Work Text:
Abashed the devil stood and felt...
February 13th, 2011
“… according to testimony, the attack was apparently unprovoked. The victims’ statements all agree with those of the witnesses…”
Taylor was seated, the orange jump suit stark and uncomfortable where it sat on her. It had the feeling of edges, of sharp creases and too much starch, of something that by its very nature was meant to discomfort, to mold the wearer into it rather than conform to whomever donned it.
All around the edges of her senses, she felt her bugs. Pound upon pound of biomass, writhing and biting, claws and mandibles clacking and tearing, the only display of her discomfort, portrayed beyond the sight of any who might recognize it for what it was. The solitude she was kept in had been harsh, an attempt by the Protectorate and the PRT to keep her isolated, to keep her powerless, to keep her contained.
“…Shadow Stalker has confirmed, and numerous character witnesses have come forth about the perpetrator’s unbalanced mental state, as well as her potential narcissistic personality disorder, and her persecution complex…”
“…isn’t all this a little much? I mean she’s just a kid…”
“…age is not an excuse for a potentially dangerous mindset in a parahuman…”
They had failed, though Taylor had made sure to do nothing to dissuade them from the belief that they hadn’t. There hadn’t been questions, when she was arrested for… for defending herself. There hadn’t been an investigation, or inquiry. There had been no review or hearing. There had been assumptions and whispers, quiet conclusions that had nothing to do with Taylor, which occurred without even seeking her input.
At first, Taylor had raged against that. She had wept, and begged, but it had changed nothing: the blank, featureless room they had confined her in had no respite or diversions. She hadn’t realized that the PRT had rooms like this: hermetically sealed, airtight and depending on a genuine life support for the flow of oxygen.
It made a twisted sense to her, as her mind raced in the silence it was forced to experience. There were all sorts of parahumans, some who could alter their body to be gaseous or insubstantial. Wasn’t there one of the Nazis, Fog, who could change his entire body into mist? A room like this was necessary for containment.
For Taylor, it was assumed that her control of bugs required some input, some form of disruptive command like line of sight or audible range. They thought that by putting her in this room, by treating her like one of the more dangerous prisoners, they could keep her from accessing the insects she had called when… when she was…
“…still, this was just the first offense. I mean, we haven’t even approached the three-strike rule for this. An arrest at this point would just result in some juvenile detention, and her record would be sealed when she came of age…”
“…there’s always the possibility of a probationary Ward status, though integrating her on the team would prove difficult…”
“…I’m not sure she would be a good fit. Given her documented history of unfounded antagonism towards Shadow Stalker…”
They were wrong. If anything, the isolation hadn’t weakened Taylor at all. Her control was still exact and all consuming. If anything, the confinement had made her stronger: she had realized that the longer they kept her locked, the wider her range seemed to become.
More than that, keeping her isolated without stimulus, locked away without distractions, had caused her to uncover a piece of her power she hadn’t known she ever had… or maybe she had known, but had forced herself to lock away in the traumatic aftermath of her original trigger. She had spent a week catatonic after her mind had first awakened, driven to immobility by the sheer diversity of the senses of the bugs she controlled. She had to lock those senses away, had made herself forget how to see and hear and smell and taste and touch with her million upon millions of sensory organs.
But three days without any contact, without any news, without any information, had finally driven her to rediscover those senses.
It was just in time for her to realize how deeply she had been failed.
“…we all have to deal with people we don’t like, no matter the reason we don’t like them. She’ll learn to live with it soon enough. Just come down on her hard enough the first few times she tries to start something and she’ll figure out the rules, simple enough…”
“…maybe. I don’t think she’s a bad kid, despite everything. Just a girl who’s made some bad decisions. Hopefully, some tough love will help her straighten out her life…”
“…we could consider the possibility of a transfer. We don’t want her poisoning the Ward’s team…”
“…no. We’re short handed enough. I’m not losing any resources just because they want to have their feelings coddled…”
“…let’s not be too rough, Director…”
All of which led to Taylor’s current situation: learning. Learning everything about the Protectorate, the PRT, and her situation. Her holding cell was in the PRT offices, a location chosen to facilitate processing with ‘low risk’ prisoners. Taylor couldn’t help but wonder that if the only bugs she could control when she was attacked hadn’t been bees, if she had the time to build up a true swarm, if she had revealed just how much she could call to herself, if they would have treated her differently.
But when those boys… when they had caught her and started to… started to…
She had just desperately wanted them to stop, even if she had to hurt them to do it, so she had ignored her other bugs, and focused entirely on the hornet nest that was hidden by the roof mounted HVAC unit by the athletic field. She wanted their stings, their venom, a quick way to force her attackers away.
She didn’t remember specifically what had happened, the adrenaline and fear rending her memory a haze. She had felt a sharp stab in her back, and the world had gone hazy, and she had woken up in her current cell, confused and frightened. It was her desperation to figure out what was going on that had led her to rediscovering her ability to sense through her bugs.
Her range was two city blocks, even further right now. The entirety of the PRT office was in her reach. Every conversation, every discussion, every judgment, every secret: she could hear it all.
Sophia Hess was Shadow Stalker. It had been a sharp surprise, a cruel sting, a rusty knife being twisted in an open wound. Her tormenter, a Ward. And Sophia had been busy, making sure that torment lingered.
She had told them all about Taylor. Lies and slander, backed by vicious denigration by her peers and teachers. Sophia should have been an artist, with how well she painted the picture she wanted seen.
And they believed her. That was the part that stinged the most. The PRT, the Heroes, the other Wards. They lapped up the bitter poison that Sophia spat, trusting her. She was their teammate, their subordinate, she was trusted. What possible reason did she have to lie, in their eyes?
They had taken Taylor’s glasses, so the room around her was but a blur even as she blinked back hot tears. To the heroes, to the authorities, she was a criminal. She hadn’t been defending herself from what those boys… from what they tried. No, she had been attacking innocent victims. Sophia wasn’t a vicious psychopath that tormented her, not it was Taylor who was the deranged sociopath desperate for attention, who was willing to lie and falsify evidence to get it.
They hadn’t even asked her for her testimony. Taylor hadn’t spoken to a single person in the last three days. The case had been written, the ink dried, the conclusions set in stone. And all of it done before a word had been spoken to her, a conviction before a grand jury even indited.
Now all that was left was what they wanted to do with her.
“…well, the father has already agreed to the probationary contract. He still insists that there must be a misunderstanding, but you know how it is: there’s no way daddy would think poorly of his precious princess. When the consequences of her daughter’s actions were laid out for him, he signed up. Any excuse to keep the perpetrator out of juvie…”
“…are we really sure that we want her here? I mean, from the sound of it, she’s going to be nothing but trouble: a disruption to the team, even a possible active threat to Shadow Stalker. Do we really want her patrolling with the kids? I really think a transfer is the best option here. I mean, Youth Guard made sure that all Ward’s contracts have the option, even the probationary members. If she asks for it, we can’t really refuse…”
“…and I don’t care. I might have to approve a transfer if it’s requested, but I do get to choose where the transfer goes, and the only place I’ll approve to get out of Brockton Bay is a transfer to Madison. If she asks, make sure she knows where she’d be going…”
“…director, you can’t be serious! Sending a kid there of all places, I mean, that place is basically hell…”
“…it’s only if she insists on having a transfer rather than sucking it up and dealing with the results of her own stupidity. Actions have consequences, and its damn time brats like her learned that…”
Taylor felt like she was watching a choreographer sketch out the song and dance of her life, and found it was a familiar performance only magnified: instead of negligent authority figures, she would soon be under the thumb of actively hostile ones. Instead of passive ostracization, she would face peers whom had been actively poisoned, whose distain and distaste would be backed by actual powers as well. Instead of classrooms where hostility and assault existed in an otherwise bland and negligent environment, soon she would be in actively violent situations with teammates whom at best couldn’t be trusted, but most likely would actively sabotage her safety.
