A God's Blessing on Brockton Bay! (a Worm/Konosuba r63!Taylor AU)

[Mujaki]

No matter how you try to deceive yourself,

This is reality!

But you can't avert your eyes anymore...​

---

"You're in trouble now."



Emma had a certain look on her face. The kind of look that screamed I've got you now, my pretty because The Wizard of Oz was her favorite movie growing up and it left a mark. Despite dressing like Glinda the Good Witch for three years in a row (and insisting I dress up as Toto even though they never interacted at all), she never could remember Glinda's lines. It was always the Wicked Witch that stuck in her mind. She even looked like her, if you squinted: sharp nose, high cheekbones, an appropriately witchy pointed chin that would've looked worse if her face was longer.



The red hair and green eyes shot that resemblance down. But her look was right on the money. "No, we're in trouble."



"Nu-huh."



"Nah, you're the one who's fucked, Hebert," Sophia chimed in from her perch next to Emma, though she had the decency to look abashed when the secretary gave her the eye for swearing in the office. "Fighting in the hallway? Heard that's zero tolerance."



"It wasn't even a fight," I said. "It was a hit and run."



"Yeah, you got hit." She said, as if that made a point.



"And he ran away. The only reason we're even in here right now is because this one"—I pointed right in Emma's face and she went cross-eyed for a second before slumping into her chair—"stuck around to laugh. And so did you."



Sophia confused me. She stuck to Emma like glue, egged her little antics on, and got frustrated when I blew her off or told her it's pointless. She wasn't bad looking either, which fit Emma's aesthetic: big brown eyes, dark skin, hair I'd be jealous of if it meant I could dye mine a normal color, and built like an athlete. She played golf or something, and the idea of her standing on the green wearing a ridiculous pair of pants and a dopey visor was far funnier than it should've been.



"What're you laughing at?!"



I must've laughed out loud. Oops. "Nothing."



"You better not be laughing at me," she grumbled, sitting back in the chair in a perfect mirror of Emma.



Honestly, if Emma really wanted a replacement friend that badly, she could've done better than the prettiest snarly asshole to ever snarl.



Principal Blackwell yanked her door wide open, jolting all of us to attention. The woman was skinny, with a pinched face and a hideous bowl cut that was the widest part of her. Blackwell dressed like she was going to a funeral and when she caught sight of the three of us, she sighed. "Inside. You three. Let's go."



She'd gone monosyllabic. That was a bad sign.



We shuffled inside—I took point and ignored Emma's mumbled "rude" because she wasn't a big believer in true gender equality—and I plopped myself down in the chair closest to the window. Blackwell's office wasn't very big: a fake fern in one corner, some discount store wall art behind her, and a hideous green rug beneath her feet. I liked to think she decorated her house the same way. "Good morning, ma'am."



"Don't you 'good morning' me, Mr. Herbert."



"Hee-bert." Emma and I said at the same time. She stared at me a moment before she scowled and looked away.



One point for me.



"Whatever," Blackwell sighed. She always sighed when the three of us were in her office. I assumed that she wasn't getting enough sleep at night. "This is the third time we've been here this month."



"That's not too bad," Sophia said.



"What day is it, Miss Hess?"



"Uh," she looked gobsmacked, rifling through her pockets for her phone. "The fifth?"



"And the first was last Thursday. You've been in here once a day since Thursday."



"Oh."



"He was fighting in the hallway, he's the one, he started it!" Emma whipped around and pointed right at me. "Whatever happened, it was him!"



"Wasn't a fight," I said.



"Loathe as I am to admit it, Miss Barnes isn't wrong," Blackwell said. She steepled her fingers, lips thinned. "How did you end up on the ground with a bloody nose?"



"Hit and run." I knew my argument wasn't very convincing. Having a tissue jammed up one nostril had a way of stripping anyone's dignity, but I persevered. "It wasn't a fight. Not technically."



"Then elaborate," Blackwell said. "Please".



"Some athlete guy ran up, screamed I'm gonna punch you, freak, punched me, then ran off," I shrugged. "Like I said, it wasn't really a fight."



"You blaming a football player, you wuss?"



That solved one particular mystery. I stared at Sophia. "When did I say it was a football guy?"



"Who cares who it was?" Emma said. "Still fighting. You should be suspended! A—"



"Actually, Miss Barnes, I care," Blackwell grumbled. "And suspensions are for me to decide, once the relevant parties arrive."



"Yeah, Miss Barnes," I said, perhaps a little too gleefully. "Let Mrs. Blackwell do her job."



"And don't you give me sass either, Mr. Hebert," the Principal turned a fiery gaze at me. "Because of this little incident, suspension actually is on the table. Zero tolerance for fights. But nothing can be decided until your parents arrive."



Parents? Oh.



Oh no.



As if mirroring my own thoughts, Emma paled. "You called his mom?!"



"I got punched in the face, Ems." The name slid down my brain stem, around my teeth, and launched itself off my tongue into the world before I could think to bite it down. Emma's eyes widened and I chose to ignore that, considering the heat rushing up my face. "Pretty sure she's legally obligated to call."



"Y-you… she's coming here… w-why?" Emma was already pale—the curse of the ginger, so I'm told—but she'd gone white as a sheet and I hoped the idea of Mom showing up pushed my little slip-up out of her mind. Given the way she blinked, like a hummingbird flapping its wings, I wondered if she was about to pass out before she abruptly stood. "There wasn't a fight, ma'am."



Huh. Would you look at that?



Blackwell was far less impressed. "Excuse me?"



"No fighting. He tripped or something," she rambled. "He's clearly delusional and we should just call it square."



"And I should just let Hit and Run get away with this?"



"It's just a bloody nose."



"It's the principle of the thing!"



"What principles?" Emma scoffed. "You still sleep with a stuffed bear! How's Mr. Ted doing these days?"



My jaw dropped. I'd honestly thought she'd forgotten about that. "That's none of your concern."



She twisted her lips into a hungry smile. "Who does that at your age? Seriously."



"Well, who gave him to me?"



"That was a long time ago."



"It was last year!"



"Ummm"—Emma got a point back in her favor, but struggled to follow up—"Y-you drool in your sleep!"



Oh, that's weak sauce. I was kind of disappointed. So many secrets between us and she picked the dumbest ones to bring to light. Well, two could play that game. "You can't eat eggs after 4pm because you fart in your sleep."



"I DO NOT!!!"



"Both of you, SIT!" Blackwell's voice echoed off the walls and I tripped over my words, trailing into unintelligible mumbles as I slumped back in my seat. It was a small consolation that Emma was equally thrown off. "I don't need either of you to escalate the situation."



"But—"



"No buts, Miss Barnes! You're here because Mrs. Knott saw you and Miss Hess, and I'm directly quoting, pointing and laughing like two brainless hens!"



"That's no crime," Sophia said, chin up in defiance when every eye in the room turned to her. "Might be a dick move, but that's no crime. I know my rights."



Damn. That was technically true. I was going to be pissed if nothing came of this. "Hey, maybe I can identi—"



"I'm getting to you, Mr. Hebert," Blackwell said. "I'm told you're the victim, but there are previous incidents at work here. I'm willing to ignore your hair, but three times in a row is a pattern."



"Those weren't my fault."



"Yes, they were," Emma mumbled, though her mouth snapped shut when Blackwell shot her a glare.



"The fight beneath the bleachers at lunch?"



"Wasn't me." I said.



"I'll need more details than that," she said, rubbing a hand on her brow. A bit of her foundation had rubbed away and the skin beneath was an angry red.



Huh. Maybe she was warm. "I meant it literally wasn't me. Those idiots jumped Sparky."



"I fuckin' knew it," Sophia muttered. Blackwell didn't hear it, though. Sweat dotted the woman's brow and I wondered if she'd put in a tough workout this morning. She was certainly skinny enough.



"How did they mistake her—"



"Them."



"—fine, them for you?"



"Sparky left their coat at home. I loaned them mine. It wasn't my fault someone decided to jump them."



"And it was convenient that our star quarterback, a shortstop, and the head cheerleader ended up in the hospital afterwards?"



"Just like I told the VP last week, I had no idea Sparky knew Kung Fu."



"Krav Maga," Blackwell and I turned to Sophia. "What? They're a stoner burnout, but they've got some moves."



"Thank you, Miss Hess," Blackwell sighed. "What about Friday? You were involved in the riot."



"I wasn't the one who decided to bring the mascots, okay? I just ran away."



"It was pandemonium. We're still getting calls."



"Then maybe someone should make sure no suspicious boxes are brought into the Field House," I said. "We're the Winslow Wasps. I'm surprised no one's ever done it before."



Principal Blackwell made a noise: not quite a sigh, but not really a grunt either. A shunt. "They have. Six times. Every five years, like clockwork."



"Sounds like a 'You' problem."



"That doesn't explain the honey, Mr. Hebert."



"No it doesn't, does it?" I said, shooting Emma a glare.



For her part, Emma met my eyes, wannabe witchy chin upturned as she gave me her best frown. "I'm not saying anything until Daddy gets here."



"Very well," Blackwell shunted. "And that brings us to today. And you two"—Sophia looked indignant while Emma stared at the ceiling, counting the tiles—"being poor Samaritans at best and possibly organizing the incident at worst."



Sophia rolled her eyes. "I'm not saying anything until—"



"Apologies for the delay, I was held up in the parking lot." Mr. Barnes walked into the room like he owned it. Fancy pressed suit, leather briefcase, the whole nine: he looked like the Accord 3rd Annual Dictionary definition of the word Lawyer. Emma obviously got her hair from him, though he had much less of it now than when we were kids. She didn't get his height, though: Mr. Barnes was a big bear of a man who filled his fancy suit out like a bodyguard when the mood suited him.



It was probably why he was such a good lawyer. "Hi, Uncle Alan."



"Hey, Taylor," he said before stopping dead in his tracks. He took in the scene: me by the window, Emma and Sophia lumped together on the big two-seater, and Blackwell looking like she desperately needed to run to the bathroom. "Wait, again?!"



"Yes. Again," Blackwell said. She gave up on steepling her fingers and settled for dabbing her brow. "We're just waiting on Mrs. Hess and… Mrs. Hebert,"



"I'll be filling in for Mrs. Hess," Mr. Barnes said.



My ears perked up at that. Since when did Mr. Barnes…



…Wait, he did that for me in Middle School when Mom was indisposed (a fancy word for 'having a delicate day' or 'I threw up in my hair and need to just lay down today, you can cook, right, baby?'). The last time I saw her, Mrs. Hess looked like she was about to pass out, dead on her feet. I felt a pang of sympathy for the snarly girl: I loved my Mom, but… yeah. I could relate.



That didn't excuse her for being a snarly jerk on a good day. Emma really could've done better finding a replacement friend.



Maybe I was just a little bitter.



"Mrs. Hebert will be in shortly," he said. "I gave her a ride, but she's been detained."



I covered my face with my hands. Detained was code for Forgot her disguise. Again.



The world could be cruel and unfair. You'd think the existence of Capes, people with actual superpowers, would've made it better, but it rarely felt that way. Villains mucking up the works in petty and not-so-petty ways. Superheroes that looked competent at first glance with their formal training, registered nature, merchandising—yes, merchandising—but didn't do much to help the average Tom, Dick, or Harry (or Angela, Pamela, Sandra, or Rita) on the street. They even had a whole JV squad composed of kids who looked more like a group of school athletes in kitchy vinyl uniforms than anyone who could actually save your life. And then there were Rogues: unaffiliated capes who weren't working with the heroes or villains. Mostly poor souls trying to make a buck.



Like Mom. Though she had a wrinkle most capes didn't: she lived her life openly. There was no real divide between Annette Hebert, PhD in English Literature and Aqua, the hydrokinetic healer who also taught Lit at Brockton U. The fact that she actually was powerful is why she could stay unaffiliated. Everyone had tried to recruit her at one point or another. Heroes, villains; you name it, they tried it. But something about Mom's inherent… Mom-ness tended to dissuade people as soon as she opened her mouth.



Hell, Accord showed up at our door last October (on the tenth, which he explicitly called the second best day of the year for balanced temperatures). He stayed and visited with Mom for exactly ten minutes, ate two brownies (with no nuts and corners removed with the fanciest knife I'd ever seen), thanked me for the tea, and promptly walked out of the house, never to return.



We didn't get many visitors after that. But she was still friendly with New Wave. Sort of.



Getting plastered with Brandish every other weekend counted as friendship, right?



"Aaaaaaaallllllaaaaaannnn~!" The office door swung wide and Mom sauntered in. "Why'd you leave me behind?!"



Mr. Barnes sighed. "You looked like you were busy, Annie."



Sighing seemed to be the thing today, because Mr. Barnes let out another as Mom closed the door behind her. Blackwell opted for her old standby and simply shunted again, bony fingers threading through her hair.



