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Her father's breathing was slowing as his life slipped between her fingers.
The one responsible was standing over the two of them, watching unblinkingly as she worked away, having picked himself up from the ground after she and him had blacked out.
Now he and his goons all watched as her last living relative struggled to breathe as she tried to make something, anything to keep him alive.
Her hands trembled.
Words she didn't fully understand or recognise issued from her lips as she desperately tried to make the thing she was trying to form in her hands real. She didn't know what it was, or fully how it would work, all she knew was that if she managed to make it in time, she might be able to save her father's life in some form!
But it wasn't fast enough, no, she just needed more, to sing more, to make it before it was too late---
“Grab them both,” the man declared, gesturing at them both, “Othala can save him.”
She was dragged, screaming, away from her father as he was hauled up by the pair of burly men, pleading to have just a bit more time to try.
“We're in position, Armsmaster.”
“Good. Both teams may proceed.”
Just with those simple words on Colin Wallis' part, the operation to check out the suspected Empire safehouse began.
Such an operation was a lot less glamorous than many members of the public may imagine; the building before him didn't look like some den of gang activity. Instead, it looked like a perfectly normal, if small, residential block.
But the tip off was from a reliable source, and the Protectorate was responding appropriately.
Armsmaster and Assault would approach from the back, and the other team, comprising Battery, Dauntless, and Triumph would do so from a side entrance, which their contact had made sure would be unlocked.
The operation had to be quick, in and out before the wider Empire could respond... recent changes in the Brockton Bay cape scene necessitated such.
So swift was their approach and entry that the two individuals they had encountered after entering the building had been taken utterly by surprise.
“No signs of Tinkertech so far,” he declared, keeping his voice low. From the other side of the building, he could pick out faint shouts as Battery, Dauntless, and Triumph encountered heavier opposition.
At his side, Assault grunted.
“Reckon we'll find any?”
As he spoke, the fresh scar on the visible portion of his face pulled; a simple Empire grunt carrying a Tinkertech sword had been recently reminded the man that his power didn't make him invincible. Between that and other near misses, it was amazing more people hadn't died.
“I don't know,” Colin replied, striding forward through the back of the building, damping his footsteps by adjusting internal stabilisation in his boots. “Although I'd take any incomplete designs or pieces for reference, if we can't gather complete ones safely.”
The Empire's new Tinker had already had a disproportionate impact on the Parahuman scene in the city; Lung was still in custody after getting lured into a trap and being struck by a trio of Empire members. The bright lances of nuclear fire their long weapons had produced had damn near killed the man, and it was only his prodigious resilience that had saved him.
As sounds of fighting and shouts from further out continued to dimly reach them, the two of them continued to advance further in, encountering little resistance.
If all went to plan, they would be rendezvousing with the others soon, able to flank whatever opposition was left and then perform a quick, clean sweep of the building.
At least, that was the plan, until the sensors in his helmet noticed an oddity in the environment.
“...”
“Armsmaster?”
“This bookcase. There's heat coming out from behind it but no obvious pipes either side.”
It only took a moment of Assault to catch on, looking at the offending piece of furniture and then crouching down.
“... It's also slightly raised, looks like it's on wheels?”
Colin nodded, using a small hook on his halberd to pull the bookcase away from the wall. Behind it, well hidden, was a metal door that looked to have been bolted from the outside.
His lips pressed together.
“Assault, keep watch,” he commanded.
Wordlessly, Assault moved into place beside him.
“This is Armsmaster of the PRT,” he spoke to the door, moving slightly to one side in case whatever was behind was armed. “I am going to open this door, please step back if you are near it. I am currently armed and will respond with necessary force if attacked.”
Having said that, and with no response from the other side, he took the heavy bolt and drew it back, then the second and third. Whatever was inside was obviously intended to not be able to escape, and given the predilections of the Empire, he rather suspected that it was likely alive.
The door was reinforced and heavy, not just a thin sheet of metal, and was cumbersome in its opening.
The room beyond the door was small and spartan, containing all the necessities for an adequate, if not necessarily luxurious, existence.
And in the far corner, staring at him unblinkingly, was a girl.
