

Now, with the icy wind tugging at her hair and clothes, stinging uncomfortably where it pierced bruised skin, it made her feel a little more anxious than her pride allowed for. Was she making a mistake? Maybe, but there was no going back now.

Maybe I should have asked fatso where I could find this Somers Rock, the girl thought. She stopped and frowned, looking around and using the opportunity to fix the scrunchie and the set of Kanzashi decorating her ponytail, after a moment putting both hands behind the effort.

They clattered in the wind, a soft jingle that accompanied her with every step. The girl hesitated, before pulling them free and looking at them. Two ornate hair pins, long and with small inscribed tablets dangling from delicate silver chains. They were resilient, but eventually, they succumbed to the strength of her fingers as she maimed them in her grip, crunching and splintering them into scrap.

She threw them onto the ground. Fake, even though they weren't. Like the student pass in her pocket or the old pack of gum in the other. Then, she reached into her satchel bag and retrieved a cheap hockey mask, spray painted in black, and secured it over her face.

The place she found herself in at this late – or perhaps early – hour was nondescript. Everything was run down, but she was pretty sure that for being in the 'docks' area of the city, it was still a decent enough place to live or work, close enough to the parts of the city that actually mattered that the police might just show up if you called them.

There were stores and restaurants, little more than hole-in-the-wall businesses with closed shutters and drawn curtains behind iron-barred windows. But for an area like this, she'd have been surprised if it were different.

It took the girl a while to find the nondescript pub, and after checking herself with a tiny hand mirror, she stepped inside. She was met by a wave of warm air as soon as she opened the door, and quickly shed her winter jacket and the garish Christmas mittens she'd bought earlier before she ventured further into the… establishment.

She wasn't picky, hardly so, but it was safe to say that she was used to higher standards. It didn't matter if it was Boston, New York, or one of the other large cities along the northern east coast, but usually, establishments like this – as secret as they had to be, given what kind of clientele they catered to – had at least some class. Shit, even the fucking moots on the Dorchester Beaches had at least some kind of rustic vibe to them… but this?

Somers Rock was as shit from the inside as it had looked from the outside. Dim, dingy, and depressing, with a grayish stained floor illuminated by lightbulbs that could have been shat out by Hitler's grandfather for how old they looked. It was awful, but given the kind of people who met here, she was surprised that the dark green tablecloths and curtains didn't have swastikas embroidered on them.

There were a few people already present when she arrived: a young and sullen-looking server chick wandering around and what seemed to be her brother behind the bar, dressed formally with a white dress shirt and apron. The server glanced at her as she made her way into the room. The dour look never left her face.

The girl couldn't help but ponder about what this said, both about her and this location. She wasn't used to not being treated with respect, especially not from mere staff, and if this were another place and another time, she'd have taught that respect with a dagger.

It grated on her pride, more than she'd thought it would, but she swallowed it and remained calm and dignified in the way that came so easy to her.

There were a few others already present. Two capes she didn't know were busy pulling together a bunch of tables and chairs in the center of the room, and she could spot that stupid gamer duo tucked away in a booth at the rear end of the room. She didn't care about them. They were beneath her.

A woman in a cheap mask and huddled in a ratty trenchcoat sat alone, sipping at a steaming cup. She had brown hair cut in a trendy sidecut. She did look young, but there was nothing special about her that caught the girl's interest. A solo perhaps?

Despite her initial worries, the girl found herself intrigued by the upcoming meeting. There was always something about such events that fascinated her. Seeing all the different players assemble had something to it that reminded her of the old mafia movies she'd enjoyed watching back in the day.

It seemed like she was early, but her contact was already there, sitting alone at a table around halfway between the back wall of the room and the bar. He was alone and without any visible backup, which was intriguing given who he was. And she knew exactly who he was. Not a little snake by any means. One of the biggest fishes in this city. His costume was odd though, and for someone with his body type, a bit unflattering. He looked like a skeleton wrapped in a black full-body condom, but she didn't say that to his face as she approached him.

Instead, the girl bowed slightly, extending her hand. "You must be Coil, right? Good evening."

"Headhunter, I presume?"

"Yes," she replied. They shook hands, and she slipped into the booth opposite of him, waving away the approaching server in the same movement. "I believe we don't have long until the rest arrives, so let's get to business. You have something I want, and I have what you want with me. Let's get this over with."

"Of course," Coil replied smoothly. "I can respect that."

The girl reached into her satchel, pulled out three brown paper folders, and spread them on the table between them. Coil's hand fished for them immediately, but without missing a beat, the girl slammed her closed fist like a hammer onto the envelope Coil had reached towards. She missed his gloved fingers by half an inch.

"I want proof first," she said with an icy undertone. "I am willing to bargain, but if you cross me, you know what you'll reap."

Coil slowly retracted his fingers, before speaking up. "Of course." He slowly reached below the table and produced a white envelope. "You'll find any information I managed to scrounge up in the past few days here. Unfortunately, I was only able to locate three of her… friends. I've also included some voluntary findings of mine, Miss Headhunter. Consider it a show of good faith."

"Acceptable. She'll be satisfied with that." The girl removed the dagger and gestured towards the envelopes. "They are yours. I am a good artist if you are worried about quality. We saw three of them, and you'll find that one of them is sitting here in this room with us."

She had the impression the Coil froze for the beat of a moment. "I… see," he slowly spoke. "Thank you."

"I shit on your thanks, and your games, little snake," the girl said icily. "Keep your word, and we'll be out of your hair soon enough."

She stood up without another word, and beelined to a booth on the opposite side of the room, flopping down and putting her heels up on the table. She ignored the glare the barkeeper shot her, and the impulse to flip him off.

It didn't take long for the rest to arrive. The Undersiders were first. She'd heard of them before. A newer team, not even half a year old, consisting of 4 capes that did harmless robberies. A twink with a Renaissance frilly shirt wielding a funny scepter thing, a butch girl that looked like she could throw a punch, and an attractive blonde in a purple Illuminati bodysuit. Their leader looked impressive enough that even she had to admit it; tall and broad-shouldered, clad in black leather. Fluid smoke that was blacker than black pooled around him, constantly emanating from below his motorbike helmet with a painted skull face.

The local nazis were next. Kaiser, clad head to toe in his elaborate knight armor topped with a crown of blades. He had a twin Valkyrie on each arm; blonde, and built like playboy models. They were dressed in elaborate but revealing armor. There were others too, pooling in behind him.

And then, right after the group had settled down, they came in. The ABB. A tall man, over six feet tall, with every exposed inch of his torso covered in colorful dragon tattoos. The girl noted that he came alone. Oni Lee wasn't with him.

She knew that there was another group in the city; Faultline, and her mercenary crew, but they had been out of town for a good few weeks now. They were busy somewhere in California if the rumors were to be believed.

The leaders of the gangs - Kaiser, Lung, Coil, and Motorbike Stud - moved to sit at the central table. The other capes didn't join them there, content with staying in their booths or at nearby tables. The girl too kept back. For now. She'd have to wait and see how this evening played out.

The server girl went around with her notepad to get orders before she discreetly disappeared behind the bar.

"Good evening, gentlemen, ladies," a smooth voice spoke from the door. The voice of a woman. "I hope we are not too late."

Almost all heads turned toward the entrance, where a trio of capes stepped in. Two young women and an exceedingly large man, all with masks and winter jackets. The girl couldn't claim she knew about everyone in this city but those three were complete strangers, and based on the reaction of the other capes present, not only to her.

"No, we haven't started yet," Coil spoke up, steepling his fingers. "And who might you be?"

The woman who seemed to be the speaker for the newcomers shed her coat before answering. She was pretty and petite, with brown skin and clad in a dress that – despite being simple – seemed more fit for a gala than a meeting with the most dangerous people in Brockton Bay.

"My name is Entourage, and my companions are Upperhand and Speaker of the House," she gestured first toward the massive man, then towards the fair-skinned woman at her side. "We'd like to request a seat at this table of yours."

"That depends on what you want," Kaiser spoke up. "If it's not of great importance, feel free to take a booth."

"I think it is," Entourage smiled.

"And what do you want?" Lung growled.

"I admit, I've never liked words on their own. It's very easy for anything we say to sound empty or artificial. I prefer action," Entourage smiled. "To get to the point, me and my team will claim territory in this city. We wish to do so on amicable terms with the local powers. That would be all of you who hold territory, of course."

The room fell into stunned silence. For a split moment, the girl had the impression – more of a gut feeling actually – that the three big leaders were shooting each other a contemplating glance beneath their helmets and masks.

"Well, then please do have a seat at the table," Coil finally said, his voice as even as if he was talking about the weather. "You know the rules of this place, I assume?"

She also had the impression that Entourage seemed to enjoy her little entry stunt and the attention she garnered with it because she practically beamed as she stepped forward and sat beside Lung, who seemed to be side-eyeing her given how the head behind his mask had shifted subtly in her direction. Her companions moved to a nearby table, and the server girl stepped forward with her notepad again.

"Of course. We are familiar with establishments such as these. In our metier, it's important to have neutral places for civilized discussions," Entourage said.

"You come here unannounced, barge in, and demand territory," Lung growled. "Who do you think you are?"

"We are not demanding territory, we are taking it. There's a difference. We are willing to negotiate, of course, but if civility doesn't work with you, that is fine by us too. Here is the deal we are offering. We'll claim territory in the industrial areas of the city, places you have no uses for, and we will offer a monthly ten percent friendship tax of our earnings to the Empire and the ABB as a gesture of goodwill."

Lung seemed like he wanted to speak up again, but Coil interjected. "You mean the slums around Archer's Bridge?"

"More or less," Entourage replied confidently. "I and my coworkers–"

"Did I just hear fucking Archer's Bridge?" A voice shouted from the entrance, and again everyone turned to look at another set of newcomers. Three capes, but ugly ones, more akin to vagrants, led by a dark-skinned man in a mask that showed off his badly chapped lips and teeth that looked like he'd coated them in vomit.

"And who might you be?" Kaiser replied dryly.

"Who am I? Who am I??" The man all but snarled. "I am mother-fucking Skidmark, leader of the Merchants. The fuck do you mean who am I?"

"I never heard of you before," the leader of the Undersiders spoke.

"Neither have I," Kaiser said. "Go and sit in a booth, silently, if you must, but if you–"

"I am the new drug lord of fucking Archer's Bridge, and if you think you can shill away my own fucking territory over my head then I'll fucking peg you with a rusty can you nazi disphit!" Skidmark spat.

"Lovely," Entourage remarked. "Would you rather collaborate with us, or these fine gentlemen here?"

"Bitch, are you mocking me, you puckered–"

"Go. Sit. In a booth. Or leave, but one more word and we'll have you removed," Kaiser's voice was calm, but every carefully enunciated syllable felt like it was hammered in steel.

"I agree," Coil said. "This is a place for civil discussion, not for immature blathering. Either behave like an adult or excuse yourself."

Skidmark growled, and for a moment he looked like he would snap. A part of the girl hoped he would. Even though she'd never heard of him, this individual disgusted her already. A filthy drug-addict and lowlife thug who thought he had grandeur just because he got some powers from his life falling apart around him after he shot up one too many times.

Pathetic.

Yet…It was quite baffling. The way he spoke with Lung and Kaiser, either he was an idiot or had a fatal lack of common sense. She had no clue what kind of powers he had, but even if he was speaking to just one of them, alone, common sense said that it would be suicide to run your mouth that bad unless you had something like the whole fucking Elite at your back. Yet here he was, mouthing off at two people who could probably snuff him out with a twitch of their fingers, acting like he was screaming down at some underpaid intern at Walmart.

"Fine," Skidmark spat, fists clenched. "You fuckers think you're so fancy and civilized, but just watch your backs! One day we will be the ones who call the shots around here."

The girl couldn't help but catch the subtle gaze Skidmark tried to shoot the brown-haired trenchcoat cape as he shuffled to a booth. Was there a connection there? Unlikely, given how she just straight-up ignored his…whatever he tried to do.

The girl noticed Tattletale's lingering gaze on her as she mused, but when she looked back, the blonde Illuminati cape broke eye contact and turned towards the butch girl next to her. Hellhound, she thought? Perhaps they were thinking the same thing she was. Two new players on the same day? She'd have to look into Entourage and these "Merchants" later.

"Well, now that that's settled, is there anyone else who wants to interrupt this meeting, or can we continue?" Coil asked. "I would like to make this quick. The Protectorate is on the warpath tonight, and the heroes noticing our little meeting here would be inconvenient."

The girl stood up and approached the table in the center. "Me," she said.

"Another? Who are you?" Kaiser asked.

"Headhunter," she replied. "I am… let's call it pest control. I go from city to city and deal with problematic cases. For the betterment of society."

"Are you talking about Crucify?" Lung asked.

"Yes, and in fact, I know where she is tonight."

"I believe I speak for everyone present when I say that we would be more than happy to have her removed," Coil said, steepling his hands. "What do you want, and what do you propose?"

The girl allowed a small smile to spread on her lips, hidden behind her mask. She clapped her hands together, addressing the whole room. "I just want her to stop stirring up nasty trouble no one needs, and I think I have managed to figure out her pattern. You see, due to some personal issues I have a rather strong distaste for serial killers, but I can't act against her myself…"

By the time the girl made it to the abandoned warehouse near the waterfront, sirens were filling the night sky with their howling whine. A helicopter flew overhead, and she remained in the shadow of the alley until it was gone. Something in the distance exploded. She didn't know what that was about, but it was safe to assume that her plan had been a success.

She'd left the meeting early. Her limited time was too precious to waste on political bickering, veiled threats, and open backstabbing, and there was already a hint of crimson on the horizon. She woke up early, and so the girl had to hurry. She didn't have much time left.

Her arms were aching, and so was her still-bruised eye, but that didn't impact her mood. The tunnel was almost finished, and if Coil kept his word, there were many things she wouldn't have to worry about anymore. Two weeks left, and then…

She didn't know what, if she was honest with herself, but that was a problem for another day.

The warehouse was empty when she entered, so she didn't waste any time trying to be stealthy, instead heading straight toward the rope that allowed her to climb onto the rafters of the large industrial hall. Even in the darkness, balancing on the narrow metal beams was nearly effortless for her. She'd always been graceful, with a knack for acrobatics.

She easily found the hidden stash she'd set up months in advance, and after finding a secure stand, she sat down her backpack, carefully balancing it so it wouldn't fall the twenty feet or so down to the hard concrete-poured ground.

She carefully retrieved the cloth-wrapped rapier she'd strapped to the side of the backpack and stowed it away, followed by the foldable compound bow and a bunch of small cloth bags in various sizes. It was risky to store everything important to her in one location, but she had to cut her ties before it was too late.

She wasn't a chess master by any means - it wasn't her style - but she'd done what she could, and if she was lucky, the Crucify issue would be solved tonight. If not, she'd have to replan. Now, there was only one more thing to do.

The girl doused the rope in gasoline, before climbing down to the ground – carefully as to not slip on the now-slick surface – and setting it aflame with a lighter from her pocket, before shrugging out of her gas-stained jacket and gloves, and offering them to the flames as well. The remaining ash was scooped away, and the bits she couldn't reach anymore would be handled by the wind. The roof was full of holes anyway, so it should suffice.

After disposing of the ash, and checking whether she'd forgotten anything, she stepped to the center of the large room, pulled her phone out, and made a call.

It didn't take long for someone to frantically bang against the door from the outside.

"Aki? Aki?" Someone shouted in a shaken voice. "Are you there? Let me in."

"Layla? Yeah, hang on," the girl replied, unlocking the door so the other girl could storm in. She looked awful. A trembling, shocked mess with eyes like a deer in headlights. "What happened? What's wrong?"

"T-they killed her. The heroes, this suicide villain, they…they," Layla sobbed, but her words turned more and more into raged screaming as she pounced on the girl, lashing out with her fists at her chest. "They fucking killed her. You said it's just a prank, and they…they…."

"Oh shit."

"Oh shit… OH SHIT?" Layla screamed, lashing out, but the girl blocked her flailing hand, twisted her arm, and forced her into a police grip in one smooth motion. "She couldn't even speak before he killed her – blew himself up right behind her. They're fighting in the streets, destroying everything. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?"

"Yeah," the girl flatly replied, dropping all pretense of caring. With her free hand, she pulled the handgun from her pocket, and without hesitation, she put three bullets into the back of Layla's head.

Each shot echoed like a thunder strike through the empty warehouse.

That ties up the last of my issues, she thought as she stepped over the corpse of the homeless girl on the ground. She'd been useful in setting up the ambush a few days prior, a good proxy to approach Trainwreck, but she knew too much – was unreliable and bitchy. She couldn't risk it. Not now, when they were so close…and in danger.

Now I just have to–

The girl froze, both in body and thought as she felt it. A mental tug at the invisible, unrelenting leash that kept her chained. The only reminder that she was as fake as the Kanzashis she'd thrown away earlier. With a curse, she lifted the gun to her temple. There was no time to dispose of the corpse tonight.

She hesitated and lowered the gun. Right, the phones. She retrieved her phone, and after a quick pocket search, that of her victim as well. If someone were to find the corpse, she hoped they'd just think of it as a normal gang hit. Some junkie who couldn't pay their dealer turned into an example.

Her eyes found a high spot above on the rafters, and then she hurled the phones with all her might, watching as they sailed through the air, looping around obstacles as if they were homing missiles and finally disappearing.

The girl couldn't help but contemplate idly as she raised the gun to her temple again, that despite how the villains had acted, she somehow didn't have the impression that Lung, Kaiser, and Coil had been particularly surprised about Entourage and her team showing up.

She dreaded what came next, but she pulled the trigger without hesitation, her thoughts cutting out as her brain splattered across the floor. Her body collapsed immediately, the handgun slipping from her fingers. Yet, by the time it clattered to the ground, the blood and her body were gone as if they had never existed in the first place.

Chapter Text

Thursday, 09. December 2010

In my dreams, I was surrounded by fire. Smoke was everywhere, like rusty daggers burying themselves in my nose and my burning throat. My eyes were teary, and my sight was a blurry mess. I tried wiping my glasses as I flinched away from the flames licking at my feet, but my view didn't clear. All I did was smear more blood and dirt across the lenses.

I needed to get away. Get away get away get away get away.

"Help!" I screamed, again for what must have been the hundredth time today, but no one came. I was alone. I was about to die. I had to get out.

The fire was between me and the door now, the heat unbearable. Searing my lungs, my front, and my back. When I looked behind me, there was a wall of fire there too. Soaring, raging, all-consuming. Like a monster ready to lunge and devour me in a heartbeat.

I looked ahead, at the smaller flames between me and the door that was my only way out. I had no other chance. I closed my eyes, taking a single step forward. Then another and another, sprinting one two three four steps, even though my legs were wobbling beneath me, threatening to collapse.

I was going to die die die die. I wanted to sob, to cry and scream for help, but the smoke was too thick. Dad, help me, I thought between choked sobs. Emma, Mom, anyone. Please. Dad…

I jumped, and fire singed my legs. But I made it and stumbled through the double doors ahead. The hallway was dark, and there was a single sprinkler dripping water onto me. Smoke pooled everywhere around me, from open doors and rows of glowing lockers. My leg was in agony, and when I looked down, my jeans were ablaze.

I threw myself below the sprinkler, rolling myself on the spiked floor and hitting my leg with the palm of my hand. One of the lenses of my glasses cracked as it hit the ground, and every time my palm touched the smoldering fabric a new surge of pain spiked through my body.

But I didn't stop, even when the scattered debris and glass shards on the ground sliced my skin apart. Only when the flames were gone did I fall on my back; panting, coughing, staring at the ceiling. My eyes burned, and when I tried to speak, no voice came from my throat. I croaked and hacked, but each movement was like I was gargling red-hot nails.

My entire body was in agony. Bruised, sliced and cooked. My legs ached, and when I brought my trembling fingers up to my face, they were shaking uncontrollably. I was just so…tired. I wanted to just stay there, enjoy the warm water caressing my face, close my eyes, and sleep. It would be nice. It would be comfortable.

The pain would go away.

It would be over.

No! No no no no no, my jumbled mind screamed at me. I couldn't stay. If I stayed, the door would find me. It would find me.

I didn't know what the door was, or it, but they elicited such a primal fear in me that I threw myself into motion as soon as the thoughts had formed in my head; scrambling, crouching, and wriggling until I somehow managed to get on my feet. Glass shards dug into my palm as I pushed myself up. My eyes burned, my knees trembled and something broke under my shin, but even when I all but vomited in pain and terror, I pushed on. Something thundered behind me, followed by a shockwave of roaring fire and a guttural gurgle, and I screamed and ran.

I ran and ran and ran and ran through blurry hallways filled with smoke and vicious laughter. Ghosts with demonic faces pointed at me as I stumbled past them, laughing, screaming, and howling. A bare-chested girl pounced on me, trying to kiss me with a mouth filled with jagged glass shards for teeth. Smoke dripped from her maw. A half-eviscerated man raised his arms at me in a begging gesture, smoke pooling from the gashes in his abdomen.

Something wet trailed down my cheeks, and I didn't know whether it was blood or tears.

I had to get away away away away.

Emma knelt on the floor ahead, smiling ecstatically at me as she held my mother's flute. Her eyes bore into mine, cold and evil.

I tried to break my gaze, but I couldn't. I tried to run faster, but I couldn't. I only managed to look away when I was past her, and another ghost cackled at me, drawing my attention. He pointed at me as I stumbled past him, his arm stretched out accusingly as he stretched out his wispy fingers. Half of them were missing, as was half of his hand. Like he'd held an object before it exploded.

Glass shards were embedded into his empty eye sockets. "You killed me, Songbird" he laughed, holding a wispy toddler made from smoke. "You killed us all, monster. Murderer. You aren't a Songbird. You are a shrapnel bomb, a shatterer! A herald of destruction." His last words were more akin to the manic cackle of a madman, sending shudders down my spine.

"Sing for us," the other ghosts howled as I ran past them, my eyes glued to the glowing floor.

A wave of scalding heat hit my back, and I only now realized that the only thing I wore was a pair of my old pajama pants. My juice-stained clothes were gone, as were my shoes and my backpack. I was barefoot, but even as I ran over the shattered tiles, I felt nothing from it. Another wave of scalding heat hit my back, and when I dared to look back, I screamed in panic.

A raging monster made from fire devoured the world – the ghosts, the corridor, the doors, and the lockers – behind me. I ran faster…couldn't go anywhere else but forward. The corridor seemed endless. Smoke and doors and smoke and–

A corner, finally!

I almost fell as I scrambled around it, only to get grabbed by a gray, gauntleted hand. It too was made of smoke, dark and wispy, constantly drifting apart yet seemingly solid, with wispy clouds and tendrils of the stuff drifting away whenever it moved. It was almost like an echo, delayed and laggy in a way a bad recording was.

It closed around my upper arm, struggling with the bulk of my biceps, but it prevented me from falling. I flailed, trying to pull myself free, but the ghostly grip was as merciless as a pair of iron shackles. I couldn't get away, no matter how much I strained against the hand, and so I found myself stabilized against a broad, armored chest, frightened, and trembling.

When I regained my balance and looked up, I found myself staring at a king crowned with swords. If it weren't for his crown, I might have been a bit taller than him, but he managed to loom over me like a judging ghost from the past. I couldn't make out his face, but I couldn't tell whether it was due to his helmet hiding details or the distorting echoes of smoke making his features unrecognizable.

All of this happened in a split second, and before I could gather my thoughts, another thunderous explosion and a wave of heat hit me from behind. Something howled like a dying animal in agony – an echoing chorus of screams and sobs and cries vibrating with sheer, concentrated pain– and I whirled around.

The fire surged around the corner like a tsunami. A massive liquid inferno which swallowed the entire corridor, devouring everything. Walls cracked, and doors, ceiling tiles, and lockers were disintegrated within seconds… until there was nothing but the blazing, hypnotizing flames. When I stared longer, figures began to morph from the fire, and I recognized them as the ghosts from before. They screamed and howled, trying to grab me with their fiery hands and pull me into their embrace.

I tried to back up, but the king's smokey body I was pressing myself against remained unyielding.

The dance of demonic silhouettes ahead kept me entranced, and so I didn't resist in time when the king–thing behind me adjusted his grip, wrapping his arm around me. Then, he calmly raised his hand, and swords fell from the sky, slamming into the pulsating mass of ghosts.

Another figure stepped up beside him, a woman of gold, clockwork, and glass, holding a cannon in her metal fingers. And when she fired, the world around me shattered.

Reality itself broke apart into a myriad of splinters. Paint, furniture, decorations, and fixtures flaked off or crumbled away, revealing a kaleidoscope of iridescent colors. I immediately recognized it for what it was: Glass. Millions upon millions of shards, drifting, shifting, pulsating, and grinding together in a strangely dynamic way.

Something shifted subtly beneath my feet, and when I looked around, the corridor around and behind me had turned into a mosaic of colors, further accentuated by the soft and gentle glow emanating from between the cracks.

Yet the bit ahead, occupied by the ranging mess of fire and ghosts remained untouched. It was like reality itself had split apart, with the eerily, smoke-filled decrepit halls of Winslow, and this breathtaking wonder behind me fighting each other for dominion.

Then I blinked, and I was alone.

I stumbled a few steps, but easily managed to keep my balance. Somehow, I felt at peace, but whenever I looked at the gaping hole in the world and the inferno that was Winslow, a stab of primal terror hit me. I couldn't go back, and without another option, I turned around and started following the seemingly endless corridor.

With every step, I could feel the horror and fear sloughing off me like I was rinsing off dirt in the shower. It felt safe, and the longer I walked, the more it felt like something was guiding me.

A warm, gentle breeze caressed my bare skin, sending delighting shudders down my spine, and the air was filled with a humming melody. It wasn't real music – just the constant shifting and cracking of the glass around me – but it sounded nice and soothing.

I couldn't resist probing myself as I walked. The smoothness of my face and hair, the warmth of my skin, the deep ridges and unyielding surfaces of my body, the faint softness of my breasts: I was – by all accounts – totally unharmed. And clean. I was very clean, which was odd given the filth I'd rolled around in mere…moments ago?

How much time had even passed?

I couldn't tell.

I frowned, but I found that I didn't want to dwell on it, so I decided to just keep exploring this breathtaking place I found myself in. It certainly was a nice change to the nightmare I'd just been forced to live out. Was I still dreaming? Most likely. I couldn't tell, but it seemed feasible.

This place was just so…surreal, and I found myself drawn to the glowing cracks between the tiles of glass, idly wondering just what was behind it. I stepped closer, and before I could question the urge, I reached out in passing and let my hand caress a cracked crimson panel. it made up a piece of the wall, roughly at the height of my shoulder, and when I touched it–

The memory faded as soon as I let go, but the emotions lingered. The sheer surprise. The helplessness, the confusion, but especially the bile stirring in my stomach as I thought about the implications of what I'd just seen.

Fuck could I say that I was happy with my life, that part had died together with Mom and Emma. But–

No, I didn't even want to think about it.

I shuddered, and before I could make up my mind, I kept walking, trailing my fingers along the wall as I did and seeking distraction in the wave of memories that immediately assaulted me.


I beamed at my son, filled with pride and unbridled love as he laughed down at me from the podium, hands clutched around his middle school certificate.


I sat on my recliner like a throne, distractedly watching the TV on the wall with one eye and the raving party around us with the other. The masked woman on my lap shifted, and I tangled my free hand into her short brown hair. It was a bit greasy.


Frustration. My daughter behind and above me, backing me up. It wasn't enough. Light glinting off of towers of white and gray; a stalemate, like it had been for the last five years.


I sat in the darkness on the stairs, clutching my pounding eye and wheezing from between clenched teeth into my arm so no one would wake up. This fucking toy car. This motherfucking stupid toy car. Who the fuck was that dumb to place this piece of maimed garbage on the stairs right before the fucking door so any idiot who'd leave the room immediately stepped on it?? This little fucker.


The memories were fragmented, but there were countless of them. I suspected that every single shard making up this corridor- billions of them- held one fragment of someone's life. I didn't know who, or how, or why, but as I walked through the corridor, touching the occasional shard here and there, I was treated to a wild ride.

Sometimes the memories were sad, sometimes they were happy. A wild mix, including violence, depraved sex orgies that made me tingle all over, and even fractions of my own life. Scenes where I was baking things with Mom, and reading with Dad. The first time I'd kissed Emma, nestled in our pillow fort as we played grown-ups.

And then my bare feet hid wooden floorboards, and I blinked. The tunnel of glass and memories was gone between one blink to the other, replaced by an almost historic-looking hallway that felt oddly familiar. A wooden door smiled at me, framed between worn wood and red brickwork. I'd been here before, multiple times. I knew it, even though the exact memories eluded me.

I approached slowly, inspecting the door before I put my ear against it. There was noise on the other side, the clatter of glasses, and the mumble of people. When I took a breath, my nose caught faint smells of smoke, beer, and freshly baked bread mixed with the odor of old wood.

A bar, or tavern?

I only hesitated a moment before knocking. Could it be a bad idea? Maybe, even though this place felt safe to me. Was I aware of my lack of dress? Fuck yes, but not like I could do anything about that right now, so fuck it. Besides, this had to be some weird ass dream, so what could possibly happen that was worse than fucking Winslow?

Wait, no. That wasn't true, I could –

I hadn't even finished the thought when the mental image rose in my head. It was more of an impression really, a sensation of concepts of sorts, accompanied by the flashing photo of a slender teenage girl dressed in a white dress shirt and a green pleated skirt. I reached for it…

– and then I felt the touch of fabric on my bare skin, closing around my body. When I looked down, my eyes caught white fabric hugging my curves, and a skirt showing off my legs. I was confused, but after a moment I just shrugged it off as another gimmick of this weird dream. Whatever.

I knocked again.

"The fuck knocks –," a muffled voice exclaimed from the other side of the door, drowning out the silent ambient noises coming from the other side, followed by the door getting pushed open. I took a step back, remembering that the door opened from the inside. "...oh hey Tay, I was already wondering who'd knock on the door of a fucking bar."

"Uhm. Hi," I greeted the girl peeking out from behind the door. She was dark-skinned, middle-eastern if I had to guess, with a pretty face and straight black hair falling onto her shoulders. Dark eyes bore into mine, sparkling with concern as she looked me up and down.

"Oh, hey, nice. You figured out the clothes thing by yourself this time. Not that I would have minded…" The girl trailed off, shooting me an intense gaze accompanied by a wide, mischievous smirk. Her voice was nice, sweet, and lilting, and the way she looked at me was kind. She wasn't much older than I was, maybe a few years at best. "You don't look too well. Did you have a nightmare again?"

"Uhm, yeah," I replied, averting my gaze. I wasn't sure what to say.

"Oh, then come in. Come in. Let's get you a hot chocolate," the girl all but shoulder-checked the door fully open, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside. I almost sputtered when she came fully into view, and when she hooked her arm around mine, it took all my effort not to go rigid like a deer in headlights.

Oh. My. God.

I wasn't prepared for this.

"What happened to your shirt?" I blurted out.

"Hm?" The girl shot me a lazy glance, before casually adjusting the black leather jacket she was wearing with a shrug of her shoulders, uncaring that every person in the room stared at her. Because it was open, with everything beneath it in full, glorious view. From her two arguments to the taunt lines and deep ridges of her stomach. She was shredded to the bone, but in a slender and natural way like a competitive gymnast. There were tattoos too, lines and animals, teeth, blades, and barbed wire snaking across her dark skin. "I don't wear one. Got a problem with that?"

"No." Yeah. No. Fuck, I couldn't even decide.

I sighed. Well, at least it was a nice view.

I looked around, forcing my eyes away from my new distracting friend. I was…in a bar. A nice, tidy place looking like it had been ripped out straight from an 80's sitcom. There were sports memorabilia and quirky decorations on the walls, and the whole place had a dim, rustic vibe to it that just hit right with me.

It was also filled with bozos. I wasn't sure how else to describe the wild mix of–

Oh, no, no shit. Shit. They were staring at me. Not at her. Why were they staring at me?

There's free tits right there, so stop staring at me, I internally growled. It bothered me. I didn't like it when people stared at me. It usually meant two things; pity or wariness. But these guys…

There were a few friendly faces among the sea of people; a military-looking man in a secluded corner even offered me a curt nod, and a tall, willowy woman with dark hair shot me a smile and a tiny wave with her hand, but for the most part, the wild array of…whoever they were looked like they wanted to devour me on the spot.

There were about a dozen of them, men and women of various ages and ethnicities. Some looked normal, while others wore admittedly pretty cool costumes decorated with bones. Their gazes were hard and cold, ranging from neutral all the way to openly hostile.

The old bartender behind the counter simply ignored me and kept polishing glasses.

A part of me considered challenging them. The slender man at the table next to the door didn't look like he'd put up much of a fight. It would be easy. I had two arms made from flesh and bone, I could just saunter over, grab him, and use him to make an example. Break his spine maybe, or force him to eat the bottle of rum in front of him. The entire thing, of course.

The thought put a smile on my face.

As if an invisible spell was broken, the moment passed, and apparently, it seemed like I wasn't worth the hassle. People broke their gaze and went back to their own thing. Chatter and mumbling began filling the room, and soon, I found myself ignored again.

"What is this place?" I asked the girl next to me.

"Dunno…but we call it the Firmament, Home Base, or just That Place," the girl shrugged nonchalantly. "It's a bar. Cozy place. Better than the previous one, so thanks for that. Come on, you need a hot chocolate."

She began pulling me through the room and towards the bar, and having nothing better to do, I allowed her to.

"...and are you sure that's all?"

"Yeah, only those. Kevlar guy had the sniper…"

My ears caught snippets of conversation as I was led past the tables, and I lingered, slowing down to listen as we strode past them. There was a bunch of people, including the willowy woman who'd waved at me, crowded around a central table. A dark-skinned, stocky and very ugly man covered in scars leaned forward as the woman pointed at one of three sketches spread on the wooden surface, but I only caught a brief glimpse of very neat sketches of a man in riot gear and what seemed to be a fucking…viking before a huge bear of a man interposed himself between me and the table.

"Move on, girly," he glowered down at me, and I bristled at the challenge. "Nothing to see here for you."

"Come on Tay, he's right," my guide said, and tugged at my arm. I shot the man a challenging glare but relented, and allowed myself to be dragged away and to the wooden counter. The girl pushed me down onto a stool, before casually vaulting over the bar.

"Uhm," I shot a confused glance at the old bartender a bit further down, but the girl just laughed and shook her head.

"Eh, don't worry about it. It's not like the bigot would serve any of us," the girl shot me a contemplating look as she made herself comfortable behind the bar, leaning forward and propping her elbows onto the counter. I couldn't deny that being treated to the delicious play of her sharp abs was mouthwatering, but I couldn't help but internally groan again. Seriously, why couldn't I ever dream of something normal?

"I- so," I stammered, gluing my gaze to a harmless spot on her leather jacket as she reached up and began rummaging through the cupboards over the counter. "Could you –" Close that jacket, please.

"Nope!" She chirped happily. "Goes against the oath, ya know."

I sighed, turning my head toward the bartender, who was currently busy inspecting the golden cuff links on his sleeve.

"Bigot?" I asked.

"Yup! Well, I guess he'd deny it with some of his fancy stuffed-up words, but that's what we call him," A white cup and several boxes landed on the counter. "Well, I suppose he would serve you something. Us, he doesn't like. Arrogant prick. Doesn't even talk to me. Like I'm nothing but air," the girl muttered under her breath. She bent down and began rummaging through cupboards. "Now where's this stupid milk…"

She opened a cupboard door, only to flinch and slam it shut again. It wasn't fast enough for me.

"Was that a man?" I asked warily. Crammed into a fucking cupboard?

"Yeah," the girl blinked sheepishly up to me. "Uhm, just ignore him? He doesn't really do anything other than drooling, so we usually just put him away where he doesn't bother anyone. We used to put him in a corner…but there he bothers everyone, and Cog even stumbled over him once and broke her nose. Completely out of it, ya know. Very distracting."

"Alright," I sighed, unsure what to make of that. Somehow, I wasn't even surprised anymore.

Soft music purred from the jukebox in the corner, and when I swiped my gaze through the room, I caught the stare of an eerily familiar Asian girl, glaring at me from a table at the rear end of the room. Apart from my guide, she was the only person in the room who seemed to be near my age. Her stare spoke of violence and murder, but when I aggressively met her gaze, she just scowled and gave me the finger before jerkily turning around and focusing on the steaming cup in front of her.

Oh well, I mused. Maybe Lung and Armsmaster would turn up too, and have a lovely dance and a candlelight dinner…

I snorted at the thought.

When the alarm of my smartphone tore me from my sleep, I found myself amid tangled pillows and blankets halfway on the carpeted ground, face to face with two threatening Lego knights stuck in an eternal duel. I groaned, yanking the phone from my nightstand with my song. It clattered quietly to the ground in front of me, and I groggily reached out with my hand, muting the alarm.

I sat up, briefly contemplating the random, fading taste of hot chocolate on my tongue as I regarded the kids' room around me with half-closed eyes. It had been my home for the past few days, and today would be the last of them. It had been surprisingly… nice, all things considered, but I was still relieved to get out of here. Another tune and the phone found its way from the ground and into my hand again.

7 AM …time for my morning run. There was a single message on my phone. From Dad:

We won.

I just blinked stupidly, but eventually, a smile spread on my lips. It refused to go away, even when I donned my sports attire, taking a moment to gloat over my looks before I closed my jacket and left my room. I felt great. I felt proud of myself. There wasn't anything else that needed to be said.

Body-positivity, fuck yes! My therapist would be proud of me.

Something crunched audibly beneath my feet, and even though I barely felt anything, the sound made me cringe. When I looked down, bits of mangled plastic poked out from beneath my bare foot; a crushed toy car. Whoops , I thought. Well, not my fault, little guy. Don't leave your shit everywhere.