Just like he said, Mom hadn't bothered with a disguise. A big reason Mom was an open cape was, simply put, it was hard to hide her appearance. Mom wasn't terribly tall—I got my height from Dad and even Emma had a few inches on her—but we shared the same pale, clear skin and deep blue eyes. But Mom's hair was the same bright blue as a mountain lake. Distinctive. You could see it a mile away. She usually had it done in an elaborate looped ponytail with choppy bangs framing her face, but she'd opted for a simple high bun today.



"I always have time for my beloved followers!" She gushed, taking in the scene.



Emma shifted in her seat, trying to position herself behind her Dad, but she was no pixie. Sophia stared at Mom, completely boggle-eyed, before whipping her head towards me. "Your Mom is fucking Aqua?!"



"Of course not! His father did that." Mom said. She paused a moment, then cackled at her own joke, a hand over her mouth.



That laughter abruptly stopped as soon as Mom laid eyes on me. "MYYYY BAAAAAAYYYYBEEEEEEEY!" She wailed. Mr. Barnes smartly hopped out of her way—he was well aware that she was stronger than she looked—as she barreled into me with a crushing hug. "Oh, Tailor—"



"Yes, I'm Taylor."



"—what did that brute do to you!?" Mom released me and bent over to inspect my face. She'd thankfully dressed in normal clothes. For her, at least. A crisp blue blouse without sleeves and an equally blue pencil skirt that was scandalously short. Based on Emma's non-reaction, at least she was wearing underwear today.



Sophia wasn't as reserved. "Whoa! What the fuck, lady!"



"Your poor nose," she said, tears in her eyes. "But don't you worry! I'll make it good as new!"



Before I could protest, a shining point of light bubbled from her fingertip. Mom tapped me on the nose and the light smeared on my skin before sinking in. A terrible crunch echoed off the walls as my nose straightened out. Sophia flinched and if someone so intimate with punching people couldn't stand the sound, then I counted myself lucky that Mom's power numbed any pain.



Blackwell just stared, dumbfounded, as did Mr. Barnes. I had a sneaking suspicion that Mom simply forgot other people were in the room, since she sheepishly replied. "Oh yeah, I should'a waited till we got home, right?"



"Mrs"—Blackwell let her esss go a little too long, like steam escaping—"Hebert. There is a very strict No Powers rule on this campus. We don't want to frighten the students."



I glanced past Mom and through the windows. There was a sizable crowd outside, mostly boys, who were jockeying for position at the hedge to peer inside and catch a glimpse of her. Mom gave them a jaunty wave. "They don't look scared to me."



Blackwell drew the blinds. "Still against regulation."



"Nu-huh! I checked after the last time!" Mom stuck a hand down her blouse and produced a battered copy of the Winslow Code of Conduct. "The old rules said no powers, but this updated one from the beginning of the year says they're allowed! See!" She waved the book in Blackwell's face and the skinny woman's face flushed red like a tomato, makeup and all. "Section 17, paragraph 4! I can totally do miracles so long as the recipient is in dire need. I think the PRT has something similar."



"A bloody nose is hardly 'dire need', Mrs. Hebert," Blackwell said. "He'll keep until we discuss the fight—"



"Hit and run." I muttered.



"—whatever that occurred!"



"How could you say something like that to a mother about her child!" Mom said, aghast. "Our bond is sacred! Which counts as a dire need!"



"Three times in three days. Actionable offenses. As far as I'm concerned, this is attention-seeking behavior," Blackwell sniffed.



Emma and Sophia giggled, but before I could say anything, the Principal beat me to the punch. "And that includes you two idiots as well."



The room exploded in a frenzy of motion and noise. Sophia shot to her feet to protest unfair treatment while Mr. Barnes played diplomat to an increasingly flustered Blackwell. Emma followed, but the moment she left cover, Mom pounced. "EMMAAAAAAH~!"



The girl in question only had a moment's warning before Mom swept her up in a bearhug, Emma's feet dangling off the ground. "It's been so long! You look so good!"



"Er, hi?" Emma whimpered. I kind of felt sorry for her, if only because Mom could be a lot.



Coincidentally, the Accord 3rd Annual Dictionary codified the phrase A Lot and a picture of my mother was next to it.



"Annie!"



"Mom, put her down."



"Get off her, you crazy bit—"



"Enough, all of you!" Blackwell stood, a thunderous look on her face. "I will have order or everyone will be expelled!"



Oh, I couldn't have that. "Mrs. Blackwell, look. Mom fixed me, Emma and Sophie—"



"Don't you dare call me that, He—"



"—SOPHIE here were being dicks, but I'm fine. So... there's no need for all this, right?"



The skinny woman gave me a wary eye. "There are consequences for everyone's actions, Mr. Hebert. Your mother being a cape doesn't exempt you from that. Nor you, Miss Barnes!" Mr. Barnes opened his mouth to retort, but Blackwell didn't let him. "One year of chaos in the halls is more than enough and I refuse to let this little game of yours continue. This is a school, damn it!"



"But no one got hurt, right?" Mom dropped Emma where she stood and strolled up to the desk. "I mean, sure, accidents happen. I remember a teeny little mistake a few years back when I might've, kinda, possibly pulled some water from the ocean and wrecked all the pretty boats trying to wash them. But that was just an accident! Taylor and Emma were just playing around, right?"



Emma and I nodded in unison, Sophia half a beat behind.



"See! Are you gonna do it again?"



"No, Mom."



"N-no, Mrs. Hebert."



"Nope."



"So it's settled!" Mom said, a grin on her face. "I knew we'd all get along. No one's going to have any accidents here. Right, Mrs. Blackwell? No accidents at all."



Principal Blackwell paled. The spots where she'd rubbed off her cheap foundation made her look like a potato with the skin haphazardly peeled. After a long, quiet moment, she straightened her jacket and hit a button on the phone. "Ms. Salcido?"



"Yes, ma'am?"



"Hold all my calls and cancel the rest of my appointments for today."



"...okay?"



The woman took the phone off the hook, grabbed a hefty purse from her desk, and walked out.



The room went silent. A clock ticked heavily in the corner.



"Wait," Sophia muttered. "Did she just fucking leave?"



"Looks like it," I muttered.



"Um," Emma poked her head around Mr. Barnes, keeping him as a human shield between herself and Mom. "That means we're done here, right?"



"Woo!" Mom gushed, jumping up and down. "Another victory for Aqua!" She turned a sly eye to Mr. Barnes. "Told ya we'd be in and out. Pay up."



"Sucker's bet, always a sucker's bet," Mr. Barnes muttered as he pulled two crisp hundred-dollar bills from his wallet.



"We should celebrate! Let's hit Big Mike's!"



Mr. Barnes stared at her, dumbfounded. "It's 2 in the afternoon, Annie. I have to go back to the office."



"Is Carol there?"



"Umm… it's her day off."



"No worries! She'll pick me up." Mom said, a gleam in her eye as she pulled out her RoundPhone and furiously tapped away. "Do you wanna come, Baby?"



Now it was my turn to sigh. "No, I'm good."



"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Mom fussed with my jacket and with another glowing swipe of her finger, the drops of blood on my shirt evaporated.



"I'll be fine," I said. "Go have fun."



"You're the best!" She preened, crushing me in another hug. "Ohhhh, my baby boy. I'll see you at home!"



Home.



Maybe I'd take the long way today.

---

By the time school let out, it was cloudy. The humidity never bothered me as much as it did Emma (a perpetual point in my favor I kept in my back pocket, just in case). She used a cornucopia of shampoos, cream rinses, leave-in conditioners, and occasionally glue to keep her hair from turning into a frizzy nightmare in the fall. It helped she was well-compensated for it: thousands of people would tune in for her Get Ready With Me videos on the weekends. Companies all over the country would send her samples and give her sponsorships. She did well for a high schooler with straight B minuses on her report card.



And it made me laugh because this was her Plan B. Emma had her heart set on being a model, but that fell through when she couldn't button the sample size tops on the runway and liked chocolate too much to consider the alternative. All that money and boy was she salty about it.



There was only so long I could put off the inevitable. Wandering aimlessly wasn't always aimless. I'd found my way to the abandoned park a couple of blocks down the road from my house. Abandoned wasn't really the right work for it anymore: a tent city formed a couple years ago, just after Dad died. He loved the Bay. I think that love was the only reason Mom decided to stay when he was gone.



It started when Mom and I were driving home after a barbecue at Emma's, back when she was still allowed behind the wheel. I'd glanced over and recognized Bill, one of Dad's old coworkers, sitting on a bench. Dressed in rags. Dad was one of the higher-ups at the Dockworkers Association and without him, the whole thing went belly up after a few months. Bill was let go early on and he'd lost everything, so I asked Mom to pull over and gave him our leftovers.



And when he asked, cheeks red, if we had any water he could drink, Mom turned the old sandbox into a fucking spring.



The Parahuman Response Team came and went. All manner of Capes and scientists tested the results and all were equally baffled. Mom hadn't tapped into the aquifer beneath our feet. She didn't pipe in seawater and filter it. Somehow, she'd conjured pure, drinkable water that would eternally gush at regular intervals, and according to her it would never run dry. Armsmaster, stickler that he was for proper terminology, labeled it spontaneous generation and went back to the local PRT Headquarters. According to Carol Dallon (on one of her biweekly benders with Mom), he promptly had a nervous breakdown and was still in therapy.



Now the tent city covered half of the park. Old playground equipment repurposed into community housing with good, strong canvas walls to keep out the elements. I'd gotten together with a few of the houseless workers Bill brought in to put in a water heater so people could bathe. Part of Mom's deal with Armsmaster to inspect the spring (negotiated by Mr. Barnes, thankfully) was for him to install high turnover solar panels and a miniature wind turbine so everyone could have power. I was pretty good at sewing and better at cooking, so I'd spend my weekends mending work clothes and baking desserts and bread for them.



For her part, Mom would heal anyone (on the house) a few times a month. Didn't matter if it was a runny nose or something far worse: she was thorough and refused to let anyone suffer if she could help it. New Wave, a local independent cape team who lived openly like Mom, would show up from time to time to make sure that only the tent city people were getting their ailments wished away. It reminded me that even though Mom had her moments, she could do good things.



The statue that one of the more artistic residents built in her honor probably didn't hurt.



"The Sun!" I turned my head to the spring. Someone noticed me walking up. "The Sun has returned!"



"It's the Sun!"



I didn't know why they were always saying that. Half the time it's overcast.



"Hey, folks," I said to the small crowd that had gathered. "I'll have new curtains for everyone this weekend. It's been a day."



"The Sun proclaims!"



"You can just call me 'Taylor', you know."



"He is the Tailor!"



"Yes, I'm Taylor."



I shook hands and took notes on what needed to be done. Bill had a list handy for major stuff, but usually missed the smaller details. Things like shampoo, tampons, plates and cutlery. Minutiae that tends to get lost in the shuffle compared to the big things like power and warm beds.



Paper in hand, I said my goodbyes and nearly walked right into a familiar face. "Hey, Tee."



"Sparky."



"Don't give me that stoic bullshit," they said. "It might work on Queenie and the angriest track star alive, but you aren't that slick."



Track? "I thought Sophia played golf?"



Sparky rolled their eyes. "You really think she's chill enough for golf?"



"Everyone has their quirks."



"Hers are chokeholds and punching with a closed fist. She'd probably shove a golf club down someone's throat before using it to hit a ball."



"Some people would pay good money for that."



"Only if you're into that kind of thing," they said. "I've got your jacket. Walk with me."



We wove between tents. The sun was finally setting, but the clouds kept it from showing through, so the sky simply darkened from light gray to deep blue. "So she runs?"



"Sprints. Not skinny enough for distance and it would probably bore the fuck out of her. Discus and Shot Put too, I think. She's the type to like throwing stuff around."



I remembered the Bookbag Incident at the end of last year. Sophia hurled a bag full of textbooks at my head, but I had the luck to be bending down and tying my shoes at that exact moment. She creamed Vanessa Sutton in the back of the head by mistake. Vanessa was six foot two, weighed about as much as Sophia and I put together, and was the star powerlifter on the girl's team. Sparky thought she was cute, especially since she could hoist the quarterback over her head.



She also had a brown belt in judo, which Sophia discovered to her misfortune. "Yeah, I can see that."



We got to Sparky's tent and stepped inside. It was fairly spartan, all things considered. A much nicer green rug than the one in Former Principal Blackwell's office, a poster of Vanessa Sutton's Winslow Wasp All-Star profile on one wall. A twin-sized bed sat across from it. "The poster's new."



"You dig it?" Sparky said, a cheeky grin on their face. "Mid-power clean? Face all sweaty and cute? Big 'step on you and make you like it' energy? Hell yeah."