Taylor could already see the scenario: Sophia’s smirk, hear her claims it was Taylor’s fault she ended up shot in the back by a broad bolt, claim it was her desire for attention, that she should be punished for being hurt at Shadow Stalker’s hands, and the authority figures chastising Taylor for being wounded, condemning her, dismissing her innocence out of hand…
Fuck that. Taylor tasted blood in her mouth, the tang of copper surprising, but also surprisingly reassuring. Her lip was clenched between her teeth, bruised and pierced, and that was despite so many of her emotions being shunted into the swarm, carefully far away from the building where she was being held, concealed, out of sight, unobserved by the ones who were writing the version of the story of her life they had decided on with the grim certainty of those whom have never thought they could be wrong.
It became a mantra, something she found herself subvocalizing, repeating over and over in her head, not just an oath, or a vulgarity, not a malediction or a curse, just a grim certainty that pounded in her veins, which pulsed in her forehead:
Fuck that. Fuck that. Fuck that.
Taylor had always dreamed of being a hero, but then, perhaps it was better said she had always dreamed about what being a hero meant. She had idolized the helping of others, the moral imperative of benevolence, the inherent righteousness of the conceptualization of ‘Good’.
What she found in the PRT building, listening to law officers and heroes and even just the regular employees, the clerks and lawyers, the troopers and correspondents, was this what heroes actually were? Was this what ‘Goodness’ entailed? A grim grind of daily tasks, a disenfranchisement of what should have been moral imperatives?
These weren’t paragons. These weren’t ‘Good’. These were overworked and stressed cogs, unthinking except for the parameters of their day by day. Clerks so numb to their grind that they filed paperwork that documented death and suffering without registering the calculus of pain they handled. Investigators with desperate blitheness strung together the first plausible chain of events and called their constructed stories ‘truth’ without even the time to doubt themselves. Heroes that trusted so naively in themselves, bought their own myth and legend to the point where even the thought of duplicity from their own was ignored, and heroes that knew this gullibility and used it for themselves. A Director who doesn’t care for process or right, who barely seemed able to stand their own subordinates without scorning them, who saw numbers not lives, calculation not righteousness.
Taylor thought of her mother, during her imprisonment and enlightenment. Annette Hebert had been an English professor, and Taylor’s childhood had been filled literary references, classic titles name dropped with glee the way a socialite might drop the name of celebrities they had met. Too young at the time, Taylor had often tried with childish enthusiasm to read these referenced works, an action to emulate her beloved mother, a venture to try to draw even closer to her role model.
All too often, Taylor had been too young to truly understand what she tried to read. An eight-year-old still puzzling out how to read ‘Charlotte’s Web’ and ‘Harry Potter’ would naturally find ‘The Canterbury Tales’ or ‘Beowulf’ and their ancient language too much. But Taylor had tried, and it was those attempts she thought about now:
‘Paradise Lost’. A epic poem of hubris and lost innocence. At least, that’s what Taylor dimly remembered her mother describing it as. Taylor had tried to read it, she really had, but for the life of her only pieces and phrases had ever really stuck with her, had penetrated her youthful mind.
It was an intern, on the third floor, that reintroduced Taylor to the poem. The intern was young, not yet haggard by the workload by way of not being trusted enough to have a real workload at this point. She filed folders, and worked data entry.
She also listened to the epic poem on her phone. ‘Something my professor assigned,’ she had assured a coworker, laughing sheepishly as Milton droned quietly from the corner of her desk. Taylor had listened as well, a fraction of her mind not focused on uncovering the rest of the PRT’s secrets recalling her mother’s half-forgotten talk of the work.
With precious little else to focus on, solely for the purpose of staving off the boredom of solitary confinement, Taylor found herself drawn to words, to the prose…
There was no way that Taylor was staying here. She would choke on the fruit of a poisoned tree, and most likely suffer an ‘accidental’ death at the hands of the ‘teammate’ responsible for her being here in the first place.
If this Madison posting, a Simurgh Containment Zone she had discovered, was truly hell, well, it would still be better than HERE.
After all…
‘Better to Reign in Hell, then Serve in Heav’n.’
***Scene Break***
May 25th, 2013
“Just… how much work can one person cause?” Weld sighed, his gleaming skin reflecting the harsh white of the fluorescents back into rest of the room in a way that somehow managed to make the already too bright illumination worse, somehow, in Ethan’s opinion.
“Well, to be fair,” Ethan, the hero also known as Assault, groaned, stretching his arms and popping his shoulders. “I wouldn’t say this is the work of just one person. I mean, yeah, it was Shadow Stalker who was the center of it all. But if you look at the results of the investigation, well, this could best be called ‘a collection of monumental fuck ups so epic that we needed catering for all the shit sandwiches we would be chewing on’.”
Weld wrinkled his nose, the movement odd as it delicately contorted the metallic skin. It didn’t seem right, just how malleable something which the instinct said was supposed to be firm actually was. The light playing off the small lines and wrinkles of the Case 53’s skin served to draw even more attention to the unnaturalness of the young man.
Ethan did his best not to let himself stare. He knew it wasn’t Weld’s fault, that it wasn’t polite to bring attention to the young man’s inhuman traits, and that by Case 53 standards Weld was actually more human looking than most. It was that trait which caused him to dip into the uncanny valley so often.
Ethan had worked with other Case 53s. He knew that he would get used to it, and eventually be able to act more naturally in the younger man’s presence. It just took time, patience, and deliberately suppressing any reactions until the suppressions were the norm. Fake it until you make it, and all.
“I don’t think I care for such a colorful phrasing,” Weld told Ethan cautiously, though he also gave the elder hero a confused look as he did so. “But I confess, I also don’t quite understand just why this is such a big thing. I mean, Shadow Stalker was already on probation, she was caught violating the probation, and now she’s in juvie. Shouldn’t this be a cut and dry case? Isn’t this the point where we all just move on?”
“I can see why you would think that,” Ethan sighed leaning back in his chair as he glanced over the table in front of him. It was full of actual files, dozens upon dozens of paper wedges, all filled with more papers, and all needing attention in some form or another. “And if it had just been a matter of her having been caught red-handed with a smoking gun, maybe it would have been that simple. But that’s not what we’re dealing with here at all. Tell me, how much do you know about how Shadow Stalker was exposed?”
Weld hummed, also leaning back. His eyes rolled back, an expression of deep thought as he searched his memories.
“I don’t really know much about it,” he finally admitted honestly. “If I recall, wasn’t it something to do with her performing extra-judiciary violence on non-sanctioned patrols?”