Well, fuck that. I’d just get him a new one while I was out. I wasn’t gonna ruin my day because of a shitty toy. And , I Idly thought, I should probably also get some kind of thank-you-gift for my hosts. If just for Dad’s sake. They’d treated me well during the few days I’d spent with them, and I knew that I was hard to deal with. 

Apart from my little blunder in the hallway, I snuck effortlessly through the still-sleeping house, only stopping by the fridge for a snack before I made my way to the front door and donned my running boots. Then, I stepped on the street and started running. 

I couldn’t help but ponder a little as I picked up the pace and the houses started blurring past me, each step draining more and more tension from my body. With everything that had happened during the past days, threatening to derail anything I’d worked toward violently, it seemed like I’d gotten some breathing room again. 

We'd won the lawsuit, which meant that we could pay off our debts, and wouldn’t land on the streets. It meant that we had a serious chance for a fresh start, and with the bronze from the smeary weirdo, I might even have enough material to get my Sentinel operable enough to move it. I still had no fucking clue how to ship it off, but that was something I’d deal with later. Couldn’t just box it and send it off per post, after all. Heh .  

And yet…

As I ran through the waking city, happy and confident, a deeper part of myself kept whispering silent words into my ear. My problems were still far from solved, after all, and perhaps all of this just meant that the next blow against my life was just waiting around the corner. 

Chapter Text

Thursday, 09. December 2010

Thankfully, my morning run was smooth and uneventful. When I finally returned to the small suburban house and stepped through the front door and into the cluttered hallway, the wafting smell of fresh pancakes greeted my nose.

The Pembroke's house was a painful mirror of the one I'd grown up in, not helped by the fact that it was an exact copy of my house from the front porch down to the interior layout. Everywhere around me, I was greeted by familiar things; the short hallway ending in a door leading toward the kitchen, with stairs leading up on the right, and an opening in the wall to the left letting me see into the cramped but cozy living room.

But unlike what my mind tried to tell me, there were no scuffed edges and scratched floorboards, no subtly flaking paint covering the outside walls, or rotting porch steps you had to jump over if you didn't want to fall and trip. Everything here was in much better shape than ours – cared for, for the lack of a better word – and clean and maintained. Homely, with photos, paintings, and the self-made crocheted doilies Martha loved so much littered on every surface, and a soft carpet swallowing my feet when I kicked off my shoes.

It made me jealous, and I hated myself for being so pathetic about something like this.

"Taylor, is that you?" Martha's voice drifted from the kitchen. I grunted in response. Then, when I realized that she probably couldn't hear me over the noise of the kitchen and with my fucked up voice, I thumped my fist against the wall.

"Yeah," I croaked, awkwardly pulling my electrolarynx from my pocket. Then, I said louder: "Brought some stuff."

I clicked my tongue in annoyance. Speaking was such a fucking bother these days, especially when the only fucking arm I had was occupied with carrying a bag.

"Oh? Give me a second," her words were accompanied by the clatter of cupboards, and kitchen utensils. "How was your run?"

"Good," I replied. So elaborate these days, oh my.

I indignantly ignored my brain's little quip.

My "nanny" poked her head out of the door leading toward the kitchen, and her hearty face brightened when she saw me. I shot her a crooked smile, presenting her the large bouquet I'd grabbed on my way home. I had to briefly deposit it on the nearby cupboard to go for my electrolarynx, and some of the petals had fallen off, setting a stark contrast to the white of the pristine doily.

"Thanks for having me," I wanted to say. I couldn't, of course, and I fought down another frustrated tsk, coupled with boiling the desire to just unleash my power and fix this crapped part of my existence. At least none of it showed on my face, I thought because Martha reached out and excitedly grabbed the flowers and bag from my hand.

"Oh, they are beautiful," she exclaimed, her face breaking into a massive smile. "Taylor, you really didn't have to!"

I shrugged awkwardly and brought the electrolarynx to my throat. "Thanks for having me," I finally murmured, unable to fight down the embarrassed blush heating my cheeks.

"Oh, Taylor! You know, you and Danny are always welcome here. After everything we've been through," Martha smiled. "It's a shame that Kurt and Lacey weren't able to help out, but you'll always have a place under our roof. I hope you know that. Both of you."

Another voice spoke up. "Think nothing about it, lass. People are so happy to forget it, but we're Dockworkers once and for all. It used to mean something, you know?" Geoff grumbled from the side. He stood in the opening toward the living room, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. "Danny lost a lot of respect when he decided to go, you know, but still. We grew up together, and he was always there for us. For years. Ever since this city went down the drain."

He shook his head. "S'the least we can do."

"Thanks," I said, offering them a smile. I didn't know what else to say.

Even though I'd never had much of a relationship with them, the Pembrokes were old friends of our family. They'd attended the same high school as Dad, and like Kurt and Lacy, had been around for every step of my life. They were Dockworkers through and through, even though the years and a sedentary lifestyle had graced them with more weight on their frames than was healthy.

Unlike many others, they'd decided to stay after the dissolution of the DWA. They'd put their trust in Estrella, and after everything I'd heard about them from the news and media, I couldn't find it in me to blame them. The fancy new company was drawing a very positive image these days – they wanted to change something in the Bay – and as far as corporations went, they seemed to have a good track record when it came to public works.

"There's a new toy for the kid in the bag. Stepped on one when I got up," I pointed at the bag in Martha's hand when I felt like the awkward moment dragged on a bit too long, followed by a helpless shrug. My cheeks started to burn again, and a muted stab of annoyance surged through me at the words. "It was dark and I was tired. Sorry."

"Oh, it's ok. I am sure he'll love it," Martha waved me off. "Why don't you get ready for breakfast? Pancakes are ready in a second."

I shot her a grateful smile, and she hurried back into the kitchen, taking my gifts with her. Geoff stayed behind, watching me over his cup with a neutral expression while I struggled to get out of my jacket. For a moment I thought I saw something move across his face, but he knew better than to offer me help.

I didn't bother to pay attention to him either way and then my field of vision was already drowned by fabric while I carefully forced my jacket over my head. I tried not to flash anything, not that I actually cared if he saw anything, but this wasn't home.

Geoff hadn't averted his gaze when my head surfaced again, but I didn't care if he'd checked me out either. Or at least, that's what I'd thought he was doing until I caught the flash of fucking pity and disapproval in his eyes.

Urgh, what is it now? I bundled my jacket, before throwing it onto the staircase. Then, I reached up and pulled the hem of my sweatshirt back to safe waters. I tried not to let my annoyance show as I pushed past him and through the living room, ignoring the nonsensical babble of the TV in the background.

I caught Geoff shaking his head from the corner of my eyes before he followed me. He muttered something under his breath, and I nearly turned around and smashed my fist in his face when the words drifted into my ear: "You should really go easy on the weights, lass. A girl shouldn't look like that."

Oh? I pretended I didn't hear his words, biting back my scathing remark, and keeping my expression schooled as I continued toward the kitchen. Well, maybe you should cut back on the fucking burgers. Then you wouldn't have so many issues to squeeze your fucking conservative gut behind the steering wheel, you fat, lazy pig.

Bastard, I internally growled, but my temper cooled as quickly as it had erupted. I didn't hate Geoff, not really. He was a nice guy and a caring man, and I'd known him long enough that I was reasonably sure that he didn't mean to be an ass. But he was an old-fashioned man, as far as I'd gathered. It chipped through here and there, minor things and off-hand remarks. I liked him to a reasonable degree, I guessed, sure, but did that mean that I was eating up his conservative shit? Not now, not fucking ever.

But for Dad's sake, I avoided speaking up against it. I didn't want to be here, sure enough, but the Pembrokes had been nice to me. They had taken me in and treated me like part of the family, not just some outsider that they were socially obligated to help out.

Of course, the Taylor they knew from the past was long dead thanks to fucking Winslow. Yet, I could tell that despite this, they genuinely tried their best to treat me like a normal person instead of drowning me in layers of cotton and pity. I appreciated that more than anything. Did it mean that I felt bad about my internal emotional outburst, though?

Heh, no.

Still, I was angered too quickly these days, and this wasn't the place or time to stir up senseless conflict. So, I decided to swallow down everything that bothered me again and sat down in my designated spot at the small kitchen table. It had a proper tablecloth, of course, something that neither I nor Dad had bothered with for years.

Another sting I just had to ignore.

It didn't take long for the family to gather around the table; Geoff, the kid, and finally Martha bringing in a huge stack of sandwiches, bacon, and pancakes dripping with maple syrup, along with beer for Geoff, orange juice for me, and milk for the kid. The meal was quite a feast, and I shamelessly dug in. It wasn't like I really had to watch for my weight anymore or shit like that.

Seriously, no wonder they're so fat, my mind happily supplied. I couldn't disagree. Martha was a fantastic cook.

"Hey Martha, darling?" Geoff said over his newspaper.

"Yes, teddy bear?"

I cringed at the nickname. Martha must have noticed because she shot me a mirthful grin when she looked up from her plate.

"They got her, fucking finally-"

"Language, darling!"

"-sorry, Peach," Geoff said, putting down the newspaper. He turned to look at the kid, who was happily playing with his new toy car, racing over the tablecloth on invisible roads, and dodging towering plates and glasses. I found it mildly surprising that he hadn't knocked anything down yet.

"John," he said in a stern voice that left no room for discussion. "Your mom and I need to talk. Go upstairs and pack your school things. We need to drive in ten minutes."

Something stirred in me, and I leaned closer in to look at the headline. It took me two tries to decipher the words upside-down, but I only got as far as "A Butcher's End" before Geoff yanked the newspaper away from the kid's prying eyes… and right into the reach of my fingers. I sized it without hesitation, following the aching stab of worry suddenly spreading inside me.

I ignored their funny looks as I stood up, leaning against a wall to read the article in peace.


► Brockton Herald

A Butcher's End – Is Brockton's scourge finally history?

The cape known as Cruficy, Brockton's first serial killer in over two hundred years has been officially declared dead by local PRT and Police offices. According to an official statement issued by Director Piggot of the PRT ENE, the elusive cape, suspected by many to be an imitator of famous Parahuman killer groups like the Slaughterhouse 9 and the Flayers, has met their end at the hands of Kaiser himself in a drawn-out fight between the ABB and Empire last night. Casualty numbers have yet to be determined, official PRT speaker Jessie Allison tells the Herald, but she seemed less concerned about the rising property damage than the threat of a new rise of hostilities between the ABB and the Empire…


"Huh," I said. I… hadn't expected that.

"Yeah," Geoff scoffed. "The wrong guys, sure, but they got her. I'm not sorry about it. Talk about a deserved fate."

"What happened, Geoff?" Martha asked, confused.

"Crucify got offed," I explained. "Cape fight. Yesterday. Got personally executed by Kaiser. " Psycho bitch. Fuck her, I mentally added.

I could feel a wide grin splitting my face, tugging at the paralyzed sections of my left cheek. Those were fucking good news! First the lawsuit, and now the psycho bitch messing up my plans. Both of them had pretty much vaporized overnight, and that… that was fucking awesome. I couldn't believe it! Was someone running around and cleaning up messes for me?

… or was this just another ploy by the world to let me drop my guard and then fuck me over like it had happened so many times with Emma?

After everything I'd been through, this was just too good to be true, wasn't it?

I bumped into the kid when I left my room – or his, given that it technically was a kids' room, and I was just a guest here – with my duffle bag slung over my shoulder, ready to leave. Dad would be back soon, and while the last three days with my guest family hadn't been nearly as horrible as I'd feared they would, I honestly just wanted to get the fuck away from here.

John was still in grade school. He was several heads smaller than I was, and even though he already showed signs of following his parents regarding body shape, he was still frail as a stick for the most part.

"Careful," I said, internally cussing. I'd nearly plowed him into the railing.

"You're leaving us?" He asked. I had to suppress the sudden urge to pat his head.

"Yeah. Dad's home again. You can have your room back," I said. Then, after an awkward pause, I added: "Sorry for breaking your toy."

"It's fine. Mom says I should thank you for the gift. Thank you."

"It's fine," I waved him off. "But you know, you really shouldn't leave your stuff lying around where your parents could trip on it."

The kid actually shot me a sly smirk at that, framed by his brown mop of shaggy hair. "Nuh-uh, I did it to protect you!" He exclaimed.

What…?

"Mom says the police guys protect us from the baddies, so I should always be nice to them. She also says that it's ok to be scared sometimes!" The kid paused for a moment. He looked around, his voice falling down to a whisper. "The monsters at night. I could hear them scare you. They scare me too, but… I-I thought the police could protect you from the monsters so you don't have to cry at night."

And that's why you placed a police toy car right in front of the door? I wanted to demand, but…

But it was kinda sweet, wasn't it? I hesitated for a moment, knelt, and finally reached out and gave John a soft hug. Thanks, little man. I didn't know how to deal with little kids – didn't want to deal with them, frankly – but this naive… kindness took me by surprise.

"Thanks," I finally murmured.

"It's ok," John smiled. I could hear Geoff call from downstairs, and the boy grabbed his backpack and turned to leave. "Bye, Taylor," he said. "I hope you come over again. You're cool!"

Thanks, I smiled. I doubt I'll be back, though.

And it was probably for the better, wasn't it? The Pembrokes were normal. As normal as could be, and I… wasn't.

"Bye," I said. I could hear Geoff call for John a second time, sounding impatient.

"Don't worry," John crowed, shooting me the 10-year-old equivalent of a sly wink. "I promised your girlfriend to keep her secret! Chiao."

I… what? I was frozen for a moment, caught between wanting to grab him and demand answers and knowing that would be a bad idea, but the boy was already darting down the stairs, and by the time I made my way down, I had already disappeared through the front door. Kids… I shrugged it off. Whatever he'd meant by that, it wasn't worth dwelling on. For all I knew, he'd just assumed that I had a girlfriend because I was muscular, and in his underdeveloped brain, that meant I was dating a girl.

I wish I had a girlfriend though, or a boyfriend, I thought wistfully as I went to search for Martha. Or anyone, really…

I quickly said my obligatory goodbyes and stepped onto the road. The sun was shining, framed by a spotless blue sky. Rays of sunshine glittered on piles of pristine snow covering the roofs and yards around me, and I couldn't help but smile.

The urge to take into the sky and fly home was overwhelming, but despite my near-euphoric mood, I didn't risk it and simply walked to the next bus station, humming a random little happy tune. I felt good, and hopeful, like a big weight had been lifted off my shoulders.

No more serial killers. No more lawyers and legal bills and the threat of becoming destitute.

Of course, a cynical part of myself had to remind me that we were still far from having all of our problems solved. The move would be challenging even with the medical bills sorted, and we were still piss-poor compared to other people. But, at least there was hope now.

Dad was already waiting for me, sitting on the steps of our house. I ran right into his hug, and for a while we just stood there, laughing.

"We made it, little owl," he said. There was a stab of pain in my gut, but I also felt a kind of swelling wave of relief. We were here, we were together, and even if our family wasn't complete, we had each other.

"Yeah," I croaked. I hesitated.

"You should do it."

I…

I took a deep breath and slowly pulled free of the hug. There were tears in Dad's eyes, but for the first time in a long while, I saw him smile. Not the small, distracted smiles I knew from him. Not the shallow and superficial ones he gave so often these days, deeply laced with crystalized grief.

He smiled like in the photos with Mom, during their wedding. Bright, and wide, with eyes glowing, and grooves in his gaunt face, full of warmth.

Maybe we should tell Mom. I knew it would take a lot of effort to say those words, but I managed to get them out.

The iron-wrought gate creaked open on its hinges, and I found myself reaching for Dad's arm as we made our way down the paved roads lined by rows upon rows of tombstones. The graveyard was almost empty; there was a couple near one edge of the cemetery with a handful of flowers, and an older man in a business suit sitting on a grave marker. As we passed by him, his eyes met mine, but I quickly looked away. Weird, but none of my business. Any thoughts of the man were chased from my mind when I felt a tremble run down Dad's arm.

It was like the memories of this place had been buried along with the dead, and now they were coming back to the surface. With every step, images flooded my mind; Dad's ashen face when we stumbled after the procession carrying Mom, trembling with every step and refusing to touch me. The scent of Emma's perfume when I buried my face into the collar of her laced mourning dress to cry, because Dad pulled away whenever I'd tried to hug him.

I'd been too confused to understand what was going on back then. And now…

Eh, what was there left to be said? At least I could hug Dad now. I could tell he tried to put up a strong front for me like he always did, but the occasional tremble and the increased pace of his heart betrayed him.

There was a reason we so rarely came here, and even now, now that I was strong, every step hurt in a way that I knew no wound could ever do. Still, we kept on until we finally stood in front of a familiar tombstone.

Mom.

It was a humble grave, with a simple tombstone surrounded by grass. Everything was covered in a fine layer of snow. I idly bent down to wipe it from the tombstone. The rock was icy beneath my fingertips. I gulped when I unearthed the unadorned engraving, but I forced myself to smile for her.

It had been three years. Just three fucking years, and yet, it already felt like an eternity. I missed her so much – I'd have given f- fricking everything to see her again, speak to her again – to the point that it always caught me off-guard when I thought about her.

What would she say about us, now? Yeah… honestly, no. I really didn't want to think about that. But I could imagine her there. My mom, standing in front of me, a physical presence. All of her gentleness and warmth. Her silent, quiet disapproval. Her brilliance, which she couldn't share with me right now. She'd know the answers to all my – our problems, I just knew it.

She'd be happy to hear about this at least, I knew. I stood and reached for Dad's hand, squeezing it hard.

Hey Mom, I said to her, smiling. I didn't speak, but I hoped she'd still hear me nonetheless. Something trickled down my cheek, and I realized that it was tears. We've got a future again.

Many thanks to Fwee for the Fweedback. Had a bit of a mental slouch, and some stress with university, finals and whatever, so I feel pretty bad for the long break. The next chapter shouldn't take 6 months to publish.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 14. December 2010

The last days had passed in a blur. The fact that we had actually won the lawsuit meant that things were getting serious, and it had kicked off a frenzy in the Hebert household that hadn't been seen in years. It seemed to be good for Dad too, I thought. I hadn't seen him proactive like this in a long time, and frankly, it was nice.

The assorted mix of stress, paperwork, and moving boxes on the other hand… wasn't. So when the phone in my pocket suddenly started vibrating, I was almost happy. I carefully put down the box I was carrying onto the back of Dad's old truck, elbowed it into place, and fished my phone out.

I frowned at the unknown number on the display. It was barely noon. Who was calling me? Who had my number? The caller didn't have a local area code, which increased the odds of it being a telemarketer, but I was just too curious to hang up the call. Getting called on a cell phone was a novelty to me, as dumb as it sounded, and I kind of wanted the experience, even if I'd be hanging up right away.

I brought the phone to my ear. "Yeah?" Dad had bought me a brand new electrolarynx to celebrate our win, now sitting like a choker around my neck instead of the old one which had been a handheld device that was more of a bother than anything else.

"Miss Songbird?" A female voice spoke into my ear. I didn't recognize it.

"Lesson for me. That's what you get for mixing work and personal life," my subconsciousness cackled at me.

"Yeah, I really gotta get a secondary work phone."

"Shut up!"

"Who is this? And how did you get my number?" I demanded, twitching at the sudden barrage of jarring thoughts my mind decided to throw at me to really hammer the point home. Holy fuck, And I almost introduced myself by name.

"Andrea Shen," the woman on my private phone replied. "We met before. I work for Mr. Carson. You sound a bit distressed. Is everything alright?"

"Yes," I rankled in annoyance at my blunder, quickly glancing around to ensure I had no eavesdroppers before sitting on the ledge of the truck bed. Just one week into my promising mercenary career, and I'd already nearly casually unmasked myself. A bullet dodged by a fraction of a second. What a rookie mistake.

I really didn't want to elaborate, but in the end, the desire to portray some sense of professionalism won, and I forced myself to add: "I just didn't expect the call. What do you want?"

She probably wants to lay you off. Found a better substitute. The thought came unbidden, like a worm gnawing into my confidence, leaving a part of me hollow and aching. Get yourself together, Taylor, I reprimanded myself. But then again, would it be surprising? Who'd want someone like me anyway?

I mean, just look at it. He doesn't even bother to tell you himself. Just sends his secretary like you're some meaningless office whore. I clenched my fist. Another unbidden thought. Another undeniability. I swallowed, but the bitter taste on my tongue refused to go away.

"Hey little worm," Emma's shadow suddenly whispered into my ear, and I could smell her saccharine smile even without having to see it. I could almost see her beautiful red tresses and the elegant curve of her delicate neck as she craned it to look down at me. I could almost feel her lips moving as the words drifted into my ear, and the soft warmth of her breath and body as she pressed herself against my back and wrapped her slender arms around me from behind in a lover's embrace.

Like crimson chains binding me, making me nothing but helpless prey in a spider's web. I wasn't prey, wasn't helpless. But I couldn't deny that some perverse part of me languished in the feeling, made it hard to fight it.

My eyes burned, and had to stop myself from lashing out. I wanted to, so badly. A punch, a kick, anything to make me feel better. Destroy something, hurt someone… it didn't matter as long as it stopped me from feeling so utterly pathetic as I did right now.

"Are you so desperate to get back to your mommy…" Emma whispered into my ear "... that you get sad that you can't play in the dirt where you belong? Are you really so desperate, little Taylor?"

I blinked, then closed my eyes as I took a deep breath to try and center myself. Fuck. I suppressed the urge to curl in on myself right where I sat and tried to focus on other things; the sun on my face, the cardboard wall against my back, and the sting of cold air in my lungs.

It took me a moment to regain my composure, and for a while, I just sat there, breathing, back slumped against the stack of boxes behind me, brooding. There was a muted warmth in me, like a sense of kinship and approval, and I clung to it like a lifeline.

Eventually, after the urges in me had cooled down, I sighed, opening my eyes again and staring down at the now-dark phone next to me. I'd pressed the call away at some point, dropping the phone so I didn't crush both the phone and my fledgling reputation. What did that say about me and my priorities?

I sighed again, looking around while I fought to keep my composure. Dad was still indoors, and the neighborhood was empty except for a young punk lady on the other side of the road. She was loitering around one of our neighbor's yards, far enough away, and severely underdressed for the winter. I thought I caught her looking my way now and then, but I couldn't bring myself to care what she was doing.

I carefully picked up my phone, angling it to catch my reflection. For the blink of an eye, I thought Emma stared back at me again before her face shifted to the familiar ruined mug that was my face; the green hurting eyes, pale ashen skin, and tight trembling lips I wouldn't been able to hide from Dad if he decided to poke his head out of the window.

This Emma wasn't real, I knew that. Just a fucked up manifestation of my fucking trauma…

"But am I really?" Emma whispered into my ear. "I just want what you want."

… of my fucking PTSD. And no matter what I did – no matter how much fucking therapy I received – I just couldn't get rid of her. Why do I have to be so pathetic, I thought bitterly. Would she haunt me for the rest of my life, or would I be able to leave her behind… if only when I finally set foot out of this god-forsaken city?

"Or maybe I should just kill her. Blow her head across a wall. She'd deserve it."

Another unbidden thought whispered in the depth of my mind, and it kept reverberating. It was enticing. I hadn't seen the bitch since the day she…

I- I… didn't remember. Didn't remember what she and her freaks had done to me that day in June. Only fragments were left; her gloating face before she slammed a door into my face, darkness, and…and… and heat.

I shuddered at the very thought. No, no, no fuck Emma Barnes. She had destroyed me. I knew where she lived now. I knew the location of her detention center and had traced the lines to it on the map over and over again during restless nights. I knew how to get there…

…and what would stop me from masking up, and paying her a little visit?

What would stop me from paying her disgusting family a visit?

No! I took a deep breath, trying to stifle it at the same time. No, I wanted to hurt Emma, not them…

Lies.

…and not like this. I was better than this. I had to be.

It took me several more minutes before I dared to pick up my phone again. Dad was still in his room, the neighbors were mostly gone at work or at least a safe distance away from me, and when I shot a glance toward the punk lady from before, she was gone without a trace. Thankfully, Andrea hadn't hidden her number when she called me, so it was easy to just do a return call.

She picked up immediately.

"Hello?"

"Songbird here," I said awkwardly. It felt weird to introduce me like this. Like I was doing some cringy play pretend roleplay thing younger kids liked to do. "I was… at work, sorry. What is the problem?"

"Ah yes," Andrea replied nonplussed. "Right, sorry. It's fine. I forget that you capes actually have a normal life. Do you have time today? We must meet."

"Yes," I replied. "When? Why?"

"In an hour? She must have heard my startled cough because Andrea quickly continued. "Uhm, yeah, well, it's important for the m- er, the event on Friday, and it's important that we do this during daylight. Oh, and please bring whatever equipment you have."

"Understood," I replied. "Where do we meet?"

"The warehouse," Andrea replied. "You'll be able to find your way back there?"

"Yes."

"Good. Take the door this time, please."

"Ok," I replied, indignantly ignoring the little jab. "I'll be there in 2 hours."

I hung up and made my way into the house. Since Dad was home I needed to find a good excuse to eject myself from 'mission: moving out.' I felt bad for leaving him alone, but this… this was important, and I figured that he'd be fine without my help for a little bit.

I made sure to knock before I entered his room, even though I didn't really need permission to come in.

I had to remember to keep down all the little habits and mannerisms I'd seemingly picked up in the past months that unsettled him; the way I sometimes moved and held myself, or that I always knew where he was. They all came naturally to me by now, and that made playing the 'normal' Taylor much harder and tedious.

"Dad?" I made sure to call out before I opened the door. I knew where he was, of course, by the desk, but I still made sure to peer properly.

"Taylor?" He said, looking up from the box he was going through. It was the box with Mom's things, and the sight sent an aching stab through my heart, but I forced myself to smile. "Hey, what's up?"

"Would it be ok if I went out for a while?" I asked, allowing some of my anxiety to show. "I want to hang out with some friends, and… say goodbye, you know?"

I wasn't sure if the befuddled "wait-you-have-friends?"- look on Dad's face was real or just a bad parent joke.

Shortly after lunchtime, I found myself nearing the warehouse, fully decked out and ready for war. Clients or not, I wasn't taking any risks… especially not in broad daylight. That, and I didn't know what was expected of me. The gala was still a few days away, and I was unsure what to make of Andrea's cryptic statement about "gathering publicity". Was I supposed to fight some villains, or sign autographs on the boardwalk? Fuck did I know, so why not prepare for both?

Given how I'd neglected the topic in the past months, I'd put a lot of work and thought into my costume in the past few days while I was stuck at home.

Ever since he was back, Dad had been active until well past midnight on most days, leaving me stuck in my room. So, I'd used the time to sketch and research, and the final product was… a sight to see – I could admit that without shame – but unfortunately it also meant that I couldn't just quickly slip into it in a back alley or change out of it on a whim.

The design for "Kaleidoscope the Gala Merc and Hero for Corporate Interest™" (I'd decided to scratch the Songbird idea again.) for the gala was pretty elaborate, and most importantly – thanks to several stress tests with one of my new handguns – bolter-proof from every fucking angle except for a frontal headshot into my reinforced forehead. It was also the epitome of dress to impress, which was frankly a rather alien thought for me given my history.

It started on my body, with thin flakes of glass dust and tiny shards plastered onto my bare skin to conceal every single scar and blemish of my body behind glittering lines and patterns. This was the most time-consuming process of masking up, taking almost an entire hour and three big mirrors until everything sat, worked, and actually ended up looking good instead of being a clumpy mess of… something… on my skin.

Then, I'd put on my trusty red-and-black bodysuit, glued to every crook and crevice of my body to show off my curves and muscles, and with a high collar that flattered my neck. Since the left sleeve had been irreparably damaged during the alley ambush with Greasecan, and because I was currently lacking the funds to buy another one, I'd modified it into a one-sleeved design that covered my organic arm but left the other one free. I actually found it to be more convenient that way as well, which was a nice discovery.

Depending on whether I was gunning for "seductive/sexy" (heh, what a joke) or safety, and together with all the other gear I had secretly tucked away – utility belt, backup knife, backup bolter handgun, my cybernetic war tail disguised as a second belt, zip ties, and the medipack for emergencies – I could include a full set of sleek but heavyweight armor panels spray-painted in red and black.

It was made from thin sheets of pure Tinker bronze reinforced with sand pockets for kinetic absorption, and designed to accentuate my body and sensibly give me a bit of a bust so that I'd never ever ever ever be mistaken for a guy again. Barring the armored gauntlets, the rest would be covered by the last layer of my costume; the dress.

The dress was the true masterpiece of my creation, a beautiful and elegant fusion of dark metal and colored glass scales with a high collar and a tight fit, as well as a daring slit showing off one of my armored legs. I was by no means the master of fashion design, but I thought it looked cool and perhaps even sexy, and the wave of approval my subconsciousness had blasted at me when I'd checked myself in the mirror had done quite a lot to improve my mood.

I hadn't decided to make any big changes to the face mask itself, though I had done the remains of my hair into a proper hairstyle with braids and added some sensible metal and glass decorations.

I'd even made sure to properly put everything together so I didn't have to maintain my costume with my song, and so it wouldn't immediately fall apart when someone decided to kick me through a few walls. Despite all the show-off and glimmer, it was a proper and sturdy costume and would do me as well in a social battlefield as it would in a cape fight.

Hopefully. In theory.

The only exception to this was the glass arm currently replacing my claw cybernetic, which I'd intentionally designed as a loose compound so I could do stuff like party tricks, and god did something deep in me rankle at the mere thought of doing fucking party tricks for gawkers like a circus clown.

Of course, even though I'd decided to do without my shattered angel wings for now, this all meant that I still wasn't exactly subtle. By no means actually, but lurking through alleys and backyards while being huddled away in a big parka like an exhibitionist stalking the parks seemed to do the trick. No one was following me, or shooting me more than cursory glances as I strode past them.

And yet…

I couldn't shake it, this occasional feeling, this hunch, this gut feeling that popped up every now and then ever since I'd left my workshop. I'm being watched, I thought, but I wasn't. I just fucking wasn't. I knew it, despite what my instincts tried to tell me, and it started to make me nervous and irritated. I saw everyone with my bloodsight and felt everything with my song. And there just was no one nearby.

Neither machine nor beast of flesh and blood at least, which meant that it had to be just another manifestation of my fucking paranoia.

Thankfully, the closer I got to Carson's warehouse, the less prominent the feeling became. When I finally stepped up to the side door after discarding my disguises, the feeling had long faded away. I made sure to scout the building, which was empty except for one crimson humanoid shape, before I pressed the filthy doorbell and glared directly at the modern camera glowering down at me from its admittedly pretty devious hiding spot. Tan Securities, based on the stylized imprint; and a very modern one if I wasn't wrong. Idle inspection of the wall rewarded me with a biometric fingerprint scanner, hidden next to the rusty door steel door behind a shabby plastic latch that very much fit in with the destitute facade covered in grime.

A sham, and a good one, but I knew that already. I'd been here before, after all, and given this shithole of a city and especially this area, I couldn't exactly blame them for being cautious.

The door buzzed open, and I stepped into the building. The inside was still exactly how I remembered, a complete contrast to the outside; clean, modern, well-lit and maintained, and still gapingly empty for a depot of this size. The crates had disappeared, and a single black van was parked in a corner. The place was surprisingly well-heated.

The elaborate skylight I'd crafted as a replacement for the one I'd crashed through during my first visit had disappeared too and was currently covered by a translucent tarp. One of those things you found on construction sites.

A woman stepped out of the small adjacent security office and I recognized her as the female bodyguard who had been with Carson during our first meeting. She was an unassuming woman of Asian descent, perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties, a bit smaller than me, and clearly fit.

Not nearly as fit as I was, of course.

There was something soldier-like about her: I could tell that from the way she moved and held herself, and looked at the world around her, and I didn't know how I knew this. The effect was somewhat mitigated by the sleek tablet in her fingers and the stylish – almost nerdy – gold-rimmed glasses on her small nose, framed by short black hair. She was dressed in a semi-professional manner, with formfitting jeans and a blazer.

"Miss Shen?" I asked, offering my hand for a shake, and deactivating my blood sight.

"Hi," she smiled at me, waving away my outstretched hand. "No need for this Missy stuff when the boss isn't here. Just call me Andrea or Andie, if you want. Songbird, right?"

"Kaleidoscope," I corrected her.

"Hm," she scrutinized me for a moment, before shrugging. "Yeah, I can see your reasoning. Juggling too many identities can be hard, I bet, and with Kal you already have something of an established base."

"Yeah," I said tersely. "You didn't like the window?" I hoped the voice modulator masked the hurt in my voice.

"Uhm," Andrea paused. Eventually, she shrugged. "Oh! No, no… it was very pretty, but the boss wanted to sell it. Said it would make good money."

I managed to swallow my anger.

"You look really amazing. The boss is going to like this," Andrea said, snickering, before pulling up her tablet and murmuring something to herself. She started to rapidly type away, and I couldn't help but find the way her glasses threatened to slip from her nose as she peered at the screen with furrowed brow oddly… nerdy.

And cute. Very cute.

"So, what now?" I finally asked. "What do you want me to do?"

"Ah, yes," Andrea said. "First, can I take some photos of you? For the Boss. He's back in Boston, and I'd like to update him on your new costume."

"Sure," I murmured.

"Thanks," Andrea said, leveling the tablet at me, followed by a click and the flash of a camera. She shot a few photos of me, one from every angle. It was embarrassing and more than I was comfortable with, but I weathered through it. It was just a few photos, right?

She led me to the furnished corner of the warehouse afterward, gesturing for me to sit down. I carefully did so, trying not to accidentally scratch one of the cream-colored leather couches.

"So, first, can I offer you anything to drink or to eat?"

I declined with a shake of my head.

"OK, so first, we are going to do a quick briefing for Friday, so you don't embarrass yourself or our company. This will be your first proper outing as well, right? You probably know the basic things about reputation, style, and how important your debut will be for your career, yes?"

I nodded wordlessly. Of course, Kal was already known, if just as a minor entity. But this… it would be a power move. Like one of those cliche moments in teenage dramas when the unassuming nerd girl was suddenly transformed into a gorgeous queen for the homecoming ball. Or in my case, a humble teenage art peddler revealing themselves in their full glory and might in front of the entire crème de la crème of Brockton Bay.

It would be a show for the ages, a wet PR dream for every aspiring Cape… and frankly? As cool as the thought was in theory and as much as I longed to prove myself, I utterly dreaded it – dreaded to put myself into the limelight like this. Just thinking about how this could backfire made me shiver.

But I had to do it. There was no pulling back now.

"Good," Andrea smiled at me. "So first, what can you do?"

"You mean my powers?"

"Yes, please. Just so I know what we can work with."

I pondered on what to say for a moment because no way in hell could I tell her or anyone the truth. "Large-scale telekinesis, I finally said. And I can merge stuff together. Stone, metal, glass. I use that to make my art pieces. My telekinesis works best on materials like sand and glass, but I can lift many things if they are not too heavy. Stones, pieces of concrete, and sometimes even metal bits. I do not know why."

"Oh, we can work with that!" Andrea exclaimed and started jotting down notes on her tablet.

"Work with what?" I frowned.

"Well, the boss thought it would be wise to get some public clout for you. We still have a few days till the gala, and there isn't much stuff about you online yet, right?"

I nodded. I'd checked the web for info regarding myself regularly, especially after the fuck-up with Greasecan. My first combat encounter as a cape, which had brought me together with these guys here. It was a miracle, in a way. I'd charged like a rabid dog after Greasecan, stalked him through half the city in broad daylight, and yet the only media presence that had brought me was a blurry smartphone video recorded from a driving car and a few pages of forum speculation.

"Why though?" I asked. I thought I just needed to look pretty?

Andrea seemed to take that as her clue and turned towards one of the big flatscreens on the wall. I couldn't help but feel a surge of disbelief as she pulled up a professional-looking PowerPoint presentation. A stylized star gazed down at me, and I recognized it as the Estrella logo.

I didn't manage to stifle my groan. Like in fucking high school.

For the first time, Andrea's composure cracked. She stared at me, her eye twitching, and I could tell that she just barely managed to keep her expression together. A thought began rising in me at the sight, a subtle whisper interlaced with a surge of mild amusement and… melancholy? I wasn't sure where it came from.

"Ah, the classical I-just-spent-all-night-making-this-for-you-are-you-seriously-complaining?- intern stare. I really miss the office."

"Sorry," I murmured.

"Short version then?" She asked, giving me very unsubtle vibes of displeasure.

"Please."

"Okay, good," Andrea plopped down on the couch opposite of me, putting down her tablet on the table between us. "What do you know about Estrella?"

"Nothing much," I answered truthfully. "They host the gala."

"Well, yes, but what else do you know about them?"

I frowned, unsure where this was going, but after a moment, I decided to comply. This was really starting to feel like school, which was honestly not how I'd imagined this job to turn out. Whatever, I guess.

I spent a moment scrounging my head for details, and sort through everything I'd bothered to remember about Estrella.

"They are a newcomer from the west coast. San Francisco, I think," I finally said, speaking slowly. "Came in right after the Scar and the School fire happened. Like, a month or so before the DWA collapsed. They kept silent for a while, and then suddenly started blasting things about saving the Bay, and reopening the port. Lots of media presence, talk shows, and appeals for donations to fund their revitalization projects, and they are currently pretty much the star of everything. Their logo is a star too."

Until they fail like everyone else before and creep silently back where they came from, I added mentally. Old news, really. There had been so many attempts to dislodge the big ship blocking the ports in the last 10, 20 or so years. It was pretty telling just how much that had worked out, right?

"Good," Andrea said. "But too basic. Everyone who watches TV knows that. What do you know about them?"

"Well, they produce small stuff. Tools, gears, toys, laptops, sports gear, outdoor stuff," I paused. "The CEO is called Gabriella Vargas."

Of course, I didn't tell her that the only reason I knew all of this in the first place was because of a drunken three-hour rant marathon between some Dockworker friends of ours I'd been forced to witness during my "welcome home"- party after returning from the mental health clinic.

Andrea nodded, before shooting me a predatory smile. "Okay, so now, what does Estrella know about you?"

