Chapter Text
They call me Tattletale, so you'd think I'd be an expert at telling stories. However, the fact that my career consists of reporting the various misdeeds of Nazis, corporate crooks and other criminals to the proper authorities – as well as cheating spouses to their outraged partners – doesn't make me a master storyteller in any way whatsoever. Whatever spills from my lips is the truth. Nothing but the truth.
I don't even know where to begin telling this story. Was it when Daniel Hebert, head of hiring at Brockton Bay's Dockworkers' Association was thrown from the top-storey window of a condemned building? Or later, when an ambulance took him to hospital? There was some debate as to whether it should have taken him straight to the morgue instead, but then one of the nurses cried out, "I've got a pulse, doctor!"
The doctor replied, "In that case, you're just the sort of girl for me."
And then, while they busied themselves in the supply closet, showing each other where babies come from, Mr. Hebert was left alone until everyone's favourite chain-smoking Parahuman healer, Panacea, came along and confirmed that, yes, he was still alive, but he was in a coma and unlikely to wake up any time soon. Also, they should close the door while they were so energetically skiving off work.
Or did it begin much earlier than that, when I ran away from home, survived on the streets for a few days by picking pockets and figuring out people's credit card details, before I was spotted by one of the world's greatest superheroes while he was out buying coffee for himself and the other members of his team. You've probably heard of him. He calls himself 'Recoil' even though I've told him several times that 'Replay' would be a better name. And his costume is utterly ridiculous: it looks like it's made out of Slinkies.
I owe him a lot. If not for him, I know I'd be locked up in a dungeon somewhere, forced to use my powers on behalf of some megalomaniacal supervillain, and dosed with so many drugs that I wouldn't be 'me' anymore. I'm very grateful. He rescued me from Nazis, once. Well, actually, the other members of his team did the rescuing while he stayed behind as mission control and told them exactly what they needed to do to rescue me, but it was pretty cool nonetheless. Thanks to him, I get a stipend and protected status and all I have to do is answer a few questions for the PRT every now and then.
Or should I begin later, after all that had already happened, when a mysterious and beautiful young woman came into my office and asked for my help? Yeah, I knew she'd be trouble from the moment she walked in.
When I say she was 'beautiful', I mean she was the very model of modern beauty. You know the sort: bleached blonde hair, fake tits, creosote smeared all over her face, and lips filled with so much collagen that they were like a pair of plump sausages. I'd seen her face on fashion magazines many times before, back when… Well, maybe it wasn't her face, but close enough.
And… uh, when I say she was 'mysterious', I mean I was intrigued by the mystery of how a living human being could have a brain as mysteriously empty as the Mary Celeste. Every time I tried to talk to her, I was tempted to look in her ear, curious as to whether or not I'd see daylight shining through.
To cut a long story short, it took me a few hours to gather enough evidence to prove that her wealthy middle-aged businessman husband was cheating on her – with her sister – and then, when she'd finished with the crocodile tears, she looked very pleased when I told her how much she should expect to receive in the divorce settlement. I love to see a satisfied customer, but I didn't let her get away without paying my fee. I'm sure she would have stiffed me if she'd thought she could get away with it. Huh, maybe she was cleverer than I gave her credit for, the cheeky bitch.
After that, It was getting late and I was getting ready to go home, but then another young woman walked into my office. She wasn't beautiful or mysterious. In fact, she was a gawky high school student, about a year younger than me, with glossy dark hair, a slender body and large, expressive eyes. Well, maybe there were parts of her that were beautiful, like those lovely long legs. She could have been a supermodel. By which I mean, there are a lot of supermodels that look weird when you see them in real life, without the benefit of sympathetic camera angles, soft lighting, and a team of hairstylists and make-up artists; they look like aliens with overly long limbs and heads too large for their fragile bodies.
Anyway, my point is... all those beautiful parts didn't come together to make a beautiful whole. Possibly that was because she was so uncomfortable in her own skin and utterly lacking in confidence: I could tell at a glance that she'd been badly bullied at school, that she'd recently gained superpowers, that she felt like no one was willing to listen to her, and I was her last hope.
"I'm Taylor Hebert," she blurted out. "Daniel Hebert's daughter. I expect you know what happened to him already."
"And you want me to find out 'whodunnit'," I concluded.
She looked miserable, almost on the verge of tears. "Yeah… I don't know what else to do."
I leaned back in my reclining chair. I bought it from Azn Bed Buys – you know, the specialist furniture shop – from Lung himself, in fact. He was quite intense, but pleasant enough, I suppose. It was expensive, but well worth the price. Anyway, it's a collector's item. It's even got the 'You are now Asian!' motto on the back.
Yeah, I've always thought it was a bit weird that one of the most powerful Parahumans in the world retired to become a furniture salesman here in Brockton Bay, but I suppose the man who can turn himself into an enormous rage-empowered dragon can do what he likes. It's not as if anyone was going to tell him no.
"You could go out and commit crimes. That's what most new Parahumans do. Or fight crime, if you prefer. Whatever works for you," I suggested, giving her a vulpine grin. Vulpine means 'foxlike', you know. I'm pretty foxy, even if I do say so myself.
"I've thought about it," she admitted. "But I think it's more important to find out who… who tried to kill my dad."
"That is important," I agreed. "But is it more important than taking care of yourself, or your current living arrangements, or the fact that you're still being bullied, or the fact that you don't actually have any money?"
"I can pay!" she insisted. "Uh… I'm sure we can work something out!"
"Of course we can," I said, patting her hand in a way that was calculated to be infuriating.
Instead, she blushed, glanced to one side, and muttered, "I should probably tell you… I'm not gay."
I looked doubtfully at her. It was obvious to me that she was gayer than a herd of giraffes, but it would have been impolite of me to say so. "That's interesting to know. Is that something you tell everyone you meet, or…?"
"I mean… it seemed like you were flirting a lot," she said, in a barely audible whisper.
"Oh, you don't need to worry about me doing anything like that," I assured her. "Asexual as a mollusc, me."
This time, it was her turn to give me a doubtful look. "Right…"
"Anyway, first things first: when was the last time you ate?" I asked.
"Lunchtime."
"A school meal your bullies wouldn't even let you finish? That doesn't count," I said, getting up and putting on my coat. "Let's go to Fugly Bob's. Everyone likes Fugly Bob's. Except vegetarians, obviously. And anyone who's concerned about their waistline. And anyone else who doesn't like unhealthy junk food. But apart from that…"
"This isn't a date, is it?" she asked, nervously.
"Darling, it can be whatever you want it to be," I teased, taking her hand. "Let's go."