“That’s what it came down to in the end,” Ethan admitted, rubbing his forehead. “But it’s also HOW she was caught. Shadow Stalker had a long running probation she was coming to an end to. Before a probation can be lifted, it’s normal for the acting Protectorate members to conduct reviews: typically, a series of interviews and some questioning on any prominent cases the probationary member was a part of for both the probationary member and their team. It’s all meant to serve as a final confirmation that the probationary member is in fact reformed and ready to assume regular responsibility. In most cases, it’s pretty cut and dry. By the time they reach the end of probation, the team has been exposed to the probationary member long enough to be acclimated and for comradery to have developed. Usually, if someone is going to fail their probationary term it’s pretty obvious and happens fairly early.”
“And this time it wasn’t ‘cut and dry’?” Weld concluded, reaching the obvious conclusion based on Ethan’s description.
“Not even close,” Ethan sighed. “Frankly, the rest of the team hated her. Vista in particular had nothing but venom to share and was willing and verbose in sharing it. The rest of the team might have been more diplomatic, but even with the deployment of cautionary tact there was very little positive amongst anyone who ever worked with Shadow Stalker. This led to a somewhat more stringent interview with Shadow Stalker herself, and the use of… non-standard interview aids.”
“Non-standard?” Weld prompted, and Ethan shrugged.
“Use of verified lie detecting Tinkertech,” the older man summed bluntly. “Without the interviewee’s knowledge or consent. Normally, that kind of thing would flat out disqualify any testimony received. But Armsmaster’s lie detector has been peer reviewed and field tested and is considered reliable enough for court proceedings, and Shadow Stalker, as a probationary member, did not have certain privacy protections that someone not under review and censure would have. And here’s where it gets bad, and the root of the reason we now have so much paperwork.”
“Oh?” Weld prompted, eyebrow raising as he leaned in with curiosity. For all his apparent age, and his new membership with the Protectorate, he was still a Case 53. That didn’t call his intelligence into question, but rather, his experience: despite the appearance of a young man in his twenties, his actual life experience came out to about four years. He just didn’t have as deep a well to pull from. There were often times when his peers would mention something, some sort of social experience or general knowledge that the rest of the team just seemed to get, but would leave him confused.
This was apparently one of them. It was frustrating, but Weld was used to it, and instead of acting on that frustration, he simply leaned in to the opportunity to fill in one of those gaps for the future.
“The interview was under oath,” Ethan explained bluntly. “Which meant it was a legal obligation for Shadow Stalker to tell the truth. Which meant when she lied, she perjured herself.”
“And that matters specifically how?” Weld prompted, glancing at the files in front of him, wondering how that particular fact justified the veritable mountain of paperwork the two were dealing with. “I mean, that was the catalyst to uncover that she was secretly hurting and maiming people outside of her role as a Ward. Isn’t that what matters? Isn’t she already being punished for it?”
“It matters,” Ethan corrected the younger man gently, “because now she has a history of perjury as well. And because she had proven willing to lie under oath, it also calls into question EVERY OTHER TIME she had the obligation to honestly report facts. Every report she ever filled, every bit of paperwork related to a case, even any official memo she ever sent: she’s proven that she was willing to lie to cover up a crime, so now we have to go back and see how many times she has done just that in the past. Sure, most of this is simply too old for us to reliably confirm if something was misinformation, but even if she told ten lies and we only uncover one truth out of them, that’s still one less lie, you know?”
“If even one truth is enough to close a cold case, or reveal a hidden crime, then it makes sense we close that case and find that crime,” Weld acknowledged. Ethan could see both the resolution and the resignation as the gleaming man turned to the pile of cases. “Hence why we have to take bites out of the ‘shit sandwiches’ you mentioned earlier?”
“Yup,” Ethan confirmed, drawing out the word and ending it with a popping sound. “Happily, it’s not just us that have to eat the catering. There were a lot of people who shared responsibility in managing Shadow Stalker, and now that her bullshit has been uncovered, well, there are a lot of uncomfortable questions about just how she managed to get away with so much when so many people were supposed to be watching her. And, luckily, this is one of the rare, RARE situations where shit is rolling up hill. The boots on the ground should have noticed something, but their responsibility is limited to their specific interactions. The questions being asked now are why the next level up, who should have had multiple reports didn’t notice a pattern, and the level above that, etc. Things are getting pretty heated up at the top, I hear.”
“Well, I suppose that’s good news at our level,” Weld agreed, though he felt dubious about people who apparently failed to do their jobs not receiving the full impact of their failure. He felt a faint twinge of unease, at himself specifically being tagged for this assignment though. “And I suppose my being a new transfer and a new Protectorate member and not really associated with Shadow Stalker as a Ward is why I was selected for the post case review?”
“Half right,” Ethan allowed, grinning at the younger peer. “The other part is simply to give you some more experience. This kind of case deep dive isn’t common, but it isn’t rare either. Your primary role here is to review, and if you see anything that you even think might stink to elevate it to me. Don’t worry about bringing up anything that isn’t actually relevant: better to error on the side of caution, and part of my role here is to talk you through anything you find, give you a better idea of what we’re looking for and what kind of red flags there are.”
“That’s a relief,” Weld admitted, genuinely feeling more at ease with his inclusion at that. “So, this is basically a training exercise for me, though I should take it seriously?”
“Precise-a-mundo,” Ethan grinned. “Don’t worry to much about it unless I suddenly start swearing and call Armsmaster.”
***Scene Break***
It was several hours later, and Weld had already had several sessions with Ethan about potential finds when a particular set of reports came to Weld’s attention. He frowned, parsing the situation. Something about reports of a potential new probationary Ward, based on testimony provided by Shadow Stalker specifically. It definitely seemed like the sort of situation that they were looking for, though Weld felt it probably wasn’t too important. The new Ward had ended up transferring out, after all.
“Ethan,” he called out, gathering the relevant files, “I think I have another one.”
“Well, let’s take a look,” the older man offered generously, grinning and sipping at his coffee while he gave the gathered files a once over.
The first inclination that this wasn’t something banal was the smile slipping off of the normally gregarious older man’s face. The second was when Ethan let loose a small gasp, paling as he did so. And finally, Ethan’s face turned into a furious scowl, flicking intently through several of the gathered files, and pulling a few of his own for reference.
“Fuck!” Ethan’s sudden vulgarity was loud, and unusually vicious for his normal tone, and caught Weld almost completely by surprise. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Sir?” Weld asked, growing alarm causing his eyes to widen in concern. Just what was happening here?
“Call Armsmaster,” Ethan told him, tone cold and focused, the kind of seriousness that marked a dire situation, especially when it came from the normally wisecracking Assault. “Call him right fucking now, and tell him to get over here, ASAP.”
***Scene Break***
May 30th, 2013
Vista sat in the after-action report with a rare but extremely pleasant sense of vindication. It was the kind of feeling that only really came after one has spent too many attempts trying to call someone’s attention to a stink in the break room and being brushed off, only for someone to finally move the garbage can and find a pile of dead rats rotting.
Yeah, it sucked there were so many dead rats, but hey, she hadn’t been imagining it when she called it.