"Probably nothing?" I answered hesitantly. What was she getting at?

"Exactly, and we don't want that. It's a closed event, and the last thing we want is for the biggest people in this city to believe that an unknown cape is trying to crash the party and assassinate the local PRT director."

Yeah, ok, that makes a lot of sense, I thought. That wouldn't bode well for me at all.

"But it would be soo much more fun," a part of my brain snickered back at me. "Just imagine their faces when you show up there. The sheer gall required to do that… awesome!"

"So what do you propose then?" I asked. "Do you want me to fly around and do some community service while you film it and put it up on YouTube or what?"

Andrea grinned. "Oh, you know, that's an even better idea than what we had brainstormed beforehand. Let's go with that instead then."

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 14. December 2010

If I had to describe the contents of public sandboxes with one word, it would be 'concerning'. Very concerning. And I had loved playing in them so much as a kid. It had been the highlight of the week back then, but now, after more than two hours of sifting through the garbage piles of Brockton Bay's highest-quality collection of public recreation spaces, I started to doubt the wisdom of my parents. Or any parents for that matter.

The first three or so places I'd visited with Andrea hadn't been so bad. Small parks nestled away in the suburbs, barely the size of a house plot or so, and conveniently on the way to our big prey; Brockton Central Park. Sweeping the entire compounds had been quick work, which I'd discovered was something my power lent itself to surprisingly well.

The work was pretty simple: I'd wait until Andrea had set up her camera equipment, and when she gave me the sign, I'd do some circus nonsense to show off while lifting the entire sand out of the pit with my telekinesis. Then, I'd give it a few good shakes to clean it from grime and whatever else gunk was in there, do some deep cleaning by grinding the individual grains of sand against each other, and finally use it to sweep and sand off all the surfaces and play structures in the park. In the end, I was rewarded with a sparkling (and snow-free) playground and a big mass of pristine, gleaming sand I could then just dump back into the pits.

All in all, I'd pulled around two black trash bags full of minor junk out of the sand, now safely stowed in the back of our van and a part of me was itching to ask if Andrea would just dump them into the bay after we were done here. You'd expect that from some corporate pretenders, wouldn't you?

Of course, the fact that it was mid-December hadn't eluded me either, but whatever. It was quick and easy work, really, and the reaction from the few adults and even fewer kids around had been pretty good. We hadn't garnered much attention, and I'd been less than enthusiastic about the whole thing – and still wasn't – but honestly? As much as the nagging thought that why, just why I should lift a single fucking finger for a world that didn't care about me – for people who had abandoned me and done nothing to help me during my torment – rumbled through my skull, imagining that I was making a bunch of stupid little derps happy didn't feel that bad.

But now, that we were at our final destination for the day…

Residents said that Brockton Central Park was the oasis for every kid, student, and fledgling family in this lovely center of urban decay. It was by far the biggest park in the city, located in the Towers, and nestled in between the prominent hills that made up Brockton's nicest neighborhood.

It was here, among the massive play structures sponsored by Medhall, the huge sand pits for the kids, and the small lake surrounded by mighty oak trees, that I had made some of my most beautiful childhood memories back when I still had friends and a social life.

Mom had proposed to Dad here, at the shores of the lake beneath the biggest tree in the park. The mighty Allfather, then the leader of the Empire 88, had died here too, more than a decade ago, and I found it sad that his Empire had refused to die with him.

All in all, the park was a place laden with memories… and as it turned out, also an utter landfill.

Urgh, fucking disgusting, I thought at the sight of a brownish lump that had to be a used diaper covered in sand, resisting the urge to shiver in disgust. I sang to the cloud of sand around me, cooing it into the animated shape of a galloping unicorn, and sent it to chase around me to distract and awe the crowd watching me from a distance while I quickly dumped my spoil into a trashcan. Then, I went back to work.

Technically speaking, the central park was a rather well-maintained place, as sparkling and pristine as a public park could be. After all, it was the city's central hub and recreation space. Everyone came here, from a filthy rich CEO looking for a calm spot to read his newspaper during lunch break to the medical tourists flocking into the city, or the students from the nearby Arcadia High looking for a place to play football or soccer after classes had ended.

The grass was green, the paths free of cracks, and the trees and shrubs were always trimmed. And yet… It was obvious where the clean-up workers couldn't reach, since by now I'd found pretty much everything from broken bottles, bikes, and car debris on the bottom of the lake to used needles, refuse, or like I'd just discovered, fucking diapers hidden beneath the lower packed layers of sand at the bottom of the playground pits. I'd even unearthed a lump of… something that looked and sounded like a piece of Tinkertech.

Almost done, Taylor, I reminded myself at the sound of another camera click and an exclaimed "woah" echoing from somewhere at my left. My public service had drawn a lot of attention, and there was a small crowd watching me now from a distance, held in check by a pair of young policemen who looked like they didn't quite know what to do in a situation like this.

Andrea was currently talking to what seemed to be a news crew setting up some equipment, which meant that our little stunt was probably getting successful, and another subtle look confirmed that we were getting even more prominent visitors: a black and purple van rolled up in the distance, followed by an iconic motorcycle and a smaller shapes flying in the air; Armsmaster, accompanied by Kid Win. Great.

The work I was doing here was getting tedious – even with the thought in the back of my mind that I was doing this for a goal – and the crowd gaping at me like I was some kind of… celebrity posing for the cameras made me uncomfortable. I didn't like to stand in the limelight, sure enough. I'd never been an extroverted person, even before Emma and her animals bullied me to shatters. I'd always been shy, and this… I didn't know how to put it into words.

On the one hand – clashing with my aversion for attention – there was this stunted bit in me that was craving for approval. It shamed me just how desperate I was for that, and I knew it. There was no point in denying it. It wasn't all bad; it was what had driven me out of my hovel. It was why I was enjoying doing art even more so than the idea of being some flashy and popular superheroine. I was making pretty things, and people liked them.

But this kind of attention… ugh. Was this how the Wards felt on stage? Like a peacock trained for strutting around to draw looks and gawks from the mindless mob? At least no one had tried to touch or grope me yet. Blergh.

The thing that really got to me wasn't how it made me feel like an attention whore, something that I'd observed many times with my former fellow students who would throw themselves at the popular boys or chase after the latest fashion trends just to get people to look at them. No, it was the mortifying objectification that came with it, and I found that I despised it with every fiber of my being. Like I was some fucking exotic animal or pet instead of a person.

This was really more frustrating than I'd thought it would be.

I sighed, focussing back on work while watching the scene from the corner of my eyes. Sweep, clean, shake, and dump into a trashcan. Rinse and repeat. Almost done.

The van rolled closer, coming to a halt right outside of the gates. A pair of uniformed agents climbed out of the front, followed by an armored figure I immediately recognized as Gallant stepping out of the back. He was one of the local Wards, clad head to toe in a set of gunmetal gray power armor that thrummed back at me when I pinged it in a way only Tinkertech did. He was cutting a rather impressive figure, a mix of sci-fi knight and medieval aesthetic with armor plates that glowed in a techy way.

Kid Win touched down from the sky next, coming to a halt next to his partner, before smoothly jumping off his iconic hoverboard and sweeping it up with one arm. It was the cool-casual type of movement, like something you did for the cameras and had to train for hours in front of a mirror.

He was a pale boy with a mop of brown hair, and not looking particularly fit as far as I could tell. His gear, however, was a treat for the eyes; red and golden body armor, with a red visor hiding his identity. His armor emanated a subtle glow which faded when his feet hit the ground. When I pinged him with my sonar, I couldn't help but notice that his gear sounded very similar to that of Gallant. I didn't know what to make of that.

The two of them waited until Armsmaster caught up with them, before the trio entered the park, closely followed by the two agents.

"Three Tinkers," my mind whispered to me at the sight, a paranoid thought that snaked itself into my head. "They send three Tinkers to meet me. They're trying to figure me out. They must be onto something. Be careful."

I took a deep breath to center myself, sweeping the last play structure before I returned my current batch of sand to where it belonged, dismissed my telekinetic field, and turned around to properly acknowledge the newcomers.

I didn't manage to suppress the anxious feeling that began to spread in my gut.

I'd actually met the leader of the local Protectorate before, sure, but I wasn't sure he'd recognized me with how I'd upgraded my costume. He'd been one of the first heroes who'd approached my little stall on the boardwalk when I had set up shop almost a month ago, given me a comprehensive lecture on new cape survivability together with a full Wards pitch (three times) and he'd even commissioned a small mini-Armsmaster from me.

But in the present moment, as he was once again strutting toward me from a distance, clad in his distinct midnight blue armor, and together with all my paranoid and anxious thoughts deciding to come bubbling to the surface right fucking now, having Armsmaster of all people walking towards me was more than a little intimidating.

The Protectorate was the largest superhero organization in the world, spanning Canada and the States, and looking to branch out into other countries as well. Government-sponsored heroes, with a presence in every major city. They had some of the biggest, strongest Parahumans in the world on their roster, and when they assembled for the photoshoots, Armsmaster stood right among them.

He was one of the top heroes of the Protectorate, a capital Hero. At any other point in my life, I'd been giddy meeting him. Hell, at one point I'd even worn underwear with his logo on them and played with his action figures.

Wait, no, I never owned action figures.

Anyway. There had even been a time when I had fantasies of him waltzing into Winslow, on days when the bullying and Emma's betrayal had been especially bad, of him stepping up and saving me from my torment.

… but now? Now I saw different things when I looked at the man: Dad's horrified face, turning disgusted when Armsmaster kicked in the front door to our house, leveling his halberd at me while shouting out my crimes to the world.

Armsmaster towering about me, his face accusing and his eyes burning with hate and loathing. "You murderer," he spat at me, right before he impaled me with his halberd.

Armsmaster dragging me out of my room by my hair, past Dad who just stared at me passively, uncaring, saying: "I don't have a daughter anymore. She died when you tore the scar into the city." The black van was already waiting outside, ready to drag me right into the Birdcage.

I wasn't just nervous, I was scared, and for once, I wasn't ashamed of it. This was fucking Armsmaster, and yes I was powerful in my own right… but what chance did I have against someone like him?

"Oh, don't be so pathetic, kid," a man snorted next to me, but when I shot a glare toward them, there was no one. Great, now my imagination is running amok again, I thought.

I would have slapped myself a few times if it would have helped, or pinched my arm until I drew blood, but those options weren't possible right now, so I had to make do with my breathing exercise to center myself and swallow the budding panic before it could mess everything up and I turned to flee like a pathetic coward.

No point in putting this off any longer, I told myself in an attempt to psyche myself up. He's just a human, like you. You've met him before. You can do it. He was nice to you. I kept doing it over and over again as I slowly made my way over to the group.

It seemed like Andrea had intercepted the trio before they had a chance to beeline toward me, and I was thankful for the breather she'd unwittingly granted me. I needed to get my head straight again. I couldn't fuck this up.

They were still too far away for me to make out what they were discussing, but when I slid closer, trying to project all the confidence I was totally lacking into my step, and moving purposefully with the elegance that came so naturally to me these days, scraps of conversation began to drift into my ear. Armsmaster was going through some documents Andrea had handed him, before eventually returning them.

"... ers seem to be in order…"

"... Protectorate always take this long?"

"... had to briefly investigate reports on a … on the way here." That was Armsmaster. "Was it…?"

"No, we don't have …." I caught Andrea's reply. And then I was already close enough, and everyone who wasn't already watching me approach turned to look at me.

Armsmaster's stance was neutral, but even with my non-existent social skills, I could tell that he was measuring me up as I approached them.

Kid Win openly stared at me, and even with his visor, I could tell that he was either completely dazzled or utterly dumbstruck. Like someone who saw a pretty girl and promptly walked into a street sign.

I had to suppress a grin at the sight, especially when Gallant elbowed him in the side and Kid Win sheepishly averted his gaze.

I couldn't quite read Gallant. He seemed friendly, but I wasn't good at reading people, and his helmet prevented me from seeing his expression. Still, something irked me about the way he looked at me, and I met his gaze until he finally offered a small, awkward wave.

Time to meet my fate, I guess.

"Armsmaster," I greeted him, lowering myself into a deep curtsey with all of the elegance I could muster up. "A pleasure meeting you again."

And then my leg suddenly spasmed, my foot slipped from underneath me, and I crashed face-first into the sand.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 14. December 2010

"Don't worry," Gallant said, presumably shooting me a smile through his helmet. "The first time I met the PRT Director I tripped and bashed my head on her desk."

I nodded stiffly, maintaining my relaxed pose while really being anything but. The three were looking at me with a mix of amusement and sympathy, and my ear refused to stop burning like a soldering iron.

What a fucking way to make a first impression.

I could feel sand in my hair and underneath the collar of my costume; a gritty, chilly sensation that only added to the levels of humiliation I'd just circled through. At least I hadn't fucking eaten any.

"Leg cramps happen if you don't warm up and exercise well," Armsmaster interjected. "I know from experience. Are you hurt?"

"Only my pride," I murmured before pausing, instinctively casting my gaze down before forcing it up again. It was all on camera now, wasn't it? What a fucking way to make a first impression, truly. "It shouldn't have happened," I finally added, murmuring more to myself.

"What was that?" Armsmaster asked.

"Nothing," I said, glancing around from the corner of my eyes. I'd been set up somehow… I was sure of it. I didn't trip – I never tripped. My footing was impeccable, and my sense of balance was beyond normal. And yet, I'd just faceplanted like a fucking toddler who was just learning to walk.

I should have been able to catch myself effortlessly if I tripped, and even if someone had stuck their leg out in front of my foot, it shouldn't have knocked me off balance at all. Maybe I'd been poisoned without noticing, or someone had used a power on me that messed with my sense of balance. But why? Was someone trying to fuck with me?

The crowd was still there, and seeing the phones and cameras from the news team aimed at me drove the final nail into the coffin of my confidence. Still, I couldn't see anything suspicious. I did, however, notice that the giggling pretty boy from earlier had disappeared. What a shame he had tripped too, truly.

"I did speak to your… PR manager…" there was the slightest hint of distaste in Armsmaster's voice when he said the words, or perhaps I was just imagining things. "...and everything seems to be in order. It's good to see a new hero who doesn't just think about fighting villains…"

"Attention whore," my mind whispered at that.

… but I believe we haven't been introduced to each other yet?" Armsmaster smiled at me, and I stopped scanning my surroundings.

"We have, actually," I dropped into another curtesy, before doing a slow twirl, gracefully spinning like a ballerina to show off my looks. "Armsmaster, Gallant, Kid Win, it is a pleasure to meet you again. Kaleidoscope, at your service."

"Wait," Kid Win stared at me. "You're the peddler chick?"

I shot him an irritated glance. That was certainly one way to phrase it. "The street artist, yes," I corrected him, stressing the words and crossing my arms.

"Right, sorry," he replied.

"I had suspected that there was more to you," Armsmaster said. "I can understand trying to downplay your powers, especially as an independent agent. Why did you decide to step into the spotlight now, though?"

"I-"

"Don't trust him. Don't tell him anything," my mind hissed. "Don't be a fool. One wrong word and you'll be exposed for what you really are. Do you want to go to prison?"

"I got invited as a plus-one to the Estrella fundraiser on Friday," I finished lamely. "And my employer wished for me to build up a reputation first."

"I see," the Protectorate hero said, not adding: that didn't really answer my question.

"So, what can you do now?" Gallant asked. "Your costume looks amazing, really professional grade."

"Thank you," I did another slow twirl with my arms raised, shooting him a genuine smile. "I put a lot of work into it. As for my powers…" I hesitated, briefly overtaken by a surge of paranoia before carefully saying. "I'd rather not disclose too much if that's alright with you. Let's just say that I'm a telekinetic."

I reached out with my song, pulling a handful of sand from the ground and into the open palm of my hand. Then, I poured my powers into it, molding and forming it until I presented a small rectangular pyramid to the Ward. He took it after a moment of hesitation.

"By this point, it's pretty much solid sandstone," I explained. "I altered the internal structure and properties, making it harder and denser, and fused the grains together. It's how I make my art. As far as I know, it only works on inorganic materials, and not on any kind of advanced technology. Which reminds me…"

Time to earn some brownie points, I thought, reaching beneath my dress to retrieve the piece of Tinkertech I had found during my cleanup work. "I found something weird during my cleanup. It looks like something a Tinker made. I assume you'd like to have it?"

"Tinkertech?" Armsmaster frowned "Are you sure?"

I nodded, holding out the package to him. "Yeah. Doesn't look like a phone to me."

"Please place it on the ground and step away from it. I'll need to perform some scans for safety's sake." I did as he asked, and Armsmaster knelt down a few feet away from the package, bringing out a small rectangular device with a bunch of antennas and sci-fi bobbles hanging off it. It took him a minute to get whatever readings he was looking for, and the rest of us stood around, the awkward silence only broken by a couple of quiet beeps from Armsmaster's device.

"No outgoing signals or dangerous emissions that I can detect," he finally said, reaching for the package. Even with his armored gauntlets, he deftly peeled away the wrapping around the bit of tech. It looked rather unspectacular; a battered device the size of my palm encased in grimy plastic. It looked rather dead, all things considered.

I'd cleaned off the surface a bit, but I hadn't dared to fiddle with the internals. It was common knowledge that playing with parahuman technology was a bad idea, though I'd planned to take it apart in my workshop later that day. I was vaguely aware that Tinkers could get inspiration from other Tinkers' work, and even though I knew that my specialty probably didn't mesh too well with more sci-fi stuff, I'd hoped to get some use out of it.

In any case, losing it wouldn't hurt me much.

"Looks like old Leet tech," he finally said. "Where did you find this?"

"In the pond," I jabbed my thumb over my shoulder. "Buried in a pile of garbage."

"So it's just been sitting there, rotting in a random pond for who knows how long?" Kid Win blurted out.

"Yep," I hoped he caught my wry smile through my mask. "Right next to a whole bunch of playing children."

"That is concerning," Armsmaster frowned. "The last recorded encounter with Leet in this area was several years ago."

Well, shit, I thought, shrugging at Armsmaster. "I guess we're just lucky that nothing happened."

"That's true, but something easily could have happened," Armsmaster replied. "You might not know this since you aren't a Tinker, but our creations can be very dangerous when not properly maintained, and Leet's tech in particular is known for exploding when you least expect it. Thank you for bringing this to my attention."

I dropped into another quick courtesy. "It is always a pleasure to be of service. So, what now?"

Armsmaster actually grinned at me, a short tug of his lips. "Well, this is normally the time when I'd start trying to sell you on joining the Wards team." He had nice lips, and briefly, other thoughts began rising in my head, unbidden, and taking me aback the moment they blossomed in my mind. I had to suppress the urge to reach out and dig my fingers into his beard.

"And this would be the time I decline the offer once again," I shrugged with a smile. "I do appreciate it, but I don't think the Wards are for me, and my plans for leaving the city haven't changed. I'll be gone by the end of the month."

"I understand."

"Well…" I was interrupted when Armsmaster's head jerked to the right. When I looked, I saw Andrea stalking toward us. He sighed lightly. "I assume your PR agent wants to take some photos of us together," he said drily.

I couldn't help but snort at the remark. This had been surprisingly pleasant so far.

"So, where are you leaving to?" I turned to Kid Win, shooing away the boy I'd just handed the last of my handmade souvenir cards. The Ward was floating next to me, sitting on his hoverboard like it was a flying bench. He had the look of a kid in the middle of math class.

I considered deflecting the question but I forced myself to give the junior hero a bit of trust. It wasn't that I was wary of him as a person – he seemed kind enough from our short interaction so far and definitively more down to earth than I'd expected from a local celebrity – but he did work for the government and I was a wanted murderer.

"Boston," I replied. "A new start, you know?"

"Oh, yeah," he replied awkwardly. "I can understand that… but this city isn't so bad, you know? Maybe you should give it a chance? Now that you're doing more stuff…" Instead of wasting your powers, he didn't say, "... we could really use another hero out there, you know?"

"Yeah, but it's not exactly my choice if you get my drift?" I lied shamelessly because fuck this place, fuck the city, and fuck the people here especially! "My Dad lost his job and good luck finding something in this city that pays well and isn't connected to a fucking gang. We have no choice."

"Oh, how old are you?"

"Why do you care?" I shot him an irritated glance.

"Just… curious," Kid Win winced. "Sorry if I overstepped any boundaries. I'm… not good with people."

"I feel you," nerd, I snorted, and before I realized what I was doing, I had already reached out and patted his head. What the fuck Taylor what are you doing? I screamed internally at myself.

The hero squawked, nearly falling from his hoverboard, before shooting me the most bewildered glance I'd ever seen a person give me. "That- you-" he stuttered, and lacking any other plan to save the moment, I decided to go all out.

"Sorry," I grinned, internally not believing the words that were now pouring out of my mouth. "Couldn't help myself. You're just kinda cute. And I'm fifteen, by the way."

Kid Win ogled, and something suspiciously akin to omgpleasejointhewards flew from his lips in muffled words. He was red as a tomato, his ears glowing like the panels on his costume. He coughed. "Please don't do that again."

"Sorry. Force of habit," I half-lied… even though I had no clue where that habit had suddenly come from.

"You're teasing me, aren't you?"

"No, I- I'm not," I shrugged, trying to save a bit of my dignity "It's just… I get impulsive sometimes, you know? I wasn't like that before…" I got my powers, I wanted to say but the words refused to leave my lips, and I fell into awkward silence. The hero seemed to understand me though, because something in his posture darkened immediately.

"Yeah, I can understand that," he replied mutedly. "I have some issues like that too, you know? It can be a struggle sometimes, and it's not something that my powers help with at all." He chuckled, though it sounded forced to my ear. "In fact, it's kinda the opposite."

We fell into awkward silence. The crowd in the park had started to thin since the event was officially over but there were still a few stragglers about. Andrea was talking frantically to Armsmaster a few yards away, waving her hands around. They were too far away for me to make out what they were talking about, though I could have probably listened in if I'd cared to focus. Gallant was entertaining a few remaining kids by shooting colorful balls of energy into the sky. I was sure he didn't have to do that, especially when there weren't any cameras trained on him anymore, but he still did, and it looked kinda sweet.

Of course, even without the whole Scar looming over my shoulder like a screeching specter, I had my reservations about the Wards; teenage drama, bureaucratic oversight, PR agents, and glorified poser idols that were most likely just Emma in different wrapping… but now that I had seen some of the Wards in the flesh, they seemed nice enough. I still wasn't about to join them, of course, and I'd probably never return to Brockton Bay again if I could help it, but right now… I could imagine working together with them like this.

"And if I ever want to get serious 'bout ending my celibacy, two smiles at the Nerd would be enough to get a subby plowing toy for a few weeks," my mind happily supplied.

Ok, no, no, I was not going there. Bad brain. What the fuck? I frowned. Seriously, what was up with me? Why was I getting these random thoughts that were so out of place… it was like there was someone else in my head – like I was possessed or schizo or something.

I knew that – that… fuck! I knew that I had issues… "polite way to say that you got a few screws loose. Don't worry about it, girl" … but was this normal? Ever since I'd hit puberty, I'd gone through one thing after another that felt super weird but was apparently normal. Was this one of those, or was I actually just fucking losing it in the most spectacular manner?

"You ok?" Kid Win asked, and I forced myself to unclench my fists.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Bad memories."

"I have those too, sometimes," he fell silent for a moment. "Are you really fifteen?"

I turned to shoot him a look. "Yes? What's with that question?"

"Uhm," Kid Win. "You do kinda look older? I'd have guessed that you were around eighteen or twenty."

I paused. "I have no idea how to respond to this," I finally said.

"Sorry," he winced.

“I mean, if you’re into ol-” I was interrupted -- probably for the best – by a commotion in my peripheral vision; a woman was walking up to us. Well, marching, really, with her hands balled into fists at her sides. Her face was unassuming; conservative haircut, bland but not unattractive. It was also reddened with anger, and when our eyes met, hers glowered with fury and derision.

“You… you bitch!  You monster!” The woman shouted as soon as she was in speaking range. I blinked, needing a moment to realize that she was talking to me . I glanced at Kid Win, but he didn’t seem to know how to react either. 

The woman stopped a few yards away, glaring at me, and continued shouting, “scum like you should rot at the bottom of the ocean.“ Each word was underlined by a sharp jab of her finger at me. “You fucking capes just care about your image, and we normals have to suffer for it. I don’t care where you crawled from, but if you get off hurting innocent kids just for kicks then you can…”

My stomach clenched, my throat felt tight. What was going on? Was this… I had imagined something like this happening before, but it had always been in a courtroom or an execution chamber, where the list of all my sins was paraded in front of me and all I could do was sit there and listen.

“I… I don’t-”

Before I could say anything, Andrea strode between us, hands up in a conciliatory gesture.  “Hey, hey, hey, calm down, miss, you’re making a scene. If you want to make a complaint, then-”

“I wasn’t talking to you!” The woman tried to step past Andrea, but she matched the step, blocking the woman. “Get–” the woman grabbed Andrea and shoved her to the side– “Get out of my way!”

One part of me wanted to rush to Andrea where she’d fallen on the ground, a hand to her chest as if she was having a heart attack, and another part of me – more like ten parts – wanted to throttle the woman for daring to attack my partner. Kid Win had dismounted and was checking on Andrea, so at least that was settled.

“What’s your damage?” I demanded. “You can’t just-”

The woman yelled over me: “You could have killed him! you don’t even care, do you? You’d better pay the fucking hospital bill, and if he needs stitches, I swear to God, so will you!”

“I–” My thoughts were spinning wildly. She was talking about stitches. This… was unrelated to the scar. A recent thing. “Hey, I didn’t hurt anyone. Who the fuck are you even?” 

I tried to stay calm but there was the taste of bile on my tongue. I took a step to the side, away from Andrea and Kid Win, and the woman seemed to take that as her cue to march right up to me and get in my face. She was only a bit shorter than me, but her haircut and scrunched-up face made me think of a cartoon mouse.

“You–” she jabbed my chest with a finger. The fucking nerve of her. She stepped even closer into my personal space, so I put my hands firmly on her upper arms and moved her back. The light shove sent the woman stumbling five feet backward until she finally fell on her ass. 

She just looked at me for a moment, stunned, and then something in her eyes started to glimmer. I knew that she was unharmed, yet she made no motion to get up again. “Murderer! You- you bully!” She screamed. “Help! Heeeelp!”  

The world around me slowly, ever so slowly ground to a halt, until there was only silence. And then I saw red . 

I was walking towards her– how dared she talk to me like that – with the facets of my glass dress sharpening to razor-sharp edges. I’ll show you, I fumed internally. You fucking b-bully!

Suddenly there was someone in front of me, blocking my path. “Careful, kid!”

A blue metal gauntlet was placed on my chest, holding me back. My arm came up and to the side immediately, knocking it away and sending sparks flying in the process. A nearly subconscious twirl, and I was past the obstruction, approaching the woman on the ground. 

I was about to close in when my danger sense flared and I snapped my head towards the source. Armsmaster, the hero of Brockton Bay, with his weapon pointed toward me, the tip glowing with some sort of energy. Like I was a threat, a villain. But it was her, the woman, who-

Who had done what? Said some mean words?

It was like cold water splashing over me, shocking me back into reality. For a moment, it was like the world around me was frozen. Nobody moved, but the world seemingly shifted and distorted as tears began to fill my eyes. 

I thought that Armsmaster was saying something to me, but I couldn’t make out what it was. There was something wrong with his gauntlet, with four long grooves marring the pristine metal. 

I took to the skies before he had a chance to do anything. I just couldn’t deal with this right now.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 14. December 2010

I caught the alien symphony of Tinkertech drift through the network around me a short moment before my physical ear caught the sound of Armsmaster's motorcycle. I'd been listening through my power since I got here, losing myself in the staggeringly serene symphonies of the world around me.

There was no one around us but me and him. Not anywhere nearby, at least. It would be so easy to stall him. A sonic blast that would tear into his bike as he rolled down the road, and would force him to walk the rest of the way on foot if his power armor would still even work. Given that it was Armsmaster, I wouldn't be surprised if it would. I'd seen the footage where he'd solo'ed the Chorus earlier this year after they'd hit the local mall and burned too many bridges.

I wasn't ready yet… but I had no energy to move – to get up and run away again – and so I remained where I sat when an almost invisible grappling hook whirred through the air and buried itself into the concrete a bit away from me. And most importantly, I'd sworn to never run away again… not from anybody or anything.

I'd already broken that promise once today.

I closed my eyes until I heard the crunch of gravel beneath armored boots, and only then did I turn to look up at him. He looked me over as I sat there with my arms around my knees. I searched for hostility in his face – apprehension or disgust, maybe – but his expression was simply a soft frown.

"Kaleidoscope," Armsmaster said. His gaze briefly flickered to the empty pack of cigarettes next to me, and then to the opening in my dress at my hip.

"Sup," I replied tiredly. "Here to take me in?"

"No," Armsmaster shook his head. He stopped a few feet away from me, shifting his stance. "It seems like we – no, like you have a problem."

My eyes flashed toward the grooves on his bracer, and I barked out a laugh. It sounded shrill, even to my ears. "No shit! I – look, I– I'm sorry for lashing out against you. Really. I– I know it's–"

"Let me stop you right there," Armsmaster raised his hand. "It's all right. No one was hurt, and it was obviously a very intense situation."

"But, I–"

"No, It's fine." Armsmaster paused for a moment, shooting me a look. "But I must say, your reaction was worrying on a few levels. Are you okay?"

"I–" The words got stuck in my throat, and I paused, fishing for words. "Y-you're letting me go, j-just like that?"

"You didn't commit any crimes, so yes. However, I need to know if you might be a danger to yourself or others," Armsmaster replied, before shooting me a careful, measured smile. "The incident aside, I've heard nothing but positive things about you ever since you started out. Your intentions seem to be good, and the fact that you chose to use your powers to create beautiful things and perform public works instead of going out to get into fights speaks volumes…"

I didn't know how to reply to that, and so Armsmaster continued.

"...but even if provoked, a hero isn't someone who lashes out against people like that, and I need to know how much control you have over yourself. I stress again that you should join the Wards, be that here or in whatever city you move to. There's more of us around, you know," he chuckled. "Not just here in Brockton Bay. And even if you don't want to make that commitment, the PRT offers many services to affiliated or registered heroes. Social management, therapy, dealing with crowds… I would strongly advise you to consider it. For this to happen once is an accident, especially when you were set up, but we can't in good faith allow parahumans to roam around, lashing out at the slightest threat."

"I– okay," I replied softly. A wave of disgust rolled through me at my own timid reply. I shouldn't be weak like this. I was strong, pretty, powerful, badass beyond belief… and just a few words had brought me back down to being Winslow doormat Taylor Hebert again; Like I was a scaredy cat; weak, pathetic, and disgusting. I am such a fuck-up. My eyes started to itch, but I managed to suppress and swallow my tears. Everything was ok. "Wait, what did you mean by a setup?"

Something flashed across Armsmaster's face, and the hero's expression turned dark. "After you fled the scene, several other individuals stepped up, claiming you to be a liar and poser."

"I– what?" I asked. "Wha-what – why?"

"According to Miss Shen, you two cleared several parks and playgrounds in the city throughout the day, and properly disposed of the trash afterward, right?"

"I– yes," I replied. "We documented everything, and the trash is in the back of our vans. It should be still there."

"Indeed," Armsmaster said." But some people claimed you just dumped the garbage in an unobtrusive spot each time you left an area, and accused you of doing more harm than good for the sake of some cheap publicity."

"What?" I hissed, staring at the hero with narrowing eyes. "Bullshit! It's still there. We– you can check our–."

"I did," Armsmaster interrupted me again to my growing dismay. It made me feel like he wasn't taking me seriously, but I swallowed the notion. I could recognize when it was my emotions getting the better of me, coloring things in a worse light. His next words, however, sent a chill down my spine. "There were several bags of trash in the back of Miss Shen's vehicle, and her testimony is as believable as yours. This does however mean that someone deliberately vandalized the parks again after you left, and is now trying to spin this situation against you."

"What does that mean?" I asked carefully, even though I already knew the answer.

"It means, Miss Kaleidoscope, that you have an enemy. Someone is trying to sabotage your reputation."

I shifted to look at him in full.

"It's not that uncommon for new Parahumans who take the public route," Armsmaster said. "Things like this…" he gestured vaguely "... can be easily messed with. All it takes is a man with a gun or just a scapegoat doing something uncomfortable during a public event, and it will tint the mood. It's a common intimidation tactic."

"But, why? I've never done anything to piss off someone," I half-lied. "I stayed away from the gangs and their business."

"That doesn't matter. At least not to them. A lone parahuman is first and foremost an asset that should be acquired, and if that is not possible, an asset that should be denied to their rivals. It's not necessarily limited to villains – most hero groups would be interested in someone like you and go to some lengths to recruit you – but the villain scene is unfortunately much less merciful when it comes to competition."

Armsmaster paused to look at me. It made me uncomfortable, but I tried not to let it show. "You know about Parian, I assume?"

"Of course," I replied. "Vaguely, at least. We never met."

The hero nodded. "She has reported several attempts by the Empire Eighty-Eight to make her join them ever since her debut. She was approached several times. They began with a diplomatic angle, making offers and promises, and when she turned them down, they turned to threats and coercion. It's not something we advertise to the public, but the statistics speak for themselves how many independents manage to stay independent for very long."

This sort of thing wasn't new to me, of course. I'd heard the same spiel, online and during the previous attempts to recruit me to the heroes. But hearing it again, now that I knew what that sort of harassment looked like, I was starting to see things in a new light. I'd thought that if I wasn't attacking anyone, it made sense that I was being left alone, and apart from the Protectorate stopping by to chat a few times, I had been left alone.

It had been fucking working for months, contrary to what Armsmaster had just told me… And now there was a certain burner phone sitting like lead in my extradimensional bullshit storage, and there was an enemy after my head who – by all accounts – didn't seem to match with what I knew about the MO of the local gangs.

I just… didn't know what to make of that.

Especially because just how the fuck can it be that the entire established population of local villains just… leaves me alone? I was glad that I'd been able to get by without being harassed, but why? Just why the fuck? I–

My thoughts stuttered to a halt. I had to think this through rationally. It wasn't like they were afraid to go after me. Nobody knew how destructive my powers could really be unless they'd linked me to the Scar. But if they'd done that, they would have either tried even harder to recruit me to control that power, or they would have run me out of town.

But they hadn't. Neither the ABB nor the Empire had moved against me as far as I could tell. Not even the smaller gangs, like that mercenary crew or those new thieves operating in the city, had approached me in the past months. It wasn't like the villains of Brockton Bay had a social group or something where they could discuss and coordinate what they were doing, which meant that there must have been something that made each of them look at me and think that I wasn't someone to mess with.

The Empire or the ABB wouldn't mess with me this indirectly either. They have the resources and backing to do better. This must mean that whoever's messing with me isn't part of the local Villain community, I thought. I laughed. I just couldn't help it. This was like in a fucking movie, especially since none of it made any fucking sense to me.

"Do you know who could be behind this?" I finally asked. "I don't think it's one of the local gangs."

"Why do you think so?" Armsmaster asked.

"Because it doesn't match the methods of the ABB or the Empire," I explained. "I've grown up here. I've seen enough of them to know they wouldn't do something like…" I gestured helplessly, "...like this, you know? They wouldn't just straight-out ignore me for months and then greet me with a sniper bullet to the head."

"You have indeed been active for a while now, but you also haven't put on a show like this before, which might explain the gangs showing little interest in you," Armsmaster said. "Still, you claim they didn't overtly move toward you before this? Nobody approached you, cape or civilian, trying to have a 'harmless' conversation, or making suggestions about allegiances?"

I shrugged helplessly. "No. The only cape..." apart from Oni Lee who gave me a pat on the head and Lung's fucking phone number "...I ever saw from a distance was Rune floating around, and I am pretty sure she was either in a hurry and didn't see me or gave me one look and bolted immediately like I'm the second coming of fucking Satan. No fucking clue, really."

"Then that's indeed unusual," Armsmaster mused. "The gangs have been restless ever since the event that caused the Scar, and it's only a matter of time until the Empire Eighty-Eight and the ABB will be at each other's throats again, but this… this is indeed incongruous with known patterns of behavior for them to just start with something like this."

"Yeah, but someone has decided to play games with me," I hissed in frustration. "And I want to know why and who."

"There are some options. It could be Coil; he's known for being more of a schemer, but this would be blatant even for him, and we suspect that one or two new players have been operating in the city for a while now," Armsmaster admitted. His mouth shifted more and more into a frown as he spoke, and I had the impression that he started to glance at me oddly.

"What do you mean, you suspect?" I asked. Isn't this your city? Shouldn't you like… know what's going on here?

"It means that people reported some odd sightings. Presumed capes, or other things, but little to no concrete evidence. We also know that there is at least one new Tinker active around the docks, but like our presumed guests, they stay below the radar, and our attempts to reach out to them haven't come to fruition yet," Armsmaster replied. I had to suppress a flinch at his words.

Guess I'm not as sneaky as I thought I'd be, I thought sardonically, stifling the urge to clench my fist and kick something. Fuck this. I'm not even surprised anymore.

"You didn't mean that figuratively," Armsmaster suddenly stated.

"Hm?" I looked up at the hero, trying to keep the emotions from my face. "I'm sorry, what?"

"The sniper."

Aargh, me and my fucking motormouth! Why couldn't I just shut up and leave? I choked the frustrated growl down, forcing myself to smile at the hero. "Uhm, well… I was… involved in a minor altercation a few days ago."

"Are you saying that someone tried to assassinate you with a sniper rifle?" Armsmaster asked, subtly trying to gloss over the fact that he was baffled. "And you didn't immediately approach the PRT with this information?"

"I… I thought I could deal with it alone?" I offered lamely. "And I didn't want to be a bother."

Armsmaster just stared at me for what felt like a full minute, long enough for me to clamber to my feet and wrap my arms defensively around my body. I itched to say something to explain myself, but I forced myself to remain silent. I didn't trust authority too much, for good fucking reason, but even I could realize that I'd acted incredibly stupid about this.