Teenaged, with dark hair that looked not to have been washed in a few days. Big, tired looking green eyes stared back with unblinking suspicion. In her hands she clutched a piece of what may be either bone or plastic, he couldn't tell from a cursory glance. It looked to be somewhere between the two, and shimmered with a faint field of energy.
A manacle with a long chain attached to the wall.
On a table nearby, half-finished examples of similar works sat; including what looked to be replicas of other pieces of Tinkertech the PRT had recently encountered.
It seemed that he had found the Empire's new Tinker, and that it was less a case of willingness than coercion.
“I'm going to step into the room to talk to you,” he declared, and under a paranoid gaze, he did so. “Do you know who I am?”
“Armsmaster.”
It sounded as if she hadn't used her voice in a while, or certainly not for much. It had a lilting, musical quality that echoed through it, and which his helmet immediately flagged as anomalous.
He tensed, but forced himself to relax, and made to speak, only to be interrupted.
“I... t-they have my dad.”
As if responding just to her words, the bony spur in her hand developed further, thorn-like extensions suddenly branching off it. She looked down, and there was a reflexive sort of panic there as she reached up to snap them off, as if their appearance wasn't intended whatsoever.
Was her Tinkertech reacting to her emotions, then? Less directed by her hands than by raw willpower?
“Can you find him?”
“I can try my best,” he said. “Can you tell me about him? We're clearing the building out, I presume you don't want to be here.”
Suspicion. Doubt. Confusion.
How long had she been trapped? Presumably for two or three months, given that was when her Tinkertech first appeared.
“His name's Danny Hebert, he's... he's in charge of the Dockworkers somehow, um, he's going bald?” the girl stumbled over her words, frowning, struggling to think and remember.
Was she suffering from lack of nutrition or dehydration that was impairing her recollection?
His programs began running in the background.
“Taylor Hebert.”
The girl flinched
“You and your father disappeared two months ago,” he added.
“Yeah... they wanted dad, I think, then found out about this after that..." She looked down at the half-formed creation in her hands, as if it might explain the matter.
Armsmaster nodded.
It was a common tactic.
Secure the Tinker, force them to work with the threats of harming one's family and exploit their creations for the betterment of the gang. It was part of the reason why Tinkers were so heavily leaned upon by the PRT to join and could receive more generous offers.
"We will try to him," he said, firmly. "Will you come with us if I can get that manacle off?"
“I can't go out.”
“Why?” he tested.
“That man said so, I... his name was Victor. He said I have to stay.”
Of course, the Empire would make use of that man with their new, unwilling asset.
Colin could already imagine several ways in which the man may have acted, but just off the top of his head, compromising the girl's ability to think of means to escape, or the removal of certain essential skills to keep her dependent on the Empire...
It would certainly explain aspects of her physical and mental state.
And meant that they were dealing with somebody with far more damage than was immediately obvious, which he could only handle so well. No, this required experts, and whilst he could be here in the moment, the rest of the building was still being cleared.
He glanced back to Assault, who was still watching the door, and having confirmed such, he reached up to contact command.
“This is Armsmaster. I've met the Empire's Tinker, code seventeen, unwilling. We need transport back and are holding position with her until then.”
The girl, Taylor, stared at him with that same guarded wariness as before, as if the notion of him trying to help was in some way difficult for her to believe. An aspect of her trigger, or perhaps something as a consequence of her treatment here?
“I'm going to approach and try to release you. Can you put down what you are making?” he asked. After a tortuous moment in which he wondered whether she would so, she put down the object.
Stepping closer, watching for any signs that she was going to act erratically, he moved to remove the manacle around the girl's wrist, the first step to getting her away and to safety.
She didn't fight back or move at all.
Given what he'd seen of her creations, perhaps she could have always escaped, but had been either unable to imagine how due to Victors influence, or unwilling to put her father at risk.
The manacle fell away, and she rubbed at the spot it had come off, but then just watched him.
Securing her and getting her out of this place was going to be just as difficult, wasn't it?
Truly, Victor had done a number on her, and as Colin helped her to her feet it was with a certain acceptance of complications in the near future.
But concerns about that could wait until she was safe and secure.