“…while many of the reports have shown signs of potential wrong doing…,” Armsmaster’s toneless drawl would normally have an almost soporific effect on the younger Ward, the kind of toneless background noise that functioned as ASMR and slowly lolled one to sleep, in this case it only served to invigorate Vista. “…the time length and uncertainty of certain environmental factors have rendered follow through impractical at this time. Despite that, there have been several provable incidents which have led to actionable investigations. Results have begun to accumulate, and added to the current existing cases against Shadow Stalker.”
Finally, dealing with Shadow Stalker was done. Vista had honestly lost track of the number of times the bitch had pulled something on the younger Ward, and also lost track of the number of times she had complained about it. When her initial verbal reports of anti-social behavior had been brushed off, Vista had begun submitting actual formal documentation.
It had felt like those reports were being ignored. Hell, Vista was almost sure they HAD been, and that the only reason that they were relevant now was that Shadow Stalker had finally shown that she wasn’t as smart or skilled as she thought she was and fucked the pooch herself.
Still, now that the cat was out of the bag, those complaints had been Vista’s lifeline. While a lot of people were currently trying to justify why they hadn’t noticed that Shadow Stalker was a dud, Vista herself had been exonerated of any negligence. Instead, HR was getting some pointed questions about their previous policy of deliberate ignorance.
Still, Vista was a little surprised by just how intense the investigation had turned out to be. She had expected a cursory checklist and a quiet drumming out for the disgraced former vigilante. Instead, it felt like someone had turned the entirety of the ENE branch on its head, tearing it apart as they searched for more findings.
Even right now felt excessive. Vista glanced around the stuffed conference room. If she had to guess, Vista would put it as the biggest room on the otherwise cramped Rig that was the Protectorate headquarters. It was filled right now with the entirety of the both the Protectorate team and the Wards, the younger members having been called from their normal staffing with the PRT.
‘Just how bad did the investigation go if they had to bring everyone in on it?’ she wondered to herself as Armsmaster continued his presentation.
“So far we have identified and confirmed five more assaults, off record,” the Tinker continued. “Of these five assaults, two were confirmed as fatalities.”
“Shit,” Clockblocker swore softly. The young man had already graduated from the Wards to the local Protectorate team, but Vista had worked with him long enough to recognize his genuine distress. He continued in a soft voice, trying not to interrupt the debriefing. Vista only heard it because of how close they were. “She was actually killing people the whole time?”
“And that’s just the ones we were able to confirm,” Triumph whispered back, his face twisted into a grimace. Vista didn’t blame either of them: they had both spent time as the Ward leader with Shadow Stalker under them. For once, Vista enjoyed that her younger age meant she never had a leadership position during Shadow Stalker’s time in the Wards.
“Continuing investigations show promise on several additional violations of her parole, and potentially prosecutable offenses,” Armsmaster continued, before pausing briefly. “However, one additional actionable element has already been identified, and due to its nature required immediate follow up.”
The screen behind him changed, and Vista felt an eyebrow raised in surprise. Two pictures were now being displayed side by side. On the left was a rather meek looking girl: thin body frame, narrow lips, large glasses, and long curly hair. All told she looked like a quiet and ordinary civilian, the kind of bystander easily overlooked in a crowd.
On the right, on the other hand, was a picture that made Vista suppress a blanche: a dark, tall figure, wearing an all-black body suite with, again, dark armor inserts on it. Their face was covered by an insectile mask with mandibles and intimidating yellow eyes gleaming in the light of the picture. A shawl covered their hair, and an abbreviated and tattered skirt around their waist was the only clue to their gender being female.
And surrounding the girl was a massive cloud of small dark shapes.
“Are those bugs?” Battery questioned, and with that pointed out Vista realized that was exactly what the dark shapes were: huge swarms of flying insects thick enough to almost appear solid.
“Yes,” Armsmaster agreed bluntly. “This is Taylor Hebert. In costume, she goes by the name ‘Skitter’.”
“What, is this a new supervillain that Shadow Stalker pissed off and now we have to deal with her?” Chariot chimed in, tone disgusted. The mobility Tinker had been in the Wards for about a year now, and while initially he had been nervous and awed, he had come into his own enough to comfortably ask questions in meetings like this.
“No.” Surprisingly, it was Assault who spoke up here, and Vista twice surprised because his voice was completely devoid of his normal cheer. At his side, Battery grimaced at his tone, glancing at him in apparent surprise at his unexpectedly bitter and angry voice. “No, that was supposed to be your new teammate in the Wards.”
“Teammate?” The voice had a crack in it, and it actually took Vista a second to realize that it was she herself who had actually spoken up. “That!?”
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Clockblocker chimed in, sounding faintly nauseous, “but please tell me she hasn’t been to the PR department yet? They’re going to do something about all the bugs, right? There’s no way they’re not going to limit her to something like butterflies, right?”
“Skitter has been active member of the Wards program for over two years,” Armsmaster declared, voice flat. “And this IS the PR approved costume.”
“Okay, what the actual hell?” Velocity frowned, staring at the two pictures. “Why on earth would Glenn let something like this pass? And in the Wards, none the less?”
“And what do you mean that she should have been on our team?” Kid Win, the current leader of the Wards team, albeit only for the next two months, frowned at the image, glancing back and forth between the girl and her costume, and Armsmaster himself.
Armsmaster was quiet for a moment, but Vista had worked with the older man long enough to recognize his jaw tightening under his beard. That only happened when Armsmaster was very much not happy with something.
“Taylor Hebert was brought to our attention for assault with a parahuman power in February of 2011,” he finally continued, his voice exceptionally perfunctory, even for him. “The initial report was that she had assaulted several classmates using her powers. When she was brought in, due to her status as a student in Winslow alongside Sophia Hess, Shadow Stalker was first consulted as a character witness.”
“Ah fuck,” again, Clockblocker swore softly, before continuing in a louder tone. “And based off everything we know, Shadow Stalker lied her ass off about her, didn’t she?”
“Yes. She did,” Armsmaster’s response sounded like it came from grit teeth. “At the time, Shadow Stalker painted Ms. Hebert as a dangerous and unsound individual, prone to psychological instability and violence. A cursory investigation offered superficial collaborative evidence, and the decisions to aggressively pursue probationary status was implemented.”
“What precisely does it mean to ’aggressively pursue probationary status’?” Weld spoke up, his tone cautious as he sought confirmation.
“It’s when an excessive emphasis on the crime performed is highlighted, and worst-case legal results are presented as more possible,” Ms. Militia answered, her tone delicate in the way that someone was trying to explain something that they didn’t quite agree with, but nonetheless recognized as a technically valid tactic.
“It’s where they feed you bullshit about how fucked you are in order to strong arm you into joining up,” Assault clarified bluntly. Again, at his side, Battery glanced at him, frowning.
“Alright,” this time it was Dauntless who spoke up. He sounded resigned, and had a hand cradling his forehead as though in anticipation of a headache. “So, that’s what officially happened, and we’ve already established that this situation was manipulated by Shadow Stalker ahead of time. What actually occurred?”