But with the baggage I was carrying – with the two hundred corpses on my conscience, millions of property damage on my shoulders, and my fraying web of lies – I didn't know what else I could have done. It was stupid and reckless, yes, but in my position, it was the only thing I could have done… right?

Right…?

Armsmaster released a long exhale, saving me from the humiliation of having to continue that string of thoughts and pathetic self-excuses. Why couldn't I just punch my problems away, throw them into a meat grinder of glass, and be done with all this crap?

"Teenagers," the Protectorate leader finally muttered to himself, before speaking up. "Tell me what happened, please."

Lacking any other options, I did. I didn't tell him everything, of course, merely what he needed to know without compromising me.

I told him about my fight with Greasecan and even ratted his current position out under the bargain that the PRT would treat it as an anonymous tip. Then I told him about the drone, keeping my breakdown to myself. I tried to describe it as well as possible, but my memories of it were hazy.

"That's everything," I finally concluded my tale, handing Armsmaster the bullet casing I'd kept with me all this time. "The battle was… hazy, but I think I did destroy the drone. I didn't find any debris after I came back to the location later though."

"I… see," Armsmaster finally replied. He'd listened without interrupting me, and even if he didn't mention it, I was sure he was recording my testimony. "First, the fact that you kept something like this to yourself and knew about the location of a potential supervillain aside, I'm glad that you managed to come out on top of this. Attacks and strategies like this are very much not the norm in cape fights, and it means that someone is seriously coming after you. Do you understand that?"

"Yeah…" I murmured, unable to stop fidgeting as I felt his gaze on me. At least it was only subtle, and I wasn't making myself the fool here. The realization didn't help me stop feeling like one, though.

"I wish you had brought this up before. Immediately after it happened so we could investigate, ideally. You are aware that this most likely relates to the current conspiracy against you?"

That… that made sense, a lot of sense. Why the fuck hadn't I made such a simple connection. There wasn't a guarantee, no proof, but it did make the events start to line up eerily well. And if I remembered correctly, Armsmaster did investigate something in the area right before he'd appeared in the park.

A drone.

Ah, shit…

Well, given that they'd probably seen the casual destruction I could unleash on a moment's notice during my first encounter with Greasecan and the Tinker drone, I could see the wisdom of an indirect attack on my persona. They obviously wanted to get rid of me, one way or another, though why they wouldn't just wait until I left the city eluded me.

In any case, a serious fight to the death would lead to escalation, and with the way I escalated, they would either need to get a quick drop on me and take me down before I had a chance to act, or risk drawing a massive amount of attention towards them. Assuming they wanted to stay out of the radar of the Protectorate, that was something they would want to avoid, hence the indirect approach.

"This is worrisome, and we will look seriously into this matter," Armsmaster continued. "You have my number, right? Please call me if anything suspicious happens."

"I do, yeah. Still got your card," I replied.

"Good, please use it," Armsmaster said sternly. "This business is dangerous, and I'd hate to see a promising young heroine like you die in a dirty back alley just because of pride and teenage stupidity. It happens often enough in this world."

"Yeah, thanks," I murmured sheepishly. I actually want to stay as far away from you guys as possible, I thought drily, but not without a surge of guilt. "So, what now?"

Armsmaster snorted drily. "I assume you still wish to attend the upcoming gala?"

"Yeah," I murmured. "Need the money. If they haven't fired me for my fuckup display earlier."

"Take my words carefully, but I think you don't have to worry about that too much," Armsmaster paused briefly as if he was listening to something. I didn't catch any sounds, though. "Your agent is still waiting for you in the park, and she seemed more worried than upset. The sentiment in the crowd wasn't too negative against you either. Most of the troublemakers acted too suspiciously, and most people seem to have caught on. Still, I'd strongly suggest you keep your head down until you either leave the city or this situation has been resolved."

"I will, trust me!" I laughed nervously. I paused, hesitating for a moment. "And… thanks for being so forthcoming and understanding. I… did not expect that."

Armsmaster shifted slightly, tilting his helmet.

"A few months ago I would have probably reacted differently," he admitted. "But the Scar put a few things into perspective for me. We did not tell the public, but when the explosion tore through the city, I nearly lost people who I never thought I'd describe as dear to me. I never thought about them this way before, at least not as much as I should have in all the years we've been working together… it was a lesson I was glad that I didn't have to learn a harder way."

The hero softly shook his head before continuing. "Miss Militia and I were on our way to respond to the Winslow Fire when it happened. A truck driver lost control when everything exploded and rammed into her. She fought for her life for three days until Panacea was in a state to heal her again. Battery and Assault were together as civilians and were nearly gutted by debris. Kid Win and Vista were some of the first responders, and their visors exploded in their faces. Seeing all that… it humbled me, I guess." He chuckled.

"I'm sorry," I said. The mental image of the cutesy Vista rose in my head, her childish face a red crater spiked with bloody glass shards protruding from her empty eye sockets, and I felt the sudden urge to puke my guts out.

He waved me off. "It's a dangerous business, and I have seen too many friends and colleagues die. But again, when it happens to the kids you are supposed to look after, it puts some things into perspective, and I think for the better."

The nausea was drowning. "E-excuse me," I managed to croak out, stepping toward the ledge of the building. I didn't need a mirror to see that my face was taking on an ashen hue. "I-I need to go. Try to fix things with my employer."

"Kaleidoscope!" Armsmaster's booming voice caused me to freeze midair before I even managed to rise a few feet into the air. I whirled around.

"I… yeah?"

"Are you alright?" He asked me again. He was frowning, and there was a hint of concern in his voice.

"I-" I…I am not alright, no. I'm scared!" I sighed, taking a deep breath before I crossed my arms midair to prevent myself from shivering. "You know, I am strong. Much stronger than anyone thinks. I can hold myself in a fight. The gangs don't scare me. But this… I just don't know how to deal with this. This all is growing over my head."

"That's understandable."

"Heh, yeah," I scowled, suddenly overcome by a flood of bitterness and frustration. I coughed out a laugh, gesturing around. "My life is falling apart around me again, and I can't do shit about it. Everything was fine until a week ago, and then someone decided to try and kill me with a fucking sniper rifle. And now this."

I shook my head. "And you know, my life being 'fine' is a really low mark here. Some lowlife fuckface trying to bully me into submission because I broke one of his toys isn't even the worst of my problems. A week ago, I was on the verge of becoming homeless, my mind is fucking with me, and… and–"

I fell silent as I lost my train of thought, clenching my fist and hitting the air in frustration. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts again and continue to speak. The words were pouring out of my mouth, and a distant part of me knew that I was currently digging my own grave… but I just couldn't stop, and I was happy that Armsmaster chose to stay and lend me his ear rather than walking away as everyone else in my life had.

I just… needed someone to listen to me.

"I'm scared because I don't know what's wrong with me, and I can't even tell Dad about it. Can't explain it to him. Ever since I've gotten… my powers, I have these fucking urges, these fucking impulses that cause me problems over problems," I laugh-sobbed in frustration. "Sometimes it's like there's someone in my head, whispering things to me and trying to pull strings in the– "

I didn't miss the fact that Armsmaster took a single step back when he heard that, subtly tensing beneath his armor as his hand flew up, only to stop halfway to his helmet.

"Nothing, it's fine. Elaborate, please," he said, shooting me a smile and gesturing me to continue. "These… impulses, are they manifesting like voices in your head? Demanding you to do something?"

"No?" I frowned at him. "I'm not crazy!"

"I am not saying that. But you do have multiple powers, right?" The hero pressed.

"Yes," I admitted. "A handful. But I'm not crazy," I snapped.

"Hm," Armsmaster replied unimpressed. "Then what do you mean when you talk about these… impulses?"

"I sometimes get the impulse to harm people who annoy me," I carefully replied. "And then there's also–" I trailed off awkwardly, and heat began to rise in my cheeks. "Other thoughts," I finished lamely. "Most of it's harmless, really. It's just… I feel like it isn't always me anymore, you know? I suddenly like foods I didn't before my powers, and stuff like that."

"Mental influences are common among grab-bag capes," Armsmaster said, relaxing somewhat beneath his armor. "It's unfortunate, but both you and I know that powers always come with a dark side."

"Yeah, and you know what? It was fine," I sighed, scowling. "This little stint here aside, my life is getting better. If I hadn't triggered I'd still be stuck in that shit-show loop, but I did, and now I can look up, you know? A few impulses are a small price to pay for that. But…"

Armsmaster opened his mouth, and I glared at him, speaking before he had a chance to. "I'll manage, for my sake and for Dad. I have to! You know, you wanted to know whether I was in control of myself, earlier. Whether I am a "danger" to other people around me. You know what? I am because everyone with powers is. I… I have issues, yes, I know that. I was in therapy for it."

I reached up, and pulled the collar of my bodysuit down, moving my dress and the glass flakes covering my skin aside so he could see the mess of ugly scars and burn scars on my throat. "Just a few days ago, I met one of the girls who directly caused my trigger, and I didn't lay a single finger on her. I think that speaks volumes about my fucking self-control."

"It does," Armsmaster replied after a long pause.

"Yeah," I snapped at him. "And now have a great fucking day, because I need to go find Andrea and fix the shit I ruined for nothing. Fuck, I-I'm sorry for snapping at you, it's just… I'm just… fuck. Urgh, I'll- I'll just leave before I embarrass myself any further, sorry," I muttered.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, 14. December 2010

I stared down at the small playground nestled in between two houses, my fists clenched and my lips pursed. It looked exactly as I had left it not too long ago; small, humble, clean… innocent if you ignored the bags of garbage shoddily stuffed behind some bushes. They hadn't even tried to hide them properly, but I guessed that was part of the plan as well.

I cursed. Fucking bastards. If I ever met that drone Tinker, I'd see which of his orifices were compatible with his technology. Fuck… now I needed to–

No, no time. Sorry kids. I can always come back later, I told myself as I forced myself to turn around. Clean everything up again after I fix the mess with Carson. I just hope they don't fire me.

I couldn't blame them if they did. Not really… but all I could do now was to dive in and hope for the best. I needed to be on top of my game and stay calm, dignified, and professional. That kind of thing had usually helped when Dad had issues at work, from what he'd told me.

At least with those he couldn't scream into the ground, a part of my consciousness whispered in a sudden burst of gallows humor. My anger issues were one of the things that I'd inherited from Dad, after all, and I could still vividly remember the day I'd spent the morning in his office because we wanted to go out in the afternoon – years ago.

There had been some issue with the mayor, and seeing my Dad lose his shit for real had scared me back then. The way his usually bewildered face turned crimson paired with the veins throbbing at his temple and a volume that made the walls of the DWA office shake had genuinely terrified me.

Sure, him shouting the poor aide into the ground had apparently fixed something… but still, I should probably avoid displays like that.

With a defeated sigh, I began flying back toward Downtown. Armsmaster had tracked me down quickly after I'd fled from the scene; it couldn't have been more than an hour, but that didn't matter. Every second I lingered was a wasted one, another uptick to the chance that this would ruin my career before it started.

Of course, I could just leave, a darker part of my mind whispered. It was a good excuse to pull back and fade into obscurity again. I could use it to duck out of the job and go back to my workshop. Just a few more weeks and I'd be gone. All I needed to do was… nothing, and my problems would solve themselves. Reputation for security was a good trade if someone tried to kill me, after all, right?

I squashed the thought viciously. Fuck that. Fuck them. I would not be backing out of anything just because it was fucking easier. I will not give up, I thought. I will not fuck this up. And I'll make fucking sure of it.

I only hesitated for a heartbeat before I plucked three glass shards from my costume and floated them into the palm of my outstretched hand. Not too big, and not too small. They would do.

Sand began creeping out of my sleeve as I flew over the city at a comfortable speed (not that my flight was particularly fast to begin with), and it poured itself into my outstretched palm. Another melody and everything rose into the air and came to hover a few inches over my hand. I stared at the mass in front of my face – three glass shards surrounded by a lazy cloud of sand, almost like a cage around each shard – searching for self-doubt.

I couldn't find it.

The sand rippled and closed around each shard like one would wrap a candy, leaving me with three pebble-sized projectiles held together by my song. I popped off my mask and swallowed them without hesitation. They would stay in my stomach until this was over, and if I lost my control – if my focus slipped for just a bit too long – they would remind me what was at stake here.

"Woah, crazy bint," my mind helpfully supplied when the sand slid down my throat. I ignored the intrusive thought. I fucking knew it was crazy, but it wasn't like I was thinking about harming myself. It was just… a challenge – a harmless challenge to test my self-control.

"Hah, tell that to yourself in the mirror."

The mask went back on my face, and I twisted my lips into a soft smile. Now I just had to ensure they stayed in my stomach, instead of going further in. That'd be a literal pain in the ass I didn't want to deal with, no matter the reason.

When I arrived at my destination and my feet touched the ground of Brockton Central Park, the small crowds previously there had dispersed, as had the reporters. I could still see a lone news van in the area, but it was parked a good distance away and on the other side of the road. It was – I had to admit – something that had me equally relieved and happy.

I found Andrea leaning against our van, engrossed in a telephone call on her sleek smartphone. She interrupted the call with a few words when she noticed me and approached me with long strides. It was quite the sight, from her sharp face set with a firm expression to the trendy black winter coat, trailing just behind her legs and highlighting that part of her.

"Heeeeeey," I awkwardly called out to her, trying to gloss over the fact that I was a nervous wreck with a raised hand and a smile. "I- I'm sorry for running off. I just needed to clear my head for a bit, and–" I paused, fishing for words. "I… I was shocked, and I just… had to see for myself. They really did it. I… everything we did…"

I trailed off and shook my head.

"What happened? Are you alright?" Andrea leaned over me – or she would have if she wasn't nearly a head shorter than I was. Her voice was laced with concern that didn't quite show on her face. She looked me up and down, and I focused on the little bombs in my gut to force the nervousness away.

"Yeah, I-I'm fine," I murmured, forcing myself to smile and trying not to let my gaze fall to my boots. "Had a talk with Armsmaster. Someone tried to sabotage my reputation, but we don't know who it was."

"Hey, it's fine." Andrea made a dismissive gesture, before placing a hand on my shoulder. I nearly flinched away from her. "Not my first time dealing with angry crowds, or with VIPs getting into a mess. No one was hurt, and we didn't make any blunders we can't recover from. Did you know that woman, the one who got in your face?"

"I – no. She just… " I trailed off, hesitating before forcing myself to continue talking. "Armsmaster said someone hired her to cause a scene, most likely. They couldn't prove anything. The way she went at me just reminded me too much of a person who caused me pain. A lot of pain."

Even thinking about Emma awoke a deep, simmering urge in me. One that made me want to grab the table I was sitting on, and smash it into her face over and over and over again.

"It evoked a lot of bad memories," I added quietly. "It won't happen again, i- if you're willing to give me another chance."

"Another chance?" Andrea frowned at me. "What do you mean?"

"I,uhm… you aren't going to fire me?" I asked.

"What?! No!" Andrea raised an eyebrow. "Why would you– You didn't do anything wrong, Kaleidoscope."

She sighed, rubbing her temple. "You know what? Why don't we wrap up here and go grab a coffee to relax?"

"Oh," I said quietly, confused and relieved in equal measure. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Why would anyone do this?" I stared gloomily into my mug. It had the audacity to smile back at me, bright and wide, and in all its chocolate powder-on-cream glory. Three vicious strikes with my spoon put an end to that.

We were currently sitting in something resembling a trendy upscale cafe that was putting a lot of effort into the facade but still felt more like a weak imitation than the real deal. It was a nice place, with a fancy menu full of things with adventurous names and prices that - while not completely horrid - I wasn't comfortable paying quite yet.

"For what it's worth, I think you did an amazing job," Andrea smiled and took a bite from her stupidly oversized cookie. The thing was almost as big as a plate, with little bits of red fruit baked in here and there. She grimaced and lowered it again. "Urgh, too sweet."

I stared down at my own food, the remains of some bland brand-name cake, and gave it a poke with my fork. I was sure my trying to eat without removing my mask looked goofy from the outside. I'd ditched most of my costume for more subtle clothes, but I hadn't removed my mask yet and had no plans on unmasking to my 'employers' either.

"But what about my… slip-up?"

Andrea waved me off. "I know the feeling of wanting to sock someone in the face, don't worry. They provoked you, and if what that hero said is true, they were paid to do so. That's hardly something any of us could anticipate."

Except I could, I thought, thinking back to the attack in the alley that had kickstarted this whole mess.

"True," I lied. Even thinking about it made me sick, and I quickly changed the subject to something less problematic.

"What did you mean by 'that hero'?"

Andrea pulled a face. "Yeah, that Arm-guy. I'm not really much into the hero scene."

I gaped at her. "That's Armsmaster! One of the top 10 Protectorate heroes in the US. He's- he's like on every damn poster around! How can you not know him?"

"As I said, I never really cared much about the hero scene. They're like sports stars or politicians. Some of them do good work, sure, but not everybody fawns over them," Andrea sighed at my expression and rolled her eyes. "Well, in my defense, I guess, I spent over a decade overseas. I could tell you more about African warlords than the local heroes."

She forced herself to take another bite of her cookie. "Speaking of heroes, how'd you end up in the business?"

I made a face at that. "That's one of the questions you should be very cautious about asking a cape."

"Uh… Oh, I'm sorry if I hit a sore spot. My mistake," Andrea said, looking slightly confused.

I waved her off. Maybe… maybe it wouldn't be too bad to talk to someone about this.

"No, it's fine. It's just… that's a pretty sensitive topic with most capes. When you get powers, it's because you were pushed to your limit, and for most of us, that doesn't look pretty. It's what people call a 'trigger event'. And I… I triggered during the Winslow fire. I… don't know what happened. It's all a mix of blurry pictures and blank spots for me," I gestured at myself with a weak chuckle. "I didn't always look like this. I used to be a beanpole, all weak and pathetic. Had some issues with bullying, and on the day it happened… they locked me in the school basement, and when the school started burning, nobody came to let me out. I- I think I wasn't alone in there?" I added after a moment of hesitation. "And then it's just this… hole in my memory until I woke up in the hospital, one arm lighter and with superpowers."

"Oh, shit," Andrea cursed beneath her breath. "I was actually asking more about the 'becoming a superhero' side of things. I really, really didn't mean to try and dredge that up."

"It's fine, I think I wanted to talk about it," I replied, looking at her, studying her for a moment. "So now that we're sharing origin stories, what about you? Tell me a bit about yourself."

Andrea looked up from her coffee. "Me? Why?"

"I…" I shrugged awkwardly. Had I really forgotten how to do small talk? Fuck was my social life pathetic. Fuck you, Emma, I thought bitterly. "Well, what is it that you do for Carson? How'd you end up working for him? I'm just curious. You said you worked in Africa before?"

"I.. okay, I guess?" Andrea set down her mug. "Well, we'd have to get into my whole life story then. I don't mind. There's not much to say about me, really. Joined the army as soon as I could so I could get away from my folks. Ditched high school and enlisted. Parents weren't the worst, I guess, but I just had to get out."

She shrugged.

"I … can understand that," I carefully replied. "I love my Dad, I'd kill to keep him safe, but… it's complicated, you know? I never even told him I had powers."

"Family, yeah. You should tell him, though."

"Yeah," I forced myself to smile, thinking: Fuck no! The thought alone made me panic and elicited a surge of cold sweat breaking out on my skin. I hoped it was just imaginary. "Just waiting for the right moment, you know?"

"Sure. Anyway, military. Loved it. Eventually joined the special forces, and spent a decade overseas. Africa is…" Andrea bristled, grimaced subtly, and gestured with her hand. "It, eh, has some nice places, I guess?"

I raised my eyebrow at that and snorted.

"So, yeah. The end of the story is that I had a tryst with my commander, got knocked up, and he took me aside and told me to take it as a gift to get the fuck away from everything. And I did, I guess. Came back home, delivered a beautiful little boy, and tried to look for some proper work. It's been two years now," Andrea continued, and I could see her eyes brighten as she mentioned her son.

"I see, must have been nice," I said. "I can imagine it must have been quite a change to your life." I'd never thought about the topic, but I couldn't imagine becoming a mother myself. I didn't want children – couldn't have them, with the changes I'd made to my body, and that was good. Even the thought made my skin crawl, and the hefty reaction took me aback.

"Yeah, I… gave him away. I'm not a mother, and I think I don't want to be one either," Andrea said.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," I replied. "Maybe you're just not ready yet?"

"Maybe, but it's fine," Andrea shrugged and took a sip from her mug. "Don't have to worry about him while I'm out. He's got a nice family up in Boston, and I can see him whenever I like."

"So, how did you end up working for Carson?"

Andrea snorted. "Eh, that. Just a coincidence. I don't regret it though. It was either him or working for Coil. I tried to do something 'normal' when I was back in shape first, but flipping burgers isn't exactly for me. I like the action, and I'm good with a gun. Tried to go to the police, but it turns out you need to have a high school diploma at least. PRT is the same deal. I'm currently in night school to fix that," she said with a hint of pride. "I'm not dumb, always had good grades and a sharp mind but I blasted all of it to get away from home. Should have just toughed it out for the last half year, in hindsight."

"Coil?" I asked. "The supervillain?"

"Yeah, a fellow vet put me in touch; apparently he's always looking for a good mercenary. Pay's good if you can sacrifice your morals. Even offered me a stipend for my kid. He's…" Andrea paused. "A bit of a sleazy prick with a questionable costume design. Dangerous – gave me the goosebumps – so don't underestimate him. Might have taken his offer if it wasn't for my kid."

She met my gaze, shrugging. "I know I'm not raising him, and I wouldn't have to worry about that if I didn't want to, but I wanted to do something proper for my kid, you know?"

"And Carson's proper?" I asked, remembering the vibes the guy gave me. All grease and sleaze.

"Well, he's not a supervillain."

"Fair," I conceded.

The rest of my talk with Andrea was nice, and after finishing our food, and with three messages from Dad on my phone inquiring about my state and when I would come home, I decided to wrap things up today. So, after grabbing my costume from her van, I rushed back to my Tinker base to stash my things before I returned home.

No drones flew out of the shadows as I crept through the docks, costume in a duffle bag, and hoodie drawn tight around my face together with a surgical mask. No Parahuman or armed gangster was jumping out of a doorway or alley to accost me, but when I entered the range of my workshop and started surveying the area for lifeforms, a single crimson humanoid shape bloomed into view.

I crept closer, cautious, and when I peeked my head around the corner and saw a burly man trying to pry open the side door to my workshop, I… honestly couldn't say I was surprised. Of course, it was fucking winter, the building was in decent condition, and he could just be some poor vagrant looking for a shelter… but with everything that was going on here, hah, like fucking seriously? What were the chances?

I retreated back into safety before I allowed myself to groan, and slam my head against the wall –it actually took some effort to avoid bashing an imprint of my thick skull into the brick – then I picked up my stuff again and began circling the area, always keeping the interloper in view while I surveyed the skies and surrounding buildings.

The man started to try other potential entrances, and I could occasionally hear a muted garble of words drift around corners as I snuck past, torn apart by wind and distance. When I felt safe, I rose into the air and entered my workshop through the roof access. It was still locked, and when I landed on the ground, security bots came shuffling.

Good, no one made it inside, I thought. He may not know that this is a lair but I have to make sure.

I needed a change of clothes.

I quickly changed into my tinker outfit, grabbed my bolter handgun from the workbench, and left the building the same way I'd snuck in. I silently dropped down behind the man. He was big – bigger than me – with a thick beard, and when I snuck up to him and wrapped my arm around his throat from behind while pressing my bolter to his neck, I noticed that he smelled like olives.

Doesn't smell like trash and BO. No vagrant then, I thought bitterly. A scout, a spy… fuck! But why would I be surprised? Even the fucking PRT knew that my Tinker identity existed and lurked around the docks.

The man froze when I pressed the cold gun against his skin and went straight rigid when my tail came into his view from behind him, caressing his cheek and carving a shallow crimson line into his flesh before it wrapped around his body like an anaconda.

"Who are you?" I spoke directly into his ear. "Why are you lurking around here?"

"Release me, fiend! Bitch!" The man demanded, straightening in my grip. "Do you want a taste of my Viking rage?"

I blinked. Was… was he serious? I tightened my grip around his throat, and as soon as it had appeared, I could watch his courage crumble into nothingness again. He shrieked like a girl and began flailing in my grip. "Nononono, wait! Wait! Wait," he wailed. "I… uh, wait, nonono. Please! My b- boss wants to speak with you!"

"Your boss?" I asked sharply. "Who is he?"

"Uh, S-Skidmark," the man whimpered.

"What does he want?"

"T-talk! Just talk! P-phone in my pocket."

"Get it out! No tricks."

"I, uh, I can't."

I sighed, before releasing my grip and stepping away. The man relaxed immediately but before he had a chance to backstab me, my tail closed like a lasso around his throat. I didn't squeeze hard enough for him to have trouble breathing but even with his hands free, he wouldn't be able to move.

"Phone, now. Dial and throw it behind you," I commanded. "Don't turn around. One wrong move and I'll crush your windpipe."

"G-got it, boss," the man gulped. He fiddled a phone out of his pocket with shaky hands, and after a bit more fumbling, threw it behind him. It hit a segment of my tail midair, but even if it hadn't, it would have completely missed me if I hadn't caught it with my telekinesis and dragged it toward me.

I drew a shaky breath, hoping that my victim didn't notice it before I brought the device to my ear.

"The fuck is this?" I barked into the phone, with more bravado than I actually had. I had no fucking clue who this 'Skidmark' was but if I had to guess, he was a Parahuman. Had to be, with a name as shitty as that. "What do you want from me?"

I was met with silence. Eventually, when I was already contemplating dropping the phone, a muffled voice began shouting – or rather, slurring – over the speaker. "...The fuck am I? The fuck are you? What are you doing on Jason's phone, chick? Are you his cocksleeve or something?"

Both I and 'Jason' cringed at the choice of words. He tried to turn around but I tightened my grip around his throat until he stopped resisting, taking a few steps further back so I had more privacy. "The Tinker," I spoke coldly. "Found your guy walking around. Sniffing. He said you want something from me, so what do you want?"

I could hear Skidmark chuckle over the phone. It sounded as nasty as his name. "Ah, the Tinker… well, it's easy. You don't work for anyone yet, so you'll work for me now."

"No," I said flatly.

"Oh, but if you don't, I'll make you. And I won't be nice about it. This is going to be my city, and if you don't work for me, then we'll either make you leave, or I kill you."

"No," I repeated as flatly as my previous statement. "You can try to force me, but it won't end pretty for you."

"Heh, thinking high of yourself, huh? Do you really think you stand a chance against me and my boys, you cunt? You're alone, and I have more people with powers than you have tits and holes combined. You'll beg me to join after they're done with you," Skidmark cackled, and I could hear the malice dripping from his next words. "That's why I like working with women. It's so easy to work them… and break them."

I stared with disgust at the phone in my hands. I had the intense urge to put him into the ground for his tone alone but with my future and plans at stake — with Dad — the choice wasn't hard. "I'll be out of your hair in two weeks," I finally said. "I'll leave the city, so leave me alone."

I was met with silence.

"Good. We have a deal," Skidmark finally said. He sounded surprised, and I guessed he hadn't anticipated me folding so quickly. "If you break it, accidents will happen to you. No one messes with Skidmark, capiche?"

"Like you did with that cape in the park today?" The words flew from my lips without thought.

Again I was met with silence, though this time the reply came much quicker. "Smart girl," Skidmark cackled. "Yeah. She fucked with me, and I'll drag her down for it. Destroy everything she makes, everything she does, and then, when I have her, I'll break her until she begs me to kill her. Don't make the same mistake, cocksleeve. No one underestimates Skid–"

"Understood," I interrupted him, before dropping the phone to the ground. I wiped my palm against my outfit, unable to hide the disgusted shiver. What a vile wretch. Pathetic. How could a man fall this deep?

"It's easier than you think, girl," my mind whispered sadly. "It's easier than you think, so always stay mindful of how far you let yourself fall… because you won't notice it until it's too late…"

I slammed my backpack against the rear wall, startling Dad who just came out of the kitchen when it hit the wall next to his head.

"Ouf, kiddo," he said. "I hope that wasn't aimed at me. Everything ok?"

I slumped with my back against the front door, shoving it shut. "Urgh, no. Yes. Just a bit frustrated," I trailed off, fishing for words, before gesturing to a non-existent spot on my torso with a huff." The f– stupid black ice. I slipped three times today. Dumped my food over me."

"Oh, you went for takeout?"

"Yeah," I replied. "I told you earlier I wanted to say goodbye to some friends. We went out to the park and hung out a bit. There was a new cape today, doing some shows."

"Oh, are you ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. It was nice. It's just, goodbyes suck, you know?"

I immediately cursed myself for my choice of words but it was too late. I could see Dad avert his eyes for a moment and the sudden glimmer of hurt within them. "Yeah, I know, Taylor," he sighed.

"Going to make myself fresh," I hastily dodged. "Brought something for you. Be back in a few."

I placed the signed Kaleidoscope glass card on the little cupboard in the hallway and rushed upstairs and into the bathroom to barf out the glass shards in my stomach.

Only when the scalding hot water of the shower cascaded over my scarred shoulders, wrapping me in soothing steam did I allow myself to succumb to a long sigh. I placed my hand against the wall and allowed myself to rest my forehead against the wet tiles, enjoying the de-stressing experience.

No more risks this week. I'd keep my eyes open and my head down. All that was left to do now was to wait. The fundraiser was looming ahead, and I would slay it. A part of me was still surprised that Carson hadn't fired me. Even if it technically wasn't my fault, I doubted I'd delivered a good image today.

Going through with the job was still a risk, yes, but the place would be crawling with heroes and security. Maybe even some villains, if rumors like Coil running Brockton Central were true. No one would be stupid enough to try anything there, and if they did…

I smiled, cranking the shower handle higher, and following an idle impulse, rested my forehead back against the tiles and allowed my hand to roam. After what happened today, I could use something even more de-stressing.

"Like a whole bottle of vodka and some gummy bears, fuck yes."

I didn't want to hurt anyone, but they wanted to hurt me – without reason – and so I wanted to hurt them back. Emma had destroyed my life, and I loathed her for it. What an irony that I was so much better at that now than she'd ever be.

The reassurance of just how easily I could shatter whoever stepped into my path was nice, somehow. They would come after me again, I was sure of it, and if they did, I'd hunt them through the entire city if necessary. And then I would show them what kind of terror I could really unleash.

Chapter Text

The Gangs of Boston, made by the dashing sirenensang. You can press right-click to open the map in a new tab, and then you are able to zoom in. 

Yago-Kai Syndicate (15-20 Members): The Yago Kai Syndicate is the last holdout of organized Japanese crime in the USA, filled with half-bloods and Japanese-Americans, and stretched thinner than they are comfortable with… but thriving under the leadership of the mysterious Koda no Kami. The group itself originates from the shattered Kyushu Yakuza, with chapters and backers in Japan, other Asian countries like Thailand and India, and Australia, as well as a presence in several cities along the East and West coast of the USA, which means that they can draw upon a lot of outside capes and funds in times of dire emergency.

Dark Society (10-15 Members): They are a notorious villain group, prominent enough to be frequently featured in the news and radio. They have multiple holdouts on the East Coast, including a chapter in New York. Their leadership was recently captured by a combined effort of the Protectorate and the Suits, fracturing the organization into several factions. Yet, the local chapter is still one of the top dogs in Boston, and like the Yago Kai, they can count on reinforcements from their friends in New York if things go sour. They are the second-largest faction in the city and are considered the official top dog in Boston

Morning Glory (8 Members): Neither particularly stylish nor very "glorious" in nature, Morning Glory quietly rules the Irish neighborhood of South Boston. They are a distinctly Irish gang who took over the mob structures left by the famous Irish mob during the Boston Games and are rather famous for being in a constant petty war with Southie's resident indie heroine Boilerplate.

Mystic's Mass (8 Members): A vile gang with a dark religious theme, the "pseudo-religious nutjobs" have subtly taken root in parts of Beacon Hill. They are considered one of the more problematic gangs in the city, and while they tread lightly on their own home turf, their "Angels" – unpowered enforcers with a glowing cross on their forehead – are a distinct sight when they need to be seen. They are currently trying to take over the Roxbury neighborhood, removing unwanted elements and claiming territory there.

The Unmasked (5 Members): Perhaps the most distinct gang in Boston, The Unmasked are a smaller group with the distinct theme of self-harm and excessive self-mutilation. They control parts of Dorchester and do (contrary to their name) indeed wear masks. While they aren't the most problematic gang compared to players like Orchard and Mystic Mass, they most certainly are the creepiest ones.

The (Italian) Mafia (? Members): While their golden days are long over, the struggling Italian mafia still clings to large territories in East Boston and the North End of Boston; territories that had to be violently reclaimed from newcomers after the Boston Games all but wiped out the local mafia forces. While not having many Parahumans themselves, the Boston mafia heavily relies on mercenaries like Artiglio and help from the five families in New York. But if there's one thing they have going for themselves, it's influence, money… and invisible Tinkertech trains.

Blastgerm (3 Members): The laid-back ruler of Eastern Allston, Blasto is a famous biotinker sustaining himself on weed and eccentric stunts (like breeding a unicorn and gifting it to a kindergarten). He has drawn the ire of Accord and is not part of the greater Boston alliance as he refuses to work with his nemesis, opting to maintain alliances with smaller fringe groups who share his dislike for the resident mastermind instead.

Lotus Garden (? Members): The elusive group operating from Chinatown (Downtown Boston) is perhaps most renowned for their marketing of the infamous tinker drug Lotus, a highly-priced luxury drug that plagues the city of Boston. They neither claim nor hold territory and instead operate from several covert properties scattered across Chinatown. They like to operate via proxies and often employ the services of the independent courier Jade.

Orchard (2 Members): Even more reviled than the Angels (even by other villains), Orchard is a duo of covert supervillains operating somewhere out of Mass and Cass, a part of the city known for being a magnet for drug addiction and homelessness. They are human traffickers and slavers, willing to satisfy every urge for money, and it is perhaps telling that they never personally attend villain moots.

Crash and Dash (3 Members): Not unsimilar to the Undersiders from Brockton Bay, Crash and Dash are a troupe of teenage supervillains specializing in robberies and causing mayhem. They are considered to be a mostly harmless nuisance by the Protectorate, but they have recently drawn the bitter ire of the current mayor of Boston after stealing his car in broad daylight and recording the stunt, making him the laughingstock of the city.

Mullen Brothers (2 Members): The Mullen Brothers are a duo of villains that act as mercenaries and neutral enforcers for the Southern Villain factions of Boston. Being twin brothers, they share the same powerset. They often act as liaisons to the independent and new villains in the city, offering things like information trade, messaging, and contact services or pawn services for stolen goods to small-timers and independents. Their most common opponent is the PRT, but recently they have started acting against the punk groups at the behest of someone.

Biker Clans (? Members): A loose alliance of several biker groups with parahuman support roaming through Massachusetts, New Jersey and the outskirts of Boston. They are frequent business partners of Blastgerm, smuggling drugs and other illicit goods through the country. Their most prominent representatives are a group of bikers led by Digger, who is known for his deep enmity with Accord, as well as a sapphic biker group led by Anethum.

• Digger's Bikers (Canon Group): An itinerant group led by Digger, they roam across the country, making deals with everyone and everything but the S9 itself. They specialize in drugs and weapon transports, and often frequent the Boston harbor for their transactions, which can lead to long columns of leather-clad bikers thundering down the highways at night to announce their general presence in the city. Despite their lack of morals regarding trading partners (they trade with the Fallen) and being an overall rowdy and confrontative group, not all elements within their gang are strictly criminal, and they aren't known for leaving a lot of corpses behind after a confrontation.
• Roses and Violets (OC Group): A young, sapphic all-girls biker club, they are both visually and mentally a stark contrast to their frequent business partners and allies. Apart from their mutual love for motorbikes, the two groups share little in common. Yet, for some reason – or miracle perhaps – they still get along (insult-spitting and needling)… especially when there's a threat that requires them to unite. Unlike their partners, they aren't fully itinerant, and maintain a permanent (impromptu) headquarters in Watertown, MA in the form of a bar: The Crocus Garden, owned and run by Anethum herself. The group sustains itself by offering its services as a neutral party, with mercenary work, by pawning off illicit goods to Digger's group, and of course with hate crimes against homophobes and misogynists.

The Protectorate, PRT, and Wards (25 Members): Operating across two major and two smaller headquarters within the Boston metropolitan area, the Boston Protectorate is a powerhouse not to be trifled with. Well-equipped, well-staffed, and well-funded, they exert control and stability over vast sections of the city. They are one of the top branches in the US and one of the major reasons why crime in the city has to be much subtler and covert than in other cities.

The Guild (1 Member): The Canadian answer to the Protectorate, they are an organization with a focus on international and high-profile threats. While their cape presence in the city is to be neglected, their local embassy is one of their biggest research facilities in the US, erected around a large Greyboy containment zone.

Sacred Hearts (8 Members): A prestigious and competent junior corporate team employed by Tan Enterprises. They are a hard-hitting, glamorous line-up of Capes and one of the biggest heroic factions in the city. The group was founded as a response to the Boston Games, and they are the rising star of the city.

Super Magic Dream Parade (4 Members): One of the more eccentric groups, they are flashy and over-the-top, with impractical costumes, ridiculous names, and enough confidence to solo Endbringers. Yet while they seem and act like they just stumbled out of a kid's cartoon, they are shrewd and competent… and very much ruthless when they have to be. While they are an established power in Boston from even before the Boston Games, there are fleeting rumors that they tend to shy away from larger threats.

Team Redfrost (2 Members): Permafrost (Niflheim) and the Red Knight (Muspelheim) are a duo of heroes sponsored by the Medhall Company, doing their best to protect the good people of Boston from the threat that is the Japanese street gangs and other certain minorities, of course.