Unfortunately, it would later be found out that her father had died the same day she was kidnapped.
And so, Taylor Hebert became a Ward of the state.
In the two weeks since she'd joined, Chris had decided that there was something very off about the singing of the newest Ward.
“Ul saha, ul-sahai... lirisse, yrrith, thrylith kael-vhal---”
Her song was pleasant, but something about it was also deeply melancholy and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
Despite this discomfort, he remained sat in the Wards common space watching the girl work away on her latest creation.
Her face had a sadness to it that seemed etched into her very bones, and paid barely any attention to him as she sung to the growing piece of white material she carefully held by the tips of her fingers.
He watched as it branched out like a growing plant one moment, and then moulded like clay the next, yet was always encased in a strange shimmer of energy.
Armsmaster had once said that Tinkers could gain insights into their powers from those of others, but with Bonesinger, it felt as though there was little at all to gain.
Certainly from the process of her creation.
How could one learn from somebody who sung to create, rather than using their hands?
The thing in her hand could be anything; currently it was too poorly defined to know what it would become with time. Would it be a sword? A gun? A piece of armour? Or perhaps something odder, the new Ward had created only a small number of things so far, but the previous examples captured and catalogued by the PRT had caused no small amount of panic in the Department before she'd been secured.
Like the sword that could have easily killed assault.
Or the gun that fired homing-micromissles that had obliterated Armsmasters bike in salvo.
So he watched, expectantly, curious as to what it was that she would create.
And yet, as the object increasingly took shape, it became evident that what she was making was not, indeed, a weapon or piece of armour.
Instead, after two hours of near constant work, she'd made a bird.
It was intricately detailed, a dove or pigeon of some sort.
Chris wasn't a birdwatcher, but it looked slightly chunky like a pigeon, at least. Slowly, the wings flapped, and each was decorated with intricately detailed feathers. She released it, and for a few seconds it flapped and flew about the room on soft-wing beats, circling once before once again landing upon her hand.
“... Is it a drone?” he asked, curious.
“Hm? No, just a bird that can fly,” she replied, reaching up to run a finger from the top of its head down to the base of its tail feathers.
The notion made him frown.
“So why'd you make it?”
“I saw a bird outside, I wanted to create one,” she shrugged, before adding; “What else would I want to make?”
“I don't know... a weapon perhaps? A gun? Or even just... I don't know, a bird with camera eyes so you can use it for recon?”
“Why would I want to make any of those?”
The question sounded quite genuine, Bonesinger contemplated the bird she had created, still not so much as glancing his way. She reached up and ran a finger from its head and down its back, to the tail feathers, as if stroking a pet.
“... Because we're Wards? And they'd be useful?”
The girl shrugged dismissively.
“I wanted to make a bird, and the wraithbone sang to me and I responded in kind...”
The girl looked out the window, at the world beyond and the city stretching out.
“But what's the point of making it if you can't use it?”
For the first time, Boneisnger looked his way with an expression he wasn't sure he liked.
“... How sad.” There was something soft yet sharp about it, if such a term made sense. “The Empire only cared about the useful things I could make for them as well.”
He bristled.
“I'm nothing like them!”
“Oh?”
The simple syllable was accompanied by no change in facial expression; Bonesinger continued to regard him in the same way as before, the brunt of his emotions crashing against her yet leaving no impact.
“I'm not! I just... if you're a Ward, you should make useful things.”
Perhaps it was just irritation at his own struggles to complete projects coming to the fore, but the casual indifference of the girl to her talents and the way she compared him to members of the Empire drove him to speak with more heat than intended.
“...”
Bonesinger's eyes narrowed, and for a moment she stared at him. Her face was an expression that made him think of all the times some kid in his class would think up some new and petty way to mess with him when he got too talkative.
“If that's what you want.”
And so, she began singing again.
He couldn't stand to be around her for longer than five minutes of her renewed effort; the song was... really, really setting his nerves off. Perhaps it was the petulant looks, or the harsh way she ended certain words, but he decided that it would be for the best if he let her cool off and then apologise later.
Unfortunately, he'd forgotten by the next night, and periodically, he'd remember, and then forget again.