"You're weird. I know I've told you this before, but it bears repeating."



"Like you don't think she's stupid hot, too."



"But I wouldn't actually admit to it in public," I said. "Have some shame."



"Shame abandoned me on the same doorstep I got left on as a kid. Deal with it, Tee." Sparky bent down and I averted my gaze out of respect. "Besides, having a girlfriend who could curl you like a dumbbell is pretty awesome."



"That's a low bar to clear with you."



"Look who's talking, Tee."



They had a point. Sparky was tall and rangy. Pretty similar to me, truth be told. They even had blue hair, though that was common in the tent city, even in the adults. Sparky's whole mane was a vibrant electric blue compared to my blue-black. But that's where the similarities ended: Sparky had a higher forehead, thinner nose, and fuller lips compared to me.



But with my jacket, from far away? It was easy to confuse us. "Fair point. How much do I owe you?"



"Zilch," they said, yanking my old, green bomber out of their trunk. "Melissa was a bitch and I got the chance to punk the asshole that made Vanessa cry last week. I should be paying you."



"I accept regular cash and DragonBux."



"Just take your shit," they laughed. "You going to school tomorrow?"



"Yeah."



"Think you can give my part of the project to Gladly?" Sparky gave me a sparkly binder stuffed with photos. It tickled me that as edgy as they could be, they loved garish, neon glittered notebooks. "I've got an open weight meet Wednesday and I wanna veg the day before."



I glanced at the leather satchel beneath their bed and had an idea of what they actually meant. The faint skunky odor in the tent sealed the deal. "I've got you."



"You're the best, Tee," they said, plopping down on the bed and kicking off their shoes. "Feel like hanging tonight?"



"Nah, Mom went out."



"Ah, hell. Probably want to get home, then."



Home. "Yeah."

---

It was nearly dark by the time I got home. I ended up being really thankful I took as long as I did when I saw a blur of white streak through the air. Mom decided to party at home, which meant Carol needed a designated flier.



Victoria Dallon, Glory Girl. A bubbly, blonde teen idol type with half a head on me and fully capable of bench pressing a school bus, definitely more Sparky's type than mine. She also had the annoying habit of pestering me when she brought her mother over to tip glasses with Mom.



What are you doing?



Your Mom's powers make no sense!



Is your hair natural? That's not fair!



It didn't help that she had a habit of throwing shit when she was in a bad mood and using that weirdo aura of hers to smooth things over, like when she pitched a rock through a neighbor's house by accident. That was the thing: she hurt as much as she helped. In life and as a Cape. Paired with a voice like nails on a chalkboard and was it any wonder why I couldn't stand her?



Emma wished she had what this girl did. Which was the only reason I didn't completely hate her.



I hadn't gotten around to fixing the steps yet, so I went in through the side door into the kitchen. I tossed my bookbag on the table along with the glittery binder and took a second to prepare myself. Half a dozen shot glasses littered the kitchen island, so I had an idea of what I'd find in the living room.



Fortune favored the bold and all that.



Mom was sprawled on the couch. Wine bottles littered the floor and I carefully stepped around them to get to the love seat. Which I couldn't actually sit on, due to the neatly arranged tower of corks leaning against an empty bottle of absinthe and a half melted bucket of ice.



Awesome.



"Baaaabee? 'Zat u?" Mom rolled over, hair askew. "Didja have fuun with V-Vic. Vickery?"



"I didn't see her, Mom."



"Why dint you get t-together wif Vickery? She shooooo kyoot," she mumbled. She cradled a wine bottle in her arms like a child. "You shoooo kyoot too! You would'a ben shooo kyoot toge-theeerr."



"She's not my type."



"Wha 'bout Emms?" Mom had a lazy grin on her face. "Shee yer type?"



"I"—I really didn't want to have this conversation right now, or ever if I could help it—"I don't think so."



"Yu were so kyoot in bed together. I got pics!" Mom said. Then her eyes went wide and she bolted upright. "Trash can."



I barely moved the can into position and moved her hair out of the way before she hurled. Rainbow splatters dotted the floor by the time she was done. "Shhhorry."



"It's okay, Mom," I sighed. "Do you want to go to bed?"



"Yah."



Emma liked fairy tales and fantasy stories. Obsessed with them, really. She delighted in unreality. The Wizard of Oz was obvious, but that wasn't the only one. We'd watch Disney movies when we had sleepovers as kids. Her favorite, naturally, was The Little Mermaid, but I always preferred Beauty and the Beast.



Me, with Mom on my back half-asleep as I trundled up the stairs, was a tale as old as time.

---

(Author's Note: So... I should be writing the next chapter to Taylor Can Handle It, but a little back-and-forth in that thread put a bug in my head that I couldn't shake. What if... Boy!Taylor, but with Aqua as his mother? What effect would a useless Goddess have on the world of Worm? Well, thanks to scriviner, Duelist925, and the good folks on the Toybox discord, I got this little idea hammered out. Not gonna lie, this was the hardest thing I've ever written. Turns out writing comedy is hard! Hopefully, you all enjoy this little diversion, and if you like it, I may have more coming down the line...)



(Author's Note Part Deux: So this is getting its own thread now. Big thanks to the folks at Toybox, the Gaylor server, and my Discord buds for many, many edits and comments to get this sucker into shape. Chapter 2 is done and drops in the morning.)

 

[Mujaki]

Felt like your love was part of a game,

Not all at once, but one and the same;

I knew the rules, learned how to play,

Couldn't break the habit of my cage...

​

---

"Good morning, beautiful people!" Emma's voice was a sing-song soprano, green eyes glittering in the ring light. "Let's get ready!"



I knew I shouldn't do this to myself. I knew that hate-watching her channel was literally putting money in her pocket.



And yet.



"Today's color of the day is green! Don't you think it matches my eyes?"



There was something morbidly fascinating about the way she presented herself on camera. The intro to each video was different: framed in such a way that showed her laying perfectly posed in bed just as the sun rose from her east window during golden hour in the morning, a different pair of pajamas with every shoot. She'd slowly open her eyes, blink coquettishly at the camera, and stretch with a vast yawn that she knew would get anyone's attention, especially if she was wearing a fancy cami. Then she'd slowly turn and slink one leg, then the other, out from beneath a huge, downy comforter, planting delicate toes on her shaggy green carpet and smile wide, ready for her morning.



And it was so fake. I knew from personal experience that she preferred to wear big t-shirts to bed, tossed and turned for half an hour, and then slept through the night in whatever position she'd managed to contort herself. Ass in the air, face hanging off the bed, drooling. Her hair a massive ball of frizz from the humidifier (she needed one so she wouldn't snore at night).



I wondered if people really believed she woke up like a fairy tale princess. Maybe she'd live stream one day, mumble something about doughnuts and pretzels, burp, then roll over after stealing all the covers. What would her beautiful viewers think about the fantasy then?



To be honest, she'd probably get even more views. Just not the ones she'd want.



But I'd keep that in my back pocket when I needed a guaranteed point in my favor.



"Oh, what's that? I'm number one in streaming for the week?"



Huh. That was interesting. I knew she was popular, but I didn't know how popular. I grabbed my phone and brought the whole thing into the bathroom while she droned on. "Oh, you guys! You didn't have to do that! Ooh! Another sub? You get emote privileges."



I didn't know who ran her stream, but Emma had managed to get her hands on a talented artist. The tiny, cartoon Emma that popped up onscreen was an unusually good likeness, minus the giant head, petting a cat that looked suspiciously like Mom's in a simple animation.



Sukie was black, streaked with burnt orange across her face, and the laziest cat I'd ever met. Mom doted on her just as much as she did me, down to calling her "the daughter she never had". She was also hilariously fat and didn't care much for Mom, preferring to sleep in my room. "Have you been a traitor, girl?"



Sukie glanced up from the rug, blinked with a feline eye, and rolled over, furry belly aimed directly into the air as if to say get to petting, pleb.



I gave Sukie a good belly rub. Her purring was like a cranky old Cessna trying to get off the airstrip and I had to boost the volume to hear Emma. "We beat Über and Leet this week? Wow," she murmured, voice simpering in faux-coquettishness. "I didn't expect that! Well, their old streams used to be more fun. Not that they aren't funny now, but"—she gave an exaggerated shrug—"what can you do?"



Loathe as I was to admit it, hearing Emma's stream as I got ready for my own day brought back memories. Good ones, even. Sleepovers and breakfasts, hearing Emma try to brush her teeth while I was in the shower to save water (an excuse, mainly because Mom pulled the same mojo at the house as she did at the tent city). It got me into a groove.



Brush my teeth.



Try and tame my hair (as much as I cursed Mom's genetics for the color, I was thankful all I needed to do was brush it back since humidity didn't affect me).



Get dressed. And Sukie had planted herself on my jeans. "Hey, get off you freeloader."



Sukie purred.



"I mean it. Last time you burrowed in, my legs itched for three days straight."



She rolled over.



"I won't make any bacon for you when I go downstairs."



As if I'd asked her to leap from the rooftop into a tiny cup, Sukie narrowed her eyes before giving a tiny harumph and padding out of the room. I shook any stray dander out of my jeans and pulled them on. "Was that so hard?"



Maybe I gave the cat a little too much credit. I doubted it was healthy to talk to her like she was a person.



"Taaaaaaaaaaaaylooooooor~!" Mom's door cracked open and she looked at me with one bleary eye. "Can you make some coffee, please?"



"Sure thing, Mom."



"Best son in the world, you're blessed for the day," she muttered. Mom stuck a bare arm out, fingertip glowing, and waved it in a nonsense sign. "Knock before you bring it in, 'Kay?"



To be fair, it could be worse.

---

"Why are we here, Sparky?"



I unzipped my coat, tied it off at my waist, and hoped Sparky felt shame for dragging me out into the stands at this time of year. Late October was usually chilly, but it was warm and muggy today. Humidity didn't bother my hair, but I wasn't fond of feeling shrink wrapped in my own clothes.



Sparky, for their part, was absolutely shameless. "The scenery, Tee. The scenery."



The girl's track team was hard at work on the field. Cross Country girls were already hoofing it on the other side of the school, but we had front row seats for the sprinters, the shot putters, and the discus throwers.



Javelin wasn't an event at our district level. I double checked since I knew Sophia would be out there. Even with the coaches on site, one could never be too sure. "So you've said. Who's got your eye today?"



"What do you think of her?" Sparky nodded to a redhead waiting on the track, eyes tracking the relay runner coming up fast. Tall and noodly, she took off the second the baton touched her palm and she rocketed down the lane.



"Too ginger."



"I thought you liked gingers."



"Take that back!"



"Eh, on second thought, never mind. You're too fussy for Jane anyway."



"Oh, you know her name?



"She's Vanessa's bestie," Sparky sniffed. "So yes." They scanned the field and smiled. "How about her? Over by Vanessa."



Vanessa Sutton wasn't hard to miss: she was a head taller than every other girl on the field and had a few inches on the coach too. She bounced on her toes as she shook the cobwebs loose and took a shot put out of the hands of a skinny blonde. "Nah, freckles aren't my thing."



"Picky, picky. Fine," they said. "How about them, at the hundred?"



Sparky thumbed towards the inner field where a sprint was in progress. The girl they'd pointed at was mid-stride, muscular legs pumping with every step. When she ran, it was like she took the floor is lava literally, feet barely touching the turf before propelling forward.



I was bouncing on my own toes watching.



She hit the finish line first, ahead by more than a second. And the girl knew she'd won, pumping her fist as she turned away and—



Oh.



Oh my.



That was a sight I wasn't going to forget anytime soon. "Hey, who's that?"



Sparky had a smirk a mile wide on their face. "Look closer."



The girl turned around and it took me a second to get it: dark skin, hair pulled back in a jaunty ponytail, and resting bitch face so deeply set they wouldn't be able to chisel off her face even when she was dead. "Oh, that's dirty."



"She has redeeming qualities."



"It's Sophia."



"And Sophia's hot, objectively."



"Dirty, dirty, dirty. I want to shower."



"A cold shower, right?"



"Ye—no!" I stood, imperious. "First, it's Sophia Hess and anyone getting near her needs to sign a waiver. And second, not just no. But hell no."



"Still nice to look at."



"So's a snake, so long as it's in a cage. In the middle of a lake. Far away."



"You're no fun."



"I'm just not stupid," I said. Of course, my morning with Emma's video came to mind. "Well, I don't court stupidity."



"You aren't stupid, you just do stupid shit, got it."



"Hey!"



"I could sugarcoat it if you want, but that's not why we hang, is it?"



Shit, they had a point. "Fair."



"Face it, Tee," they said. "Queenie and Sophia don't have issues, they've got subscriptions. And you're signed up for the same shit and it keeps hitting you every month."