The DDS (Dynamic Duo Squad) (2 Members): A duo of humble junior heroes with high aspirations, the DDS is one of the newer additions to the cape scene of Boston. They are "the kids," and while they are very much trying, and are very good at working together, so far they fail to get taken seriously by pretty much everyone involved. They publish a weekly podcast online, involving a variety of themes centered around the topic of cape work and life.

The Russians: A small, almost family-like group of Russian and Russian-American career criminals with morals specializing in stealing high-profile cars, led by an old guy called Sergej Sokolov. They operate from a small car workshop and warehouse in South Boston. They have no parahuman support but due to increased pressure, they are looking into hiring a reasonable and cheap parahuman merc.

The Pipeline: A small drug syndicate operating out of Mass and Cass. They are responsible for the distribution of the majority of drugs in that area, and their dealers are a prime target for violent vigilantes like Huntress. Led by 'Fat Larry'.

Marrow's Mercenaries: A group of experienced but non-professional mercenaries and henchmen for hire, local to Boston. They take around two thousand each or 5 percent of the winnings (depending on what's more) for a raid. They have been around since before the Boston games, and claim to have many connections to other professionals and groups. They regularly attend Villain meetings at the pheriphery to hire off their services.

Coil-affiliated Mercenary team: A semi militarized mercenary group with unspecific thinker support hiring off their services to a select clientele around the Boston metropolitan area. They are thought to be unaffiliated, but are secretly under the employ of Brockton Bay mastermind Coil to secure his interests in the city, as well as having convenient outside reinforcements at hand if he is ever in a position where he can't escape by himself.

Kazan Corporation: Known for its star hotel Kazan Palace, and led by the aging CEO Hiroki Fukuoka, they are a multimillion-dollar company originally originating from Kyushu, Japan. They are heavily involved in supporting the local population of refugees, and the preservation of what little of their Japanese culture remains in their shared exile in a foreign land. They have many connections and make a lot of money which they heavily invest in the remains of Japan to try and bolster their home country back to its former glory. They are an open sponsor of the local hero group "Shinsei Sentinels," and in another life, are also known as the Yago Kai; One of the last remaining chapters of Yakuza in the USA.

Tan Enterprises: A prestigious and successful economic giant currently run by the CEO Julia Tan, who single-handedly turned the once-floundering family company she inherited from her husband into one of the oldest and biggest suppliers of the PRT on the East Coast. The company specializes in security, from high-tech security systems to cutting-edge body armor and chemical compounds to reinforce the durability of materials.

As a response to the chaos of the Boston Games in 2007, and because Tan Enterprise's warehouses and facilities were getting an increasingly valuable target for villains and criminals, the administrative board of the company decided to accept Julia Tan's proposal to found and back their own hero team to safeguard the interests of their corporation; Sacred Heart. This has resulted in a minor branching out to toy manufacturers to help offset some costs accrued from the funding of an independent hero team, especially one of Sacred Hearts' scale. Now 5 years later, and with the second generation of junior capes, the team is a success on every front and the sparkling star of Boston.

Medhall Branch: A civilian branch of the Empire 88 front company Medhall in Brockton Bay, they are situated on the Longwood (Longwood Medical and Academic Area) campus between Fenway and Mission Hill. While being a pharmaceutical company in nature, this cell also serves as logistical and ideological support for the Empire 88; dealing in the trafficking and distribution of various illegal goods on top of spreading white supremacist propaganda. They are considered to be an ostensibly legitimate and well-respected company and leverage that by officially sponsoring the independent heroes Permafrost (Niflheim) and the Red Knight (Muspelheim).

Map of the Cambridge Corner by myself, created with OpenStreetMap.

Neighborhood Watch (5 Members): The Neighborhood Watch is a (multicultural) native hero team that is mostly known for its friction with the Shinsei Sentinels and their archrivalry with the Yakuza street gangs. They represent the tensions that arose from the immigration of countless Japanese into Cambridge. While not unsympathetic to their plight, they stand adamantly against gentrification and the grating fact that they are slowly getting pushed out of their own neighborhoods.

Shinsei Sentinels (3 Members): A trio of all-Japanese heroes supported by Kazan Corporation, they are an idealistic group fighting for acceptance and the well-being of their people. They are known for their focus on community service and cross-cultural and benevolent events.

Accord (8 Members): While not considered the biggest faction (nor striving to be), Accord is the uncontested mastermind of Boston and his Ambassadors act as liaisons for every notable gang in Massachusetts. Located in Charlestown (Boston), they try to play on a global scale and maintain communication and the alliance between the northern and southern power blocks within the city of Boston.

Crimson Dragons (4 Members): A secret offshoot of the Yago Kai, the Crimson Dragons are one of the independent and petty street gangs vying for power and control in the Japanified districts of Cambridge. They are a moderate and content gang, stylized after Japanese Samurai, and with a tight control of Cambridge's small red-light district. They specialize in gambling, fancy clubs, and prostitution, offering an alluring fun time to the masses of students from the distinguished universities around them.

Thunder Tigers (Placeholder Name) (3 Members): Another secret offshoot of the Yago Kai but unlike their rivals, the Tigers have a more rowdy approach to cape life instead of trying to shroud themselves in a veneer of professionality and sophistication. They got their hands in everything they could, from protection rackets to drug trade, and are known for throwing some of the wildest parties in the area. They are known as persistent contenders to the Crimson Dragons, and while there are no open hostilities between the gangs, their rivalry leads to many petty clashes and dick-measuring contests. Of course, it's all just a game they play.

Meathead, Onslaught, and Ova (3 Members): A trio of moderately successful capes that act as mercenaries for hire, and have recently been allowed by present factions to fill in the area since they aren't ideologically threatening, stable, strong enough to hold their position and yet not so strong that others didn't think they couldn't find a way to deal with them if a problem arose.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

June 2008

"Fuck you, Accord!" Spree spat, glaring down at the little man. "Do you think you're intimidating? Do you think your prim-and-proper suit bullshit is impressing anyone here? I piss on you and your ugly face."

"What's it even to you?" Hemorrhagia challenged him. "What are we, school children? We did a raid, and it didn't even affect you. Do we have to ask for permission to do operations now, Accord?"

"Please, please let us do our business, Daddy Acci," one of their newer recruits, a young woman with a skull mask, spiked hair, a spiked collar around her throat, and a costume that didn't really cover anything given that it was more chains than cloth purred from behind Hemorrhagia. When she glanced back, the girl sported a grin that didn't even attempt to convey anything positive, leaning on her massive axe with a casual slouch that didn't fool anyone. Then, slow and deliberately, she bowed forward, cupping one of her breasts with her free hand and giving it a provocative jiggle. "Be a good Daddy for us – for me…yeah? Daddy Accord?"

Laughter and wolf-whistles echoed from behind her.

Hemorrhagia silenced them with a single side-eyed glare but it was already too late. Even from the other side of the campfire, she could see the tremor that shook Accord's hand as he ground his cane into the sand beneath. If it weren't for his pot-bellied friend putting a hand on his arm, he'd probably already leaped at Hacksaw. A murmur went around the moot.

The leader of Morning Glory – she had never learned his name – stared at her, his face painted in reds and oranges by the flames of the fire pit, and tattooed arms crossed. Groups were starting to subtly move together, and those smaller fishes who stood too far into shadow to be seen seemed to back up even further. This wasn't going well. It had almost been a year since Quarrel's disappearance in the smoking ruins of that stupid high school. Almost a year since they'd lost the Butcher, and the Teeth had faced near extinction. They had bounced back, as they had the first time all those years back… but Butcher had never come back. Only three of them had survived… three who'd seen the Teeth as they should be.

Just three of them who even remembered their leader. She still hoped… still believed they would come back, but it was a fact that they were now much more vulnerable without the Butcher's protection.

"Enough," she said, resisting the urge to drag her sharpened nails across her exposed midriff. "This doesn't bring us anywhere. But yes, Accord… What exactly is your problem here?"

It took Charlestown's new mastermind a full minute to respond. "Because you are a mess," he spat out.

"What… because we aren't wearing fucking suits?" Hemorrhagia asked in disbelief. She jabbed her finger at another group. "There sits a lady with nails through her bloody tit, and you call us messy?"

The exhibitionist Cape in question tilted her bearded demon face at Hemorrhagia, and she had the impression that the other women raised an eyebrow at her behind her mask.

"...No!" Accord ground out, before falling into a heated rant. "I do not mean your peculiar …style. It is not the problem. The problem is that we all here just barely managed to stabilize things, only for you to come crawling back into the city and make such a mess that it's all over the media. Everywhere. Couldn't you at least have shown some restraint?"

"I agree," the leader of Mystic Mass interjected, tilting his hooded head at their group. "You are shameless sinners reveling in your own damnation, but that isn't the issue here. As distasteful as your… style is, tonight the Lord judges only your actions. Your performance against Tan Enterprises was concerning, to put it mildly."

"You talking about the fancy new kiddie brigade?" Hacksaw asked. "Dude, I'm not even fucking 20 and I know you ordered that hit on me. Fucking hypocrites," she shouted, spitting into the sand, and shooting the assembled round a finger followed by another rude gesture before she finally hooked her thumb into the belt loops of her shredded leather shorts. She fell silent, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Let me lay it out for you then, young lady," Accord replied. "The mess you all created, especially you, netted us with a dead Ward, a near-dead member of the 'kiddie brigade' as you so eloquently put it, several dead civilians, and a now-orphaned pre-teen girl crippled for life."

"Dead kids are bad for business," the leader of Morning Glory nodded.

"They are bad for business, yes," Accord stated. "But it would have been forgivable if you did it without drawing attention. Sometimes, these things are necessary, as unpleasant as they are. But you–" he pointed his cane at Hacksaw "– beheading Stoneknapper in front of a live-recording camera is not what I would call subtle."

"I didn't mean to–" Hacksaw started to protest and Hemorrhagia elbowed her in the groin. The girl fell silent, stumbling backward, and she used the moment to rise from her seat.

"Just finally shut the fuck up," she hissed at the junior Cape, digging her fingers into the chains across Hacksaw's chest to drag her close. "Not a single word from you, got it?"

She let go when the girl pressed out a nod. Hacksaw could overpower her with ease. The girl was a Brute through and through, able to tank Tinkertech projectiles and wrestle Butcher in melee but she was still just a girl; filled with weakness and insecurity life had yet to weed out of her despite the heavy abuse Hemorrhagia knew the girl had Triggered from. Easy to intimidate.

"Good. We did not plan for things to get this far," she spoke up, addressing the assembled villains. "Tan Enterprise shipments have always been a lucrative target, and we couldn't know they'd send their new kiddie brigade to face us."

"That is why I brought up the restraint," Accord said. "We have all just settled here and fought hard to establish territories and work out a satisfactory compromise among each other. This city doesn't need a mess like this, and you clearly don't have your people under control, Hemorrhagia. We don't want you here. Leave, or we will make you leave."

"So, what are you going to do about it?" Spree challenged. The burning remains of an old bench, thrown onto the central fire broke in half with a crack, sending sparks into the dark sky.

Accord raised his hand. "I vote to remove them from this meeting."

"Mystic Mass agrees." Another hand rose. "Your presence is a stain on this already sinful city."

More and more agreements echoed over the beach as more hands joined the ones in the air; The Society, the Unmasked, the Spaghettis… everyone but Blasto, who shot Hemorrhagia an apologetic, awkward shrug before declaring that he abstained. Everyone else had voted against them.

Uneasiness began to spread among the Teeth, and Hemorrhagia finally caved in, dragging her nails across her stomach, cutting deep into her flesh as she called: "So that's your choice, pussies? You wouldn't have dared to shun someone like us about this with the Butcher around."

Blood began to pour from the gashes in her skin, swirling into the air as she reached for the blood around and in her.

"But the Butcher isn't here," Accord replied, taking a single step toward their group. Behind him, his polished penguin flunkies began to spread out. Other Villains began to spread out too, powers flaring up as they began surrounding the Teeth. "This is a neutral ground. I suggest you think carefully about what you do next."

"They need to be dealt with," Accord stated after the Teeth had left the field.

"You think they'd dare to stay?" Coruela frowned, crossing his tattooed arms. "We just all declared them non-grata. They wouldn't be stupid enough to go against the entire city, would they? Their immortal bitch is gone. They wouldn't stand a chance, and they should know that."

"No," Accord replied hesitantly. "I must agree with you, but I believe that we must act nonetheless. This is our city now, and we must send a clear message to them and anyone else who tries to show up here. We all agreed on a code of conduct when it comes to doing business in this city, as loose as it may be, and if we do not act to enforce it, it wouldn't be even worth the pretense of upholding it. This city would plunge back into chaos, and the Protectorate would step in to remove us all. They have more than shown their willingness to do so in the past."

"Blood must be spilled to resow the barren fields," Spill spoke up. "If we do not cut, nothing will grow back together. Without a wound, there is nothing to heal." The leader of the Unmasked drew a dagger from his belt, and carved a bloody line into his mutilated forearm, presenting the jagged, bleeding tear to the assembled inner row.

Behind him, Carnivale followed without hesitation, putting a small pocket knife to her likewise bare but still much less mutilated torso. A delighted, muffled sigh echoed from behind her demon mask, and she immediately set the knife again to carve another line into her muscular flank. When she tried to apply the knife for the third time, Split turned from where he sat and gently caught her hand, plucking the knife from her fingers.

Accord recognized the tattoos the woman proudly flaunted on her body, even though some of them had already been destroyed beyond recognition by her fanatic administration: A former McVeays Fallen, evident by the countless depictions of bastardized script and holy iconography covering nearly every inch of her torso.

"So now that we agree on that," the current speaker for the Society – Compact – hummed, tapping her fingers against the wood of the old log she sat on. "How do we approach this?`One of us must act, or do you propose we do a… joint operation?" The way she pronounced 'joint' made it clear that she found the idea incredibly distasteful.

"If you permit, we will handle it," a new voice spoke up. Heads turned as two women stepped forward and into the circle of light around the fire.

"And who might you be?" Coruela asked.

"I am Fuma, leader of the Kurohana," the woman spoke, bowing. Her companion followed suit. "My partner is called Kintsugi. It is an honor, noble leaders."

'One of the Japanese groups,' Accord thought. 'But not one I recognize.' Of course, he knew that there was a high percentage of Japanese residents in Boston – refugees and immigrants had flooded the city – but this was the third Japanese group to show up within a year. Perhaps not entirely a coincidence?

He took a moment to regard the newcomers. Both had laid down their weapons – a sheathed blade and a spear – on the ground before approaching the inner campfire. They seemed young, in their early twenties, but with high-quality costumes.

Kintsugi did not wear a mask, presenting a pretty and stoic face without any regard for the code. Her eyes however looked as if they had been cast from solid gold, and set into a pair of empty eye sockets. Still, he could see her golden pupils dilate ever so slightly as her gaze swept over the fire. Her costume was visually appealing, even to him.

The armor consisted of a chest plate, barely recognizable in the half shade of the fire as being lacquered dark blue. It was decorated with a golden circle on the front, with perfectly symmetrical flowers and cracks spreading out like forks of lightning on either side. The fabric of her costume was held in black, flowing pants and oddly long and flowing sleeves. The outfit was decorated with elaborate patches with stitchings of flowers and birds, sometimes in a pattern that made Accord suspect that she'd used them to cover up repairs from cuts and bullet holes.

Fuma's costume was more simplistic and revealing; A dark, wrapped top that appeared to be cropped, baring a toned midriff and muscly arms covered in colorful tattoos, topped by a red scarf covering her shoulders. The outfit was complemented by sturdy boots, loose-fitting pants, and a red belt decorated with charms and little ornaments. A simple, metal mask hid the lower half of her face, held in red and black. However, the most prominent part of her costume was a massive, cone-shaped straw hat, casting her eyes into shadow.

"Why do you want to deal with the Teeth?" Accord asked.

"We want a place at the table," Fuma replied. "And we will prove ourselves by offering to deal with these Teeth for you. They have many Capes. They are a strong gang, and thus, a worthy opponent to prove our competence."

"Be that as it may," Compact replied, unimpressed. "A place on the fire needs to be earned. We do not know you. Do you have anything else to offer, great deeds, or territory? I assume that you too settle in Cambridge like the rest of your kind?"

"Please do not refer to us as 'your kind,'" Fuma replied. "Do not associate us with the petty groups over there. We strive higher. As for your question about territory, we plan to operate from the Downtown areas but we claim no territory, nor do we strive to join a petty struggle for land. We have our investments in several properties across the city, and we don't need more."

"Well, why not?" Coruela mused. "Deal with the Teeth for us, kill them or drive them out of town without making too much of a mess of it–"

"Without any dead children or Wards in the headlines," Compact interrupted.

"– and we'll consider if there is a place for you among us," Coruela finished.

Fuma bowed again. "A fair proposal."

"Maan, Hemmy, can you please change the fucking radio?" Spree moaned. His hand began to creep toward the button, and she slapped it.

Up ahead, a flower van swerved into a spot before them, cutting off the lane again, and Spree cursed, stepping onto the brake. "Unbelievable," he said, his voice a little louder than it needed to be. "This guy can't drive for shit."

Hemorrhagia just shook her head. Fucking Boston traffic. Why did they all have to drive with the kind of style that made you want to slap the guy upside the head? She glanced into the rear mirror. Hacksaw – Blaire, out of costume – lounged on the backseat without a care in the world, music pounding from the speakers of her headphones. She didn't notice Hemorrhagia looking.

She couldn't say that she opposed the girl's style or attitude – it was exactly what the fucking Teeth were about, freedom and the rejection of anyone who wanted to tell you what to do or tried to give you shit – but perhaps it had been a mistake to take her in. They'd picked her up back in Brockton Bay, triggered during the chaos they'd all barely managed to escape from. The girl was prime Teeth material; bloodthirsty, anarchist, and fitting in like she'd been born into the group. But then she had beheaded a fucking Ward while the cameras were filming.

Sure, Hemorrhagia knew that the Teeth were all about anarchy and violence – she wouldn't have joined otherwise – but she also knew that being stupid or being a kid killer killed you quickly. Even with the Butcher, life had been a careful balance of not taking shit from anyone and not taking things too far either, and now that Butcher was gone, accidents like these were so much worse.

Accident or not… What a fucking mess.

"Hey, Hemmy?"

"What?" She snapped.

"Oi, don't give me that attitude, bitch," he growled back. "It's not my fault that we got fuckin' humiliated."

"I know, so what did you want?"

"The fucking flower van there. In front of us."

Hemorrhagia couldn't suppress an annoyed hiss. "Spree, I'm not in the mood for this. What fucking is with it?"

"I… I don't know," he murmured. "There is something off about it. I feel it."

"It's a fucking flower van, Spree," Hemorrhagia groaned. "Some bald, pot-bellied loser wasting his life slaving himself away for people who spit on him. Like, seriously…"

Another van slipped into her peripheral vision. They drove across an intersection. Something was foul here. "I– Blaire. Blaire! BLAIRE!"

"What!" Blaire snapped from the backseat, ripping the headphones down and propping herself up to glare at Hemorrhagia.

"Be careful, I–"

She couldn't even finish her sentence before something flashed in the corner of her vision and the world exploded. The van neither of them had noticed shot out of the side street, slamming into their car with a bone-crushing impact. The tires squealed against the asphalt, the car spinning wildly out of control. The whole world tilted as if everything had turned sideways in a split second.

"Fuck– what," Spree cursed, unable to even string together a proper sentence as the steering wheel got torn out of his hand. Hemorrhagia's head slammed into the airbag, and then she was showered with glass as the windshield exploded. She groaned, dazedly, barely registering the gunfire now ripping through the air, and the panicked screaming in the distance. The taste of blood filled her mouth from where she had bit her tongue in the chaos.

"Fuckfuckfuck, move! it's an ambush. Fuck!" Blaire shouted. But there was no moving. The van had them trapped, and they were just sitting ducks.

Hemorrhagia managed to turn her head. Spree didn't move, and she could see trails of blood where his head had slammed into the chassis of the car, staining his airbag. He was still alive. She tried to move but found that her legs were stuck in something.

"C-can't move, stuck. Spree's out cold," she managed to cough. She caught someone running up to their car from the corner of her eyes, and she thought it was one of their men until she saw the gun in their hands and the expensive suit. A second one followed, only to stumble when a bullet hit him in the head. His partner kept running, closing up to them. She still couldn't move.

"Fuck, wait," Blaire shouted. Metal tore, drowned out by gunshots as the girl climbed out of the car. "You fucker!"

A car door slammed into the gunner, folding him in half. Even with all the noise around her, Hemorrhagia could hear the bones in his body shatter. Then the passenger door tore away, and Blaire reached in, carefully prying away the debris keeping Hemorrhagia trapped. Her shirt was torn in several places, coming apart more and more as she shielded Hemorrhagia with her body. "Fuck, where's my axe?"

"In the truck," Hemorrhagia coughed, stumbling out of the wrecked car and onto her feet. "I'm f-fine. Already healing. Get Spree."

Blaire nodded and vaulted over the car to the driver's side.

Blood gushed from Hemorrhagia's wounds as she propped herself against the vehicle, rising into the air to form a curved panel in front of her. She looked around. Their convoy was surrounded on two sides. Screaming civilians fled and ducked behind cars as Teeth and gunners in expensive suits opened fire on each other.

The car behind them was a lost cause. The drivers had been gunned down before they'd realized what happened, and the grunts in the backseat were sprawled out on the tarmac, shot as they'd tried to escape. The others had been luckier. Two of their cars had reacted quickly enough to block the lanes and shield their truck and now acted as barricades from which the Teeth held their ground.

"Got him," Blaire shouted from the other side. "He looks good. Come over."

Hemorrhagia stepped around the car, shield raised. Another suited grunt jumped at her from behind the now-emptied flower van, and she impaled him with a spike of blood that took him by surprise. On the other side, Blaire – Hacksaw – now that she'd put on her mask again crouched on the ground, holding a ripped-out car door to shield Spree. He was still unconscious, and Hemorrhagia crouched next to him to check him over.

"Seems fine," she announced, scooping him into her arms. "Think you can grab that door and cover us?"

"Got it, boss," Hacksaw grunted, tearing off the remains of her shirt before she grabbed the door. let's go."

The shooting had slowed down as everyone covered behind their makeshift barriers, and they managed to sprint across the open field and dive behind the lines of the Teeth without catching a bullet.

"What's the situation," Hemorrhagia shouted at one of the lieutenants while she shoved the unconscious Spree into the arms of a waiting grunt. 'Fuck,' she thought. 'We shouldn't have split up to get out of the city.'

"Took us by surprise, boss! 10 dead, minimum. Same number on their side. Got a good few of them as they tried to get you in that car."

"Fuck! We need to get out of here," she cursed. Their other Capes were on the other side of the city, and they would never arrive in time. Their armored truck still looked good, safely parked behind the defensive line but they were still stuck here, with all the abandoned cars blocking the street. "We need to get the truck out. Hacksaw, can you clear the road?"

"Got you, boss. Lemme just go grab my girlfriend," the girl drawled, adjusting her bikini top before she jumped into the truck to retrieve her beloved axe. She returned a moment after, the massive weapon draped over her shoulder. "I'll clear a path. Fucking cowards! I'LL FUCK YOU UP, HEAR ME, YOU RICE-EATERS!"

She ran toward the barrier, axe hefted. She'd barely covered a few steps when something slammed into their barrier, pushing the cars apart, before slamming into Hacksaw. The girl reacted quickly, tanking the impact with her shoulder. Still, she was pushed back several feet before whipping around with the force and driving her axe into her new target in one fluid motion.

The other Cape stumbled back from the bone-crushing force of the blow, coming to a halt a few feet away, and a few feet above ground as Hemorrhagia noted. It was a woman, Asian, with long hair and dressed in a chest-plate now sporting a prominent gash, and some form of flowing black pants and jacket covered in patches with flower patterns. A bullet clipped her cheek, and she didn't even flinch. The Cape didn't wear a mask, staring at them with golden eyes as she drew a golden sword from her belt.

"Bring it on, Bitch!" Hacksaw hollered, slamming the haft of her axe against the pavement, before pointing it at the flying Cape. "No fucking idea who you are but I'll gouge your pretty golden eyes out."

Chapter Text

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♦ Topic: Topic: New Cape in the Bay
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay
Bagrat (Original Poster) (Veteran Member) (The Guy in the Know)
Posted On Dec 15th 2010:
So, it seems like we got a new cape in the bay, and a rather flashy one at that. Here are some snapshots of Kaleidoscope (here) (here), as well as a video of her kowtowing to Armsmaster (here).

So what do we know about her? She's obviously new. Like, we all know by now that something's fishy going on here in Brockton Bay, and now a new hero (or mercenary?) suddenly appears out of nowhere in Central Park, in an incredibly elaborate costume that looks so professional that I suspect it has been Tinker-made, and with a presumably self-hired camera crew. That's not really something you see often here, do you?

Has anyone seen her before, or knows anything? Because I haven't, and I combed through a lot of boards.

Edit: Wait, what? Apparently she's our local Parahuman art peddler. Wow. That was quite the escalation. In hindsight, the name should have been a giveaway, but damn. Talk about upgrading from hoodie to warrior princess.

(Showing page 1 of 100)


►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
I wonder if she has a boyfriend. Have you seen her powers? I was actually nearby (I had a school break) and I couldn't really see much, but she was flying away at the end, and then we suddenly got ushered away by police. Anyone saw what happened there?


►Zwiebeldrache (Verified Onion Lad)
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
XxVoid_CowboyxX I do not think you'd want to date her, and I certainly do not believe she'd want to date you if you were the last man on the planet. Your history speaks for itself. As for her powers, there's obviously flight, and some kind of telekinesis. She used it to weave some animations from the sand. It was a spectacular sight.


►Ekul
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Another cape in Brockton? What is it with that city?


►Tumbles
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Don't we already have a cape going by Kaleidoscope in Brockton already? Bad name choice by the new cape. Rogues are easy to miss I guess.


►Bob Venison
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Tumbles So apparently they are one and the same, which means that our timid little artist girl (see here) escalated overnight from hoodie girl to… this. This is quite a step up, and one wonders why she would do that. I actually talked to her a bit while she was selling stuff on the Boardwalk (like, a month ago), and while she was timid as hell, she really seemed to enjoy doing that. Maybe someone threatened her? Or someone attacked her? I heard that someone had been going after Parian a while ago, and she hasn't been seen in a while…


►bothad
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@Ekul We're extremely popular. Brockton Bay is basically Boston's hotter, flirtier older sister.


►Hans88
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Uh, yeah, sure it is. More like it's the negro whore Boston left in the alley behind a shitty chinese restaurant.


►Brocktonite03
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Good to know we can ALWAYS rely on the Empire to have stupid opinons. Can't stand them, but it's nice to know that there are always those little certainties in life. Grass is green. The sun will rise in the morning. The average member of E88 has the mental capacity of an artichoke.


►Tumbles
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@bothad Brockton is more like that one friend you hang around with only because their parents buy them the newest video games. Which in this case represents the sheer size of the villain population in comparison to the PRT. Honestly it's a miracle mercenaries didn't show up earlier.

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 98, 99, 100

Topic: What's going on here?
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay
KathyLifts (Verified FitnessFreak) (Original Poster)
Posted On Dec 15th 2010:
So, I've been visiting family here for the past few days, and has anyone else seen a teleporting woman with a streetlight trying to joust a Viking on a f*cking bear in broad daylight?

I admit I had a few beers too much (baby party for my sis), but I was staying at a hotel near the docks, and then suddenly, my TV cracked. When I looked out of the window, I saw... well, this. I have seen quite the cape action in my life (Boston Games survivor), but I had to rub my eyes for this.

(Showing page 1 of 100)


►Jamie Matchstick
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
I don't know what you are talking about, but it almost sounds like a battle between the Empire and the Undersiders? Like, I assume you aren't a native. I am fairly informed on who's lurking around in the city (working in Law enforcement), and to my knowledge, we don't have Vikings, or female teleporters around.

But, the Empire is known for their bastardization of Norse mythology (among others), and the Undersiders have giant dog things they ride around on. The size of vans! So... yeah, maybe our residential Neonazis got themselves some reinforcements?


►Antigone
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
I think you just had a few too many beers…


►BlueJayDaffodillJack
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@Antigone Honestly with how it is here, I'm pretty sure they were real. You know what actually? I might get a beer myself. But yeah, tensions between the ABB and the Empire have been rising like crazy ever since the Winslow Fire (and, you know, some crazed Tinker blasting straight through the city), and if we are about to face a real gang war, it makes sense for the games to arm up.


►Tumbles
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Brockton only has 1 teleporter right? Maybe you had too many beers and mistook Oni Lee for a girl, but why would he run around with a street light? Isn't he supposed to be some kind of ninja? Doesn't make sense for him to bring a spotlight to a fight. Whole thing sounds like a fever dream, really.


►Voodooman8876
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Maybe Oni Lee is secretly into cosplay? I mean… he is Japanese, right? Even psychopaths need a hobby, and I heard that the Japanese have some crazy dedication when it comes to dressing up.


►Tumbles
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@Voodooman8876 By the literal definition of the word, being a cape is technically having a cosplay hobby, but you won't hear me say that when a psychopath like Oni Lee is in earshot. I'll just call this a new WIP costume because I don't want to entertain the thought of having 2 teleporters in Brockton. Teleporters scare me more than Lung, Kaiser, or Crucify ever could. Everytime I see him zip past my window, I want to hide in my closet.


►Voodooman8876
Posted On Dec 15th 2010:
So, I just tried to lift a street sign, and it was so heavy. I don't think Oni Lee would have been able to wield it as a weapon, right? It doesn't fit his MO. Is there anything else you can remember @KathyLifts?


►Thatdude
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Did the bear at least have a mohawk?


►YosemiteJim
Of course not. Bears all know that the afro is the objectively superior stand-out hairstyle.


►KathyLifts (Verified FitnessFreak) (Verified Influencer) (Original Poster)
Posted On Dec 15th 2010:
I was really drunk, so not much, but there was a lot of fire. Lots of explosions too. No mohawk. I don't think the bear even HAD fur.


►YosemiteJim
Ok?

So on a more serious note, the bear didn't have fur, and you're SURE that it wasn't one of Hellhound's dogs?


►KathyLifts (Verified FitnessFreak) (Verified Influencer) (Original Poster)
Posted On Dec 15th 2010:
No, I am not sure. I just looked up Hellhounds creatures, and I… guess it could be? Four legs, bulky, spikes, and something furry on top.


►Thatdude
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Sounds like the Undersiders to me, really. They are pretty new, like, we don't even know all of their names at this point, and with the gangs stirring, I could see them getting more antsy.


End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 98, 99, 100

♦ Topic: The Bay is going crazy
In: Boards ► Places ► America ► Brockton Bay
Brocktonite03 (Original Poster) (Veteran Member)
Posted On Dec 15th 2010:
I don't know what, but I'm starting to get scared. You feel it too, right? Something is going on in this city ever since Crucify got killed. Everyone is tense, and the Empire and ABB are at their throats like they haven't been in years. There was a shootout today! A shootout just beneath my window, and sometimes I swear I see people lurking around, or watching something. Call me crazy, but I don't think they are either the ABB or the Empire.

Do we have a new gang trying to move in? What is going on here?

(Showing page 1 of 100)


►TwangTwang69
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Okay, so I actually had something really crazy happen to me. A while ago, my Dad forced me to get a part-time job 'for the experience', and so I am forced to waste my evenings scrubbing plates at restaurants.

Three days ago, I walked out of the backdoor to bring out the trash, and a car was parked in our backyard. A wooden car, with branches, green leaves, and everything, in f*cking winter! There was even Fugly takeout on the shotgun seat.

I couldn't believe my eyes, so I touched it, and it was the real deal. Then, 5 minutes later I come back to take a photo with my phone, and it's just... gone. And the weird thing is that our backyard doesn't even have a large driveway to squeeze it through.


►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
First!

I'll bet Vista could drive it in!

EDIT: FUCK!


►bothad
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Of course, it all makes sense! The twevle year old ward made a car out of trees, ordered Fugly's, then drove it into Twang's backyard!


►Hans88
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
And here people say that I have bad opinions.


►Xyloloup
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Don't worry, Hans, your opinions are all still flaming bags of shit.


►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
It was just a suggestion! Why is everyone picking on me!?!


►FlippinMad
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Because it was a painfully bad suggestion? I felt that one in my skull.


►Vista (Verified Cape) (Wards ENE)
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
I'm just going to confirm that I didn't drive a car that was also a tree into someone's backyard. Surprise? But on a more serious note, we haven't been briefed on any new capes in Brockton Bay, and none of the Wards have run into anything suspicious on our patrols. Assault mentioned that he ran into a couple new capes a few days ago but they claimed that they were just in transit down to NYC.


►XxVoid_CowboyxX
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
LEAVE ME ALONE!!


►Sothoth
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Sheesh, calm down.

@TwangTwang69 You know, some people would be glad to have that job.


►FishareFriendnotFood (totally not a fish)
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Did you all know that the death of Crucify was something that resulted from secretly upset fishermen, maybe we should not be catching fish


►FreshwaterSalt
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@FishareFriendnotFood you seem to be making jokes about somebody's death that seems a little distasteful, even if they were a brutal vigilante


►DarkStarsatNight
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Hopefully, the chaos of the gang activities dies down soon, why can't the PRT or Protectorate just round up all the neonazis and gangers, they don't seem to be doing much about all this


►FreshwaterSalt
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@DarkStarsatNight This might be due to the fact that both the ABB and the E88 both have capes. The Empire alone almost outnumbers the Protectorate and New Wave combined, and then there are powerhouses like Lung. If the forces of justice just swoop in and arrest a bunch of gang members in mass then the capes will come to break them out. They have to in order to not lose face or manpower.


►DarkStarsatNight
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Not necessarily, the average thug is not very valuable or useful to the villains in charge and sheer numbers only account for so much, and getting criminals off the streets instead of letting them run wild causing shootouts is a better idea than allowing them to roam buck wild


►FreshwaterSalt
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
No, no it isn't because the capes of the E88 are strong and the Heros would lose if they fought them. They are outnumbered and outmatched


►DarkStarsatNight (secretly a cape)
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Whoa whoa is it just me or do you seem to be defending the E88 and downplaying the Heroes trying to discourage us/them from going after them!!! Actually, now that I think about it earlier you did describe Crucify as brutal earlier. Are you secretly a member of the E88?????


►DanceDanceXecution
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Fuck. It's the goddamn Slaughterhouse Nine. I KNOW it's them. I heard they recruited a biokinetic recently.


►Xyloloup
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
A weird plant shaped like a car shows up and you immediately assume it's the Nine? I'm more concerned for you than I am for me, and I actually live in Brockton Bay.


►bothad
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
To be fair, biokinetics are bad news. Like, what if Nilbog decided that Ellisburg wasn't big enough for him anymore?


►Xyloloup
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Okay, think for a minute. Nilbog is in New York. Brockton Bay is In Massachusetts, almost in New Hampshire. There are two entire STATES between us and Nilbog. Looking up where the Nine were seen last.

EDIT: Last sighted somewhere in Michigan. Wait, holy shit, Void was RIGHT? About a thing?!


►Alathea (Moderator: Brockton Bay)
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
As weird as things can be here in Brockton, for the sake of keeping this thread from going the way so many others do when strange events are involved, please try to avoid catastrophizing.


►DanceDanceXecution
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Yeah, that's the thing about the FUCKING NINE! They MOVE AROUND!

What did I just say? I'll leave it as a warning for now, but this kind of theorizing doesn't help anyone. -Alathea


►Lo A Quest
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
@DanceDanceExecution I can't believe I'm saying this, but listen to VoidCowboy.


►Brocktonite03
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Was kinda hoping someone might have an idea of WHAT was going on when I posted this…


►Zwiebeldrache (Verified Onion Lad)
Replied On Dec 15th 2010:
Well, let us gather what we have. From what I saw on other threads, we can assume that there are at least a bunch of new capes in the Bay; someone who grows organic cars, a Viking and a giant creature (most likely brutes), a teleporter that uses fire and explosion, and is most likely a brute as well if she goes around swinging street signs. And of course our newest hero.

The question is; why are there no headlines?

End of Page. 1, 2, 3 ... 98, 99, 100

Wednesday, 15. December 2010 (Two days before the Estrella Fundraiser)

"Lung-sama," the soft voice tore Lung from his screen. "Would you like another bowl, or can I retrieve other refreshments while you are waiting?"

He stared up at the unassuming mask of the demure little woman next to him, her head politely bowed. She was sharply dressed as if she was about to walk into a business meeting in the next room. She carried a tray with both hands, and the aroma of freshly brewed green tea drifted into his nose.

"Another beer," he growled. "Please."

"Of course, Lung-sama. Right away," the woman bowed again and strode off. She seemed disappointed, and Lung found satisfaction in rejecting the tea he knew she had just painstakingly prepared by hand in the adjacent kitchen. Not the wisest idea, perhaps, given that she could probably kill him with a single touch.

She wore no costume besides the mask, had no tell-tale sign of powers, and she'd acted properly subservient over the last three hours, responding quickly to his demands with a pleasant and cheerful tone each time. She was perfectly unassuming and unremarkable, save for her eye-catching figure, but Lung's instincts told him that this servant was all the more dangerous for the lack of posturing.

One thing that stood out about the woman was her cooking, though. She'd clearly spent a lot of time in the kitchen.

Lung glanced at the clock in the corner, stifling a growl. Three hours. Three fucking hours. They had to be mocking him, treating him like he was some meaningless errand boy. He eyed the ravaged plate on the table next to him, and briefly considered throwing it against the wall, or through the window, or even into the face of the placid bitch rummaging through the fridge, but he managed to swallow his anger. This would not aid his cause, and he would not give them the satisfaction of acting like they thought he would.

Lung glanced down at his arm, his gaze narrowing as he took in the strange, glimmering formations spreading across his skin. Fine clusters of crystals clung to him like a particularly ugly rash, their jagged edges catching the dim light and refracting it into eerie rainbows. He flexed his fingers, watching as the motion made the crystalline growths shift ever so slightly, a faint crunching sound accompanying the movement. It wasn't painful—at least, not yet—but the sight of it filled him with a creeping unease.