“Shadow Stalker and several of her civilian associated had established a long-term bullying and gaslighting campaign again Ms. Hebert,” Armsmaster listed tonelessly. “Due to this prolonged harassment, a culture of violence and history of automatic alibiing had formed, centered around discrediting Ms. Hebert. A review of relevant medical records indicates that this culminated in an assault that directly resulted in Ms. Hebert’s trigger in January of 2011. The harassment continued, until in February of the same year, Sophia Hess encouraged members of the track team to attack and sexually molest Ms. Hebert. Hs. Hebert’s defense of her own person was the event which was construed as assault with a parahuman power.”
The silence in the room was deafening for a moment. Vista couldn’t due more than gape at the succinct summary of what sounded like some truly horrific series of events.
“After Shadow Stalkers habitual perjury was discovered,” Armsmaster continued mechanically, “further research of her phone records and statements revealed her active participation in the assault in January. Discussions with her civilian associates also indicated the planning of the assault in February. This has prompted a wider investigation into the actions taken against Ms. Hebert. While time has rendered many of the actions taken against Ms. Hebert impossible to properly verify, enough evidence has been found to widen the scope of the prosecution from Shadow Stalker to several of her civilian associates. Preliminary discussions have highlighted the possibility of a RICO case against a number of their classmates.”
“Yeah, and how’s that going to help her victim now?” Clockblocker snorted acerbically.
“Very little, I suspect,” Ms. Militia sighed. She sounded both resigned and remorseful at the revealed slight against an innocent girl, perpetuated in part by the organization they all worked for.
“Alright, so yeah, shit happened,” Chariot spoke up, his tone hesitant as he cautiously raised a hand as though this was a class. “But, I mean, practically, what happens now? You mentioned that she was supposed to be our Wards teammate? Did she, I don’t know, pull a runner and become a villain or something?”
“No, that can’t be it,” Vista corrected him absently. “They already said she’s a Ward member, even said her costume was approved somehow.”
“Ms. Hebert signed the initial probationary contract without issue at the persuasion of her family,” Armsmaster confirmed. He hesitated, then continued. “As soon as she had signed, she then proceeded to immediately demand the necessary paperwork to apply for a transfer. She requested the forms by code and form type.”
“Wait, can a probationary member apply for a transfer?” Weld spoke up, his tone confused as he glanced around the room. “And how did she know she could ask for one? Or the codes and forms?”
“When Skitter was first brought in, certain limitations were assumed on her power, and she was held in a secured room within PRT HQ for several days to review for potential side effects of her Master ability,” Armsmaster explained. Vista was actually impressed a bit by just how robotic he had been treating this entire conversation. “Due to the preliminary defense against her assailants solely involved wasps that were located in the immediate vicinity of the attack, limitations on range and species were assumed. It was later during her tenure when it was revealed there was a complete lack of limitation on species, and a far larger range than initially assumed. It was also determined that besides control, she is able to access the senses of insects.”
“So, she was basically in the base for days, spying on everything?” Dauntless pointed out, still rubbing her head. “I… I can’t even begin to consider the steps for a security breach that pronounced.”
“Correct,” Armsmaster affirmed. “Though no confidential information was disseminated by Skitter to our knowledge, when the breadth of her sensory abilities was finally disclosed, a thorough security review was performed.”
“Alright,” Triumph took a deep breath, and continued. “Alright. So, an effectively innocent girl was framed for parahuman violence and made to sign a probationary contract of dubious ethicality. Due to the contract forcing her to work with the person responsible for physical violence and character defamation, and in what would have essentially been a poisoned work environment, she was able to use infiltrated knowledge to know how to remove herself from a potentially dangerous and hostile environment. Where did she end up transferred to? Los Angeles? Houston? Both have recognized reform programs for probationary Wards. And what happens now? Will she be transferred back? Receive recompensation or something?”
Armsmaster didn’t answer the question immediately. As the silence drew on, Vista started to get concerned about it. Finally, Assault snorted contemptuously.
“Well, Armsmaster?” Assault prompted, tone flat. “Tell them what happened.”
Assault already knew, Vista realized, studying the visibly furious other man. Knew, and was very much not happy about it.
“At the time of the signing,” Armsmaster finally responded, and Vista could tell his jaw was clenched again, “Director Piggot was reluctant to allow for the transfer of personnel that may have diminished ENE’s ability to respond to incidents. While Skitter’s request to be transferred could not be refused, the location of the transfer was under the purview of acting Director. To discourage the transfer, Director Piggot would only approve one transfer destination. Despite advice to the contrary, Skitter accepted the selected transfer location.”
Vista noted with growing concern that Armsmaster had actually avoided saying precisely where that transfer was. Judging from the glances between each other, the other Protectorate members had noted that too.
“Armsmaster,” Ms. Militia began slowly, her tone also indicating growing concern. “Armsmaster, where did she transfer to?”
Finally, as though the words were dragged from his lips, Armsmaster answered.
“Madison, Wisconsin.”
Vista knew that location. She doubted anyone in the room didn’t. There was only one PRT/Protectorate station in that twisted city: the Madison Containment Zone.
Vista had been a Ward long enough to know that there were certain posts you just didn’t want. Some of those posts were simply because they were too obscure, too remote to really see any action. Nobody wanted to be the sole Protectorate member of someplace like Cornsville in the middle of nowhere, populated by maybe one or two villains who call themselves something like ‘The Potatonator’ or something equally preposterous; places like that were careers stalled out. It meant the higher ups have decided you’ve plateaued, and that this was as good as you were going to get.
Containment zones were another such place she had learned through the grapevine that you wanted to avoid. From what Vista had picked up, they were usually punishment details, the kinds of places you got sent when you well and truly fucked up. She was under the impression that they were essentially the equivalent of the end of your career if you got sent there, and should be avoided for that reason.
Which was why the sudden and violent reaction from just about every older member of the Protectorate caught Vista completely by surprise.
“What the fuck, Colin!?” Ms. Militia demanded, her tone the sharpest and most angry Vista had ever heard from her, never mind it was actually the first time Vista had ever even HEARD the older woman swear.
“Jesus-Fucking-Christ on a Tinkertech pogo stick,” Velocity also swore, and he physically launched himself from his chair, his form fraying around the edges as he apparently flickered his breaker state on and off in agitation.
“Oh, god,” Dauntless looked faint, sagging into his chair. If he had been standing, Vista was sure he would have fallen at the news.
“She was just fifteen!” Battery shrieked, all the previous disapproval of her partner wiped away as she clenched her fists, also launching herself from her chair. Vista realized she hadn’t been told just why Assault was in such a vicious mood, and now that she knew it was going to be up to him that she didn’t do something she’d regret later.
“The fuck?” Clockblocker whispered again, staring around the room in apparent shock at just how much reaction the news had gotten from the older heroes. Vista glanced too, and realized that the rest of the Wards and most of the younger members of the Protectorate who she had been teammates with once upon a time also seemed similarly confused.
“W-what’s going on?” Triumph broke in, his voice barely audible above the din of outrage; Ms. Militia having continued her shout with an expletive laden rant. Velocity was apparently pacing, though in his breaker state it meant he was just a red blur around the room. Dauntless was still seated, his lips moving, and Vista thought he might be praying, while Battery was trying to shake off Assault, who was holding her back by her arm despite remaining seated and glaring at the ground.