"That's just unfair."



"Am I wrong?" Sparky tore their gaze away from Vanessa's prep routine and looked me dead in the eye. "You don't have to acknowledge Queenie. You do it 'cause you want to. Because, survey says"—they held their hands up, framing me with their fingers—"you've got issues letting shit go."



"She started it," I grumbled.



"And? You keep it going."



I sat back against the hard, plastic seat. Sparky wasn't wrong, not by a long shot. I'd be good for a whole week, sometimes even two (if the mood struck), but then Emma would do or say a thing and I couldn't just let that slide. I had to fight back. It was instinctive in a way I couldn't really describe: a deep buried hurt that wanted to lash out at the thing that created it.



The summer before last, when she blew me off for her shiny new friend with the big rear bumper, left a mark. I couldn't call it a scar since it still festered.



"Maybe I do," I said. "What else am I supposed to do?"



"Why do you think we're out here?"



"You wanted to ogle Vanessa."



"I'm supporting Vanessa, don't get it twisted," they said. "You're here with me because I maybe, possibly wanted to show you there were other fish in the sea. Less bitey ones."



"You're the one who pointed out Sophia."



"She's a great example of not judging a book by its cover."



"You had me read the synopsis on the back."



"And it said I'm soft, squeezable, and I'll stab you if you try."



"Touché."



"My point's that Queenie's only as important as you make her."



"I don't think about her at all."



"Oh, Tee," Sparky chuckled. "Your pants are on fire."



I decided to chance another look at the field. Sophia was still there, mid-stretch.



Backwards, far enough I could imagine her back popping. Side-to-side, working out a runner's cramp or side stitch. I could relate, though I wasn't anywhere near a champion sprinter. I wasn't staring, just taking pointers.



Then she bent forward.



I didn't need to see the smirk on Sparky's face. I could feel it.



"Fuck you, Sparky."



"You wish."

---

Maybe Sparky had a point.



Not about Sophia (though they showed me a side of her I really wish I hadn't noticed before, the fucker), but about Ems.



Emma.



Eh-Mah.



Goddamnit.



Yeah, they were right. Otherwise, why the hell would I hang out at the mall? Sure, Sparky wanted to hit up Goodwill for some more clothes and since we were the same size, splitting up to find jeans was usually a good idea. But that was just on the same plot of land as the not-so-good Mall. Captain's Hill was the fancy mall: chain department stores, Victoria's Closet, and a real food court. We were at Sandy Low, the mall that used to be the "good mall", but fell onto hard times and was filled with knockoff stalls, five different Asian restaurants all run by the ABB (there were only three last year, but something happened behind the scenes and now all of them sported the same Christmas color scheme Lung was so fond of), and two Foot Lockers.



Well, that was a rhetorical question. I was here because Emma was here.



She had a signing.



Emma's level of fame made me chuckle: she had a massive online following, big enough that she was able to angle it into being popular at school. But she'd played up the whole thing so much that it'd worn thin by halfway through our freshman year. Sure, she was popular, but it was the kind of popular that brought hangers-on rather than people who gave a shit.



Weirdly, the only person who really talked to her was Sophia. She'd always been like that, now that I thought about it. Of course, back then, it was me.



But after hitting the fancy mall one time too many, she'd downgraded. Emma liked to draw a crowd and if the rich kids wouldn't flock to her, then she'd find the attention elsewhere.



"The fuck you doing here?"



"Fancy meeting you here, Sophie."



"It's Sophia," Sophie growled. "Say it wrong again and I'll break your fucking nose myself, I don't care who your Mama is."



Fine, ruin my fun. "Got bored, decided to go for a walk."



"Here?!"



"It's a free country."



Sophia went quiet, which I took as a sign of boredom. Emma had moved on from the podium and was at the little table Uncle Alan (bless him) had set up for her. A gaggle of preteens swarmed her and her smile gleamed.



She had a future in customer service if the whole Streaming thing died a quick death.



"I don't get you."



It'd have to be something where she could actually talk to people, though. Emma wasn't the type to answer phones for a living.



"Why can't you just let this bullshit go? Just be a fucking loser and move on with the other scrubs."



Maybe a banker. Reading from a script and giving a million-dollar smile while turning an old lady down for a home loan.



"Hey!" Sophia snapped her fingers in front of my face and I nearly fell backwards. "Fuckhead, I'm talking to you."



"Oh, I thought you were talking to yourself, Sophie."



"That's it," she shrieked. "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, Hebert!"



She took a swing at me and I ducked it by the skin of my teeth.



"Hey, that—fuck!" Another punch missed me by a hair. I heard it whistle by my ear. "Cut it out!"



"Get back here!"



I hurdled over a table, getting a nice solid object between us. "I'd rather not."



She jumped on the table and aimed a kick right at my chest and it was pure dumb luck I fell backwards on my ass, otherwise that would've actually hurt. "Stay still!"



"No!"



People scattered behind us and someone screamed. I whipped my head around. "Did we—ACK."



She slugged me right in the jaw and stars poked holes in my vision. I managed to get an arm around my head before hitting the ground, saving my precious brainmeats and giving me a nice, deep bruise on the forearm instead.



Fucking ow.



"Get up, Hebert, I'm not done yet!"



I ran a salty finger around my mouth to make sure all my teeth were still in the right place. "You've got a hell of a punch. Better than Sports Guy or whatever."



Sophia didn't say anything, so I blinked the lights away and got up.



She didn't say anything because she wasn't there. Oh, now what?



The mall was black. Not dark, but black. The tables, the chairs, the walls, and even the carpets. Black like it'd been painted, but pristine without a speck of dust. The people were gone, sort of... I could hear parents screaming, kids crying, and a rising air of unease. A balloon filled too much, too fast. Gone narrow in stripes just before something popped it.



"Welcome, welcome, welcome!" A deep voice boomed. A voice for radio if there ever was. "Lucky patrons of the Sandy Low Mall, have we got a deal for you!"



"Yeah!" Another voice chimed in, higher and nasal. "You get primetime seats to the Über and Leet show!"



Oh, great. These two chuckleheads again. Two supervillains, in as much as they had powers and used them for stupid shit. Their gimmick was video games, going on joyrides with a thin veneer of humor layered over top like flavorless frosting. They were kind of funny, but they didn't write jokes. The kind of funny where people would watch them just to see how they'd screw up.



Funnier when you weren't stuck in their orbit.



"And we're coming to you live with a special guest: Emma Barnes, Fashionista-at-Large!"



"That's right, Miss Get Ready With Me," the nasal voice hissed. "Let's see whose show hits number one this week."



And there was the pop.



The crowd started screaming in earnest, but the sound immediately dampened. "Oh, don't you worry, folks. No one's getting hurt tonight, right?"



"We're not harming a hair on anyone's head, we swear!" The nasal voice said. "Not just because it's bad for ratings—"



"We got two strikes last week from the GTA episode."



"Psh. They just don't understand art."



"But if anything happens to our lucky players, well, that's on them."



Light blinded me. After I blinked the dazzle away, I noticed the black had been replaced by blood red. Huge ruffled curtains hung from the vast ceiling, swaying as though they were in a breeze. with me in the center of it all, a spotlight directly overhead. "And let's introduce our first lucky contestant! What's your name, kid?"



"Fuck you."



"Not in front of the children, for shame!"



The nasal voice popped back in. "For that, we should start you on Hard Mode, but we'll let it slide. Name?"



Ugh. I had to actually play along. "Ta—"



"Nah, just kidding. Your name's not important here. Introducing PLAYER ONE!"



Before I could retort, I heard some shuffling on the other side of the curtain. The radio voice must've noticed too, because he sounded concerned. "You okay, bud?"



"Yeah. Turns out we just got an extra special guest."



"A twofer?"



"Oh yeah, this'll be great for ratings."



"Then introduce them."



"Will do!" The nasal voice cleared his throat, then spoke in his best imitation of his partner. "And our second lucky contestant of the day needs no introduction. Brockton Bay's own vigilante-made-good, Shadow Stalker!"



"Nah, stick to the script."



"Right, right. There is no Shadow Stalker here, just PLAYER TWO!"



The curtain drew back to reveal a clear blue sky with strange, cylindrical hills in the distance. Clouds passed overhead, though on closer inspection they had inky black eyes and chubby cheeks. The sun shined, but an angry face was etched into it like stone.



Creepy.



And next to me, dressed in a full purple cowl, black tactical gear, and a goofy green muumuu, was Shadow Stalker. The dipshit twins managed to get one thing right: she was formerly a vigilante with a mean streak that went legit and became a Ward earlier in the year. The girl glared at me.



Well, I think she was glaring. The weird mask with exaggerated feminine features made it hard to tell. "What are you looking at?"



"You look ridiculous."



She scoffed. "Look at yourself, punk."



I glanced down and sighed. Somehow, I ended up wearing a pair of blue overalls with a red undershirt. "Ah, damnit."



"And today's game is Super Mario Bros!"



"Minus one Bro, of course, since that wouldn't be fair to Shadow Stalker."



"And Super Mario Siblings just sounds wrong."



"Now, let's play!"



The curtains drew back and a jaunty tune played from somewhere above us. "Oh, good. This is a thin—"



Shadow Stalker dove at me and we both hit the ground. "Pay attention!"



"That was..." A huge turtle shell fell right where I'd been standing, shattering into a hundred shards. "Oh, thanks."



"I don't have time for this," she muttered. Her voice was digitized and didn't pick up on her clearing her throat. "Hey, morons! How do we get out of this?"



A screen popped up directly in front of us, hanging in the air. A skinny man in a bandana, maybe college aged, grinned. "That's the easy part. Just head towards the goal."



"Good," she said. Stalker faded into shifting black sand and launched forward into a simple metal block. She hit it at speed, writhing against it for a moment before rematerializing. "Hey, what the fuck?"



"No sequence-breaking here, Player Two," he preened.



"What's the goal?" I said.



"Finally! Someone with a brain," the skinny man said. "You're Mario, hence the outfit. All you've got to do is save Miss Barnes—"



"Dude, stay in-character!"



"Right, right." He coughed and pulled a blue hood over his face, his next words an awful screech. "You must save the fair Princess Peach from the dastardly Bowser in his lair! But be wary, for only players with the Super Star can save the little wannabe from herself."



"What did you two do to Em... Miss Barnes, you freaks?" My angry partner said.



"She's in a prison of her own making! Trapped for eternity unless the gallant Mario and his Shy Guy can rescue her!"



"Oh, that's some bullshit," Stalker muttered. "Fine, we'll play. And I'm gonna stick an arrow right up your as—"



Her voice went mute and she reached for her throat, a black strip hung in the air over her mouth painted with white wingdings. The skinny man chuckled. "Hey, we're family friendly entertainment."



"By the way, you're on the clock," the radio voice said. "So I'd get a move on."



The screen blinked out and I looked at the wide expanse of moving platforms and wandering, potato-shaped lumps that dotted the former mall. Obstacle courses weren't my thing, but at least I had a capable—



Shadow Stalker took off running.



—partner. Okay, so she's not one for teamwork. I jogged up to her. "Hey!"



"Shut up. Let's just get this stupid thing done."



"That's what I mean. You've got to—" Stalker stepped on a platform that was lighter than the rest and the hair stood on the back of my neck. I grabbed a handful of cloak and pulled hard, yanking her to the ground. She shot to her feet, shoulders squared. "You little punk! What was that for!"



I just pointed where she'd been standing. The light-colored tile shook in place for a few seconds before going still and promptly dropping into some unseen abyss. "You would've fallen right through."



Stalker grunted.



"A thank you would be nice."



She grunted again.



"Close enough," I muttered, scanning the area. The course wasn't very big—I suppose there were limits to what the two villains could do—but it was filled with pits and spikes. The potato lumps noticed us and started moving in. "Are you ready to fight?"



"Yeah," she said. "I've got just the thing to work off some steam."



Stalker reached beneath her cloak and withdrew a plunger.



I stared at it.



She stared at it.



Then she exploded in a frenzy of cursing I could barely make out over the weird censor bar the skinny moron slapped onto her.



Up close, the potatoes had sharp little fangs and deep furrowed brows. They weren't great at walking and the biggest of them stood at knee-height, but there were two dozen of them charging forward at once. Stalker screamed: maybe a war cry to scare them, but more likely frustration at work. She went charging in, swinging the plunger like a baseball bat and it was surprisingly effective against the little lumps. Every blow squished them flat like a cartoon.



To be fair, I'd be mad if someone stole my fancy crossbow.



A gaggle of them noticed me and lunged. I hurdled over the first one and planted a foot right on its head, ready to kick off. And I fell to the ground because the damn thing squished flat and disappeared.



Right, goombas. I've played this before.



If it worked for Stalker, it would work for me. I started kicking the little bastards left and right. I admit that it was pretty satisfying to see them squish into oblivion.