A few days later, Bonesinger found him.
Or, to be more correct, she stepped into his workshop whilst he was in the middle of trying to work on his latest project.
“I finished making you something useful, Kid Win.”
Of all the things she could have said, somehow her tone went much further to intimidate than reassure. She stepped towards him without asking permission, and he had every reason not believe that had he asked her not to, she still would have done so.
He turned in his chair, on edge and trying to pick out whatever the other Tinker had made.
“What is it?” he asked cautiously.
“It's called a Shuriken Pistol.”
On the table he had been working at she placed her creation. It was a futuristic looking gun, all smooth sides and gentle curves, like pretty much everything the other Ward made. There was a trigger, of sorts, which looked like it was built for the girl's slender fingers rather than his own, and a faint hum emanated from it.
“It fires sharpened disks a couple of molecules thick up to several times the speed of sound,” she explained. “It will slice straight through most people, it might even go through a car and cut through somebody on the other side. It's rather short ranged, but it should leave anyone you shoot at dead.”
She'd utterly missed the point that anything they made should have a non-lethal function, hadn't she?
“That's hideously dangerous,” he complained, even as the girl's expression failed to change. “How the hell am I supposed to use that?”
To that, a dismissive shrug.
“It's what you wanted; something useful for your patrols and all that. I hope you put it to good use. Maybe against somebody in the Empire? Get revenge on them for killing my dad or... whatever it is you do.”
Throughout, that same serene tone remained, but in her expression Chris could pick out the spiteful vindictiveness behind it.
She'd gone to the effort of creating a weapon he would never be allowed to use that their higher ups would forbid him from using if he ever even tried, and which would make him a murderer if he tried.
She left without another word, not even sparing him a glance.
The Shuriken Pistol was later confiscated by Armsmaster once Chris explained what it was, leaving him no better than he had started, only having irritated his newest colleague.
As one hour became the next, the Tinker known as Dragon sent an alert ahead of herself to let the person she wished to speak with that she would soon make a call.
When she did, it was accepted.
“Good morning, Bonesinger.”
Dragon could see through the integrated camera of the PC that Bonesinger was curled up on the small bed she had within PRT Headquarters, idly staring at something. Bonesinger's bedroom was littered with strange art pieces, despite what she could make, she spent most of her time creating esoteric art.
The quality of the image wasn't good enough to pick out what, exactly, it was that she was working on.
The teenager glanced her way, expression blank.
For a moment, it was as if she was looking at some distant point, and then her focus zero'd in on the screen.
“G'morning,”
“How did you sleep?”
“Fine.”
Bonesinger wasn't going to make this conversation easy, was she? Did she sleep badly last night? Or was she just caught up in her Tinkering?
“That's good. Has the PRT given you those extra pillows they promised?”
Dragon asked it more to encourage further conversation; the girl was currently leaning on the extra provided pillows, after all.
“Yes. They're nice.” A brief moment, and then the girl roused herself more. “... What did you want to talk to me about?”
Dragon hummed.
“I got those plates you made me and wanted to discuss them with you.”
Armsmaster had been raving about the material, and Bonesinger had kindly made Dragon a few examples of her Wraithbone in the form of a half-dozen flat plates, which she received yesterday. Since then, Dragon had performed a number of experiments and come away fascinated.
“What about them?”
“Well, I've found some interesting properties to them. Did you know that your 'Wraithbone' is capable of healing itself? It's quite slow, but it can actually repair itself from damage to some degree,” she said, trying to put enthusiasm into her tone. “With how it's as light as plastic, but as durable as metal, I think it's an amazing material with a lot of applications.”
“Cool.”
“You don't sound as if you find it that interesting?” she coaxed, trying to get the girl to explore her thoughts.
Most Tinkers, especially early on, were fascinated as they discovered and explored their powers. Bonesinger, for the potential of her power, was seemingly apathetic to the utilitarian uses of it.
“I don't care about how the PRT finds it useful," she said petulantly.
"That's a shame, I love finding new applications or uses for my Tinkering."
The girl was silent for a moment.
"I've already had three requests this week to make Fusion Guns instead of what I want to make. I guess a nuclear-powered laser cannon is more useful than just letting me make things in peace.”