With a sharp breath, he pushed the discomfort aside and focused inward, reaching for the familiar fire that roared within him. It was an effort as automatic as breathing, a primal instinct honed over years. His flames were more than a weapon—they were a part of him, his strength, his identity.

But as soon as he tried to summon them, the power slipped away, draining out of him like water through a sieve. The void it left behind was cold and unnerving, a hollow space where there should have been heat and fury. He clenched his teeth, his frustration flaring as he tried again, harder this time, willing the flames to rise.

Nothing.

The crystals seemed to glisten mockingly. He brought his arm closer, inspecting the clusters with a scowl. The rash-like growths spread unevenly, some patches denser than others, and when he ran a finger across the surface, it felt cool and unyielding, almost like glass. He couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't just clinging to him—they were leeching something vital, something that belonged to him.

Lung did not like feeling helpless. And yet here he was, robbed of his powers, unarmed, and in a building filled with people who could decide to kill him whenever they liked. Coming here had been risky. But then again, with all the precautions he thought they might draw up against someone like him, an actual power nullifier hadn't been among the options he'd considered.

"Rest assured, the effect will wear off in a few hours, Lung-sama," the masked girl – servant, given how she had pushed the old man's wheelchair – looked down at him, suddenly back at his side. "I apologize for the inconvenience, but you must understand that this precaution is necessary to protect the Koda no Kami. Your beer?"

Lung snatched the offered bottle from her delicate hands, eschewing the offered bottle opener for the rim of the expensive table his feet rested on. A minor payback for making him wait. "Thanks," he grunted, more as an afterthought. "You cook well, woman."

"Thank you, Lung-sama. " There was genuine happiness in her voice as the servant bowed. "I always prepare the meals for the Koda no Kami and his family."

'His family?' Lung thought. "His personal cook, huh?" he grunted. "Do you also warm his bed?"

"I do not," the woman replied without hesitation or affront.

"Hmpf, I see. He was quite a lover of women back in the day."

The response was utter silence as the woman stared at him impassively. Whatever her reaction was, the mask robbed him of any satisfaction he might have taken from seeing what expressions may have been twisting her face. Somehow, it made Lung angry.

He'd been sitting here for three hours, the wait gnawing at his already threadbare patience with every passing second of this drawn-out charade. This was a power play, and nothing else. It was said that the Koda no Kami's word was law. There was no need to 'discuss' anything. He shifted his weight, his irritation plain in the slow, deliberate sigh he released.

"This is getting old," he growled. "I have been waiting enough. I want to see the old man. Now."

The servant tilted her head ever so slightly, before falling into an apologetic bow. "I am sorry, Lung-sama, I cannot allow that. With what you have done to our organization in the past, and considering your… proposal, I am sure that you understand that we need to think this through. Please rest assured that he will see you again when he is ready. In the meantime, you are welcome to all the hospitality we have to offer."

'Like an errand boy,' Lung sneered internally, trying to keep his face straight. "Hospitality," he repeated. "Then I shall wait more."

"Very well. Would you like another beer?"

"Yes, please," Lung replied. "And another bowl of ramen."

"Right away," the girl bowed and returned to the kitchen. Lung smiled as he looked after her, and took a sip from his can. At least he'd found out her secret, now. So she was a parahuman, after all. Why else would she not breathe?

It took six more beers and two plates of food until the ding of the elevator heralded the arrival of those he was waiting for. The urge to stay as he was was strong but Lung forced himself to put away his drink and get to his feet to greet the newcomers. Fuma was first, still without a visible weapon but glaring murder at him as she stepped out of the elevator and to the side. His crotch throbbed unhappily in return, a reminder of how enthusiastically she'd greeted him in the warehouse earlier.

The butt of a spear to the groin was quite the memorable opener for negotiations.

He should have killed her along with her pathetic father, all these years ago. To spare a Parahuman just because she had been a teenager – a child – was a moment of weakness that wouldn't have happened had he been the man he was today.

The old man came next, pushed by his bulky samurai guard. He was dressed in a mask that hid his face, and in an expensive suit that did not hide just how frail the ominous Koda no Kami was. A second samurai trailed after them, one hand on her sheathed blade, while the other pulled the IV stand plugged into the old man's arm. She was young, despite her bulky frame, and her eyes were glued onto Lung, boring into him as she followed the group.

Even without his powers, killing the Koda no Kami would be so easy, Lung thought. He wasn't even a parahuman, just a brittle old man surrounded by capes who could break his neck anytime. And yet… they didn't. Three steps, a lunge, and a single punch were probably all needed. And then… 'And then I would get skewered by everyone in the room,' Lung thought. For as much satisfaction as it would bring him right now, it wouldn't be worth it. He knew that no one here in this building would ever follow him. Others, maybe, but he could not know for sure.

"Esteemed Koda no Kami, did you think about my proposal?" He rumbled with a jerked bow as quick and shallow as he could. He wasn't used to bowing anymore, and he had to remind himself that he merely did it out of 'respect' and not out of servitude. He still didn't like it.

"Hai," the old man replied smoothly. The wheels of his chair creaked softly across the polished wood floor. A soft gesture, and a few whispered words, and his guards began to push him toward one of the large window panes making up the outer wall. He reached the window, his hand trembling slightly as he signaled for the attendants to stop. They stepped back wordlessly, leaving him to face the glass alone. His thin fingers rested lightly on the chair's armrests as he turned his head toward Lung, his eyes sharp despite the deep lines etched into his face.

"Come here," the old man said. He gestured with a bony hand, his movements deliberate. "Look."

Lung hesitated for a moment, but then he swallowed all annoyed thoughts about lectures, and the drivel about honor, tradition, and all the other junk he knew the old man loved so much, rolled his eyes and decided to indulge. He crossed the room in a few long strides, his boots making soft thuds against the floor. He stopped just behind the wheelchair, towering over the small form of the seated figure.

He was close enough to touch the old man now and close enough to see the soft ripple of distorted air around the wheelchair. A personal forcefield? They really took no chances when it came to him then, it seemed. Resisting the urge to probe it, Lung stared out of the window. They were high up, and he did not recognize the skyline beneath him, the endless lights stretching into the night, and the swallowing darkness of water beyond the skyscrapers. The city seemed almost unreal from this height—a glittering tapestry of streets, buildings, and endless motion. Cars moved like glowing veins of light, weaving through the urban labyrinth far below.

"It reminds one of the first two times we met, Kenta, doesn't it?" The old man spoke up.

"Hmpf," Lung replied, crossing his arms.

"The first time we stood like this, you were just a young boy, seeking to join my organization, and earning your first tattoo. The second time, I sat helplessly at the window in my office, watching my work and home drown beneath the waves while you wrestled the Mizuchi. I looked him straight in the eye that day, you know? Just a few inches, and a sheet of glass between us. You saved my life that day. And now, you stand here again, a decade later, a traitor to us who gave you everything."

"I know," Lung rumbled. "We both knew this before this meeting. So, do we have a deal?"

The Koda no Kami hummed, staring out of the window. "You know," he finally spoke up. "I feel indebted to you for saving my life, and for what you did for our home. Many of us do, and yet, my people think that I am not supposed to consider myself honor-bound to a traitor."

"So, what is it going to be then?" Lung asked. "I am in your territory, helpless, and your women could kill me any time."

The old man shifted to look up at Lung, and he had the impression that the old man smiled at him from behind his mask. "You will never again have a place in the Yago Kai, Kenta, and you will never be welcome in our cities and territories again. You were a hero to us, we brought you here and gave you a new home, and you threw it away for petty glory and arrogance. And yet, unlike you, honor is important to me. To us. I think in times like these, sticking to our values is more important than ever. We are the last one, you know? Not five years ago, there were at least five true Yakuza organizations in the USA. Now, there is only us left. All the others have fallen to the ambition of those who do not care about anything but their selfishness or were shattered by outside enemies and devolved into petty squabblers with delusions of grandeur. I will not let that happen to us as long as my body still draws breath. I will aid you in your campaign, Lung, just once, both to satisfy my debt to you and to ensure our own survival and then I never want to see you again."

"How many?" Lung asked.

"Manila, Sydney, New York and Tokyo have offered to send teams that will be at your disposal for a limited time. Others have refused, and it is their right to do so. The Yago Kai contributes 40 capes to the ABB, 'Dragon', and you will pay dearly for everyone who does not return. Are you willing to shoulder that burden?"

"Yes," Lung replied.

"Very well," the old man sighed. "Then let us drink to this deal."

A sealed glass cup was pressed into Lung's hand, and he guffawed when he saw the label on it. "Really, you drink this cheap crap?"

"Heh," the old man laughed. "I have a taste and am humble enough to cherish and remember my roots. But it is sad, isn't it? A bit over a decade ago you could get this for what… a hundred-something yen in every convenience store or vending machine in Kyushu? Today, even a single bottle auctions for up to 500 dollars. But that's our world, isn't it? You either swim, or you drown…"

Chapter Text

So, I was writing and writing and writing on the interlude, and then I realized that I had only reached like half of where I wanted to go with the interlude and already hit the 6k word mark. So expect a Part 2 to drop after this. Unfortunately, my trusted beta is busy at the moment, so I apologize in advance if there are any rough edges or spag issues with the chapter that I missed. 

Chapter Text

Thursday, 16. December 2010

To say that Colin Wallis had never familiarized himself with the Butcher before wasn't entirely accurate. They and the Teeth had originated from Brockton Bay back in the late 1990s, and before their ill-fated attempt to hire the Slaughterhouse 9 in a bidding war had spectacularly backfired. The resulting chaos had thinned the ranks of the local Protectorate team, creating the perfect opportunity for Colin to ascend from leading one of the old Protectorate strike squads to leading a city. He'd been head of the Brockton Bay Protectorate ever since.

Still, the Teeth had survived that massacre – if just barely – and had quickly returned to being a notorious, itinerant menace along the East Coast. Their return to Brockton Bay had always been a looming possibility, so Colin had kept tabs on them, tracking their movements and monitoring the ever-changing mantle of the Butcher over the years.

And then, five years ago, after a short but brutal turf war with the Chain Gang in Boston that dethroned the then-most powerful villain faction in the city, the Teeth had slunk back into Brockton Bay. Their actions had left the local power structure in shambles, and when the local Protectorate capitalized on the opportunity to root out villain activity in the city, they'd inadvertently triggered the Boston games that had the city go up in flames unlike anything Colin had ever seen.

Back then, Colin had spent weeks preparing for his first engagement with the Butcher, specifically Butcher Fourteen – Quarrel – who had inherited the title only weeks before, following a grueling duel in New York. Fighting her had been a nightmare. Fourteen distinct powers. Thirteen voices whispering madness into her mind. And yet, she had been eerily composed, and utterly methodical in how she'd picked off her targets one by one.

Quarrel may have been many things… but a frothing madman wasn't among them.

But that being said, while Colin prized himself for knowing a great deal about the Butcher in terms of history and output – the danger sense of Butcher III, the cumulative Brute powers of one, three, six, nine, eleven, and thirteen that had allowed Quarrel to throw a fully-kitted Agent hard enough against a wall to take her out of the fight with near-lethal injuries, and so on – his knowledge of the Butcher's psychology was sorely lacking. And in that regard, the plethora of material he'd been sifting through for the past three or four hours had been a treasure.

Not that there was particularly much available about the past Butchers – a common issue with villains, and not helped by the PRT's approach of 'narrative management' in past years – but Colin had discovered a few insightful if mostly hypothetical papers written by one Dr. Wysocki, a Harvard professor considered one of the top researchers on Parahumans in the country and the best in the Massachusetts area.

The man was good, proven by how he'd deduced and outlined the rough circumstances of Colin's own trigger event in one of his works with near-frightening accuracy, which put a rather sour taste into his mouth. However, despite the professor's apparent sharp mind and competence when it came to the limited material he had to work with, the only thing Colin could safely deduce was that his analysis of the behavioral patterns and personality traits of most Butchers ruled out Kaleidoscope as a host.

Butcher One and Two had driven their third host to suicidal madness in less than a week. Any other unwilling hosts over the years had either broken down or, inevitably, succumbed to the Teeth's influence, transforming into brutal gang lords. For all the oddities Colin had noted about Kaleidoscope, she was more likely a Cluster Trigger – or simply someone struggling with trauma and the weight of her powers – than the next Butcher.

The alternative was that a group of calculating monsters had suddenly changed their decades-old playbook and decided to let their newest host play hippie artist for months. For as much as Colin forced himself to consider various out-of-the-box scenarios, he just couldn't see it. You didn't need a doctorate in Psychology and Parahuman studies to realize that the idea was just too absurd to hold any merit.

On the bright side, closing that particular line of investigation allowed him to focus on the other triangle he'd been investigating… and the one he was most convinced that it would lead him to results; Taylor Hebert, the hypothetical Saiko Tanaka, and Crucify.

Taylor Hebert was a textbook Trigger case; a girl mutilated in the Winslow fire, turning from a lanky weed into a professional weightlifter within a few months. Adding to that, the notable changes in personality from a meek girl to a violent and jaded punk clearly painted the textbook picture of a Trigger. Still, the girl was out of the picture, with alibis tighter than the bars of the mental hospital she'd been locked in for months, and no villain or vigilante activities that could be tied to a new Brute in the city.

Colin had no intent to investigate her further. The girl herself – as tragic as life had failed her – still didn't seem to be involved directly in any of the events centering around her. Whether she was Kaleidoscope, the mysterious Dockside Tinker, or whoever else… she wasn't really doing anything and the Unwritten Rules were something he had to respect both by policy and necessity. But, she clearly was a point of reference for both of them. They had to be connected somehow, he knew it, as oblivious as Taylor Hebert seemed to be about it.

He also didn't believe for a second that Crucify was actually dead, but that was an entirely different issue. No, it was more likely that the killer had faked her death because her actions had brought down too much heat… and that implied an agenda. And said agenda was what Colin was trying to get behind. If he managed to prove that Crucify had just faked her death, then it meant that the killer was Quarrel; Butcher Fourteen, who'd gone missing nearly five years ago.

Thoroughly analyzing the footage from his fights against her, and his single encounter with the serial killer had cemented that claim. Back then, Quarrel possessed the power to imbue any and all projectiles she touched with the power to always hit their intended target, whether it meant that the laws of physics were broken or not. A dangerous power, and even though she had only used it on blades and projectiles, jumping to the conclusion that she was capable of using it on guns and bullets wasn't too far-fetched. And Crucify had evidently used the same power that night.

The only inconsistency preventing Colin from tying the two together was how easily Kaiser had killed her, but if she'd merely faked her death…? That would be an explanation.

Of course, he couldn't exactly predict who was hiding behind Crucify or Quarrel's mask, but so far, all circumstances nudged him towards Saiko Tanaka or whoever pretended to wear her face now. Like Quarrel, she'd disappeared roughly five years ago without a trace. According to the missing person files he'd sighted from the BPD, she'd seemingly run away from home at the same time the Teeth departed the city, which was an interesting coincidence.

Most importantly however, Saiko Tanaka had joined the Teeth around half a year before her disappearance, as evidenced by a camera shot showing the girl surrounded by Teeth members, with her arms tattooed with their iconography. Adding to that, there were similarities in height and build, as well as other interesting facts Colin had managed to dig up, like the girl's passion for archery in her high school, which all but strengthened his belief that he was looking at the civilian identity of the brutal vigilante and then-Teeth cape Quarrel.

And now, after being off-the-grid for nearly five years, Saiko Tanaka had appeared out of nowhere – visually unchanged by the passing of years and shortly before Crucify had (presumably) murdered Taylor Hebert's principal and made her first debut by killing a bunch of corrupt cops and a few homeless teenagers – and dived into a burning school to save a girl she'd never met before at the cost of severe third-degree burns, which frankly, from what Colin had managed to dig out about the girl's past, didn't fit her at all.

No, based on her police records, Saiko Tanaka hadn't been a very social and empathic girl. Her rap sheet spoke of a cold-hearted, vicious bully and petty-crime thug, coming from a broken household with a cripplingly depressive history of domestic abuse. But despite that, her academic records told an entirely different story: The girl had been an insanely competent student, striving to be on the top at all times. Teachers had described her as competitive and calculating… almost to the point of being a genius.

And yet, she'd jumped to Taylor Hebert's help… like Crucify, a cape seemingly reaping revenge in Taylor Hebert's name without having ever met her.

Interestingly enough, Saiko Tanaka also had a sister – who was now almost the same age as Taylor Hebert – now enrolled as a freshman at Clarendice High, Saiko's old high school. A sister who could tell Colin more about the girl and identify her, and who seemed pretty invested in trying to find her lost sister based on all the research, search, and update requests she'd poured into the system over the years.

Perhaps the connection was feeble, Colin had to admit, but after Trainwreck had been found dead in the hospital bed – not even a day after he'd been retrieved from the underground doctor – she was the only lead he had to figure out what connection was going on here. And with the file-combing now done, that was what he was going to do now; investigate Saiko Tanaka and figure out what her deal was and whether she had been a Parahuman or not.

If his suspicions proved true, then the girl was very likely Quarrel, and if she was Quarrel, then a simple identification would tell him whether the corpse in their morgue was that of Crucify or not. And if not… Well, that would mean that Crucify was still running around, and was actually Quarrel… the missing Butcher 14.

And that… Well, that would open a whole other can of things to figure out; the agenda. But as long as he managed to prove a connection, he could shove the issue at his PRT analysts or Watchdog and prepare himself for the actual threat. Still, it was the core issue, the thing that nagged him more than anything else.

If the Butcher was back, why were they prowling his city instead of running back to the Teeth on the first occasion like they always had, or announcing their glorious return and proof of their immortality to the world? Where had they been in all those years? What was their connection with Taylor Hebert and her possible Cape identity?

Colin didn't doubt her alibi, but perhaps there was something else going on with her. Neither the girl nor her father had reacted to the incentives to reach out to the PRT if she'd triggered, but from his experience, the brochures and flyers rarely worked anyway.

Crucify had been found with foreign Tinkertech in her possession, which likely tied her to the Dockside Tinker, though the exact details of the connection remained murky. If there had been Butcher hosts with Tinker abilities, the PRT didn't know of them, and while the Teeth did have the occasional Tinker in their ranks over the years, they had long since defected or perished with the high turnover rate of the original gang.

But Villains pressuring inexperienced Capes and Tinkers into their services, or trying to groom them? It wasn't a scenario Colin could rule out. Depending on how today's investigation went, he might have to pay the girl and her father a personal visit. It would be for the better.

But first, he'd have to visit the cesspit of a high school.

Agent Elizabeth Dalmann was a short, athletic African-American woman in her early 20's. Upon seeing Colin, she snapped into a sharp salute. "Agent Dalmann, sir, at your service. I've been assigned to you as a guide and bodyguard for the day. An honor, sir."

"Likewise," Colin replied back, offering her a hand. The agent's handshake was firm. "Classes are almost over, and I've only got this day, so let's not waste time."

"Of course, sir, please follow me. I have already been briefed on the mission parameters," the woman motioned him to follow and beelined away. For her stature, Dalmann was quick on her feet, but Colin had no issue keeping up with her as she led him through the unfamiliar facilities.

Like every other contestant for the precious space in the packed streets of downtown, Boston's First PRT Department had to deal with the issue of place management. With the main building being an isolated tower structure in the center of a busy roundabout, the nearest solution for this issue was simply to build high and low and to cannibalize one or two of the adjacent high rises into additional space for office and research space, and the mandatory on-site hospital installation.

The end result was a highly fortified PRT One building protected by a forcefield that had a whole bunch of sublevels housing the concentrated arsenal of vehicles and whatnot that didn't fit into the above-ground sections of the building, topped by a lowermost layer in each building that was dedicated to a fully decked out panic vault for the numerous employees of PRT Department 24.

Aboveground, an elegant skyway connected the main building to a second one across the street, housing the hospital, a civilian parking garage, and other facilities. Colin found it safe to assume that the thing was retractable in some form since the forcefield only protected the main building. Otherwise, it was likely that it would simply shear apart the delicate construction when activated. Walking it felt kinda nice, though, he had to admit. Suspended high above the street below, and laid out with a nice carpet, the glass around him offered him a nice view in every direction.

"The downtown areas are not as sprawling compared to larger cities," Agent Dalmann explained as she led Colin through security checkpoints, more corridors, down an elevator, through even more security checkpoints, and into a spacious parking garage. "But we make up for it with clogged streets and messy Boston traffic. That's why our parking garages are connected to several areas and civilian parking spaces in the city. Multiple entrances means that we can deploy even when some routes are blocked, and avoid the worst of the traffic jams."

"A wise choice," Colin nodded, swallowing a sudden pang of jealousy. All the things he'd be able to achieve with the infrastructure and resources of a major PRT department at his disposal…

He stifled a mute sigh. It was pointless to whine about. "Are we taking a civilian car?"

"Yes sir."

"You don't have to keep calling me 'sir', Miss Dalmann," Colin replied with a smile. "Just Mr. Wallis, or Colin suffices."

"Yes, s– of course," the woman shook her head, shooting him a crooked smile. "Army habits, and in the squads, it almost feels the same. Makes it hard not to fall back into old structures."

"You served?" Colin asked.

"Yeah, I enlisted right after high school. Served a few years in the Marines before switching over to the PRT. I've been with the squads for a few months now."

"I'm glad to have you by my side then."

"Thank you, sir," Dalmann replied. She steered toward a small car, unlocking it with her remote key. Colin eyed the color – pink – and stifled a grimace. "From what I understand, we are visiting a high school to question some of the staff and students there. Where do we go?"

"The place is called 'Clarendice,'" Colin replied. "You know it?"

"Yeah, I went to Latin School myself but my brother goes there. It's a good place, from what he says," the woman nodded. "I sometimes pick him up from there after my shift but I do not know any of the faculty or students there, unfortunately."

They climbed into the car, and soon, they were off toward their destiny. According to his research, Clarendice High was one of the larger public schools in Boston. Located in the midst of Roxbury, and with that in the heart of Boston, the large school compound housed several of the local Wards and if rumors were true, also some of the local villains.

The compound itself was almost a little like a campus, with Clarendice, a neighboring exam school, a massive track and sports center, and a large Adult high school all being lumped together next to each other. Clarendice itself was a large, blocky three-story complex, looking as if someone had placed several rectangular shoeboxes in various constellations next to each other, and then merged them, before placing a bunch of smaller boxes on top to create three tower-like structures. In other words, it was an ugly and brutalist building, with bland concrete walls the color of grey vomit.

A large sports field peeked out from behind the complex as they drove into the visitor's parking lot. They'd officially scheduled the meeting in advance, so someone was already waiting for them by the entrance. After some basic introductions, the teacher led them through a series of metal detectors and past a security office that seemed more manned than usual before directing them toward the principal's office.

"I noticed the police car outside, and security seems high," Colin addressed their guide as they walked through near-abandoned but surprisingly nice hallways, given how the school looked from the outside. The last set of classes for the day were still well underway. "Is there some kind of issue?"

The teacher shrugged, shooting him a grimaced look over his shoulder. "Not really, luckily. At least not this month. We've had a little punk issue this summer."

"A 'punk issue'?" Colin repeated.

"Yeah, we've got a whole bunch of punks around here, and they've started to loiter around the area and the school grounds. Troublemakers, kids from other schools, kids that are too old to hang around school grounds, you know it," the teacher replied. "Some of them are rowdy but most of them seem harmless. Still, the administration and some of the parents were getting nervous."

"I didn't see any punks around," Colin replied.

"Well, yeah, because it's winter. They'll be back when it's getting warmer," the teacher laughed. "I keep telling Clenton that if…"

Colin began to tune out the man's ramble about littering delinquents, smoking, and booze as they neared the administration office. As it turned out, principal Maria Clenton was – for being a principal – young. With blonde hair, blue eyes, and a shapely body, she was a pretty attractive woman who couldn't be older than 30, dressed in what Colin would describe as 'business casual'. She smiled at him when he stepped through the door.

Her office was surprisingly cozy, with laden bookshelves, drawers, potted plants, and a little seating area on one side of the room with two leather armchairs and a small round coffee table. Another man – presumably a teacher – was waiting there, rising to his feet when he saw Colin. The man was thin and visibly old, wearing glasses, and dressed in khakis and a pristine button-down shirt. He had a wrinkled face with a few scant liver spots, and short white hair that had almost entirely disappeared from the top of his head. Still, his posture when he eyed Colin up was straight and firm.

"Ah, you must be our guest," Clenton said, stepping around her desk to offer Colin a hand. He shook it. "Welcome, I am Maria Clenton, principal of Clarendice High."

"Colin Wallis, a pleasure."

"Elizabeth Dalmann," his security detail introduced herself. "I am responsible for Mr. Wallis's security."

"Security?" The old man raised his eyebrow as they shook hands as well. His grip was firm. "Edward Glennfield. I am responsible for teaching World Issues."

"Great," Clenton clapped her hands. "With introductions out of the way, what can we do for the PRT today, Mr. Wallis? From the email I received, I gathered that you are performing some sort of investigation. Is there an issue with some of the Wards in our facilities?"

"No, no. Nothing of the sort," Colin replied. "I am following up on the missing person case of Saiko Tanaka. She was a student here, around five years ago. We recently discovered a new lead, and I was hoping to interview some of the faculty and former students who might remember her or something about the case."

"The girl who disappeared during the Boston Games, I remember," Clenton mused. "Well, this is a surprise. I assume you want to talk to her sister–" Colin nodded… "Of course, I am happy to help, but you must understand that I cannot let you interrogate students without supervision. You will be accompanied by Mr. Glennfield here at all times."

"Of course," Colin nodded. "Did you know her by chance, Miss Clenton?"

"Mrs Clenton, actually," the principal shot him an amused smile, before reaching behind her to flip one of the framed photos on her desk. It showed her with another woman, arms around each other, smiling happily into the camera. "I am actually married."

"My apologies."

"Oh, it's fine. So, as for Saiko… well… not very well, I'm afraid. I transferred to this school and became principal around 7 years ago, and I've seen so many students come and go," Clenton shrugged. "I do of course remember her but I couldn't tell you anything about the girl herself."

"What about her sister?" Colin asked.

"Naoko. She's a good girl," Glennfield said. "A bit shy and awkward. I have her in some of my classes. She's one of the freshmen reporters for the school paper."

"Would it be possible to talk to her?"

"Not without parental permission, I'm afraid. Even if just by phone," Clenton said. "But her Grandfather called her in sick today, so she is currently not on the school grounds. I can give you her address and contact info if you want."

"Thank you. It would be much appreciated."

"What kind of lead do you have, if I may ask," Glennfield spoke up. "I remember Saiko from back then. She was one of my students for many years. Perhaps I'll be able to help."

Colin pulled a printed photo from his backpack, handing it to the old teacher. It was a photograph from the morgue, showing the unmasked face of Crucify… or not, depending on how much merit there was to his thesis of the killer faking her death. They had done their best to clean her body up for identification. The cape had been skewered and put up by Kaiser before the arriving BB Protectorate had forced him and his capes to retreat from the scene.

Glennfield carefully inspected the photo, his face crunching more and more together into a frown the longer he stared.

"Is this Saiko Tanaka?" Colin asked.

The old teacher's gaze snapped up to him. "No," he slowly shook his head. "I do not know who that is, but this is not Saiko."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," Glennfield stated.

Something in Colin twisted at the absolute certainty in which the teacher muttered the word. 'I knew it,' he thought triumphantly. 'I fucking knew it. And with that, one domino has fallen into place.'

"So, this is her?" Colin asked, inspecting the photo in the showcase; a teenage girl with an Asian cast, dressed in a school tracksuit and posing with a sports bow, a gold medal slung around her neck. The showcase next to the main entrance was laden with trophies and photos of students who had long since graduated. And yet, somehow, this one photo seemed to stand apart from the rest (and not just because someone had actually put a flower vase next to it)."

"Yes. That is Saiko. Naoko sometimes comes here to drop some flowers and look at the photo," Glennfield softly shook his head. "Poor girl. She's been searching for her all these years. I have to admit though, I did not expect the PRT to suddenly come rolling in after five years of nothing, and shoving the photo of a dead girl into her face."

"We recently discovered a lead that might help us get behind what happened to her," Colin half-lied. "Your name was on many of the missing reports and inquiries about her case. Did you know her well?"

"I did, yeah," the old teacher replied. "She was one of my students before she disappeared, and Naoko… when she learned that I knew her sister personally, she couldn't stop asking me about her. She's too young to remember much from when Saiko disappeared, and I wanted to help her closure. And Saiko… ah well, maybe move this to my classroom? Most of the students are already gone, and we would have more privacy than in the entrance hall."

"Of course, lead the way," Colin quickly agreed.

"If there is a chance to find Saiko or find out what happened to her I am more than willing to be of any assistance I can," Glennfield replied, swiftly leading Colin through the modern hallways of the school and into his own classroom.

Colin took a moment to look around while the teacher closed the door, and pushed a second chair from one of the student desks up to his own. The World Issues classroom was almost a small library in itself, with its walls laden with maps and a long and low shelf stacked with books and other things running along the entire wall of the classroom from the corner up to the door. The obligatory American flag couldn't be missing too, of course.

The tables were arranged in groups instead of rows, with three desks each being pushed together to form larger group tables for six people. Colin could see the reason behind it, even though it would mean that some students would have to crane back at awkward angles to see the teacher's desk and the large, multi-paneled chalkboard behind it. A tiny bonsai throned on the teacher's desk like a little king, tucked into one of the corners of the large table, and seated on a behemoth of a leather-clad(?) book so thick that the page count had to
number in the thousands.

"So you know her well then," Colin said after both of them had sat down, quenching a few sudden flashbacks to his own school days with swift brutality. "What can you tell me about her? I understand that as a teacher, you must retain a certain professional distance from your students but please, whatever you remember truly about the girl might help us find her. The more the better, as long as we find something about her to work with."

"Can you…" Glennfield hesitated.

"Can we do what?"

"Oh, I don't know. It's been years, she's not a child anymore. But, still, if you can- can 'save' her somehow-"

"That's what we're hoping to do," Colin lied. "So please, what do you remember about the girl? Not just as a teacher but as a person."

"I am glad that something is done about it at last. I'll trust you, Mr. Wallis, and so I'll tell you what you know," the old teacher replied carefully. "You are giving an old man hope…"

A wistful smile spread across Glennfield's face as he stared into the distance. He extended a finger and gave the bonsai on his desk a little poke before speaking up again.

"Ah, Saiko. A delinquent, no doubt but she was an incredibly talented student. She was involved in some trouble here and there – liked to hang out with the wrong crowds and smoke in the bathrooms – but she was the best student in my class by a large margin. She was the champion of the archery club almost four years in a row. You know, when she took up archery in her freshman year, she'd never touched a bow and arrow before. By her Junior year, there was a small section of our school's trophy cabinet dedicated to her competition awards.

She was always striving to be the first, the best, and with an intensity as if her life depended on it. She wouldn't accept any less than achieving one hundred percent of her own goals, and while I didn't see it at the time, in retrospect, she was probably quite ruthless in how she achieved those goals." the old teacher hummed, and for a moment, Colin thought that he wanted to say something else, but then he continued speaking, almost like an afterthought:

"Hmm, well, I suppose she was always respectful to her teachers but even I could tell that there was no real connection to her classmates. She was always cold, methodic… antisocial, except to a handful of people she trusted. A bit of a bully, but she managed to hide that well from us teachers. Oh, and for being who she was, she had a rather funny taste in boys."

Colin raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" He asked.

Glennfield chuckled at that, but it wasn't a laugh of mockery – more like someone recalling something so absurd they still weren't sure if it had actually happened. And yet… there was an undertone, barely noticeable beneath the dry amusement, that Colin couldn't parse.

"She snatched herself a boyfriend at one point. A scrawny, awkward boy – not much taller than her, if I recall, and definitely not someone you'd expect at her side. Bit of a mess, that kid. Clumsy, bad with girls, always fumbling over his words. He had this nervous habit of adjusting his glasses every few seconds as if they were constantly slipping, even when they weren't. The kind of boy you'd expect to be on the receiving end of Saiko's bullying rather than…" Glennfield made a vague gesture, "…whatever that was."

Colin couldn't say that he particularly cared to hear or talk about the love exploit of a (psychotic) teenage girl – quite the opposite, actually – but he reminded himself that he was attempting to gather as much material as possible to do psychoanalysis here, and forced himself to gesture for the teacher to keep talking.

"And Saiko… well, you see, she wasn't just some petty bully, you know? She was a hardass. The type of girl who thrives in a gang and is often even worse than the male members. Tough as steel, not an ounce of weakness – never – and quick to defend herself with her fists if she had to. She could be vicious and cruel. Never in my classroom, of course, never in a way that any of us caught on to…"

"So what was it, then? A joke? A power trip?" Colin asked.

Glennfield shrugged. "At first, I assumed she was just keeping him around to amuse herself, but… no. It was real. Strange as it was, I'd say she genuinely cared about that boy." His brow furrowed in thought. "It was in the little things – how she always had an extra snack when he forgot his lunch, how she'd get this dangerous look in her eyes if someone tried to mess with him. And mind you, that boy was the type who'd get pushed around under normal circumstances."

Colin frowned. "And yet, she was a bully herself."

"Indeed. Not that we ever noticed. She was much too shrewd for that," Glennfield agreed. "But never to him. To him, she was… different." He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin. "She wasn't exactly soft, but she tolerated things from him that she wouldn't from anyone else. He could say something stupid, and instead of breaking his nose, she'd just roll her eyes. If anyone else annoyed her, they'd end up with a bruise – he'd just get an exasperated sigh and an insult that somehow sounded more affectionate than hostile."

Colin shook his head, still trying to piece it together. "That certainly doesn't sound like her, based on her profile."

"Oh, it doesn't," Glennfield admitted. "I still don't know what she saw in him. But if I had to guess…" He tapped a finger against the table thoughtfully. "Maybe it was because he was everything she wasn't. Soft. Open. Innocent. Kind, in that stumbling, awkward way of his. She despised weakness, yes, but maybe what she actually despised was people who let themselves be weak. He never fought back, never raised his voice – but he also never cowered. He never tried to impress her, never tried to be something he wasn't. He was just him, without shame or pretense."

He paused, then chuckled. "And perhaps, in some strange way, she respected that."

"I see," Colin replied. "So, with how you described her… was she ever actually involved in crime or part of a gang?"

"No no, as I said. A few bad friends but she never joined a gang as far as I know. Today, Clarendice is a good place but before Clenton took over the helm, this school was a cesspit. Bad funding, cultural hotspots, bad academics, gangs… You name it. Back in the day, she'd have plenty of chances to do so. But she never did, for some reason."

"So what about her family? Her parents, then?"

"Hmm, well, they were poor, obviously," Glennfield replied. " It was obvious with how she dressed before the school decided to introduce school uniforms for the students. I only met both her parents once in person. The mother was nice but clearly overworked – drained even. The father was incredibly charismatic and polite. I remember that he was some kind of fallen big shot. A politician or senator. Something about corruption. I don't remember, apologies. That was many, many years ago.

"It's alright," Colin reassured him. "Please continue."

"Well, I never noticed anything unusual about them. reclusive people, from what I've heard. I figured they'd be tiger parents, with how Saiko was always fixated on getting a perfect score on everything. It's an all-too-common sentiment among non-native Japanese families," Glennfield shook his head. "I am the first when it comes to motivating kids to give their best but I have never condoned that kind of pushing. If you'd told me ten years ago that we would need a burnout specialist counselor for students on site I wouldn't have believed you."

Colin nodded along with that, not knowing what to say. His own parents had never had the time to care for things like that – busy with dreams and aspirations that had never included him – but it wasn't something he wanted to dwell on now. He waited for the teacher to continue and when nothing came, he said. "You know, Mr. Glennfield, you seem to know a lot about Saiko Tanaka. Surprisingly much, I'd even say."

"She…" the teacher hesitated visibly, and Colin saw a plethora of different emotions running across the old teacher's face. When he spoke up again, his voice was almost small. "Well… Mr. Wallis, I guess you could say that I have been rather involved in her life. Perhaps more so than I should, given my profession, and yet… you see, when I met Saiko for the first time, I saw a smart and struggling Freshman where others would only see what she let them. I saw her potential, and as all teachers should strive to do, I wanted to help her reach it."

"I assume this ties back to her economic and social status?" Colin asked.

"Yes. She was a genius, you see. It was baffling just how talented she was. But she was also poor… sometimes to the point even I could see that she was sitting hungry in class."

"But… aren't there systems for that?" Colin asked.

"Oh yes, never enough but we have and we had funding for our more at-risk students. But her parents… who knows whether it was ill-put pride or something else. They never wanted help, and so Saiko didn't get any. That's what I assume, at least," Glennfield opened a drawer and began to rustle through it. He retrieved a framed photo and handed it over to Colin.

The photo showed Mr. Glennfield in cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, together with an Asian teenage girl in a tanktop posing in a suburban garden, a small lawnmower behind them. She looked awkward, with a stoic if slightly insecure expression as if she didn't know what she had to do there. Yet it was unmistakably Saiko – without tattoos and somewhat less muscular than she'd been in Brockton Bay, with defined but lean arms – based on her features and the prominent scar on her cheek.

'Interesting. This man is a good find,' Colin thought, handing the framed picture back to Glennfield. The teacher carefully stowed it away before looking back at Colin.

"Unfortunately this is a common occurrence," Colin offered. "Both the state and the PRT are always to offer support for those who struggle but we can't force someone to accept our help."

"Yes, and so… well, I guess I took it upon myself to help her achieve something in life. I saw potential in her, so I tried to foster her talent. Offered her extra material and tutoring, and talked with other teachers to get her into programs and contests. And when I noticed her… well… other struggles, I decided that I wanted to do more. So, I took her aside, invited her to lunch or dinner at my house, and offered her some pocket money for little chores here and there around the house or garden. I even managed to coax her into a sport to try and help her adjust that… drive for violence."