Stalker walked up to me, chest heaving beneath her muumuu. "These things are just slowing us down. You've got any better ideas?"



Hold up. "I'm not the superhero here."



"Yeah, well you're 'Player One'," she said. The digitizer couldn't translate coughing, but could manage contempt pretty well. "I'm stuck babysitting you till the end of this thing, so we've got to get moving."



"Fine," I said. She was right, naturally. The countdown timer had already lost a whole minute and we only had nine to spare. I looked around and spotted a rotating platform. It didn't look like an obvious trap, so I started jogging. "This way."



"How do you know?"



"You've never played Nintendo?"



"The hell's a Nintendo?"



"You poor, sad child."



She said something that the filter muffled, probably a curse word, before opting to just flip me off. "Whatever."



"They're Mario enemies," I said. "So long as you hit them the right way, they'll go down in one hit. Maybe three, if it's a big one."



"Nerd."



"Edgelord."



Stalker stopped dead in her tracks. "What'd you call me?"



Apparently I'd hit a nerve. "I remember when you were some rando vigilante. You were Shadow Stalker back then, right?"



"Yeah."



"They let you keep the name?"



"Recognition and rep. Deal with it."



"The only rep you had was wearing hockey pads," I said. "Edge. Lord."



Shadow Stalker stared at me for a long moment. "Shut the ffff~!" She groaned and rubbed the front of her mask. "I'm not dealing with this right now. Let's just find your... friend."



Now it was my turn to groan. "She's not my friend."



"She's your friend in here," Stalker said. "I'm not the one wearing dorky-ass suspenders."



"They're overalls, not suspenders."



"Same thing," she said. "Look, we both need to get the fuck out of here and rescue her, so shut the... shut up and let me figure this out."



Yeah, that wasn't happening. I hopped onto the platform alongside her and waited as it brought us around. It'd been years since I'd played a Mario game, but it stuck with you: there were basic cues all around us like glowing platforms, bottomless pits, and cute little gray spheres with blinking cartoon eyes that flashed red as they got closer.



Wait.



"Bob-omb!"



"What?"



"Just run!" I said, leaping off the platform and taking off full speed. If nothing else, Stalker understood that, shifting into shadow and catching up in a few seconds. The Bob-ombs were slow, but that didn't matter when a whole mob was after us. "We need some firepower."



"Plunger's broke."



"Anger issues."



"Well, what was I supposed to do?!"



She had a point. Plungers weren't weapons in-game, so I imagine it was the nasal voice's idea of a joke. I looked above us, hoping they'd decided to give us some means of fighting back. Über and Leet were tools, but they usually tried to give the poor saps stuck in their games—us, in this case—a chance to fight back if the game called for it.



Of course, they didn't give those poor women a chance to fight back when they'd beat them with crowbars last week, so who's to say?



"Hey, is that thing important?" Stalker pointed at a brick wall, standing by itself in the middle of a field. A white question mark decorated the side.



Jackpot. "Yeah, hit it with something and see what comes out."



"Finally, some useful info," she muttered. Stalker pulled up her muumuu and gave a very unladylike grunt as she kicked the first block. A gaggle of coins flew out. "Useless. Now what?"



The question mark still glowed. "Hit it again."



"Really?!"



The Bob-ombs were closing in. "Yes!"



With one more kick, a flower burst from the side.



"Are you kidding me?"



"Can you fade or whatever through an explosion?"



"Depends on how they explode."



Ugh. Superpowers were the actual worst. "Fine, get behind the wall."



"What're you gonna do, hit them with a daisy?"



"You'll see," I said. I touched the flower and my overalls glowed red, colors shifting between blinks. My skin flushed and I smiled.



Showtime.



I held a hand out and three balls of flame the size of tennis balls popped into existence, hurtling towards the mob. They acted like tennis balls too, bouncing on the ground and ricocheting between the Bob-ombs until settling at the feet of the closest one.



The mob stopped, confused. One of them kicked the fireball with a stubby toe and promptly exploded.



Fire filled my vision and I had enough sense to launch myself behind the wall as the first explosion caused a chain reaction: explosion after explosion after explosion rumbled behind us and I could see the walls fuzz and blur between the actual mall and the vast expanse of the game world. The radio voice piped in. "I told you to dial back the oomph of those things, Leet!"



"I did!"



"Well you didn't do it enough! It's wrecking the scenario!"



"Uhh, I've got this. Boss level time!"



The huge red curtains swept in and covered the glitching walls. Just as quickly, they pulled themselves up into a dark sky and I fell backwards as our support wall faded away, Stalker landing in a heap on top of me. "Get off!"



"You landed on me!"



"CHILDREN, CHILDREN, CHILDREN," the radio voice, presumably Über, boomed. The ground shook as a massive reptile trundled into view. "YOU DARE ASSUME YOUR PRINCESS IS HERE? SHE'S IN ANOTHER CASTLE!"



"Bro, that's my line!"



"WHATEVER."



On closer inspection, the huge lizard wasn't real. Not in the same way the goombas and bob-ombs had been. Über was wearing a costume: massive golden limbs ending in stubby claws, a tortoise's shell covered in spikes, and a red mane capped with two little horns surrounding a tiny human face. "COME AND FACE THE MIGHT OF BOWSER, KING OF THE KOOPAS!"



"Yeah, no," I muttered. "Stalker, light him up!"



I stood and shot dozens of fireballs at him. Most of them bounced against each other and flew into different directions, but six of them nailed Über right in his turtle-y gut and his hair caught fire. Shadow Stalker leaped and shifted into that strange sandy form, materializing mid-air and decking him in the face. His costume vanished in a puff of soot and he scrambled backwards. "Leet, get me out of here!"



"Told you. Time to switch places."



Über faded just as Stalker tried to punch him, wobbling in place to get her balance. "Sneaky bastard."



"What did I say about being family-friendly?" Leet hissed, appearing right behind her and jabbing with a gold scepter. Stalker screamed, digital voice fuzzing between pain and static and she fell down. His face twisted into a smirk and he feigned twitching. "Oh no, don't taze me, bro! I'm so sorry for coming in and fucking up your game!"



I shot another set of fireballs towards Leet, but he jumped out of the way. "I knew I should've made those things run out of fuel. Yeah, you're not gonna—hey, cut that out!"



I kept up the assault. It was cathartic, really. I didn't need to worry about Emma, Sophia, Mom, or anyone else. Not when the goal was setting some asshole on fire for getting me stuck here. "What's wrong? Don't like when your stupid plans get turned back on you?"



"Quit it!" Leet swung his scepter in a wide arc, glowing symbols pouring out. They exploded in swaths of white fire, so I stepped back and fired again, finally catching him on the tail of his blue robe. It burned magnificently and he had to stop to try and stamp out the flame. "Oh, fuck this! Get me the Thirst Trap!"



"Those are for next week!"



"I don't care! I'm not losing to some scrub and a random Ward!"



Three fist-sized cubes materialized in front of him and he greedily palmed them. "I'm never tying power-ups to costumes again. It's all Zelda from here on out, breakable everything," Leet muttered. "Eat this, you piece of shit!"



He tossed the cube my way and I aimed for it. The fireballs bounced off and I backpedaled, trying to get clear of whatever it was going to do. It landed a few yards in front of me and burst, spraying sparkling water in every direction. The water ate away at the platform, leaving pockmarks in solid stone.



Ah, crap.



I turned and ran, but he wound one of them up like a clock and the little cube sped after me. It burst—



—and someone bowled me over, fabric draped over my vision. "What the hell?"



"A 'thank you' would be nice," Stalker huffed. "Oh shit!"



She shot to her feet and I followed. She was trying to tear off her cowl: the water fizzing and hissing as it ate through her muumuu and cape. I grabbed at the clasp around her neck and flung it over the impact crater, watching the weird fabric melt into nothing as it soaked into the puddle. Stalker ripped the muumuu away and it just melted like cheap plastic, leaving her in nothing but her mask and tactical outfit. "Thanks."



She grunted.



I turned my eyes towards Leet, who was frantically trying to activate the last Thirst Trap.



I don't think so.



Before I could shoot another fireball at him, the damned cube went off in his hands. He was doused in the acidic water and he screamed as his blue cloak withered away, the scepter melting into the ground around him, leaving him in torn, dirty jeans, a t-shirt that read Behemoth Fucks, and a bandana around his eyes with holes cut for him to see.



"Not again, not this time!"



"Yeah, this time," I said, walking up to him. "Wanna know why people watch your show? It's not because you offer up anything interesting or fun. It's because people want to see you fuck up. You know that, right?"



Leet's bottom lip trembled. "We promote the noble art of—"



"—what? Beating poor women with crowbars for money?" I held a palm up and he cringed away. "At least Emma Barnes gives tips and has some damn cheer about what she does."



That was the wrong thing to say because he dragged himself up to his feet, face red. "It's bullshit content and you know it! And you're not gonna win this. No one is!"



He pulled a mushroom out of his pocket, brilliant and red with beady black eyes. "I'll just crush you now and let Barnes twist in the fucking wind, how about that?"



No.



As much as I hated her, as much bullshit as she did at school...



No.



My palm glowed and my vision went bright white.



I woke up when I hit the ground face-first. My nose felt crunchy and I sighed. Broken again, twice in the span of a month. A new record. But in my hand was the mushroom.



Shadow Stalker wobbled on her feet. "The fuck was that?"



"Hey, Stalker?"



"What?"



"You had some aggression you wanted to work out, right?" I said, tossing her the mushroom. "Give this a shot."



She tilted her head and squeezed the fungus. It vanished in a puff of smoke and Stalker swelled, growing twice her normal height. She made Vanessa look like a toddler. "Oh, this is awesome. Get over here, you dweeby fuck!"



Leet tried to scramble away, but Stalker swiped her hand on the ground and dangled him by his ankle. "Stop, I give up!"



"What's that about being an edgelord?" She said. Before I could answer, she swung him around like a sack and hurled him out of sight into the sky, leaving behind a twinkle as a door materialized next to us. Stalker turned, mask huge as she bent down to see me. "See? Fucking easy."



"Congratulations, you've mastered the ancient art of throwing while large," I said, pulling the door wide. "Let's find Emma and get out of here."



She shrank back to normal and followed me down the hallway. The glitching was still in effect, alternating between strips of concrete walls and colorful curtains. "So you're a cape?"



"No."



"Then what the fuck was that back there?"



I looked at my hand. My palm glowed without prompting, but I felt nothing. "I have no idea."



"Bullshit," she said. "You've got powers. You took that mushroom thing right out of his hand."



"I didn't have powers before."



"Well," she paused and I stopped alongside her. Without her cowl, it was easier to see how she reacted. A tilt of her head, arms crossed with a very don't fuck with me vibe, feet planted wide like Sparky when they sparred. "Your... friend was in trouble. That's good enough. Sometimes."



I didn't know much about powers, honestly. I avoided capes when I could, if only because they liked to give me side-eye when I got recognized. Mom was more visible than I was by a long shot, but the poor operators at the PRT hotline knew me by name. Especially after the Armsmaster thing. "I guess."



"Yeah."



She stayed quiet as we made our way down the hall, finally stopping at a huge red door. "Here's our stop."



"You sure?"



"They followed the game, mostly," I said. "Up until he tried to rage quit, anyway. But we're prepared this time."



"Let's just finish this bullshit," she said. Stalker walked right up to the door and kicked it wide.



Emma was sitting on a pool bench in the middle of an office, surrounded by a horde of tiny people with mushrooms for heads. They held trays with food, various drinks, and one had a bottle of suntan lotion. Emma herself was wearing a pink bikini, sipping a drink from a giant curly straw, big black sunglasses over her face. "Huh, what are you doing here?"



I stared.



So did Shadow Stalker, but she got over the sight faster, waded through the sea of mushroom people, and kicked the bench out from under her. Emma landed on her ass with a soft oof, but before she could say anything—before I could say anything—Stalker cut in first. "Do you have any idea of the bullshit we went through?!"



"They said it was just a game," Emma pouted.



"They also said they'd leave you here if we fucking lost!"



I stared for just a moment longer (too long would've given a point in her favor and she didn't need another lead) before shaking the cobwebs loose. "Yeah, what she said."



"And why are you here!" Emma said, pulling herself up to her feet with the help of one of the mushrooms. "Are you stalking me, seriously?!"



"That's your concern?" I said, shoving a duo of mushroom folks out of my way. "Not 'oh, thank you for rescuing me' or 'how did you get stuck in a virtual deathtrap by the Moron Twins'?!"



"It would've been good numbers!"



"I swear streaming's rotted your brain!"



"Will you two shut the fuck up?" Stalker said, and we froze in our tracks. "She's the Princess right?"