“Why is everyone reacting like this?!” Vista demanded, the sudden stress raising her voice to what would normally be an unacceptably high pitch for her. “I mean, I know getting posted at a Containment Zone is bad, but why is everybody freaking out so much about it!?”
The question was enough to catch Ms. Militia’s attention, and she choked back her rant, taking deep breaths as she realized just how unsettled the younger Wards were by the scene. Battery also seemed to realize it, and seated herself as well, though her fists were clenched.
Armsmaster was simply silent, despite the outrage his announcement had caused.
Surprisingly, it was Assault that spoke up. His voice was somber, serious, his tone dark.
“It’s not something that’s talked about,” he began slowly, “not with the Wards, at any rate. You’re all too young to really go into detail about it. Even young Protectorate members are generally eased into it, to give them time to adjust. But the best way to put it is to ask you a simple question: what do you do with someone who wants to be a hero, but should never be allowed to be one?”
“I’m not certain I understand the question,” Weld admitted, glancing around the room, his brow furrowed in thought. “Shouldn’t… If someone wants to be a hero, isn’t that enough for them to be a hero?”
“Most of the time, it is,” Assault confirmed before repeating. “Most of the time. But sometimes, you get a person who wants to be a hero, but just isn’t suited for it, mentally or physically. There are no set criteria, usually just a series of conditions or characteristics that make them ill-suited for a heroic persona: sociopaths, psychopaths, sadists, other issues like that. Sometimes, they genuinely want to be a hero, to do good in the world, and those typically receive a lot of mental health help, help to keep them balanced and as heroes. But the other times? The other times they don’t want to do good in the world. Instead, they just want to hurt people, and see being a hero as a way to do just that without getting in trouble with the law.”
“Wouldn’t that just make them villains?” Chariot pointed out cautiously, still unnerved by the shift in mood among the older heroes.
“Would it?” Assault countered. “If they put on a bright costume, if they smiled for the audience, if they made sure that when they did hurt someone, it was ‘in the course of duty’ or they could get away without anyone finding out?”
“So, exactly like Shadow Stalker,” Clockblocker sighed, the immediate and obvious example coming to mind. Vista grimaced, and nodded at his words.
“Like Shadow Stalker,” Assault agreed, scowling. “Reviewing some of her texts is like reading a love letter from the Marquis de Sade. She kept it concealed, kept it hidden, but does anyone here honestly think she was being a hero just to make the world better, or because it meant the people she did hurt were acceptable targets?
“And those are just the extreme examples,” he continued, scowling. “What about someone with severe anger issues, and a history of taking them out on their families? Kleptomaniacs that can stop themselves from stealing? Hell, even just people with extreme views? Purity was a dyed in the wool racist, but she still claimed she wanted to be a hero. What does the PRT do with people like that?”
“Containment Zones,” Weld confirmed, realization in his tone as he did so. Vista could see the same understanding in the rest of the current and former Wards.
“It’s not just mental issues,” Ms. Militia chimed in, tone dark. “Sometimes there are powers that are just too dangerous for public heroism. What do you tell the Shaker with a three-meter death zone that kills anything that enters it who wants to be a hero? Or the Blaster that shoots beams that cause severe agony? Or the Tinker whose inventions all emit lethal radiation?”
Ms. Militia’s jaw was concealed, but her eyes were expressive, and Vista could see the grimace of pain as her hand caressed her power, currently in the shape of a combat knife.
It was a sudden and painful realization to Vista, but she suspected that maybe Ms. Militia herself had almost qualified as one of the power’s too dangerous for the public: how much work and effort had she put into utilizing her weapons non-lethally? How close had she come to finding herself a posting at one of the Containment Zones, where her bullets could be used to kill virtually indiscriminately?
“When I first joined the Protectorate,” Triumph began slowly, glancing around at his older coworkers, “everyone made sure to emphasize how bad a Containment Zone transfer was, how it’s better to quit if the posting comes in. I mean, it sounds bad, but is it really that bad?”
“Worse,” Battery confirmed, still scowling at the ground. “Especially among the Protectorate members stationed there. That’s why the PRT uses it as a punishing duty, because it kills any chance of advancement afterwards. What commanding officer, what Director, would ever want a transfer out of a Containment Zone? It’s practically a confirmation that there’s something wrong with you, that you’re too damaged in some way for public hero work, or have screwed up something so badly that you can’t be trusted anywhere else. You’re better off quitting and going independent, or finding a corporate team.”
“It’s not just that,” Dauntless cut in, voice quiet. “Containment Zones have the highest suicide rates in both the Protectorate and the PRT. Especially in Simurgh Containment Zones. Even higher than Grey Boy containment zones.”
“Worse than GREY BOY?” Clockblocker’s disbelief was obvious, the sheer incredulity lacing his tone. It was pretty much an open secret in the PRT and the Protectorate that Grey Boy containment zones had high suicide rates. Even the public was aware of the statistic, studies have been done on it and everything.
“It’s what you might have to do, while on duty,” Velocity slowed down enough to contribute before his form zipped again.
“Imagine if you’re on the walls at Ellisberg, and Nilbog has just released some new mutating plague. You manage to get away, but your friend, your coworker doesn’t. Suddenly they’re mutating, changing, their humanity being stripped away, screaming in agony, and the only option you have is to either watch them change, or pull the trigger and end their misery,” Assault gave the explanation bluntly, tone grim.
“Or if you’re at Eagleton, and one of the machines managed to sneak close enough,” Ms. Militia offered, her eyes closed as she spoke. “What you thought was just a cellphone suddenly sprouts knives and drills, and starts burrowing into your squadmate, and procedure says you can’t help them, that only thing you can do is push them off the walls and back into the zone to keep it from escaping or spreading.”
Vista realized, with ever growing horror, that these stories weren’t the product of grim imagination: these were true stories.
“I had a friend. PRT agent. We used to go for drinks,” Dauntless offered quietly. “He lost his family in a car crash, his wife and daughter. He started drinking, heavily, and fucked up on the job. He got his commanding officer pissed at him, and he was assigned a three-month tour at Madison.
“When he came back, he… he told me that while on patrol, a young girl would appear from the city, and just stand there, singing, watching him,” Dauntless continued. “My buddy… he swore that the girl looked just like his own daughter. Just appearing, singing. Then, on the last day, the final patrol on the wall, the girl took out a knife and…”
Dauntless trailed off, and Vista realized she didn’t want to know what happened. She could spend the rest of her life never knowing just what the girl, the ziz-bomb had done at that moment.
“My buddy lasted about a week, after coming back,” Dauntless took a deep breath. “Then he hung himself in the barracks.”
“What the fuck?” Clockblocker whispered, and Vista didn’t judge him for the sheer horror in his voice; she felt it too.
“Some Containment Zone personnel have mandatory deployment after Simurgh attacks,” Assault added, and Vista almost asked him to just stop talking, because after everything she heard she wasn’t sure she could handle more. “They don’t do search and rescue, after a Simurgh attack. They do secure and contain. Anyone who tries to escape has to be turned back, and if they don’t, they have to be stopped, even if it means killing them to stop them. It’s harrowing work. Necessary, but most people… most people just can’t handle it. But some of the people they have staffing Containment Zones… well, they do it with enthusiasm.”