Said 'Fusion Guns' were desired for Eagleton, where they could probably transform parts of the Machine Army into raw slag with a single blast by any member of personnel, rather than requiring a Cape.
“I see. I'm sorry to have brought it up, then... I thought it might make you happy to know how amazing your creations are.”
“How amazing a blank piece of Wraithbone is?”
Despite the cynicism there, Dragon forced her tone to be positive.
“Yes. It would make amazing armour to keep people safe.”
“... Well, I guess that's a better use than making weapons.”
The admission sounded begrudging.
It was an angle that Dragon had been trying to encourage others to use, to not focus on what weapons Bonesinger could produce, but instead to turn her talents to the defensive.
The PRT dealt with problem case Wards all the time, of course... but most had at least some vivacity for life, whilst Bonesinger was... well.
Every day somebody had to go and see her to help her with simple things like washing her hair, or had to bring her food because she was unable to do them.
There were basic tasks that the girl was slowly having to relearn, but it was slow going.
The line between trauma-induced apathy and power-induced helplessness was a difficult one to pick apart, but the PRT system was designed to turn traumatised people into useful assets as quickly as possible, and wasn't flexible enough to deal with edge cases like that of Bonesinger.
So instead, Dragon allowed the silence to reign for a few seconds, before she changed tack.
“Taylor.”
The girl paused at the sound of her name.
“Talk to me; what's up?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you not want to talk about whatever's on your mind?”
“I don't mind talking. Well, not to you. You're nicer to talk to than the other kids.”
“The other Wards? You should probably try to get along with them, if only because you are one, Bonesinger,” Dragon said, even if perhaps she was having to be diplomatic and toe the party line there.
Her statement earned a frown.
“I'm not a Ward. I'm an orphan with a superpower that everyone wants for themselves.”
There was an unspoken comment there of 'like the Empire' there.
“We don't want to use your power purely for weapons and such, or at least, I don't,” Dragon said. “I want to try and help you recover and best find your feet. I like your art and think you should continue making it. But it really would help a lot of people if you could make a few things to help where it is needed.”
Why else would the girl make an intricately detailed bird that could flap its wings and sing, even if it couldn't fly, unless she just wanted to make something pretty? Why did she make delicate bone sculptures of arching curves and blunted spikes, unless it was the product of pure imagination made real, rather than the utilitarian practicalities of the power.
“Is that so?”
“Yes.”
She said it as firmly as she could, so that there could be no misunderstanding or doubt to it.
“So, what are you making there, Taylor?” Dragon coaxed.
The Ward glanced back down to her lap.
“It's called an 'Isitha Kasra.' I think it's an instrument. I wanted to try and make a flute because my mother had one. It's ending up more as a harp, though. It's taking a lot of work, I've been working on it for days now.”
Days?
The lump of Wraithbone in her hand was bowed like a lyre, but there was no music box or sound chamber to go with it. And, now that she was looking closer and adjusting the camera, it was clear that the 'isitha kasra' was another in the girl's number of curiously shaped creations.
If it was indeed to be a harp or flute, then it would be quite contrary to any design Dragon had seen before.
But before Dragon could ask another question, Bonesinger spoke up, directing the conversation for the first time.
“I see what it will be, an instrument to better direct the Wraithbone's growth... it just needs a lot of care, I sing to it, but it sings back differently, like it wants me to guide my voice until I can harmonise with it, rather than it merely doing what I want...” Bonesinger frowned at that. “Do some other Tinkers have that? Needing to work with their power, rather than it just doing what they want?”
It was one of the first times Dragon knew of in which the girl actually had some degree of genuine inquisitiveness about powers in general.
“I know some have troubles with it until they can find their speciality. It takes some longer than others, and some Tinkers really struggle with other factors that feed into it as well.”
It had never been a problem for her, though.
A hum in return.
“Can I get a closer look at it, Taylor? Just to compare how it comes along with time.”
Dutifully, Bonesinger leaned closer to the small camera, showing more of the details of the creation.