"That is commendable," Colin had to admit. "Few teachers would care that much. Can't say that mine ever did."

Glennfield chuckled. "Hah, yes. You see, the students here see me as the bad guy. The strict teacher with no inch for tardiness and fooling around. I have zero tolerance for bullying in my classroom, Mr. Wallis. I know better than anyone just how cruel children can be, and that it is my job to ensure they grow where their parents fail. It happens often enough. And so I do just that, even though I don't like that kids are scared of me. It's my duty, but you see…" he fell silent and sighed. It was a long, aching sigh, something intrinsically sad that reminded Colin of a dying tree. "Well, I have been a teacher for a long time now, Mr. Wallis. I have dedicated over 40 years of my life to teaching children, and I still want to give more even though it's already past my time to retire. I've seen many things over my career, and not all of them ended well. You might not be aware, but some students have to go through things or deal with situations in life that most people can't even imagine. Nothing children should have to deal with. And, I guess… now that I am old, I just didn't want to see another of such fates anymore…"

"And so you stepped in for a girl who needed it," Colin concluded. "But was it worth the effort, in the end?"

Glennfield just shrugged, wordlessly. Awkward silence began to stretch between them.

"Was there anything else you wanted to know, Mr. Wallis?" Glennfield eventually asked.

"Yes," Colin replied without hesitation. 'For example why you know so much about that girl, and why you haven't mentioned anything about the more gruesome aspects of her backstory yet. Or the prison sentence, for that matter.' He didn't throw these thoughts at the teacher. "Well, that can't be all there was to her, isn't it?"

"Well, you wouldn't be sitting here if that wasn't the case, would you, Mr. Wallis?" Glennfield replied, a tight-lipped smile forming on his weathered face.

'Oh you have no idea how true that is,' Colin thought, almost smiling about the irony that the man thought him to be a PRT operative and would never suspect that he was sitting in a room with Armsmaster, head of the Brockton Bay Protectorate. "So, what was really going on there?"

Glennfield barked out a sharp laugh. It wasn't a kind one. "Nothing I'm obligated to tell you, and nothing I will tell you without parental permission and a judicial degree on my desk. I appreciate that the PRT is willing to reopen her case, really. You are giving an old man hope that at least one fate hasn't been buried yet, but as a professional, you must understand that I can't and won't talk about things like this willy-nilly."

Without blinking, Colin reached into his backpack and procured a stack of signed documents he then placed on the teacher's desk.

"You come prepared, I see," the old teacher murmured, browsing the documents. "Alright, if there is a chance for her, I will take it. But first, who are you really, and what is going on with Saiko? I never believed that you were a simple PRT agent the moment I saw you walk into that office."

Now it was Colin's turn to shoot the man a tight-lipped smile. "I have no obligations to answer these questions."

"There is the door," the teacher replied curtly.

Colin raised an eyebrow at the man, and Glennfield returned the stare without flinching.

"Don't think you can pull that with me, son. Nothing you do can force me to talk when I don't want to. I could take off my shirt and show you the scars where the Vietcong hung me from a meathook like I was cattle," the teacher stated drily. "Look, I have been very cooperative and forthcoming today, 'Mr. Wallis'. I didn't have to tell you anything of what I did today – shouldn't have in the way I did. If this were to come out, it could threaten my integrity as a teacher. I am not asking much of you, but I think it is only fair that you at least return the favor."

Colin sighed. No, the man had been very forthcoming given his profession, and the insight Colin had gained from their conversation was incredibly useful to him. He reached into his backpack and pulled a printed copy of the mysterious Winslow Fire girl photo out, sliding it over to Glennfield. "There is nothing special about me. I don't work for the Boston PRT though, if that's what you mean. I am from the Brockton Bay department. We were trying to identify the girl in the picture and it was connected to this case."

"That… that's Saiko…" the teacher mumbled, pushing up his glasses as he leaned forward to muster the photo.

"Are you certain?" Colin asked.

"Undoubtedly. She… she looks almost the same as on the day she disappeared. I… when was this picture taken?"

"On the 22nd of June 2010," Colin replied. "Around noon, approximately."

"I… how can this be?" Glennfield removed his glasses with dithery fingers, rubbing his temples. When he looked back at Colin, his expression was so grief-stricken that it made him look a decade older than he already was. "S-she should be an adult by now."

"That's what we were hoping to find out," Colin replied softly. "What exactly was your relationship to her, Mr. "Glennfield?"

"She was like a daughter to me," the old man mumbled, visibly shaken to the core. He gently poked the bonsai again, wrinkled hand trembling.

Colin gave him a minute to re-compose himself. That was… not a response he'd expected.

"What really went on?"

"Why must you ask me this? You know the records, right? There's court hearings, documents–"

"With all due respect, Mr. Glennfield. I'm asking you for a reason," Colin interrupted. "You reported it."

The teacher sighed. "Alright, fair enough. Whatever helps to find her. I… suppose in hindsight, I should have noticed earlier what was going on – there were many little signs here and there when I look back – but as I told you, Saiko was a hardass. She was good at hiding the bruises… or maybe she was tough enough that she simply didn't care. With her, I can't even say. Do you know why she was so obsessed with being number one? Because her father would give her the difference with his belt afterward. I once graded one of her works with 60 points. Just one time when…"

"You couldn't know," Colin said.

"I suppose not," Glennfield said. "Not that it helps me sleep at night. She came to school the day after like nothing happened and then went to hang out the rest of the day at my house. I didn't notice anything other than that she wore long sleeves that afternoon. God, she was only fourteen.

Her father had her family in an absolute chokehold. Alcohol, bad friends, systematic abuse, starving his own family, you name it. I don't know much about the family – the Father is long dead now – but I found out that Miss Tanaka is a distinguished Chemist. He systematically tore his own wife down into an emotional wreck and forced her to scrub toilets for a living. I don't know if he did it out of spite or because it got him off somehow, and I don't want to know."

"And no one ever noticed something?" Colin asked in disbelief.

"No… with his background and his skills as a speaker? You know, the first time I met Saiko's parents they had to come to school because some of the parents accused her of robbing their kids on the way to school like a highway bandit. And her father…" Glennfield frowned. "He actually managed to talk the families and board down from raising charges. He managed to convince a mob of angry helicopter parents – and me – that this had all been a misunderstanding. Can you believe that?"

"If he was such a presence, why did the family struggle with money?" Colin inquired.

"I don't know. Saiko never talked about them. Refused to, even after… juvie. Not in a hurt way… she was outright scathing about her father. Like it was a topic beneath her…" Glennfield hesitated. "But… if I had to guess, they lived in poverty because he wanted to. Why else would he force his wife to do… that?"

"So…" Colin frowned, swallowing. Something ugly was stirring in him, stronger and stronger the longer he listened to this sickening story. He knew that empathizing with villains wasn't his strength. To him, it had always been easy; you either did the right thing, or you didn't. But this…

He struggled to find words for it.

"How did it come out?" He asked.

Glenfield tapped one of his cheeks. "One night she stood at my doorstep. She was maybe around 15 or 16. Calm and stoic as always… but there was a bruise she couldn't hide anymore. Like someone had… taken a vase and smashed it repeatedly into her face. She looked and acted as she always did when she asked me if she could sleep here but I have been to war, Mr. Wallis. I know what fear looks like, and I had never seen her this scared before. The only time I have ever seen her scared, now that I think of it."

"Did she say what happened?" Colin asked.

Glennfield merely raised an eyebrow at him in response.

"She stood at my door again a week or so afterward, wanting to be let in," he continued. "I was already suspecting things, and so I decided to let her in. We just talked over hot cocoa, which was a rare thing because she never really liked to… talk much. She rather just lounged around. She told me that I was… kind that night, nervous and stuttering like I'd never seen her before, red to the ears. Like she was forcing herself to speak it out…"

Colin nodded.

"... which wasn't particularly out of character for her, you know?" Glennfield chuckled, but there was no mirth in it. "You see, Saiko wasn't a nice person. Not at all. She was violent and cold to anyone she didn't care about. She was a good talker but the whole emotional stuff? I don't think she even knew how to handle that verbally. Well, and then…"

Glennfield drew a sharp breath, clenching his fingers until the knuckles turned white.

"…and then she dropped her coat, and stood there in my living room, dressed in a… thing no one her age should wear."

"She tried to seduce you?" Colin frowned. The ugly in him began to stir harder.

The old teacher nodded glumly. "I looked at her, dressed in this thing, and I didn't know what hit me. She just looked back at me, completely calm but in a way I've never seen her look before, and then she told me that she didn't like it when her father hurt her like this, but – but she wouldn't mind me hurting her. That… that fucking PIG!"

Glennfield exhaled sharply.

"I'm sorry for bringing this up," Colin replied. "I know it's painful but–"

"No, it's fine," the teacher replied, shaking his head before looking at Colin with a shattered expression. "I apologize for my outburst. It was unprofessional of me. But this man… this father, grooming his own daughter into – no, I don't weep for him. He got what he deserved. I'm just sorry that I couldn't figure it out quicker."

"So, what happened then?" Colin asked.

"You should know what happened from the report. I called the Police and CPS the same night. They arrested the father within an hour. It was a scandal back then. The mother was such a wreck that she was deemed unable to take care of her kids again and had to be dragged into psychiatry. She's… better now, thankfully. The kids got transferred into the care of the grandparents.

The court hearing was a mess. I only then learned that Saiko had a little sister from the newspapers. She refused to ever talk about her. Not a single word or acknowledgment, ever. Well, and then," Glennfield shrugged. "Saiko's father managed to weasel himself free. I don't know how he managed that, but he came away with a prison sentence that was laughable for what he did. A disgrace to the justice system of this country. Saiko tried to kill her father after the court session. Stabbed him with a knife on the steps to the courtroom. He made it, barely, and she had to go to Juvie for six months."

'And shortly after she got free, the vigilante named Quarrel appeared on stage,' Colin thought. "So, after she served her sentence in Juvenile Detention, she returned to school," he eventually said. "Would you say that her time away changed her?"

Mr. Glennfield looked at Colin, sadness in his eyes. "How could you even ask that? Of course, it did. She was gone for months, and when she came back, everyone in school knew that she was – well, a criminal."

Colin had to concede that point.

"That being said," Glennfield mused. "I want to say things got better for the most part. Saiko got herself a boyfriend, and she still came over regularly to my house to help out and hang out. She was still… well, Saiko though. Nothing really changed but I'd like to think she mellowed out just a little overall… even if just on the inside. Her grandparents were – are good people."

"Did she ever…?"

"Try to seduce me again?" Glennfield finished. "Two more times. The second time was right after she came free, and I organized a little party for her. And the third time… it – it was on the night she ran away."

Colin paused. "That doesn't come up in the report."

"I know," Glennfield admitted. "And I hope it never will. But I know that whatever drove her away wasn't related to me."

"How so?"

"That night she called me 'Father'."

Chapter Text

Thursday, 16. December 2010

Colin stepped out of the classroom and into the colourful hallways of Clarandice High, an uneasy feeling in his gut. Talking to the teacher had been helpful for getting a better picture of his target's home life, but the man had been a dead end regarding Saiko Tanaka's cape activities, and he hadn't been able to offer any clues as to where she'd disappeared to. By all means, the girl had simply cut her ties and never looked back when she'd joined the Teeth.

Still, the picture he'd assembled of the girl was concerning: focused, methodical, and ruthless, while displaying a frightening amount of competence and intelligence. A social manipulator, by all accounts, willing to play all sides and step over corpses to reach her goals… at least when Colin looked at her through the lens of Crucify.

He needed to find out what her game was, quickly.

Still, Colin couldn't shake a lingering doubt as he looked around for his escort. Yes, so far, all arrows were pointing in the right direction and toward the right person, but still… There was a margin for error, one just wide enough that he didn't feel comfortable making that leap of faith just yet.

Yes, she had been an archery prodigy, and yes, she'd been affiliated with the Teeth, but he couldn't be certain that Saiko Tanaka had been a cape. Bigger coincidences happened every day, and Colin had seen too many reports where a hero connected all the dots, but got the wrong person, and caused a scandal. Before he could act, he needed something concrete. Something to silence that tiny whisper of doubt in his mind. Plus, being able to tie Quarrel, Crucify, and Saiko together would allow him to combine multiple lines of investigation, which would help streamline his progress reports and save himself a lot of future effort.

Colin stopped to let two chattering students pass, taking the opportunity to glance at his wristwatch. There was still enough time to visit the family. Of course, he didn't exactly expect to find a secret costume or gear stash in the girl's room – assuming there was anything of her stuff left in the first place – but maybe he'd find something. Now, where was his security detail? He glanced around.

The bell had rung a while ago, and so the hallways were already drained of most students. School was over for the day. Still, there were a few students left, lingering in the hallways and crowding around lockers, shooting Colin curious glances as he made his way past them and back toward the lobby.

He hadn't walked more than a few feet when his ears caught the low hiss of Agent Dalmann's voice.

"... don't care, Henry. We had a deal!"

"But Lizzy…" a boy whined. "I just stored it here. I'm not–"

Colin stepped around a corner. Elizabeth Dalmann stood in front of an overweight student, arms crossed, blocking his escape route. The boy fidgeted, shifting from leg to leg under her glare. There was something in his hands, half hidden behind his body. A small and rectangular device, likely a gaming console.

Dalmann extended her hand, snapping fingers. The boy shrank back at the gesture. His gaze began to flicker around, looking for a distraction or an escape. "You know the deal. No games during school. Where did you even get this from?"

"It's not mine. It's from David," the boy murmured.

"Urgh," his bodyguard sighed. She extended her hand further. "Give it to me."

"N-no. C'mon, Liz…"

"David, don't make a scene. I'll give it back to you after my shift. Mom and Dad told you no games. Now hand it over."

'Ah, so that's how it is,' Colin thought with a twinge of amusement. He leaned against a corner to watch the show. Even from a distance, he could hear the boy's annoyed grumble. "Can't I just — hey!"

Taking advantage of the boy's distraction, Dalmann moved with practiced speed. In one smooth motion, her hand snaked around his defenses and grabbed the console, yanking it from his hands. She lifted it high, inspecting it like a war trophy.

The boy's face twisted in frustration. He opened his mouth to protest, but Dalmann wasn't paying attention. Instead, she glanced down at her outfit, assessing where to hide the console. She shifted her blazer, looking for a place to discreetly stow the device. Finally, with a swift, almost casual motion, she slipped the console into the hem of her pants.

The boy's eyes grew round. "Woa, Liz, you're packing a gun?"

There was a sharp intake of breath from Dalmann, followed by the unmistakable sound of her cursing under her breath.

"Cry it around a bit louder, will you?" she muttered, her cheeks flushing as she yanked her blazer back into place, attempting to hide the pistol and shove the console further down the hem with frantic moves.

"So cool, can I–"

"No," she snapped with a reddening head. "Goddammit. Henry, I'm on duty here."

"Sorry, sis."

"Okay," Dalmann sighed, rubbing her temples. "Locker control."

"What?" The boy blanched. "Why?"

"You know why. Now move up. Goddammit, my boss could walk around that corner any moment," she added, her voice dropping to a hiss as her eyes flicked toward the hallway. Luckily, it was the wrong side, or she'd have detected Colin.

"But–"

"Henry, open that locker or I'll tell Mom!" She hissed.

That was all it took. The boy's shoulders slumped, and his resistance crumbled. He walked toward the row of lockers, opening one with a resigned groan. The door blocked Colin's view, but he could see the change in Dalmann's face. For a brief moment, her expression faltered, turning almost pained.

"Goddammit, Henry," she murmured, reaching into the locker.

The boy didn't respond, his face cast downward in shame. Colin caught a glimpse of his Adam's apple bobbing nervously. Dalmann shook her head and reached into the locker again. She seemed to scoop something into her arms.

"Is there a problem, Agent?" Colin asked, and Dalmann flinched. She was, however, quick to regain her composure, stepping back and straightening with a flushed face as she turned toward Colin. His eyebrow twitched.

"No, sir," she replied. "May I introduce you to my brother, Henry Dalmann?"

"Hello," Colin smiled briefly at the obese, pudgy boy with short curly hair who couldn't be older than 14 before looking back at his security detail, who was now laden with bags of… snacks, awkwardly trying to balance a bunch of them with both arms. "I'm afraid I need to steal your sister now."

"Uhm, ok, bye," the boy murmured. The locker door slammed shut, and Henry shuffled away, his eyes downcast. Colin took a slow step forward, eyes flicking between Dalmann's expression and the boy's retreating figure. It was clear she had her own private battle, but it didn't surprise Colin if he was honest. Not after what stories he'd heard today.

"Come on," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "We need to go."

Despite her straight back and stoic posture, Colin could feel Dalmann die inside with every step they took as she led him back toward their car.

"Do you need help with that?" Colin eventually asked after the front door had fallen shut behind them, and they made their way across the parking lot toward their car.

"I uhm… please," Dalmann said. She awkwardly shuffled three bags over to Colin before fumbling the car key out of her pocket. "I apologize, sir. I… can explain?"

"Please do," Colin said, raising his eyebrow at her.

Dalmann sighed, her shoulders slumping as she spoke. "You saw him. My brother has impulse control issues with food. It's gotten better, but when he was younger – about eleven – he already weighed over a hundred pounds. We tried everything – diets, exercise, drilling – but nothing worked. He'd just sneak snacks whenever no one was looking, and it took us a while to figure out how bad it had gotten. It's like an addiction, and if I didn't react immediately, he'd probably just hide them elsewhere. I caught him going through dumpsters before. I couldn't just ignore it."

"I understand," Colin said. "It's alright. I won't file a complaint about unprofessionalism on the job."

"Thank you, sir," Dalmann smiled at him. "I am very grateful for the chance. So, where do we go next?"

"Now, we are going to visit the family," Colin replied.

The sky was already starting to dim when they arrived at their destination. Apartment block 43 was one of six massive residential high rises at the border of Boston's Emerald Necklace – a series of parks, ponds, and green areas cutting through the various neighborhoods. With over 30 stories, the red brick buildings towered over the row-house neighborhood of Jamaica Plain, together with its brothers. According to Colin's research, it was one of the many housing projects designed to handle the stream of immigrants and refugees that had flooded into the city in the past few decades.

He hadn't expected the area to look as nice as it did. With all the parks, trees, and Jamaica Pond itself, there was a lot of greenery around, even if most of it was covered in snow rather than leaves. The ground level of the high rises were home to small corner stores or other businesses, and there even seemed to be a large community outdoor pool currently winter-proofed by large tarps.

As Dalmann maneuvered around the piles of plowed snow and into one of the clear parking spots, a girl on her bike barreled around the corner of the apartment block. She was a blur of red jacket and wild hair, pedaling furiously as she rounded the corner like she was in a high-speed chase. Whatever she was running from or to, she was clearly going too fast for such a tight turn.

The back wheel fishtailed, skidding out from under her. For a split second, he thought she might recover, but gravity had other plans. The bike twisted, her feet kicked out, and with an almost comical whoomp, the girl crunched headfirst into the massive pile of snow lining the curb. Her bike kept skidding away, eventually coming to a halt a short distance away..

"Ouch," Elizabeth Dallman murmured, wincing at the sight. "I hope she's alright."

"Hopefully," Colin replied. He unbuckled his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. Carefully, he began making his way toward the downed girl. The ground was slippery and poorly salted in places. A muffled groan echoed over the plaza as the girl rolled away from the pile, clutching her face.

"Are you alright?" Colin called over to her.

The girl blinked in his direction, cheeks red from cold and impact, and snow clinging to her lashes. She spat out a mouthful of snow. "Yeah. I meant to do that," she deadpanned.

Colin bit back a laugh. "I see. It looked very graceful."

"Thank you. They say I'm a natural."

Colin shook his head and returned to the car while the girl slowly extracted herself from the snow pile. She picked up her bicycle and carefully began stalking toward the building. A resident, then? Seemed like it. He waited for Dalmann to lock the car and turn to him again before saying, "She seems fine. So, where does the family live?"

"Tenth floor, apartment number one-oh-eight-two."

Colin took a moment to glance around again. Aside from the girl, who was now busy chaining her bicycle to one of the racks near the entrance, the area was still pretty deserted.

"Can you tell me anything about the area?" He asked.

"Not much, unfortunately," Dalmann replied, folding her arms across the roof of the car. "It's relatively peaceful here. Crime and Cape activity in this part of the city primarily focuses on Fenmore and Roxbury. This area is mostly quiet."

"Fenmore?"

"Fenway-Kenmore. You know, the stadium, the campus, the hospitals… they're all further up by the river. Down here, you just have residential areas. Some capes may live around here, but there isn't much to fight over compared to what's nearby," she said. "I know that there are a number of independents keeping the peace in the general area, though. Team Redfrost, mostly."

Colin nodded. "Fair. I heard some talk at the school about punks making trouble in this neighborhood. Do you know anything about that?"

Dalmann shrugged. "That's mostly police business, for now. Might change if Taper or Burning Sensation get drawn into it, but I doubt it. It's just some kids. That being said, there was a rather noisy cape fight near here a few days ago. One of the Mullen Brothers, butting heads with someone. I was deployed that night, actually. They took a few scrapes, but they both managed to escape before we could foam them. The deputy director thinks the other one could be a new cape. Trenchcoat and hockey mask. Likely a girl."

"Did the girl fight using a bow?"

"A bow?" Dalmann shot him a questioning look, and Colin shrugged. The agent shook her head. Carefully, they started stalking across the parking lot. Eventually, she replied, "She had a baseball bat, but she never actually used it. Not as far as I could see, at least, but against one of the Brothers? Yeah, I'd keep my distance too."

"Brute-type capes?"

"Oh yeah. Big, ugly, and wearing even bigger and clunkier armor. Nothing a baseball bat would help you with, that's for sure," Dalmann snickered. "No, the girl was smart and kept her distance. Our first assessment puts her down as some kind of telekinetic shaker or striker. When I arrived, I caught him hurling a manhole cover at her. It just… looped around her and right back into his face."

"I see," Colin replied. 'Well, it was a long shot anyway.'

"We can go grab a quick coffee, if you like," Dalmann said, pointing toward the little Asian-themed corner store embedded into the facade. "It's– oh, never mind."

'Closed early due to family matters,' the flip sign read.

"Damn, I could have used some," she grumbled silently.

"It's fine," Colin replied. "This shouldn't take too long."

They were standing near the girl from earlier, who now lingered in the entrance of the apartment block, red nose buried in her phone. She suddenly looked up, almost as if she'd felt Colin's gaze on her, and shot them a long, side-eyed glance before going back to her phone. 'Teenagers…'

"So, what's–" Dalmann began, then froze mid-sentence. Her gaze lifted. "We've got company."

Colin followed her eyes just in time to catch a burst of radiant light streaking through the sky. His first thought was Purity – blinding and immaculate – but the bright glow soon coalesced into a different shape, and one that wasn't so bright that it hurt to look at: a glowing figure descending toward them, framed by immense wings that seemed forged from panels of solid light.

"Should I be worried?" Colin asked, voice steady. "It's coming straight at us." He glanced toward Dalmann. She wasn't tense, but there was a frown on her face now.

"No, no, that's Pharos," she replied. "Sacred Heart. They're one of the biggest hero teams in the city."

"I know them, yeah," Colin replied. "I ran into two of them this morning. But why would they come here?"

"I'll check. Maybe something happened in the area," Dalmann replied. She pulled a sleek phone from her back pocket, entered a speed dial number, and began to speak in a hushed voice with whoever was on the other side.

Pharos was now close enough that Colin could make out more details about the cape. He was looking at something akin to a science fiction knight. Glowing white lines, sleek armor, and a helmet with glowing eyes. The wings – made of hard light – didn't seem to move much. Some kind of propulsion system, then? Purely stabilizers? Maybe – Colin shook the Tinker thoughts from his mind. "He's carrying someone," he said.

"Console has nothing to report," Dalmann reported. "Sacred Heart generally collaborates tightly with the PRT, so they would have reported in if something had happened."

"Hmm, let's wait and see what he does, then. We still have a little bit of time."

"Understood."

They watched with curiosity as Pharos glided closer and closer. He hovered over the parking lot for a moment, giving Colin a better view of his equipment and the person he was holding. It was a girl, no older than 13 or 14, bundled up like a Christmas present against the cold. Yet, even the layers of clothes didn't manage to hide just how small and frail she seemed in the Tinker's arms. There was something strapped onto his back that didn't match with the rest of his costume. It took Colin a moment to recognize it as a… wheelchair?

'How curious,' he thought as he watched the Tinker touch down next to the entrance and the bicycle girl, who immediately stepped up to him and began to unfasten and set up the wheelchair. A small earbud found its way into Colin's ear.

"... you really didn't have to do this, Pharos," the girl mumbled awkwardly as the two helped her settle into the wheelchair. "I could have asked the driver–"

"Eh, nonsense! It's no problem, Clara," the Tinker replied. "I don't mind playing taxi for you every now and then, and I had the time anyway. Really, don't sweat it."

"...thanks," the girl replied meekly.

"Anyway, you two have fun. I'll be off. Call me if you need anything, Clary. I'll be patrolling Cambridge with the boss lady now, so we'll be close enough if there's any issue."

"Gotcha," the bicycle girl replied. She snickered. "Don't freeze a 'cicle down there."

Pharos replied with a humourless: "Ha ha ha."

Colin deactivated his earbud again and palmed it with a subtle brush of his hand. "Seems like they are all together. Pharos played 'taxi' for the girl," he explained, turning toward Dalmann. "Does the name 'Clara' mean anything to you?"

He noticed the bicycle girl, 'Clary', shooting them another side-eyed glance as she pushed the wheelchair up the ramp, and into the entrance of apartment block 43.

"Oh, that's Clara Sladen!" Dalmann explained. "Well, Tan. Oh yeah. She's the daughter of Samantha Tan. You know… the ceo of Tan Enterprises. That's the corp that sponsors Sacred Heart. I guess it makes sense for them to fly her around. The girl was crippled in a Teeth attack a few years ago and was adopted by Miss Tan. It was quite a media drama."

"I read up on it, yeah," Colin replied. "The Stoneknapper disaster."

Dalmann's face fell. "Yeah… fuck. Apologies. I wasn't there myself, but it was a nasty day. They still show the footage in training. I was a fan, before…" she trailed off. "Anyway, what now?"

"Now," Colin replied solemnly. "Now we will follow these two, because I am freezing my feet off."

Apartment Block 43 looked like every tenant hallway Colin had ever seen: tiled brick walls, halogen lights, linoleum tiles, and an elevator at the end. The only out-of-the-ordinary feature he could spot was a glass door to the left, which led into the corner store. It was outfitted with a 'closed' sign like the outdoor entrance. They had to dodge a baby stroller on their way to the elevator door in the back.

Colin used the time during the ride up to the 10th floor to quickly go over his strategy, again.

He knew he wasn't… good with people. But he'd done this sort of thing before: recruitments, family notifications, even Make-A-Wish visits – where he'd had to look a terminal ten-year-old in the eye and admit he couldn't help. If the girl really cared about finding her sister, that should be motivation enough to cooperate.

He turned to his companion. "Miss Dalmann, would it inconvenience you to wait outside the apartment while I talk to the family? It might be easier to get them to open up if I'm alone."

His security detail answered with a sharp nod. "Of course, I can stand watch at the door."

"Thank you."

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, releasing them onto the 10th floor. A long, clean hallway greeted them, lined by doors on either side. Colin's nose caught a rank smell as he strode past one of them, something like stinky shoes or an overdue trash bag.

The nameplate next door caught his eye as well. 'Hess.' The door was slightly ajar, with agitated voices coming from the apartment behind. He caught a glance of a messy stack of boxes through the gap in the frame. Someone was either moving in or out. 'Hess,' he mused as he strode past, rolling the name around in his head. 'One of our suspicions on Shadow Stalker's identity was one "Sophia Hess", if I recall correctly. If she really moved here, it might be worth relaying this to Armstrong, before I leave.'

Her methods wouldn't change – highly unlikely with a personality like hers. Chances were, she'd have a target on her back again within a few months. And as far as Colin knew, Boston already had more than enough violent vigilantes roaming around to let her slide. Armstrong would want to have her dealt with at some point.

"We should be there soon," Dalmann said, glancing at the door numbers. "Just around that corner, I think."

They rounded the bend, and Colin immediately spotted the apartment door in question, along with the scowling figure of the bicycle girl leaning against the wall beside it. She stared him down with open hostility.

"I knew it," she snapped, arms crossing tightly. "You've been following us. I knew something was off about you."

"I–" Colin blinked, momentarily at a loss.

"What, you think you're the first creep to try abducting Clara? At least you're the most pathetic one so far."

"I think there must be some kind of misunderstanding," Colin said carefully, raising his hands in a calming gesture.

"Save it. I don't care about your excuses. Walk away now, before things get ugly," she growled.

Any notion of how absurd it was for a fourteen-year-old girl to threaten two grown adults vanished the moment she raised her hands and snapped her fingers. Fire burst from her palms, curling around her fists like molten boxing gloves.

In all honesty, Colin wasn't even surprised. He'd expected something like this the moment she stepped into their path. And then it clicked – the fire, and the short, shaggy hair… he had seen her before. The iced alley from this morning.

"You're Nova. From Sacred Heart," he said.

"We're from the PRT," Dalmann cut in, stepping forward and flashing a badge. "We're not here to kidnap anyone, Nova. This is a misunderstanding."

Nova squinted at the badge, then let out a slow breath, the tension easing from her shoulders. "Oh, thank god. I really didn't want to wreck Clara's day. She'd mope about it for, like, a week–" She coughed into her fist. "Anyway. What do you want, then? Why are you tailing us? Did something happen?"

"No, no, we're just here to have a conversation about–"

"You want to talk to Clara?" Nova interrupted, brows rising. "Like this? No way. No one interviews or questions her unless it has been cleared by Samantha Tan herself or one of Tan Enterprises' legal representatives. Any attempt to harass or pressure her will result in immediate legal action against you – or the PRT, for that matter." She shot Colin a sharp, knowing look. "I think I don't have to state that we have very good lawyers."

'That last bit sounded very rehearsed,' Colin thought drily. "We are neither here for you nor 'Clara.' Miss Dalmann here is accompanying me to meet with the Tanakas. We are expected."

"Oh, I see. Well, you picked a bad day for that, then."

"And why's that?" Colin raised an eyebrow at the civilian cape.

A flickering ghost of what could count as exasperation crossed Nova's face but disappeared as soon as it appeared. "Well, why do you think we two are here? Naoko's having a birthday party, and she and Clara are friends."

"Oh, that's…unfortunate," Colin replied.

Nova shrugged. "I can't see her family being happy about you PRT guys crashing their birthday party, but as long as you don't bother Clara, I don't really care."

"Splendid," Colin replied drily. "We won't bother her. May we pass now?"

Nova stepped aside, flourishing her arm in a sarcastic invitation. The three of them approached the apartment, and Colin pressed the doorbell. Immediately, the door was opened a crack, stopped by a security chain, as if someone had stood behind it and watched everything through the peephole. "Clara? Is everything ok? Do we have to call the police?" A heavily accented voice spoke from behind it.

"No, no, I'm fine, Mr. Tanaka," Nova called out. "Just a misunderstanding. They're from the PRT."

"Alright, I'll open the door."

The door shut again, followed by the rattle of a chain. It swung open again a moment later, revealing an elderly Japanese man in a heavy sweater, who squinted at them from behind a pair of large, circular glasses.

"Are you Mr. Wallis?" He asked.

"I am," Colin replied, offering his hand for a shake. "Mister Tanaka, I presume? It's nice to meet you in person."

The old man clasped his hand with a surprisingly strong grip. "Oh, of course. Of course. Come in, come in. Follow me. I'll show you her room."

Mr. Tanaka stepped back, waving him inside, and Colin caught his first glimpse of the apartment. He could tell immediately – this was a sanctum. A safe space, curated with pride and care. Everything was spotless: the floors gleamed, the shelves were arranged with meticulous attention to detail, and the air itself felt... still. Lived-in, but revered.
Plush carpeting stretched across the floor, broken only by the faint imprint of wheelchair tires.

"Your shoes, please," the old man said, halting Colin's step with a raised hand.
Colin nodded and complied, kicking off his shoes, then placing them neatly on a small shelf beside the door. He stepped into the apartment in his socks, the carpet soft beneath his feet. The wheelchair tracks veered off to the left, and he caught a glimpse of their owner in the living room – just a flash – before Mr. Tanaka guided him in the opposite direction, down a short hallway. They stopped at a door.

The small room beyond was unmistakably that of a teenager. Wooden floorboards were broken up by a rectangular, plush carpet laid in the center. Aside from that, the space was surprisingly sparse. A freshly made bed stood against one wall, and a wooden desk sat beneath the window, the chair tucked neatly beneath it.

"This is her room," Mr. Tanaka said softly, closing the door behind them. His voice was low and subdued. "We've kept it exactly as it was. My wife still insists on making the bed fresh every week. I think… she still hopes that one morning she'll wake up and Saiko will be back."
He shook his head, then eased himself down onto the edge of the bed.

"You sound like you don't share that belief," Colin replied.

"She wasn't with us long, not really. A few years? But something in me always knew. I feared she ended up dead in a ditch somewhere, but they never found a body. After everything she'd been through… if what you told me in the emails is true, then I'm glad to be wrong."

"I was hoping to speak with Naoko," Colin said.

"Absolutely not," Mr. Tanaka replied, shaking his head firmly.

"It's quite important that I—"

"No, Mr. Wallis. You will not speak to her. Not today. This is her day. I know she does not do well, even if I pretend otherwise for her sake. But today is her day, and you and I will not ruin it."

"What do you mean?" Colin asked. "Is she in some kind of trouble?"

The old man hesitated, then wavered his hand in a noncommittal gesture. "School trouble. She doesn't have many friends. Just Clara. And what happened to Saiko… it still keeps her up at night. Some nights, she sneaks out. I don't know where she goes. But she always comes back safe…and I feel like she is happier in the morning after."

Colin drifted toward a dusted-off shelf, eyes tracing a row of goofy anime bobbleheads from a show he didn't recognize. The room was tidy, almost too much so. Beyond a few posters, a shelf of medals and trophies, and some scattered knick-knacks, it just felt… too empty. In one corner, a soccer ball and a set of heavy dumbbells sat untouched.

"What was her relationship with Saiko?" he asked.

Mr. Tanaka hummed in thought. "When they first came to us, it was bad. Saiko was cold and distant with Naoko. Disregarding, sometimes. We'd find bruises on Naoko, and we never knew where they came from."

"You think she resented her little sister?" Colin asked, frowning.

"I think so, yes," the old man replied. "Naoko doesn't remember much, but she told us how Saiko always shielded her. Took the anger. The hits. And… other things, from their father. So he wouldn't touch her. That, she remembers." He exhaled slowly. "Now, she sees her sister through rose-tinted glasses."

"I see."

"Saiko wasn't a gentle person," Mr. Tanaka continued. "But the violence stopped, eventually. I think part of her hated her sister… but not because she didn't care. Maybe she just didn't know how else to be. After a few months with us, the hate faded. When I think back now, I don't ever remember her smiling when she played with Naoko, but I think she cared. In her own way."

"Maybe Saiko blamed her," Colin offered. "For what she had to go through."

"Perhaps. Who can say, now?" The old man gave a tired smile. "If she's still out there, maybe Naoko will get to ask her one day. Maybe we'll see her too, before we go, and can apologize for failing her. I don't know why she ran away. And it breaks my heart that we couldn't give her what she needed. We tried so hard, you know? Tried so hard to fix what he did to them…"

"What can you tell me about the father?" Colin asked.

"I do not wish to speak of him," Mr. Tanaka said tersely. "But I am glad his parents died before they could see what became of him. They were good people."

He exhaled, slow and weary. "To this day, I still can't explain the why or how. He was always so kind. So compassionate. He and my daughter grew up together, from the time they could walk. They spent every day side by side. I was proud when they started dating in middle school. I thought… she had found her soulmate. What more could a father hope for?"

His voice softened. "Something must have broken in him when he lost everything. I don't know how else to explain it. In the end, I didn't recognize the boy I helped raise."

'The kind of sudden change that comes with some trigger events, maybe. Or just a mundane mental break,' Colin mused.

The old man cleared his throat and gestured around. "You mentioned that you wished to see her room. This is it."

"I'd like to examine the room, if that's alright," Colin replied, pulling a small device from his coat pocket.

"Of course. Whatever helps."

Colin began to scan the room. Almost immediately, the small Tinkertech device in his hand began to go off. 'Got you,' he thought, stepping toward the wooden bookcase in the center of the rear wall. "You mentioned that Naoko likes to sneak out at night. Did Saiko ever do the same?"

"Almost every night."

Colin shot a surprised glance back at the old man. "Almost every night? You knew – and you never tried to do anything about it?"

"No," Mr. Tanaka said quietly. "What could I have done without driving her away completely?" He sighed. "They were treated like animals by people who should have protected them. We didn't want to become another cage. So we tried love. A little structure. A lot of space. And we hoped they'd trust us in time."

"I see," Colin said, his tone more thoughtful now. "My scanner's picking up a hollow space. Is there something behind this shelf?"

Mr. Tanaka squinted. "Hm? Oh – yes. There's an old hatch back there. I don't know what it was for. We couldn't seal it, so we just blocked it off. Safer that way. Didn't want the children falling in."
"Would it be alright if I checked?"

"We put wallpaper over it, but sure. Just be careful with Saiko's things, please."

"Of course. Thank you," Colin replied. He turned back to the bookcase, gently clearing it off. Then he gave it a test rattle. Light. Easy enough for a teen to move on her own.

'Jackpot,' Colin thought. Carefully, he slid the furniture aside. Sure enough, behind it was a narrow metal hatch set into the wall, carefully stripped of the wallpaper plastered over it. With a knife, he guessed, based on the cuts. He knelt and tested the handle. It turned without resistance. 'Freshly oiled.'