The part of Vista that had felt outraged at being left out of things, of being treated as though she was too young for her duties or responsibilities, felt outraged not so much at the information which was being provided, but at the fact that the information had been concealed. It railed over having been coddled, over having some nebulously titled adult deciding to conceal facts and protocols that they had decided she was simply too young and innocent to deal with.
A larger part of Vista was beginning to wish that that it hadn’t been necessary for this information to be shared. It wished it could go back to being young, innocent, and unknowing.
“What the fuck?” Clockblocker repeated, his tone slightly louder, more conversation level then a whisper of outrage. “Alright. So, nightmare fuel is nightmare fuel. Got it. Let me see if I have a basic handle on the situation. First, Containment Zones aren’t just bitch duty where you send someone to get a slap on the wrist, they are, in fact, despair-inducing horror zones where we send the most twisted fucks who still want to help so they can help somewhere far away from the rest of us. And Shadow Stalker, who from the sound of it should have actually been SENT to a Zone, managed to run a con on pretty much the whole of the PRT and Protectorate to the point where an innocent girl, when faced with the choice of working with Shadow Stalker or being committed to a hell hole, looked at the hell hole and said ‘Yes. Please’. That’s… that’s pretty much where we are right now, right?”
“Looks like it,” Assault agreed in a tone that would have been sardonic if it wasn’t so condemning.
“Is she…” Vista spoke up slowly, hesitant. “Is she even still… alive? Skitter, I mean. If she was an innocent girl, and she was fifteen, and she got sent to a place like that… I mean, is she still okay?”
“Skitter is still alive, and is an active and decorated member of the containment team,” Armsmaster spoke up, and Vista finally understood why he had spent the entire presentation being so actively unemotional. As the head of the Protectorate, he would have personally been responsible for signing off on transfer orders. He would have personally given permission to send a fifteen-year-old innocent girl to hell. He would have made his own justifications, his own reasons for why he did so. He would have had his reasons why he believed that was for the best.
And now he was dealing with the fact that his justifications were wrong, and his reasons were false. And he was having to live with it now.
Vista wasn’t certain how she would deal with something like that.
“Active and decorated?” Ms. Militia spoke up, and her tone had the sort of grim realization, the dawning horror of someone who had just been told the worst had come to pass.
“After the… misinformation in her initial onboarding had been identified, a thorough review of her active career was conducted,” Armsmaster continued. “Despite… hardship, Skitter has proven to be a dedicated and driven professional, regardless of… career irregularities.”
“And just what, pray tell, are these ‘career irregularities’?” Dauntless asked, tone soft, patient, the sound of a condemned man who has made peace with their execution in the morning.
“Initial persona development via liaison with Public Imaging was… denied from the side of PI,” Armsmaster listed tonelessly. “Due to her staffing at a Containment Zone it was deemed unnecessary to focus on an approachable public facing role. As such, Skitter was given free reign to design her name and costume as she felt necessary. There were initial… strains in her interactions with site personnel, however after an… adjustment period Skitter proved herself as authoritative enough to assume a command role in the structure. Containment Zones lack a structured Wards program, however Skitter proved… versatile enough to integrate herself into a largely more senior staff. While there were concerns from the acting Director, Skitter showed sufficient… initiative that she was assigned contemporary duties concerning containment protocols. She has received several commendations for her judgment in… trying circumstances.”
“Jesus Fuck I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Velocity snapped, his form blurring between words. “I was in the service, I can read between the lines, and the lines you’re spouting are telling a pretty fucking horrific story. Just stop talking. Stop. Now.”
Armsmaster went silent, and Vista could see how his lips paled, blood straining from them from how tightly he was clenching his jaws.
“So,” Clockblocker began, his tone dripping with a sardonic humor that was reminiscent of his normal levity albeit adjusted for the situation. “So, after being pretty much abandoned she suited up, made everyone else her prison bitch, and went on to kick ass so hard the bosses started giving her medals. Well, at least she landed on her feet.”
“What happens next?” Battery chimed in, glancing to Assault, looking for support, guidance, a cue. “We can’t… we can’t leave her there. I don’t care what Director Piggot wants, nobody…”
“Skitter’s transfer orders were issued yesterday at noon,” Armsmaster broke in. Velocity glared at him, but he continued anyway. “She will be returning to Brockton Bay by the end of the week. Psychological counseling will be on standby for assistance in any post-combat issues which may be present. Her status as a probationary member has been retroactively revoked, and a retroactive adjustment to her benefits will be credited to her shortly. Her eighteenth birthday is within the next month, so discussions for a possible future with the Protectorate will ensue. Former Director Piggot has been relieved of duty, also yesterday as of noon, and has been remanded to house arrest pending review of charges for youth endangerment and professional misconduct.”
“Shit,” Vista muttered, uncertain of specifically what she was swearing at but whole-heartedly believing that vulgarity was a necessity at this point.
She had always wanted more female teammates. But the implied underlying motivations of that hope was to have a girl who was a friend, someone who could understand the stress and pressures of hero life while simultaneously filling the role of a more feminine confidant, someone she could do normal things with. Not someone who had apparently adapted to psychologically crushing role so well they were getting commendations for their combat initiative in a role that involved dealing with psycho coworkers and ziz-bombs.
Not just that, but apparently the scope of this scandal was apparently so wide that even an acting Director was being removed in the fallout.
“Beyond former Director Piggots removal,” Armsmaster continued in the same tone, “my own resignation has been tendered and accepted. I will remain the leader of the Protectorate until the end of the week, with the primary duty of assisting my replacement with familiarizing themselves with their future duties.”
“Oh shit,” Vista said again, this time louder. The sheer scope of this scandal wasn’t just enough to can a Director, but even a Protectorate leader as well?
When she saw the grimly satisfied nods of the older members of the Protectorates, the ones who truly understood at an institutional level just how badly things had gone, it was a shot to the gut for Vista, her first true comprehension at just how bad the situation truly was.
“Well, fuck,” Clockblocker groaned, the gravity of the situation also pressing upon him. Perhaps in defiance of it, or maybe out of habit, he continued, his tone as joking as he could manage despite the circumstances. “Think she’ll be mad if I start stocking bug spray?”
***Scene Break***
May 31th, 2013
Skitter was Skitter as she left the Director’s office. She didn’t speak as she paced the hallways of the Madison Containment Zone central post, but the soft hum of her swarm followed her, breaking the silence of the otherwise empty hallway. She moved at an unhurried pace, steps either silent or hidden by her ambient noise. Idly, she glanced out one of the windows. Not into the containment zone proper, no internal windows faced the potential ziz-bomb exposures. It was to the ghost town outside.
The central post was usually quiet. Everyone here knew where they were, and what lay just outside the building. On the non-containment side, the open but unpopulated remains of dilapidated suburbs going to ruin from their disuse and abandonment were visible.
People don’t really think about it, what it means to contain a city, and just how hard it is to determine where a city ends. Urban sprawl, the phenomenon where developers build outwards from a city, adding more and more homes and facilities to support that housing grow, supporting migratory populations that typically work inside the city proper, but can’t afford the cost of living inside directly. When a Containment Zone goes up someone has to make the decision of just how much property is contained, and the further out that containment goes, the more expensive the containment is. To battle that cost, an arbitrary decision has to be made right at the beginning of just how far out the walls need to be made.