"Yes, ma'am," a Mushroom person piped up, "She's our Princess Peaches!"



"Yup!" Another one chirped. "We live to serve our Princess."



"Then you, Hebert," Shadow Stalker pointed a finger in my face. "You've got to save her, right? Touch her and this shit goes away."



"No!" Emma and I said as one, then we turned to stare at each other.



"Oh, for fuck's sake," Stalker grabbed my hand and yanked me forward, smashing my palm against her forehead. "There."



The curtains fell.



The Mushroom people collapsed into tiny actual mushrooms, bruised and filthy. The concrete walls reasserted themselves, the spa room with wide windows forming a closed, windowless office with a cheap metal desk and a pin-up calendar in the corner. Shadow Stalker marched us out, nipping at our heels when one of us tried to fall behind: Emma because I'm not giving him a show and me so I wouldn't look at said show.



Which was fair.



My overalls melted away, leaving me in my jeans and T-shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Emma's outfit (or lack thereof) remained the same. "They didn't put you in a costume?"



"Are you kidding? They had me in some ugly pink dress. It looked like something a grandma would get her least favorite granddaughter for prom," she said. "I was going to do a shoot at Tropic Tans after this, so I had it on under my sweater and tights."



"Makes sense," I said. She got quiet and I wasn't a fan of Stalker muttering priorities under her breath, so I kept talking. "A real photoshoot?"



"Yup! And it only took six weeks to set up," Emma huffed. "I'm gonna have Daddy sue those two losers if they screwed this up for me."



She'd always wanted to be a 'real' model. I had a comment on the tip of my tongue, but it died when I saw the glimmer in her eyes. Emma really was proud of it.



Okay, so that's off limits. Damn.



But that didn't mean I was going to let it go. "Pink, though?"



"What's wrong with pink?"



"You're a redhead."



"It's my favorite color!"



"Emma!" Uncle Alan bulled his way through a group of PRT officers and swept Emma up in a hug. "Are you hurt? What happened?"



"I'm fine, daddy," she said, cheeks red as her hair. "Put me down! My viewers are still here!"



"Oh, right," he said. Mr. Barnes put her down and turned to me and Shadow Stalker. "I just wanted to, uh… yeah, thank you. Both of you."



"You're welcome, er, sir." Stalker said. She seemed kind of awkward. You'd think a hero would be used to dealing with the public.



"And Taylor," he said, a strained grin on his face. "Just… if you need anything, let me know."



"Daddy!"



"Emma, don't be a brat," he said, voice stern. "Thank him. He didn't have to do any of that."



Emma looked like she'd rather be dangling from the end of a line over a pit of spikes, lips puckered like she'd swallowed a lemon. Still, she had her beautiful viewers watching, so she contorted her expression into something close to a smile. "Thank you soooo much."



And another point for me. I might have savored that moment a little too long, because Shadow Stalker elbowed me in the side. "You're welcome," I said. I could totally be the bigger man here, figuratively. Uncle Alan was the literal bigger man, after all. "Is Mom around?"



"I… didn't see her," he said, face schooled in a lawyerly fashion. "I saw Carol flying off with Vicky earlier."



Perfect. Her kid gets abducted by supervillains and Mom decides it's a good time to party. "I figured."



"Did you need a ride?"



"Nah, I'm okay," I said. My phone buzzed and I looked down to see a screen full of frantic texts from Sparky. At least someone cared. "I've got a friend waiting."



"Okay, be safe, Taylor."



"I will, Uncle Alan."



The odd trio turned and started walking away and I fully admit that I might've stared a little bit. I mean, Emma was still in her bikini (awful color aside) and she filled it out quite nicely.



Princess Peaches was very apt as a title.



But… my eyes drifted. I was reminded of an old conspiracy thread on PHO, back when it wasn't IP-blocked because Mom liked to go on drunken rants in the middle of the night and kept making sock puppet accounts to post. They liked to compare well-known Capes with famous figures (up until the incident with Monokeros that shut the whole thing down) and one persistent poster kept insisting Rebecca Costa-Brown and Alexandria were the same person, drawing shitty lines over potato-quality JPEGs and insisting the butts matched.



Having met Alexandria once, I doubted she could pull off a pantsuit half as well as Costa-Brown, but that's just me.



Shadow Stalker had no cowl, just a weird cap that hid her hair from sight and a severe mask hiding her identity. A tactical catsuit made up what remained of Stalker's costume and it fit her like a particularly shapely glove—



Wait.



Shadow Stalker was weird and brusque, but I chalked that up to frustration at being stuck in Tweedledee and Tweedle-dipshit's little game. But she was awkward around Alan. And way too familiar with Emma. It didn't add up.



Not until I saw her walking away. The rhythm, the bounce. The butts matched.



The butts matched



Sophia Hess was Shadow Stalker.



Sophia Hess was Shadow Stalker?!



"Yo, Tee!" Sparky ran up and threw their arms around me. "You okay? The police were around the mall and… what are you babbling about?"



"The butts match."



"Did you hit your head?"



"No, no," I giggled. "The butts match. The butts match!"



"Uhh, let's get you home."



Sophia Hess. Shadow Stalker.



The butts matched.

---

(Author's Note: So this was a bit of a ride. I've had a lot going on this week and while I should be working on other projects, the comedy and mood whiplash of this concept kept intruding in my mind. Thus, I serve it to you. We're going to get more Aqua and her shenanigans in the next chapter, but I figured it was a good idea to establish exactly how Taylor saw Emma before we went forward. Also, Sparky ended up with a much bigger role in this thing than originally planned and the story's ending up better for it. As always, let me know what you think!)

 

[Mujaki]

Stand up and deliver

Your wildest fantasy-(sy-sy)!

Do what the fuck you want to.

There's no one to appease...​

---

Amy Dallon sat frumpily on my doorstep.



That was never a good sign. "Dallon."



"Hebert."



We stared at each other for a long moment before she broke down in a hearty chuckle. "God, I can't even. Your face!"



"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up," I pulled a handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped my face. Again. "How do I look?"



"Like you got bitchslapped by the Kool-Aid Man."



"Fantastic," I muttered. Emma had been riding high since the Mall Incident a couple of weeks ago. Uber and Leet got taken to the cleaners by Mr. Barnes, opting to take a plea deal since they collectively had about two grand, a bunch of ratty clothes, an entire room full of Accord's Focus Formula #186 drink mix, and a stash of random Tinkertech no one wanted to touch for fear of life and limb. Her shoot went as planned and it made her brave enough to step up her game at school.



I knew I should've looked up when I walked into art class. At least it was tempera paint. "Your sister's not here, is she?"



"You're safe," she shrugged. "Victoria got mad at Mom and I told her to take a walk to cool down."



"How long ago was that?"



"Two hours."



"So she's not coming back."



"She will," Amy said. She blew a stray frizzy curl out of her face. "When Mom's good and sauced."



"So now."



"Mom's not that bad."



"Did I stutter?"



"That's not my fault."



"I know, ugh," I said. "Mind letting me through?"



"You're not gonna like what you see in there."



"I've seen more of your mother than anyone other than your Dad should."



Amy shuddered. I wondered if she was remembering the Table Dancing incident. Carol fell through the coffee table and Mom had to fix her up. Well, Mom tried. Turns out it's hard to pull shards of glass out of someone's leg when you can't see straight. After everyone stopped throwing up, Amy showed up, sighed, and promptly handed out healing all around. She'd been a big fan of Mom up to that point and it shattered the illusion of Mom as a fey, upbeat healer doling out blessings wherever she went.



Having someone vomit a whole Lisa Frank pattern on your shirt would do that to someone.



"I doubt it'd surprise me," I said, stepping around the frizzy, freckled girl in a too big jacket over a too small shirt she'd undoubtedly "borrowed" from her sister since she hated to do laundry.



"Fine, I'd better come too."



I walked into the living room to find it surprisingly clean. There were voices: Mom's lilting soprano giggles a contrast with Carol Dallon's husky alto. But they weren't anywhere to be seen. There weren't any beer cans, wine bottles, or other assorted detritus on the floor. Just a single open bottle of Jack Daniels, two shot glasses, and a blonde toddler with a tumbler in her hand—



Wait.



"Is that a baby?!"



"Told ya."



"You didn't specify Oh, by the way, there's an actual child in your living room!"



The baby giggled and raised a half full shot in one chubby hand.



Oh hell no. I raised one glowing hand. "Gimme that!"



The kid stared in confusion as the glass materialized in my fingers. Amy stared at me, mouth agape. "You're a cape?!"



"Don't advertise that, please."



"You used your powers in front of a stranger!"



"Please, I've known you since grade school."



"Not me, you idiot. Her!" She said, pointing at the toddler. The child in question started reaching for the bottle of Jack, which Amy snatched away. "No shots for you, kid. I'll handle all the underage drinking around here."



"No, you won't!" I said. I wriggled my fingers and the bottle vanished from her hands. "No one's getting shots here."



There was a child in my living room.



Something was amiss. "Okay, you seem to know what's going on. Spill."



"Gladly," Amy said. "Mom thought it was a great idea for Vicky to babysit. Said it would teach her some responsibility."



I stared.



And stared.



The darker freckles on Amy's left cheek almost made the Big Dipper, if you squinted.



That was probably too much staring. "I'm not going to complain about anything that might teach your sister temperance, but seriously?"



"Don't shoot the messenger," she said, trying and failing to snatch the shot glass out of my hand. "It's a big client with lots of billable hours. I'm pretty sure she would've told me to give this lady a facelift if she thought it'd snag the account."



"And this toddler is in my living room, why?"



I had a guess, but Amy's next words confirmed it. "Because Victoria not only didn't want to be volunteered for it, she didn't want Mom to party while she sat on the kid."



The toddler gurgled happily, clinking the two empty glasses together. I stole them out of her grasp and she looked at me indignantly. Well, as indignantly as a three year old could. My hands were getting full, but I managed. "Victoria shouldn't be sitting on anyone, let alone a kid."



"She sits on her stupid boyfriend plenty."



"Ah. He's prepared to die like a man."



"A very stupid boy, more like," she muttered.



Amy was a bit bitter about it. She and Victoria didn't share a bedroom, but they shared a wall. I'd rather not imagine the things she heard. Especially if Victoria was as careful at home as she was out and about. "So there's a kid in my living room."



"That's right."



"Hi!" We both looked down to the suddenly verbal child. "I'mma Aster."



"Huh."



"Three year olds can talk, you know," Amy huffed.



"Forgive me. I mostly interact with teenagers."



Bottles clinked in the kitchen, followed by laughter. "Sounds like they're having fun."



"Don't look at me," Amy shrugged. "I'm just here in case they need someone to run to the corner store."



"They don't card you?"



"I stole one of Vicky's shirts."



I eyed her. "You're not Victoria's size, either."



"Fine, I forgot to wash," she huffed. "Doesn't matter. They don't look at my face when I buy."



"Wouldn't that make the news?"



"Please, Panacea would never go buy cheap booze," she said, pulling out an ID. "Erica Danner, on the other hand? They'd sell her a rocket launcher if the shirt's tight enough."



"Of course they would. It's Brockton Bay," I muttered.



"Exactly."



"Yup!" Aster chirped and we both turned to stare.



"I'm... gonna go change."



"Not checking on Mom. Or, you know, your Mom?"



A slam rang from the kitchen, ceramic against wood. Carol Dallon's voice chimed over the ruckus. "Chug, chug, chug!"



"Nah, they seem fine."



"Don't take long," Amy said as she plopped onto the couch, frizzy curls bouncing along with the rest of her. "I'm not getting paid to watch the spawn."



"Cute."



I ran upstairs, stripping my paint-stained shirt as I went. My hair would be easy to wash—nothing stuck to it, so all I needed to do was rinse and it'd be fine—but the shirt irked me. It wasn't that I couldn't afford a new shirt. Far from it: Sparky and I exchanged clothes regularly since they liked to present masc most of the time and we hit up thrift shops and Goodwill regularly. Mom was a professor at Brockton U. She even had tenure and her classes were among the most popular at the school. Students fought to get into her Lit courses, sometimes literally.



It wasn't just because she was famous and an open cape (though her idea of what constituted professional attire left little to the imagination and a lot to be desired), but Mom knew her stuff. She could rattle off facts and recitations like no one's business. When she read to the class, she was an uncanny mimic: voices came alive and she'd even use her powers to set the mood. A cool wind against your face. The smell of salty sea air drifting through the class. Party tricks with student volunteers when reading a scene set at a pub. As kids, Emma and I would sit enraptured as she read Hans Christian Anderson to us, back when Emma would sleep over. Mom had them memorized.



The parties she'd throw for her students at the end of every successful semester didn't hurt, I'm sure.