Carefully, Colin poked his head into the opening, pulling a tiny flashlight from his pocket and angling it to get a better look. A narrow elevator shaft yawned before him, vanishing into shadow above. It was far too small for a person – even curled up, he might've barely fit. A disused cargo lift, maybe. Odd. Not something he'd expected to find in a building like this. A makeshift wooden platform had been wedged into the shaft, a few planks hammered crudely across the gap. A duffle bag rested on it, brand new and gleaming. There wasn't even a speck of dust on it.

'Someone's been using this,' Colin noted. Curious – and telling. But not what he needed. He kept looking. Something else caught his eye – a second pile, tucked deeper into the shaft. It looked older. Recently disturbed, but still coated in the grey fuzz of long-settled dust. He leaned in further, balancing carefully, and unzipped the aged backpack with one hand. The zipper gave a faint rasp as he pried it open and shone his flashlight inside.

He prodded carefully, shifting aside fabric and other loose objects. A spray-painted hockey mask emerged – matte black, slashed with dark red. Next to it, splinters of curved wood, the telltale limbs of a bow, snapped and ruined. He paused, recognizing them only belatedly.
Then, a faint metallic glint deeper down caught his eye. Colin slipped on a glove, reached in, and retrieved a small, tightly packed plastic bag – the kind used in kitchens to keep food fresh. It was far heavier than it looked.

Metal clinked faintly inside when he pulled it up, and Colin held it up to the flashlight, squinting at the contents: broadhead arrow tips, a dozen or more. Some were crusted with dark, dried blood. 'Jackpot,' he thought with a surge of excitement. 'So I was right.' He pocketed the small bag and pulled out his phone, snapping a series of photos – wide shots of the stash, close-ups of the mask, the splintered bow, the arrowheads.

"Did you find anything?" Mr. Tanaka asked from behind him.

Colin paused. His eyes flicked back to the hidden hatch, the duffel, and the dustless shelf. After contemplating for a moment, he reached for something innocuous, a dusty bottle of beer and a pack of cigarettes. Slowly, he extracted himself from the hatch and turned around. "No," he finally said. "I did not find what I was looking for. Seems like she just used it to hide her habits."

The old man's face fell, and his shoulder slumped. "That is… unfortunate."

Colin hesitated, then stepped forward and placed a reassuring hand on the man's shoulder. "Not necessarily. I was following a hunch, that's all. We'll keep working. We'll do our best to find your granddaughter."

The old man nodded, subdued. "Thank you."

'I don't think they know,' Colin thought, his gaze drifting back toward the hatch. 'And pressing them – or Naoko – like this might not be wise. I should forward this to Armstrong before I do anything rash. But these broadheads… maybe the lab can still do something with that. In any case, this should be enough proof for my theories.'

His phone began to vibrate. A confused glance confirmed that he was indeed being called. Armstrong. "Excuse me," Colin said, lifting his phone. "I must take this right away."

He quickly stepped back out into the hallway and closed the door behind him for some semblance of privacy before accepting the call. "What can I do for you, Director?"

"Ah, Mr. Wallis," the director replied. "I hope I am not interrupting at an inconvenient time. I just wanted to inform you that we are mobilizing for a strike against the Teeth remnants tonight. Would you like to join the operation?"

"Unfortunately, I am on leave today," Colin replied. "Orders from director Piggot. But I'd love to observe, if that's possible."

"Of course. I'll send someone to pick you up as soon as it's convenient for you."

Colin stifled a yawn behind his mask as he climbed into a surveillance van parked behind the freshly evacuated truck stop. He gave a brief nod to the trio of mirror-faced PRT agents standing watch outside, then shut the door behind him. A part of him pitied them, standing out there in the freezing cold. Inside, the van was almost uncomfortably warm, enough to give him pause. He also didn't expect to see a floor-mounted recliner among the standard surveillance stations. It was a red-and-black branded modern thing that looked completely out of place. Its occupant spun lazily around to face him.

"Hey! You must be Armsmaster. Nice to meet you." The girl extended a hand without bothering to get up or adjust the reclined seat. "Kasumi Sumika. Angrboda."

Colin stepped closer and sat on the bench lining one wall. They shook hands. "Likewise."

She wore a red-and-black skintight bodysuit, unzipped and shrugged down to her waist to reveal a loose band tank top – one he vaguely recognized as popular fashion. Combined with her slouched pose and booted feet propped on the bench, it nearly earned a comment about professionalism. He stifled it, reminding himself that this was neither his team nor his department. He was merely an observer today. Angrboda's hair was a mix of black and dyed red, tied back in a short, loose ponytail. A sleek, futuristic-looking mask sat beside her boots on the bench, dangerously close to her feet.

"Are you here to help with the operation?"

"Merely observing, tonight," Colin replied.

"Ah. Would've been an honor to fight beside you."

He glanced at her, surprised. "Thanks. I'm sure the chance'll come eventually. We don't exactly get a lot of breaks."

"Hmpf, fair," Angrboda replied. She pointed toward a drawer. "If you want coffee, there's some fresh cold-brew in there."

"Thanks, but I think I'll pass. Who are we up against tonight?"

Angrboda sat up with a sigh and spun toward the console. "Lemme get this running. Operation's about to start anyway." A moment later, the screens flickered to life – camera feeds, radio chatter, data overlays. She tapped a few keys, and one of the monitors displayed four dossiers. "Seems like everyone is in position, good. This should be a piece of cake."

She turned around toward Colin again and tenderly picked up her mask from the bench. She didn't put it on, merely keeping it on her lap as she looked back at Colin. "Teeth took another hit from the locals, but we're still up against their three big players, the ones who've been running the gang for the last five years – Hemorrhagia, Spree, and Cockring. God, what a name. The world'll be better off once that freak's locked up."

"I've seen worse names," Colin replied.

Angrboda shot him a pitying look. "I don't envy you. Anyway, they've got five human goons, armed and dangerous… and Hacksaw. No idea how they talked her into coming back, but she's the real problem. None of the other capes have the mobility to escape Bastion's force fields once we've boxed them in."

"Hacksaw, the Ward killer?" Colin asked.

"Oh yeah," Angrboda said, spitting the words. She jabbed a finger at the screen. "Have you ever faced her?"

"Can't say I did. But I saw the footage," Colin mused, leaning forward to inspect the photo. A young punk woman. Her giant axe was nowhere to be seen. The photo had been taken during heavy rain, muddying her features, but the shot was sharp enough that he could make out some details. She wore a skull mask and had a spiked collar around her throat, with hair that was a mess of jagged spikes and uneven cuts, dyed in messy streaks of deep black, blood-red, and sickly green. The color was barely clinging to the strands, faded and ragged.

Most of her upper body was hidden beneath a short, soaked leather jacket, zipped tight against the weather. What little showed – her exposed midriff – was corded with brute muscle, wrapped in a harness stitched together from barbed wire, pins, and rough leather straps. It seemed more decorative than functional.

Among the numerous scars and tattoos marring her skin, a crude "FUCK YOU" that was scrawled across her hip stood out. There was a bloody smiley face painted over her navel, like a joke no one else would find funny. The rest of Hacksaw's costume tapered out into a studded belt slung low on her hips, attached to shredded leather hot pants that barely qualified as clothing. Straps, buckles, and chain loops hung from her waist, some connected to massive thigh-high combat boots, thick-soled and built for breaking bones. Metal plates, spikes, and random trinkets – rings, teeth, maybe even a finger bone – decorated her gear. Trophies, Colin guessed, from people who didn't walk away.

"How old is the picture?" He asked.

"Just a few days," Angrboda replied. "Ugh, at least she's still wearing the jacket. PR might be able to use the footage if things go well tonight."

"What do you mean?" Colin asked.

"Well…" Angrboda waved her hand, annoyed. "She's one of our locals – a streaker. About a year ago, she started running around…" She made a jiggling motion with both hands. "Topless. Full-on bazoongas out. Ugh. Freak. Can't show that on the news, right?"

"I see," Colin replied drily. "It's not as uncommon as you might think among capes – of either gender – to get a bit… out there. Luckily, I haven't had to deal with it in Brockton Bay."

"Lucky you," Angrboda muttered. "We've got three of them, counting Hacksaw when she's in town. And it's always the villain freaks who get off on being creepy exhibitionists, you know? Like, with Hacksaw, I sort of get it. She's a militant punk. Anti-establishment, anti-everything," she snorted. "Female empowerment, yadda yadda. But Carnivale and Reaver? They're just creeps."

"What's with them?" Colin asked.

"They're part of the Unmasked. The real creepshow in the city – our local self-harm cult. They've been squatting in Dorchester ever since the Games," Angrboda said. She shot Colin a hesitant look. "I… I don't know what has to happen to someone that they get so wrong in the head that they do this to themselves. And love it."

She fell silent, then slowly shook her head.

"It's not something I like to think about either," Colin eventually offered. 'Powers break you. Sometimes in dark ways.'

Angboda nodded. "Teeth are moving now," she suddenly said. "Four cars, heading toward the highway. They're making to leave town."

She rattled off car descriptions while Colin reached for a nearby tablet, unfolding it into a larger screen. A lifestream lit up with multiple angles – some he recognized as body cams. One camera showed nothing but the inside of a low-hanging cloud. The trap was set, it seemed.

"Angrboda to console," his companion spoke. "Booting the mech now. ETA of targets: fifteen minutes."

She placed the mask on her face and reclined back in her seat. On a different camera feed, Colin watched as the large bipedal mech booted up and extracted itself carefully from the truck trailer it had been transported with. It resembled a science fiction knight, twice the size of a regular human, with a large riot shield and likely an assortment of weaponry for every occasion.

"I couldn't help but notice your resentment when you brought up Hacksaw," Colin said. "Do you two have a personal history?"

Angrboda didn't move from her seat, but she grunted. "Yeah, she took off my best friend's head while I was standing next to her. What do you think?"

"Oh," Colin silently cursed himself. Of course, she had been a part of the Boston Wards before graduation, which meant that she had likely witnessed the Stoneknapper incident firsthand. A stupid oversight on his part. "Apologies. I did not mean to sound tactless."

"It's fine," she said. Then, after a long, awkward pause, she said softly. "It still feels surreal, you know? One moment, you talk about school, and argue about pizza, and crushes… and then, the next moment you look at your friend and all you see is a severed head." She barked a dry, humourless laugh. "Let's just say that this bitch has it coming, and I have been looking forward to this day."

"You would think you get used to it," Colin offered. "But you always leave something behind when you bury a friend." 'That's why I stopped bothering with them,' he thought. Was that a mistake? The thought kept him up some nights ever since the Winslow Fire.

"You had to bury a lot, huh?" Angrboda murmured.

"I've been a hero for over a decade," Colin said. That was all he needed to say.

Angrboda cracked a yawn. "I don't think I'll get any sleep tonight. It's already past midnight, and I've got courses at six. Sweet life…"

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation, humming faintly with the tension of a sprung tripwire. Eventually, the cameras picked up movement on the road. Bright headlights cut through the darkness. A column of vehicles – four in total. If the Teeth had noticed the strangely empty streets, they gave no sign. The cars rolled past the truck stop… and the trap snapped shut.

Tires exploded in sync, cars swerving and screeching to a messy halt. Capes and gangers spilled out, only to be greeted by a storm of tear gas and flashbangs. One cape, presumably Hacksaw, tore off one of the car doors like paper and hurled it toward Angrboda's mech as it strode out of the shadows. The door slammed harmlessly against a rising forcefield, bouncing off with a dull boom. Walls of light erupted skyward around the skirmish site as Bastion did his job, boxing the Teeth in and cutting off any escape.

Spree's clones spilled forth in chaotic waves in an effort to shield the disoriented and confused Villains – but were trapped, and smothered just as quickly beneath rolling tides of containment foam. Within seconds, most of the battlefield was buried in thick white sludge. Colin watched the chaos unfold with satisfaction, arms crossed, and eyes narrowed.

'And with that,' he thought smugly. 'The subject of the Teeth should be buried for the time being. Let's see how the Butcher reacts to that...'

Chapter Text

CSVT Book 1: Skies Ablaze

Book 1 – Act 1: Story Recap

For more background on events preceding Chapter One, refer to the CSVT Pre-Story Timeline Events Informational (which may be found on the respective SB and SV threads). Two major incidents are central to Taylor's trigger: the Winslow Fire and the resulting area known as the Scar. While the fire should be relatively self-explanatory, the Scar refers to a devastated region of Brockton Bay, created during Taylor's trigger event and her subsequent loss of control over her powers. Even months later, the city is still recovering, with the death toll from the incident estimated at over 200. This refresher will be focused on what Taylor has gone through so far, since she is the protagonist of this lovely story, and not bother with other surely inconsequential story beats, such as the new cape groups in the city, Crucify's mind games and schemes with Taylor and co, Armsmaster's attempts to figure out what is going on, or the fact that Lung sells himself to the Yakuza to get 40-ish capes on loan for something…

Chapter 1-8

On the lovely night of the sixth December, 2010, our favorite Tayleur Hebärch (voiced with a heavy, over-the-top French accent. The "ch" at the end must be voiced in an over-the-top Swiss manner) awakens from her gruesome slumber.

The trauma from the Winslow Fire has left her a guilt-ridden, heavily scarred and mutilated wreck of her former self, struggling with strange dreams and crippling nightmares. Whenever she goes to sleep, she is back in the burning hells of Winslow, trying to escape from an unseen monster following her. The nightmares always end with her getting cornered and force-fed a vile substance. Sometimes, she manages to escape the dreams for a time and finds herself in strange places with strange people who all seem to know her.

Taylor doesn't understand what's going on with her, but she fears for her sanity. Her body changes in ways she does not always control, and her self is being torn apart by new impulses and preferences eroding her identity bit by bit. Her temper is getting shorter and shorter, and is being replaced by a thirst for dominance, strength, and violent retribution. Sometimes, she hears or sees things that aren't there, but they seem to hide from her whenever she actively looks.

After one such miserable night and a subsequent episode that shakes her greatly, she decides to go for a morning run that takes her through a changed city. New players are flocking to the city, especially a burgeoning corporation called Estrella, which seems very invested in the city's reconstruction. The gangs are restless, stirred up by a Serial killer stalking the city, and there are rumors of people and capes disappearing, and shady things going on behind the yet quiet facade of Brockton Bay.

On her way back, Taylor gets into a grocery store robbery after buying some foods and is taken hostage by the Villain Trainwreck to force compliance of the staff. Enraged, Taylor chases after him and eventually corners him in the docks. Since Taylor has only used her powers to create art so far, this is her first real combat scenario. Yet, she defeats him with ease, turning his precious armor to scrap with a lazy snap of her finger.

The situation devolves when an unseen sniper opens fire on the downed Trainwreck, causing Taylor to spiral into panic and a trauma episode at the sight of all the blood. She doesn't know how she manages to drive them off, but a few civilians help Taylor to snap out of her episode and save Trainwreck's life. The civilian introduces himself as Michael Carson, a businessman from Boston. Taylor is suspicious of him, both because he runs around with armed bodyguards and because she judges him an exceedingly slimy individual. Yet, she accepts his offer to take care of Trainwreck and offers him her phone to call a cab before abandoning the group.

Taylor returns home, only to learn from Danny that the serial killer has been spotted again. Two corpses were found strung up on trees just a few houses down, and Cruficy assaulted two policemen who stumbled across the scene, before retreating without a trace after a clash with Armsmaster. Danny is scared for Taylor, and organizes a host family for her while he is away in Boston for court hearings, and taking care of paperwork for their planned move away from Brockton Bay. Later that day, Taylor visits Arcadia to drop off some schoolwork and paperwork. She runs into Greg and Madison and learns that Crucify nearly killed his father. Madison survives the encounter unscathed. 

Since Taylor is frightened by the assassination attempt from earlier and the prospect of a serial killer stalking around her neighborhood, she decides to spend the rest of the day (and every other day while Danny is gone) tinkering and visits her workshop in the docks. She crafts gear and weapons for herself, upgrades her costume, and starts to construct small security bots she can hide at home.

At night, she runs into some ABB thugs while out scavenging with her handcart. She learns that the pain and suffering she causes others fuels a part of her powers, making her stronger and tougher. In the ensuing rush, Taylor brutalizes the three gangers, nearly losing control as she rides her high, but manages to restrain herself after maiming them. Oni Lee intercepts her as she tries to hide her tracks, but merely offers her a phone and an alliance before leaving. After plundering some trophies and weapons from the scene, Taylor runs away after calling an ambulance and the authorities, and returns to her workshop to continue tinkering.

Later that evening, she is called by an unknown person, revealed to be Carson (who added his number to Taylor's phone without asking). After updating her on the Trainwreck matter, he offers her a business proposition, which Taylor is rather inclined to decline. However, since she is too short on material and funds to finish her project before they plan to move out of the city, Taylor reluctantly agrees to meet him. She flies to the warehouse and gets herself roped into playing arm candy for money and a crate full of precious materials.

Chapter 11-17

Another lovely night for Taylor ends with her taking a morning run to calm herself down. Luckily, this time, nothing happens. She learns that they won the lawsuit, and thus prevented homelessness, which puts her in an exceedingly good mood. After her run, Taylor returns to her host family with flowers and a little toy for their kid. She learns from the newspaper that Crucify has seemingly been cornered and executed by Kaiser himself, putting some of her worries to rest. Taylor reunites with Danny, and they visit the graveyard to talk to Annette and tell her about the good news.

Taylor and Danny spend the next days organizing things for their move. On the 14th of December, while putting moving boxes on a truck, Taylor gets another call from her new boss. She returns to the warehouse and finds out that the fancy stained glass skylight she crafted as a replacement for destroying the original one during her first visit is gone, sold off. She meets with Andrea, one of Carson's henchmen, and gets briefed on a job she is to do before the big gala on Friday: Publicity work. Given the versatility of Taylor's powers, they settle on her looking pretty while doing social work that makes everyone happy. Thus, she and Andrea embark on an epic tale to clean Brockton Bay's many parks and playgrounds, which Taylor efficiently does, until her leg suddenly spasms while letting sand dance for a crowd, and she elegantly face-plants into the dirt in front of Armsmaster.

After the awkward meet and greet with the local Wards, Taylor gets assaulted by a random woman in the crowd, loses her cool, and flees. She is tracked down by Armsmaster, who manages to calm her down and reassure her. She learns that someone has been sabotaging her work behind her, and likely caused the stir on purpose to give her bad publicity. Taylor decides to open up to him, telling him about her being attacked by a sniper, Trainwreck, and a light version of her mental struggles and fear of what's going on.

She is surprised to learn that neither Armsmaster nor Andrea are angry with her and that she is, in fact, not a fuck-up. Andrea invites her to a coffee, and opens up a little about herself and her employer. After wrapping up and returning to her workshop, Taylor catches a thug trying to break in and apprehends him. She learns the identity of the instigator behind her troubles, a charming gentleman by the name of Skidmark, forces the thug to call him, and exchanges not-so-polite words with the man.

To Taylor's luck, he does not seem to know that the Tinker and Kaleidoscope from the park are one and the same, and she manages to talk him out of bothering her Tinker identity as she just wants to leave town quietly. She also learns that Skidmark seems to have a hefty grudge against Kaleidoscope, likely tied to the Trainwreck incident, which is surely not going to bite her in the ass… 

Chapter Text

Friday, 17. December 2010 – The Night of the Estrella Gala

"Ah, Taylor," Miss Johnson said, smiling at me from behind her desk. "Come in, come in. How are you today? Have you made any improvements to those self-destructive thoughts we talked about before?"

'No,' I thought, but I just nodded my head and crept anxiously into the dim office. It was warm, uncomfortably so with the August sun burning down onto Brockton Bay, but it didn't seem to bother the matronly woman at all. I didn't like my therapist. There was just something about her that rubbed me the wrong way. Even now, as she waved me onto the leather couch, a kind smile on her lips, I felt as if her gaze was piercing straight through my skin and into the depths of my being.

Sweat itched my scalp, and I resisted rubbing my fingers through the stubble of my hair. I forced myself not to look at the lean, mutilated mass that was my remaining arm. I'd started to put on meat in the past month, started to feel stronger… but I still couldn't look at it. Couldn't look at the ruined skin and the scars. So many scars. I would have worn long sleeves if it hadn't been so crushingly hot. Fucking August.

I rested myself on the leather couch, nearly sighing when I felt just how cool it was to the touch, and closed my eyes. "Doing better," I rasped. The words that crawled from my lips were hoarse and strangled.

"Good, good," Miss Johnson said, followed by a scribbling sound as she wrote something on her notepad. It was too loud, like chalk on a blackboard. "The staff tells me you've picked up an interest in sports?"

I nodded.

"That's wonderful, Taylor. Really wonderful." My eyes were still closed, but I could feel her gaze pressing into me. "I saw the photos. You weren't much into sports before the accident, right? What inspired you to pick it up?"

"A sports magazine. There was a girl on it," I forced myself to say, hesitantly. "She was jacked. Athena Harper… or something like that…" I trailed off, and when I didn't speak up again, Miss Johnson hummed.

"I see. That makes sense. I can imagine she looks very impressive." The pen scratched over the paper again as she scribbled another note. "So you saw her, and you were impressed, I take it? You thought, if I looked like that, maybe I wouldn't feel so weak and helpless anymore. Isn't that right, Taylor?"

My chest tightened. Anger rose, hot and sudden, and my eyes snapped open to glare at her. She was still smiling, her eyes soft and warm, holding me in place. "I am not–" I started to hiss, but she interrupted me with a simple wave of her hand.

"Oh, Taylor," Miss Johnson murmured, almost tenderly. She met my gaze, her eyes glowing with that terrible kindness, and her voice oozing with patronizing pity. This… this wasn't right. "You don't need to deny it. You've always been weak, haven't you? And deep down, you don't even want to change. Not really."

I just stared at her, not believing my ears. There was no malice in the eyes of my psychologist. Not even a hint. Just understanding and kindness. And yet… what the fuck. What the fuck.

"…you got fucked by the world, and you want to fuck it back, but it will keep fucking you, because that's just what it does to people like you, sweetheart. It's easier to lie down and cry yourself to sleep rather than stand up and burn the world around you. Seriously, Taylor. Do you really think 'toughing it out' is anything but a lame excuse to lie down and take it like a loser?"

I lunged at her before she could finish the sentence. 'Crying yourself to sleep at night.' Fuck that bitch, and fuck the consequences. No one would say shit like this to my fucking face ever again. I'd pulverize that kind little nose of hers.

Miss Johnson's smile never left her face as I stormed toward her, nor did she attempt to move from her chair. I hadn't taken more than three steps toward the woman before a pair of emaciated arms wrapped around my torso, stopping me in place as if they were solid steel. I clawed at them, but I could have attempted to scratch concrete for all that it did for me.

I kept struggling, but strong hands whirled me around, followed by a fist to my gut that sent me to my knees. I wheezed as my body folded from the impact. It didn't hurt, but the power behind the punch was enough to draw any strength from my body and leave me breathless. When I stared up, I looked into the eyes of a madman.

His gaze was wild and unhinged, flickering left and right without focus. The skeleton of a man was foaming from the mouth, and what had once been an impressive beard was crusted with vomit and slobber. His crumpled, filthy clothes were a tattered mess, and the shoulder bag sitting askew across his chest was digging uncomfortably into my cheek. The man's pants were a mess of disgusting brown stains and streaks of discolored fabric, and given how close we were, I felt lucky to be spared an actual smell. It was odd that he didn't smell. Why hadn't I noticed him? Where had he even come from?

His skeletal hands were clamped around my shoulders like vises, keeping me upright with unnatural ease. I snarled and immediately punched him in the stomach, but it didn't even faze him, and when I backhanded him across the face, all he did was hold me a little further away from him so I couldn't reach his eyes.

"Oh, look at you," Miss Johnson chided. "Look at how helpless you are. You can't take revenge like this. You can't take anything. But there's no shame in that. We can help you, Taylor. We can give you something – a gift. Take it, and you'll never be prey again."

"F-fuck off," I snarled, but my therapist was gone. Out of the corner of my eyes, I could see the walls flaking apart. The office peeled away like wet paint, revealing pipes, tanks, and dingy shadows. Heat blasted my back – flames flickering at the corner of my vision, closer every time I blinked.

I dug my nails into the man's arm, but again I found that I simply couldn't even scratch his skin. I could not escape. Like the bitch had said, I was helpless. Filthy fingers began to probe at the entrance of my mouth, and I bit down immediately. A mistake I immediately came to regret when the madman simply brute-forced his fingers further into my mouth and forced my jaw apart with unnatural strength.

I could only watch, hooked by the jaw and seething helplessly, as the man pulled a clean, gleaming vial from his satchel with his free hand and lifted it toward my face. There was something off about the way he moved, almost as if he were a puppet, and when our eyes met, his erratic gaze seemed soulless. I began to struggle even harder, but he simply forced my mouth open even wider.

A bubbling, manic laugh escaped his lips, followed by a shower of spittle. "D-drink up, little bird," he cackled. "D-drink up and f-fly with us!"

I woke with a gasp, and for a moment, I just laid there, staring at the dark, all-too-familiar ceiling above me. Cold sweat drenched my skin, and with a sigh, I pushed myself up from the soaked sheets beneath me and reached for the discarded shirt on my nightstand. A gentle tug at the weave of music around me slipped my phone out from beneath my pillow and lifted it into the air like a little obedient servant, hovering it to me at an angle that allowed me to look at it while towelling myself dry with the shirt.

I was drenched in sweat, but these days, that was hardly uncommon. I could still feel them, the lingering thorns of the nightmare. I knew they would fade, but it was never fun to wake up like this. The discomfort aside, it made me crave something else: company.

I was lonely, and I had always been, if I was honest with myself. No friends since fucking Emma, and hardly a family there for me. Oh, sure, Dad was trying these days, which was annoying since I had to work around him to get my cape shit done, but the long time he hadn't been there for me had left gaping scars in our relationship. Would those ever heal? Was our family still salvageable? I didn't know.

And company… days and nights like this made me crave a strong, warm body I could snuggle up to more and more, and I wasn't ashamed to admit that. Loneliness was a gnawing bitch. But I also knew that I wasn't really made for all this emotional crap. So…what did it say about me that I was at a point where I cared more about having a warm, willing body pressed against mine than any kind of emotional connection?

I contemplated the issue for a moment before dismissing it. 'I am who I am,' I told myself as I dropped the soaked shirt and reached for my phone.

The screen lit up with a single, gentle tap of my finger. 5 minutes before my set alarm. I quickly disabled it.

After rolling to my feet, I went through a quick series of stretches before grabbing the shirt from the floor and slapping it over my shoulder. I pulled off the soaked bedding next, bundling it all up and carrying it into the bathroom with silent steps. After nudging the door shut behind me, I dropped everything unceremoniously into our laundry basket, followed by the rest of my sparse clothing.

I was mid-way through a relaxing, steaming hot shower when a soft knock on the door shook me from my thoughts. "Taylor, is that you? Is everything alright?" Dad's drowsy voice drifted through the wooden door.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I croaked awkwardly, quietly cursing the still-fucked up state of my voice. Pride or not, it was just so inconvenient. "Nightmare."

"Oh…" Dad fell silent. Another of these moments we'd had by the dozens ever since the accident. I loathed every single one of them. "Try to sleep some more, kiddo. It's not even midnight yet."

I grunted with approval, but I wasn't sure Dad heard me over the shower. When I switched to my bloodsight, I saw him standing outside the door. He just lingered there for a minute or so, hand going towards the door and then back down as if he was debating with himself what to do, and repeatedly forcing himself not to act. I sighed in relief when he eventually turned around and shuffled back into his room.

Even though I could only see his blood, I could tell from his posture that his gait was slumped. Defeated. I averted my gaze and clenched my fist. Then, with a snarl, I whipped around and cranked the hot water to maximum with a violent jerk. Scalding hot water rushed down on my shoulder, drowning our small shower cabin with steam.

I didn't feel anything.

I left the shower angrier than I had entered, skin still flushed from the heat, and rushed through my routine. I had some time, but not that much. Once I thought I looked presentable, I stepped away from the mirror. 'Looking good,' I thought, taking a moment to admire my wide shoulders and the deep carvings of my body, bulked up by cords of hard muscles wherever my gaze fell.

I was long past the sleeper build with how my body was starting to bulk up, and I was ready to show it to the world. No… I was yearning to do so. To display, cripple or not, just how much I'd grown as a person. Tonight, I would bury the memory of the gangly, pathetic wretch that once bore my name for good. As much as I was filled with dread at the prospect of attending this event, I would make sure that this would be my night.

And wasn't it my right to do that?

'I am still just a teenager,' I thought, and a smile tugged at my lips as I left the bathroom, grabbed a new set of bedsheets from the cabinet, and went back to my room. I locked the door behind me. 'I wonder how big I'll be in a few years.' Assuming I lived that long.

I threw on some dark clothes and a bandana, and then I sat there on my bed and waited, watching anxiously until Dad's form stilled, and his chest began to rise in a steady rhythm. He was asleep again… hopefully.

A blast of icy wind hit my face when I opened the window. I glanced at Dad again, but he still wasn't stirring. Still, I took time to smoke a quick cigarette to calm my nerves and make extra sure that he wasn't getting up again before I swung myself onto the windowsill and ascended into Brockton Bay's night sky.

My first real job was awaiting me.

As an arm whore decoration, but still. I'd just make the most out of it. I'd always wanted to taste caviar.

I quietly glided across the city, battling with my rising anxiety as I made my way toward my workshop. Despite the promises to myself earlier, I was all but dying inside. Still, nothing but my own nervous thoughts disturbed my flight. No surprise ambush, drones, or suspicious figures lurking around.

It was still rather early, and the city beneath me was brimming with lights and pre-Christmas activity. Dad and I had gone to bed early today. Him, because I'd encouraged him to do so, both for obvious, selfish reasons, and because seeing how ragged he was working himself had pained me. Despite his protests, he'd fallen asleep within minutes, and it had made me truly realize just how fragile Dad was.

And me… well, for obvious reasons, again. Hard to sneak out and back in when I was still supposed to be running around the house for hours to come, locked door or not.

Once I reached the docks, I did some aerial sweeps of the nearby buildings, scanning the warehouses with my bloodsight before touching down on the roof of my workshop. Another casual hum of my song dragged open the arm-thick steel bars holding the roof hatch shut. I'd designed them to be inaccessible from the outside on purpose.

My song found loose sand beneath, immediately linking it to the weave of my music. It rose up, piling against the underside of the hatch, and pushing it open from the inside so I didn't have to work the inch-thick piece of reinforced metal with my arm.

I could lift it, of course, if I wanted to. It was a handy way to work out these pretty muscles of mine, especially when I added a few barrels of additional weight underneath.

I quietly slipped into my workshop, turned on the power, and began undressing. Once I'd stripped to my underwear, phone hovering within reach near my waist, I stepped up to my workbench and inspected the outfit I'd assembled for tonight's occasion. I'd agonized over it for hours – days – and I hoped that the end result would turn as many heads as I hoped it would.

I'd decided to pull heavy inspiration from Narwhal (albeit in a less… exciting manner), so fabric, tail, and armor were a no-go, which had me in equal parts thrilled and worried. But tonight's plan wasn't a fight; it was a civvie event. It would be fine. Even without my armor, I was sturdy enough to shrug off bullets, and I doubted anyone would try to give me shit on a night like this.

Not with all these important people around, and security tighter than a drill sergeant's sphincter.

By now, the flesh of my shoulder stump had receded enough to reveal the docking port for my arm, and with an uneasy, crooked grin, I grabbed the golden appendage and connected it. The color didn't really match my look, but it wouldn't be an issue once I'd buried it beneath layers of glass.

Once I'd configured the arm to my liking, I did exactly that. Layers upon layers of colorful glass shards wrapped themselves around the prosthesis, giving my arm the appearance of a glassy mosaic.

Next, I did what I'd done for the park job, covering every single scar, blemish, and other identifiable feature on my body with thin flakes of glass dust and tiny shards. Glittering lines and patterns began to appear across my body, accentuating curves where they existed and implying them where there weren't any. It looked breathtaking. I looked breathtaking. Like I'd stolen the night sky and draped it over my very skin, and I couldn't help but twist and turn myself in front of the mirror to watch the play of light under the single lightbulb.

Finally, I put on the dress. A glittering evening gown assembled from shards in all colors, cuddling itself against my skin in ways fabric could not. It was a backless and sleeveless design with a high collar, showing off my sculpted arms and large swathes of my flanks and back. A slit that reached all the way from the ground to my hip would allow me to move without hindrance. I wouldn't bother with shoes or socks, and in case I stepped into something nasty, I'd bring enough sand to make sure that my feet always remained clean.

The mask with the voice synthesizer slid over my mouth and nose, and when I looked into the mirror again, Kaleidoscope looked back in all her glory.

Streaks of glittering glass shards decorated her black hair, while the shaved side of her head was a rigid mosaic of stained-glass spelling her name. Eyes glowing green like necrotic flashlights pierced into mine. The light faded when I deactivated my bloodsight.

I was ready to step away and pick up my phone from the air when my mirror image suddenly shifted. Her eyes flashed back to that sickly green as she met my gaze, and her dress rippled in time with my heartbeat.

I watched as it shifted into a daring neckline that revealed the full glory of my abs as if she wanted to tell me, 'Don't you want to go further, Taylor?' I could tell that she smiled at me from the way her eyes shifted. Neither of us averted their gaze. Then, she spoke. It was my voice, but harder, prouder, and with a sultry edge that dripped with unbroken confidence: "You look amazing, Taylor. You can do it! But bring a weapon. Just in case."

My eyes flickered to the weapon rack I'd assembled for my new toys. Just a brief flicker, but when I looked again, nothing but my reflection stared back at me. Slowly, I raised my hand and poked the glass. My reflection did the same. I blinked.

'What the fuck,' I thought. My eyes flickered back to my weapon rack. With a sigh, three grenades and my new glaive rose in the air, and flew toward me. A single touch of my hand ferried the grenades into my interdimensional bullshit storage, but the glaive was too long…unless I folded it, of course.

The weapon, as sturdy and elegant as it was, wasn't exactly tech-heavy. Unlike my taserbat, it only had two functions: to cut and to stab. Because of that, I'd been able to design the handle in a modular manner. It could be screwed apart into three separate pieces, which made the individual parts just long enough to barely fit into my extradimensional bullshit storage.

…would I really need it today? I doubted it, but still, with a sigh, I screwed it apart and stowed it away too. 'Better be safe than sorry,' I told myself quietly.

"Better be safe than dead, little songbird," a deep part of my mind whispered back at me. My vision glitched, and for a second, I saw the smiling face of an olive-tanned girl, before it morphed into the hard visage of a scarred, ugly black man with hard eyes. "And there's worse fates out there than death for the likes of you, trust us."

Then I blinked, and I was back alone. I bristled, glancing around, but there was no one but me. Had I imagined it? I reached up with my organic hand and slapped my face, hard. Then again, and again. 'Fuck this,' I growled, and yanked my phone from the air. I aggressively tapped a message to Carson: I am ready, coming over now.

And with that, I lifted myself into the air. Icy cold ripped immediately at every exposed inch of my skin, but I found it easy to tune out. It was showtime. There was no way back, now.

I glanced toward Downtown as I rose higher and higher, and the warehouse shrank beneath me. I could see it from here, the Estrella tower. I gulped, and suddenly, there was a nasty lump in my throat. Bile rose, and was subsequently swallowed down again as I beat down on my anxiety.

An exasperated breath escaped my lungs, and I huffed. 'Fuck this, Taylor,' I told myself, and accelerated toward the building as if my life depended on it. 'What's the worst that could happen tonight?'

Time seemed to pass at a crawl, but for each agonizing second that went by, the building grew closer like the dooming silhouette of an evil villain.

Eventually, I was close enough to make out details. Estrella had bought, or rented, a pre-existing building. A mid-sized high-rise that had been part of the Brockton skyline for as long as I could remember. Yet, compared to earlier memories I had of the building, this one was gleaming in the spotlights illuminating the shining facade.

People and cars crowded the entrance, and I could feel their gazes digging into my back when I came to a halt over the parking lot and began to search for Carson. Suits, dress shirts, and dresses greeted me wherever I looked.

I found him near the entrance. Banners had been unfurled on either side of the door, sporting the PRT logo, Protectorate and Wards logos, and Estrella's company icon, a stylized star.

I couldn't suppress a triumphant smile when he turned around and caught me just as I lowered myself to the asphalt behind him, and his eyes widened.

"Good evening," I said.

He looked as slimy as I recalled him, like a corporate villain dropped straight out of a trashy TV show. He was dressed up too, in a suit with a bow tie of all things, I noticed with a bout of amusement.

Before I realized what I was doing, I'd already stepped up into his personal space and adjusted the bow tie around his neck. We both stared at each other, blinking, and I found my own stunned face reflected in his.

The mortification crashed over me a heartbeat later, and I took a single, graceful step back while my mind howled in social agony. 'Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Taylor, what are you doing??? What was that? What– why? Just why? Goddammit, girl.'

I barely managed to keep my face in check. I… had no idea why I'd just done what I'd just done. It felt like I'd followed an instinct ingrained by thousands of such actions… even though I'd never worn a suit nor touched a bow tie in all my life.

Lost for words and exceedingly unwilling to address this moment, I simply grabbed Carson by the sleeve and pulled him toward the doors. "Let's just go," I hissed.

The crowd parted in front of me as I steered toward the stairs. I noticed Carson extending an arm toward me before hesitating and pulling it back again. I could read something akin to unease from his expression.

Oh, god, I couldn't deal with any of this crap either, now.

"Look," I said, glancing at my partner from the corner of my eye. "I don't care where you put your hand tonight. Really. But if it goes anywhere near my panties, I'll break your arm and shove the bone up your ass. Got it?"

Carson shot me a wide-eyed look I decided to file away under "scandalized".

"I would never," he choked out. "But you do look exceedingly impressive, if I may say so."