Even as Dragon watched, she could see the slow, almost painstaking way it grew this way and that, layer upon layer of new material forming, branching out and expanding into what, no doubt, would eventually be a complete form.
“I always enjoy watching other Tinkers work.”
“I suppose if you understand it. When I try to watch Armsmaster or Kid Win, it's just a load of scrap to me.”
“I imagine neither they nor the budgeting department would be happy to hear you describe all those expensive components as scrap, Taylor.”
“That's what it is. Random pieces of metal and wiring and plastic. All jumbled and crammed into a casing. At least when I create something, it's all there and already integrated.”
“Well, not everyone can be so lucky, Taylor.”
Despite having potentially better things to do, Dragon remained with the other Tinker for another eleven minutes, watching in silence as the girl hummed and sung at her creation. By the time she had to leave, it was only a little further along in development than when she'd first arrived, its progress incremental and clearly a labour of love, rather than speed.
“Do you want me to try and make some more of those plates?” Bonesinger asked.
“If you have a moment free in the future, but it's not that important. Focus on yourself first, there's no rush,” she reassured.
As much as one of her mech's armoured in Wraithbone would be both more durable, and also much lighter, Dragon could wait on the teenager to settle and recover more before she began putting pressure on her.
It was blatant that the girl needed more time.
“Okay.”
A few days later, Colin sent her a message to say that Bonesinger had finished making her isitha kasra, and with it, also created a dozen new plates for her in the span of just a few hours when before she'd struggled to make half as many.
Taylor wondered, idly, whether she was a bad person.
She'd failed to save her father's life and spent months making weapons for Neo-Nazis, so she was probably a bad person.
It was hard to decide, because moral reflection was a skill that had been stolen from her, and which she was having to learn again. She was pretty sure that, once upon a time, she'd been quite a moral person, hell, it was only a few months ago that she'd been trying to make herself the equipment she needed to become a hero.
Yet now she was a Ward... she felt little to no real concern for the morality of the matter.
She was safe in the Wards, and objectively she knew it was a good thing to support the PRT with her creations. She just didn't care about it, only that the PRT's demands took away from her time to create what she wanted.
“Do you like it, Taylor?” asked Vista from behind her, pausing in her work but hands still in her hair.
“I do,” she replied, looking over the braid that the other girl had put her hair into. “Thanks for doing this.”
Recovering all the things that Victor had taken away from her was a slow process, and she'd not realised just how much she had lost until she was once more interacting with normal people again.
Like, how did you re-learn how to interact with people? You just had to be around them and experience it, but everyone thought she was slow in the head or obstructive because it was hard to read into social cues. Some people were patient with her, others were not... she'd learned who she wanted to spend time around, and those she didn't.
She didn't like the majority of the Wards, but Vista was nice.
“It's no problem, it's kinda nice to have somebody to spend time with like this.”
The other girl tried her best, at least, despite the difficulties.
But Armsmaster was her favourite person on site.
They could talk about Tinkering together, and even if he was very focused on his projects and their utility... he would at least indulge her. He always signposted what he was about to do, his thoughts on a matter, and gave her clear indications of the steps in his thinking along the way.
“Do you know how to paint nails?”
“Not really... my mother normally does it for me.”
“... Want to give it a go?” Taylor asked.
“I might mess up.”
“That's fine.”
What did it matter if the girl got it wrong? It wasn't like Taylor was going to be leaving the building any time soon. The PRT had pulled her out of school and she was now being homeschooled until she could relearn all the skills she needed.
“Sure, but don't get angry with me when it looks like I've covered your nails in tar.”
It made her want to laugh.
She didn't, and instead allowed Vista to continue her work.
Around them, the common room was silent; everyone else was either on patrol, or not on duty today, a situation that she was glad for, frankly. She'd take the sound of Vista's soft breathing over Shadow Stalkers huffing or the forced attempts at conversation with Gallant and Clockblocker.
“What have you been making recently? I really liked the little statue you made the other day.”
“I've been making forcefield generators.”
“Huh,” Vista paused. “Really? That's pretty neat, like, one's people can wear?”
“Yeah... the prototype is wrist mounted, I think Miss Militia's is using it, you know, because she's all unarmoured. I was thinking I might try and make one for everyone.”