Mom made good money. But she also had a gargantuan tab at the only liquor store in town still willing to sell to her and half the time we subsisted on donations from her "followers". So I shopped cheap and ate cheaper.



Flour was cheap. The tent city had a supply of chickens where we'd get eggs every week. A local Tinker Mom saved last year kept a decent stock of oil she'd filtered and transformed into something humans could eat (Tinker abilities being something that eluded her, aside from being able to break anything they made after spending more than five minutes "playing" with them). A baker near the Boardwalk let me bus tables the summer Emma decided she wanted a new friend and I picked up a lot from what he taught me: ratios and water saturation, fermentation, and a ton of time figuring out how long to let things proof for different flavors and consistencies. I spent hours working out the best ways to make a lot of food very fast because every little bit helped.



I was handy. And patient. It served me well so far. It took a lot to take me by surprise.



Like opening my bedroom door and finding a girl sitting on my bed.



The girl was pretty. Big eyes. Dark skin. High cheekbones and a long neck. Her choice in clothing could've been better, considering the chilly autumn air: A purple tube top and jeans with shredded holes so big she would've been better off wearing a skirt. Her hair was pulled back with a Day-Glo green scrunchie and poofed in back like the tip of a microphone. And she had two of my cookbooks on her lap with my laptop propped up by Mr. Ted off to the side.



She stared.



I stared.



We both screamed.



"Oh yeah, there's another kid up there," Amy's voice echoed up the stairwell. "Ashley or something."



"Aisha!" The girl shrieked.



"Whatever. Have fun."



I cleared my throat, hoping to retain some dignity. "That information would've been useful before I started changing, Amy."



"Not my fault you didn't knock."



"It's my house!"



"Now you can't give me shit about locking my door when Victoria's home."



I turned to face the girl—Aisha—on my bed. "So."



"What's up?" She said, giving me the eye. "You gonna put on a shirt?"



"You gonna get your shoes off my bed?"



"You gonna keep screaming like a girl?"



"I've stopped, thank you very much."



"Fine," she said. She kicked her legs off my blankets and stood up. Aisha wasn't very tall, the poof of her hair at the same level of my eyes. "Why do you keep cookbooks in your room?"



"Why are you in my room in the first place?"



"It was that, hang with the baby—"



"I'm told she's a toddler and can speak."



"—or hang with your mama and the lady with a Karen haircut. I made a choice."



"It was a poor choice. Get out so I can change."



"Hey, you barged in on me," Aisha said. She crossed her arms over her chest. "What if I was changing?"



"It's not your room!"



"But what if?"



"Then I'd say oops, pardon me, could you change and get out of my room."



Our eyes met, mine with (hopefully) fierce insistence and hers with a challenge.



We stared.



And stared.



And she still wasn't leaving. I clapped a hand to my forehead.



"Woo! I win!"



"That wasn't a staring contest!" I'd had enough. "Mom! Why's some random kid—"



"I'm fourteen, jackass!"



"—excuse me, RANDOM TEENAGER IN MY ROOM!"



"You're babysitting!"



Wait. "What?"



Mom teetered through the kitchen doorway, a sheepish grin on her face. "I might'a, kinda sorta offered to watch someone at the tent city today?"



"Moooom."



"It's for a good cause!" She said, blue ponytail bobbling behind her. "Her father's doing some work for us and since I can't pay him, I offered to watch his kid!"



"You offered?"



"Welllll~" At least she had the decency to look abashed. "I forgot Carol was coming over and Vics was gonna watch the baby anyway, so two birds, one stone!"



"Victoria's not here, Mom."



"Right, I'm getting to that," she said, stamping her foot. "After she left, Carol was sad and after a couple of shots, I thought to myself 'Hey, Taylor's responsible, right?'"



"He's tha bestest!" Carol said unseen in the kitchen. "Cheers!"



"Wait for me, woman!" Mom hissed, then turned back with an angelic smile. "So I figured you could totally take care of them."



"What if I had plans?"



"Sparky's got sparring tonight and Ems isn't streaming"—Now my cheeks were flushed and Amy raised an eyebrow at that—"So your night's free!"



I sighed. Mom was forgetful, but what she did remember, she remembered. "Fine."



"Woo! You're the best!"



"Tha bestest! Now can we drink?" Carol mumbled. "Vicky's not back yet and I don't wanna remember why."



"One condition."



"What?" Mom's head whipped around so fast her hair slapped Amy in the face.



"I need money."



"It's called being responsible, baby."



I nearly said something harsh, but I bit my tongue. Mom never remembered my lectures about being responsible with money when she drank with Carol, anyway. "If you're good at something, never do it for free."



Crocodile tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. "But we don't have money!"



"Mom does," Amy said. She spat a length of blue hair out of her mouth and wiped her face. "It's only fair. Victoria's not around to earn her allowance anyway."



"Fiiiine. Lemme get mah purse." Carol Dallon stumbled into the living room and I walked downstairs to meet her. Well, mostly for that: I wanted to make sure someone would be able to catch her if she fell before paying me. Amy had the size and strength of a girl who considered smothered french fries a well-balanced meal and while Mom was more than strong enough to haul Carol around, she'd end up hitting the floor before Mom realized she should catch her.



The woman didn't look anything like Amy, which I expected since she was adopted. Curvy, if a bit soft in the middle after years of partying with Mom. A strong chin. Nice blue eyes. Victoria got her looks from somewhere, after all. Minus the hideous up-do. "Here you go."



She handed me a wad of bills and I did a double take before counting it. "This is two hundred bucks."



"'S'what Vicky would'a got if she stuck around," Carol frowned. "I wanna go drink some more."



"Have one on me," I said, feeling a bit light-headed. Now I could afford twenty shirts.



"Will do! Yer the bestest!"



"Baaaaayyybeeeee~!" Mom sidled up to me. "You know you should tithe, right?"



And reality smacked me like a ponytail smacking Amy. "I'm watching the kids with this, Mom."



"Fiiiiiine."

---

Aisha ended up changing in my room.



Money in hand and with two 'spawn' (as Amy liked to say) in tow, I opted to just get out of the house and head to the Boardwalk. It was the easiest way to keep everyone entertained without resorting to having a far too inquisitive girl going through my things and a tiny, handsy human grabbing my stuffed animals and pitching them across the room. Given the chill in the air, I refused to let Aisha out of the house without layers.



"You're not my mama. I like this look!"



Truth be told, so did I. But I wasn't going to tell her that. "And I'm not handing you off to your father with a cold."



I ended up losing another shirt after all. Aisha had tied it off beneath her bust to show marginally less skin than the ratty old tube top, but she wore Sparky's old bomber jacket over it as a concession to the weather. Aster came equipped with a massive bag of specially prepared meals entirely lacking in spice, distilled (only lukewarm) water, and a parka so thick and heavy it made the poor kid look like a cartoon starfish with arms spread wide.



She also had a laminated name card stitched onto her coat. It listed do not give's on the back fold (no avocados, no cumin or paprika, nothing fried) and on the front in blocky letters it read: Hi! My name is Aster Aryana Anders.



Aisha shook her head when she read it. "Man, her mama ain't even trying to hide that shit."



So the toddler was racist.



Well, that wasn't fair. Aster was just Aster. A three year old didn't really care one way or the other so long as someone paid attention. Aisha was surprisingly good with her, cooing and playing with the kid—



"Chocolate!" Aster squealed, pointing at Aisha.



Maybe I spoke too soon.



Aisha's eyes widened before she glanced over her shoulder. "Oh! Candy! Come on, squirt."



"Chocolate!"



"Be careful!" I said, watching as she slung the kid on her hip and ran inside a confectionary. The Boardwalk was full of small Mom & Pop shops and tourist traps, which made it a nice way to kill an evening. Of course, there were also a bunch of hired brutes (not to be confused for Brutes: capes with enhanced strength) around, waiting to boot some homeless person looking for a break. Or anyone who didn't "look" like they should be there. But on a cold autumn night? It was nice, so long as you didn't think about why it looked so nice.



Mom had her share of arguments with the higher-ups when some of the younger tent city folks would come back covered in bruises for having the audacity to look for summer work. No fights broke out, thankfully, just compromise. I'd make sure anyone from the tent city coming out here looked their best with freshly stitched and repaired clothes and the jackboots wouldn't toss them out. Not a perfect solution, but it worked for now.



Even still, I liked it out here. It was a little rundown, just like the rest of town. But at night, strings of bulbs would glow just overhead and cast a lovely warm light over everything. There were only a few places in town with a cozy vibe and this was one of them.



Even the hulking enforcers lurking at every corner couldn't spoil that.



"Hey, hands off!"



Aisha's voice rang loud and clear over the din and I took off towards the confectionary. Two of the boardwalk's resident goons had her by the arms and she squirmed in their grasp. "Lemme go, asshole!"



"She's got a mouth on her."



"No shit. Alright, jig's up. Don't think we saw you running around with a kid that ain't yours?"



Goon #1, lankier than his companion, nodded. "I dunno, she looks the type."



"You motherfu—"



"Yeah, the type to cause trouble." Goon #2 said. He was squat with no neck and a bald head. A fire hydrant dressed in all black like his taller buddy.



And I'd had enough. "What's the problem, fellas?"



The two morons turned my way and gave me a once over. "Just taking out some trash. Go have a good time, kid. Somewhere else."



They weren't drunk and their clothes, cliche as they looked, were nice and clean. Freshly pressed even. They were professional headknockers, so a change of tactics was in order. "She's with me, actually."



"What, she puttin' out for you or something?"



My palms itched and the hair on the back of my neck prickled. "Excuse you?"



Aisha took the opportunity to wriggle free from Goon #1's hands and immediately clung to my arm. "Baby, where you been?" She preened, all smiles and ingénue eye-flutters. "I've been all over and these nice men were just telling me to find you. I mean, I was about to call your mama and ask her to vouch for me."



"This twink important or something?" Goon #2 muttered, stomping over to us. "Please, he's not—"



"Hey," Goon #1 said, squinting. "You look familiar."



I looked up to meet his eyes. "Do I?"



Goon #2 reached out and, as one, Aisha and I took a small step backwards. His face went red and he raised a hand before his buddy grabbed it and yanked him backwards. "Hey, what gives?"



"OhshitthatsAquaskid!"



"WHAT?"



"Look at his hair!"



Goon #2 squinted before he scoffed. "That's nothing. Half of the homeless trash in town has blue hair."



I wasn't going to wait for the two of them to decide one way or the other. I leaned in and whispered in Aisha's ear. "I'm about to do something really stupid. Hold tight."



Sophia had a neat trick with her power: shifting into shadowy sand to become light as air and pass through walls. I couldn't do that, not by a long shot. But a bit of practice did give me something I could use.



While the beefy bruisers argued, the two of us went black before fading out of sight. She gasped, but slapped a hand to her mouth while I took the opportunity to drag her away, back towards the pier. Sweat dotted my brow: I hadn't held the power that long before. The last time I'd tried it with someone else, it was with Sparky and it failed the moment we tried to pass through the canvas wall into their room.



It wasn't phasing, but we could lurk unseen.



Once we got to the pier, I released and slumped against a lamp post. Aisha bounced on her toes. "Okay, that was fucking badass."



I couldn't help it, I smiled. "Glad to help. Where's Aster?"



She paused mid-bounce. "I thought you had her."



"You took her to the candy store."



"We got some chocolate and then those knucklefuckers grabbed me and..." She trailed off, dark skin taking a violet tinge. "Oh, fuck."



"You're not wrong," I muttered, testing the waters by standing without support. My head felt like it was filled with cotton, but at least the world stopped spinning.



"Fuck!" Aisha screamed. Several heads turned and she flipped them off before stepping closer. "Now what? This joint's full of people."



My power to steal wouldn't work unless I could see where Aster was. Unfortunately, Aisha had a point: the kid was hip-height and the crowd was stupidly dense. I'd already lost Aisha once and putting the fear of Mom into the boardwalk goons was an accident. I didn't think that trick would work a second time.



I needed someone who could move unseen. A shadow…



Oh goddamnit.



Aisha must've seen the look on my face. "What? You've got some other trick to find her?



"I…" I had to keep my teeth from grinding over the words. "I might know someone. Who can help. Maybe."



"Then call them!"



"I'd rather not."



The girl grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around. "Look, we've got two choices here. Either we split up and get fuck all done or she falls off the boardwalk or something. So do what you've gotta do."



Awesome. The life of an actual child hung on the good will of the person I liked the least. "Fine."



I pulled out my RoundPhone and scrolled through the contacts. It was like an old habit, less than two strokes and I tucked the thing between my ear and chin while I looked around.



A shrill hiss pierced through the crowd noise. "Why. Are you. Calling me?"



"Hey, Emma. You busy?"



"Do I sound busy to you?!"



"You could just answer the question."



"No!"