And so, some unknown clerk had taken a marker and made a circle on a map, a decision of what will be within, and what would be without. But who in their right mind would want to live so close to such a dangerous place? Property values plummet exponentially based on physical distance to the walls themselves. Not just the dangers within the zone trying to get out, but the dangers outside the zone trying to get in: thrill seekers, crazies, conspiracy theorists, cultists, and others like that.
It was a surprise to Skitter, just how much of her posting here had involved activities outside the walls rather then on them, but Director Tagg had quickly realized the versatility of her swarm, just how much ground she could cover, how effective she was for reconnaissance. And how effective she was at dealing with what she discovered, for that matter.
The Director had damn near waxed poetic at what her potential could be ON the wall, but despite its anemic presence, the Youth Guard still had some sway here. Her actual patrols on the wall itself were extremely limited.
If Skitter was honest with herself, it was probably that line in the sand, drawn early and fast in her posting, that had let her last as long as she had. It had been two years, after all, and still she endured. Not like Romp, the only other Ward she had worked with during her posting. Romp who had lasted only six months before…
Skitter shook her head, banishing the thoughts. With the iron focus she had developed, she turned her thoughts instead to the meeting she had just finished. She didn’t make any judgments or conclusions, just reviewed, considering, replaying the words as she made her way back to her private quarters.
It was only once she was inside, once she had removed her mask and was changing out of her costume, once Skitter once more became Taylor Hebert, that she let her emotions through. She did so carefully, slowly, gradually allowing herself to feel each response as she dissected them, considered her emotions logically, and then filed them away in her memories.
“So,” she murmured, placing her glasses on and giving herself a quick glance at herself. She was still thin, but was far from her previous twiggish self. One of the few ways to relax in a Containment Zone was to make use of the gym, and make use she had, diligently. She had little in the way of civilian clothes (What would she even do with them, after all?) so her outfit was drab, not quite the BDUs that the PRT troopers war, but stark and nearly militaristic anyway. Her lips were still too thin, and her glasses made her eyes look bigger.
They also made the crow’s feet and stress lines starkly visible.
She looked fit. She looked functional. She looked seasoned. That pleased Taylor. Her time here had only emphasized her utilitarian outlook, had focused her professionalism into a knife that she used to cut her work into easily managed chunks, dividing large tasks into small tasks and accomplishing them diligently. It was what made her productivity noticeable enough even for a man like Director Tagg to notice, enough to even drag compliments from the stern warhorse.
The only concession to both her femininity and vanity was her hair. Even then, for as long and curly as it was, nearly shining in the dim light with it’s well cared for glossy sheen, her mane was securely maintained in a tight ponytail.
“So,” she said again, repeating the syllable. “It’s finally time to leave.”
Talking to herself was a habit she had developed during her time in Madison. Taylor found it helped ground her, helped keep her focused, allowed her to review her thoughts more clearly once they were in the air.
She had been waiting for this day over two years. Her probationary contract had been fairly explicit, if simple. Enforced participation in the Wards program until such time as she turned eighteen. Originally, the contract had tried to stipulate an additional two years in the Protectorate under review, but she had been paying attention to the lawyers who drafted her contract. She knew that the two years on the Protectorate weren’t typically mandated, was just something Piggot had tried to put in to ensure she could keep Taylor under her thumb longer, make use of her more. When the contract had been presented to her, she had wordlessly flipped to that segment and crossed it out, initialing the change. Same as she did the other ‘traps’ the lawyers had tried to slip in. The traps had been outrageous and exploitive, and even the lawyers who wrote the contract knew it, so there had only been a half-hearted protest when she altered the contract back to being a standard probationary one.
The end result was fine for her: probationary to eighteen, then her record sealed like any other minor, and she was free to choose whether to sign up for the Protectorate or seek other opportunities.
“I still haven’t actually decided,” Taylor reminded herself out loud again. She hadn’t been idle, these two years. When she had been sure of her privacy, she had consulted several professionals: lawyers and others about her circumstances. She considered her options, listing them in her head.
She could always just join the Protectorate, as Tagg clearly expected. Despite everything, Taylor still felt like a hero, like she wanted to help. Sure, while her civil record would be clean, her professional record and posting at a Containment Zone would severely limit her options in the organization, Taylor had grown to believe in the necessity of the zones, and didn’t reject remaining at them. Maybe switch to Eagleton, or maybe Gary, use her bugs to do more investigation into the inner workings of the zones themselves more safely?
Or she could go independent. Return to Brockton, or maybe just find some other city that could use more boots on the ground. She had her training in Protectorate and PRT policy and procedure, things like reporting and appropriate force. It would make it easy to avoid any lines that might cause the two organizations to try and entrap her, and she could do real good out there.
There was even the possibility of seeking revenge, if she parted with the organizations. She had been assured that the half hazard investigation would crumple under scrutiny. The probation should never have held up to any severe scrutiny, her transfer request had been forced to a Containment Zone as a punitive measure, even the way they had denied her compassion leave when the news about her father finally reached her was egregious. She had been advised, in a fashion she considered ironically humorous at the time, that due to her membership with the Protectorate and her probationary status she was restricted from seeking active appeasement, as the Protectorate could label any suit against them as a conflict of interest and squash it, but once she was out of the organization, she was free to pursue a lawsuit against them.
It definitely fit her impression of the organization: any attempt to stop it from screwing up would automatically be squashed, but punishing them for the screw up after the fact was free game. Taylor had lost track of the number of times she had watched the Protectorate and the PRT with their self-defeating stupidity. She kept a running tally of the fuck ups she had been party to or witnessed.
“Hell,” Taylor muttered, tasting the words like a wine as she continued to consider her circumstances, “I could always just go villain.”
It wasn’t like she had to be a monster or anything. She didn’t have to join the Teeth, or the Fallen, and spend her time threatening and terrorizing the innocent. She could probably easily join the Elite: spider silk and other venoms or secretions by some of the more exotic or dangerous insects would be easy for her. She could probably join Toybox for that matter, and make a killing on just creating villain and hero costumes. She could even just go independent; use her bugs for corporate espionage or casing for heists. She could be a ghost, infiltrating without ever being seen, taking whatever she wants and vanishing without a trace.
“Decisions, decisions,” Taylor sighed, before laying down on her cot, propping herself against the backrest. With the ease of habit, she reached into the bedside drawer, and pulled one of her few civilian possessions: a battered paperback copy of ‘Paradise Lost’.
Taylor had had plenty of time during her posting, after all. There wasn’t much in the way of recreation, guarding a walled city in the ruins of decaying suburbia. Truthfully, it had been more stubbornness that had let her finish the epic. She found many of the themes in it that didn’t sit right with her: the idolization of ignorance, the emphasis on submissive obedience, and that wasn’t even bringing in the religious patriarchy and damn near anti-feminism of the handling of Eve.
There was one character, however, that Taylor never failed to enjoy and who she had read time and time again.
“How did it go again? ’For never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep’,” Taylor recited, a smile on her lips as she quoted Satan. “And after that, what was it…’Farewell hope, and with hope, farewell fear’?’
Tomorrow, Taylor Hebert was returning to Brockton Bay. She was ready for it. She doubted the city was, though.