If she had to make something for others, then it made sense to create things to keep people alive, and ever since she'd made her Isitha Kasra shaping the Wraithbone into the shape she desired had been so much easier.
“Why do you think it's so much easier? I'd have thought it would be harder.”
"Because it's not a weapon."
The PRT had begrudgingly accepted that she didn't want to make weapons, but Taylor had every expectation that with time the pressure would mount again. They had first-hand experience with how effective a Diresword was, or a Fire Lance... and they wanted more.
Vista gave a slow nod, her eyes turning away from her work for a moment.
“... You're not going to forgive Win any time soon, are you?”
“Why would I?”
“Well, he is a colleague.”
“I'll forgive him once he uses what I made for him to kill a member of the Empire.”
“Really? I mean... they're still people we could capture---”
“They're not people to me---” she interrupted. “Victor told me that my weapons would be used against people who weren't humans. I know he meant it about black and asian people and all that. But after what they did to me, I don't consider people in the Empire to be people.”
Behind her, Vista shifted a little.
It took Taylor a few seconds to belatedly realise that this conversation was probably uncomfortable for the other girl.
She could probably blame Victor and his power for her comment, if she wanted a justification and not an excuse. Empathy was a learned skill, to some extent, wasn't it? But she wouldn't, if pressed, because her disregard for the lives of members of the Empire wasn't born out of Victors power, but instead from an utter loathing that smouldered somewhere deep within.
“Would you kill a member of the Empire if you had the chance?”
Her father's pale face, his blood on---
“Yes.”
Silence dominated the room, Vista's hands continued to work away in her hair, but there were little tugs and fumbles that rather indicated that the younger teenager wasn't really focusing on that.
“I hope I never get the opportunity to,” she added, voice just a little lower.
She frowned, although not at the thought of killing Neo-Nazis; there was no capacity for doubt left there.
Rather, it was the nature of her thoughts.
She knew that it would be for the best to explain further, to try and extrapolate her own thoughts and push them forward. Exploring one's feelings and putting them into words was a skill of its own, after all.
“... I'm happy to make things that can help others. I wanted to make things that would, when I got powers, I remember thinking that it would help me turn my life around. Or make things better, you know? I made myself the beginnings of an outfit and a teleportation pack and a gun that would be able to freeze people in place, but I didn't get to finish them before the Empire took me and my dad away.”
There, Taylor fell silent, dourly thinking about those days of hope.
Sure, she'd had the worst day of her life, but she also had so much potential, and all she needed to do was focus and sing the things she imagined into life...
But then, like a pendulum inevitably swinging back towards the centre, the other shoe had dropped.
“I get that.”
Was Vista just giving her a platitude? She couldn't tell, it was so hard to read people sometimes, especially when it was just a voice in her ear. For a moment she tried to parse through the wording and tone, but it still didn't feel concrete.
So she just asked.
“Do you?”
Her tone was perhaps a little blunt, but Vista didn't seem to take anything from it.
“Um-hm. I mean, me getting powers didn't exactly help me out at all either.”
Quite what it didn't help with, Vista didn't say, and Taylor felt no need to inquire either. It was something that got drilled into her head when she was made a ward of the state, that you didn't push people to discuss the circumstances that led to them gaining powers.
“What would you want, if I could make you something?”
A hum.
“... Hmm... well, I know you don't like them, but I wish I had something to deal with people. You know? I can keep them away, but the image people don't want me armed. It's stupid that if somebody reaches me they can just punch me without me being able to do much in return.”
Her tone had changed, the sentences shorter and sharper.
“Um-hm.”
It always came back to weapons in the end, didn't it?
Still, she could understand the girl's logic.
“Okay.”
“... What are you thinking?”
“Well, I've got to say thanks for doing my hair somehow.”
“I'm happy to just do it and chat, I don't expect anything.”
It was a nice thing for her to say, and Taylor thought she was being genuine.
But paradoxically, it was enough to make her want to make something, even if it was just a gauntlet for the girl that would freeze people in place or harmlessly blow them backwards.
Rather than expectations, it meant far more to create something as a gift for somebody who deserved it, after all.