"Emma, seriously?"



All I heard was breathing.



"Are we really playing this game?"



Something shifted on the line, like skin against the speaker, and the breathing got louder.



"Did you put me on speakerphone just to breathe like a creeper?"



The breathing startled for half a second before it picked up. It sounded like she had run a marathon. Or run downstairs for Cheetos. Either or.



Fuck it. "Fine. Is Sophia there?"



"So you're not even calling for me?!



"She speaks!"



"Why do you need her?"



"I just do," I said. "Is she there?"



"Even if she was here, which she's not," Emma said, "Why would I tell—"



"Will you shut the fuck up, Ems! I'm trying to watch TV!" Sophia's voice echoed, faint over the line. "I think they shot JR or something."



Emma got quiet and I finally muttered. "Just record the show and put her on. I owe you a point."



"A what?"



"Please."



"Ugh, fine." I heard shuffling over the line followed by a meaty smack and an indignant what the fuck before Emma said. "It's for you."



"The fuck is this?"



"What's up, Sophie?"



"Hebert." She growled. Sparky was right: some people would pay good money for that kind of thing. If Emma had a future in customer service, then Sophia had a future in making threats over the phone for money. Or weirdos who wanted someone to bully them. "Why shouldn't I just hang up right now?"



"I need your help," I said. "More specifically, I need Shadow Stalker's help."



The line went quiet. Long enough that I looked at my phone screen to see if we were still connected. When she spoke again, it was grim. "Do you have any fucking idea how much trouble you'd be in for outing a cape?"



Sophia rarely took that kind of tone. I'd only heard her use it once before, back when some wannabe Nazi on the baseball team called her a name. She kicked that guy in the balls so hard he had to get surgery to retrieve them.



I preferred my ass not-kicked and my bits right where they belonged, so I thought a moment before speaking. "I think you've got the wrong idea."



"Oh really?"



"See, I figured you knew how to get in touch with Shadow Stalker since she was so quick to show up at the mall."



"Go on."



Her voice didn't promise murder anymore, so I just kept talking. "She seemed like she had her shit together and all that, plus she saved my ass at the expense of letting everyone see hers—"



"What the fuck?"



"—and you're too much of a hothead to ever be a superhero, so I figured you'd know how to get ahold of her."



She was silent for a long moment. "And what if I do know Shadow Stalker? What do"—Emma started ranting in the background and Sophia whispered shut up, I'm handling it before coming back to the line—"I said... what do you need her for?"



"I need her to find someone."



"She's not stalking Emma, you perv."



"I don't need to stalk Emma, thank you very much. I already know where she lives."



"Hanging up now."



"Wait!" I said, biting my tongue. "I need her to find a kid."



"...what? You're gonna have to explain that shit."



"I lost a baby."



"How the fuck did you lose a baby?!"



"Look, I'm at the Boardwalk and she's out there somewhere. Can Shadow Stalker help or not?"



Sophia sighed. "Tell me what the brat looks like."



"So she'll--"



"Yes she'll fuckin' help. Description, now!" She snapped. I imagined her grinding her teeth, so I figured this was a step in the right direction..



"Think of the Gerber baby, but whiter, with a bright pink parka."



Sophia sighed. "Good. This your number?"



"Yeah."



"Expect a text."



It was the longest wait of my life. I'd given Aisha fifteen bucks and told her to go nuts at the arcade, but she came back after ten minutes with a glum expression. "I let some twinky asshole beat me at Guitar Jam and it wasn't even funny. I can't even play games without thinking about it."



"I'm sorry."



"Nah, I mouthed off," she mumbled. "I told Aster not to trust the cops when I was walking by and that's when they came after me."



"I mean, sage advice and all that," I said, leaning back against the bench. "And I doubt they're even smart enough to pass the exam."



"You've got to take a test to be a cop?" She said. "Damn. I figured you'd just show up at the station all like I take 'roids and love beating junkies, gimme a badge." She slumped down next to me, skin-to-jean, but leaning forward so I couldn't quite see her face. "My big bro wanted to be a cop, you know."



"Oh? What happened to him?"



"Eh, he's got a record. He didn't even want to be a cop because he liked it, he just wanted a steady gig. But, you know"—she turned to me and shrugged—"life and all that shit. He tries, though."



"He doesn't live with you and your Dad?"



"Nah, he fucked off a couple years back after Moms and I had a fight," Aisha's knees bounced and she nibbled her fingernails. "Couldn't blame him. I'da done the same, but I was twelve. Dad ended up taking me, but he's busy. Works two jobs. Brian wants me to move in with him, but he's not even old enough to buy smokes. Ain't no caseworker gonna give him a shot."



Maybe he'll do it," I said. She was still frowning, so I sat up and bumped shoulders with her. "What, you don't want to stay with him?"



"I dunno," Aisha looked up. The sky had gotten dark and the string lights kicked in. Warm yellow specks reflected in her eyes. "He's all protective and shit. I like it. Hell, it's what he does. But..."



I stayed quiet. Her fingers tapped against the bench now, an unsteady rhythm compared to the way she rocked in place. "He'd keep me. But he'd keep me, you get it?"



"I don't follow."



"I mean, fuck... why am I even telling you all this," she said, turning away. "You're Aqua's kid and I'm a fuckup who lost a whole-ass baby. You don't need to hear my bullshit."



I thought about Emma, the way she got nervous because Anne was going off to college, and I did what I did back then. "Eh, I'm good at listening."



"Not like I'm gonna see you again after this."



"Hey, you never know. If he does a good job, Mom might have your Dad come back and do some other work," I frowned a moment, thinking of what Mom told me. "What's he doing over there, anyway?"



"His day job is for some printmaker thing. He makes big signs and flags for companies. Your mama wanted a logo with her face on it."



Of course she did. "Then if she likes it, she'll definitely want him to make more."



My phone buzzed and I whipped it out. It was from an unfamiliar number, but I had a good idea who it was. The text read: found her. she's safe. get your ass to better burger. patio side.



Aisha peered over my shoulder. "That the help?"



"Looks like it."



"How'd she even know what baby to look for?"



"There are only so many Gerber baby lookalikes on Earth. Let's find this kid and go home."



Aisha and I wove through the crowds, hands clasped, slowly winding around to the far side of the pier. Better Burger, despite the name, was one of the pricier restaurants on the strip: they made half-pound meat monstrosities in a different way than Fugly Bob's, the meat from semi-local bovine that were read lullabies before bed and massaged with beer. Deep fried foie gras slices, cheeses imported from overseas (no mean feat, considering the hit shipping took due to Leviathan prowling the oceans), duck fat french fries. An artery-clogging nightmare wrapped in bougie tastes.



I would've eaten there every day if it didn't cost the down payment on a house for a single meal. Even then, I read their menu religiously because it gave me better ideas for food at home.



The patio was mostly empty when we arrived. Thankfully, there was no snooty Maitre D out to shoo away the rabble outside — they saved that for the indoor service. We hopped the short fence and walked up to the only occupied table.



There was a familiar girl sitting there: pale, chubby, with long brown hair combed down and pinned in place with sky blue clips. I couldn't place her name, but she sat behind me in Glady's World Issues class and the way she simpered into his good graces drove me up the wall. There were two other teens sitting with her: a girl with a mass of brown curls who looked like she wanted to be anywhere but there and another toad from World Issues, some blonde kid who'd kept trying and failing to hit on Sparky and kept fucking up their name. And in-between the two of them was Aster. There was a tiny plate of french fries in front of her and she was scarfing them down like she'd never seen food before.



So much for her slightly racist mother's instructions. To be fair, I doubted she was actually allergic to fried foods, considering she'd packed organic chicken nuggets with the flavor of congealed sadness into her lunch box.



Aster was the first to spot us. "Choco-lady! Tay-tay!"



"Yes, I'm Taylor."



The mass of curls on legs and blondie looked up, but Aisha beat me to the punch. "Why the fuck do you have our kid?!"



Curls was first to bounce. "Okay, I'm out. Thanks for the, uh, meal, I guess."



She didn't even bother to go through the restaurant, instead just turning around, hopping the fence, and bolting as fast her skinny legs would take her. Blondie squinted at me before going pale. "Uh, hi, Taylor."



"Hi," I said, leaning forward. "What's up?"



He looked between me, the baby, and the chubby girl before coming to a decision. "Yeah, er, thanks, Madison. I'll see you around. DragonBux me?"



"Greg, wait!" Madison said, reaching out. He nimbly dodged her hand and disappeared into the restaurant. "We ordered dessert and everything!"



The girl deflated, turning a baleful eye to Aster. "You'll be my friend, won't you?"



"Yup!" Aster grinned.



"No she fucking won't," Aisha said, plopping down next to the toddler. "She's not your kid."



"Well, she's not yours either," Madison sniffed. "Obviously."



"How do you know? She could be."



Madison's cheeks pinked and she waved her hands. "She looks nothing like you!"



"We've got the same cheeks."



"No you don't!"



"Ladies, enough!" I appreciated the effort, but Aisha was going to give this poor girl a stroke. Or attract the wrong kind of attention and I wasn't sure if I could hide all three of us if it came down to that. "Madison, right?"



She nodded. That was a good sign.



"This isn't your kid," I said. Aisha grinned and opened her mouth, but I held up a hand. "She's not our kid either, but we're responsible for her. We need to take her back."



"But I found her fair and square."



"That's not how adoption works!" Aisha moaned. "Believe me, I should know."



"But she's so nice! And not judge-y." Madison pouted. "She's a good listener."



"Get a cat," Aisha muttered.



"Case in point."



"Look, Madison," The girl startled when I used her name. "I appreciate you making sure nothing happened to Aster, but you can't just keep her."



"She's already got a mama," Aisha said. "Having two might be fun, but I don't think hers would go for it. Just saying."



An understatement if there ever was. I pressed on. "So can we call it square?"



Madison's lip trembled and I honestly thought she might cry, but instead she stood up. The girl was short. Shorter than Aisha, and her round face and chubby cheeks made her look even younger. She walked around to Aster and held out a hand, which the toddler took gleefully. "We've only known each other for a short time, but you've changed my life for the better. Go out into the world and make a difference."



"Yup!" Aster chirped.



Aisha gathered Aster in her arms, the kid babbling Choco-lady all the while, and I walked up to Madison. "Hey."



"What?"



"Thanks."



"I mean, I'm still young, right?" She said tearfully. "We're sophomores. Two and a half years to go!"



"Er, yes?"



She turned to me, smiling. "Maybe we can hang out?"



I studied the girl. She was well-dressed and her clothes were brand name. Her hair clips gleamed under the warm lights. Maybe her smile was a little too eager and she had a bit of a manic tone, but honestly?



I've dealt with worse. "Sure. I'll shoot you a text."



"Maybe we can work on our World Issues projects together!"



"Sounds good."



"We could grab lunch! I'll pay you!"



I stopped and looked at the half-empty plates on the table. The fanciest burger joint in town and she paid for Curls and Blondie to eat dinner with her.



I could really use the money.



But earnest as Madison was, it would feel like kicking a puppy. "No, you don't have to pay for me."



She stopped mid-sentence, eyes going wide. "You can do that?!"



Aisha must've read my mind, because she groaned and smacked her own forehead.

---

"This was fun."



"I agree, minus the whole baby thing," I said.



"Yeah, let's not do that again."



Aisha and I were sitting on the stoop, Aster babbled happily between us and munched on a small bar of chocolate. Carol was gone, thankfully. Amy shot me a text as thanks for taking the kid off her hands, since it made smoothing things over between her and Victoria easier.



I was just glad I didn't have to deal with Victoria at all. Bless Amy, but I had no idea how she could live in the same house as that blonde bundle of neuroses shaped like a basketball player. "I'd rather not."



"Alright, kiddo," Aisha said, ruffling Aster's hair. "Where's your mama at?"



As if by magic or poor fortune, a white SUV pulled up to the curb. I wasn't certain what to expect of Aster's mother, but I imagined a tall, strapping Viking of a woman with long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a distaste for The Poors.



Naturally, who stepped out of the car was a short, mousey woman with brown hair cut in a severe bob, plain features, and an upturned nose. She wasn't bad looking, not really, but her genetics were in a losing battle with whomever Aster's father happened to be.



"You must be Taylor." She glanced at me, the house, and then Aisha and her face soured. I managed to get the 'distaste' part of the equation right.



I had a response on the tip of my tongue, but when I looked into this woman's brown eyes, something felt… different. Carol Dallon could be cold at times, especially when she wasn't sloshed. It made her a decent lawyer since her personality and her life as an open superhero who could literally cut your assets in half tended to make court cases go smoothly.



Not her. Aster must've robbed all the joy and friendliness in the family, because this woman was cold the way ice was cold. No warmth whatsoever. I stood and extended a hand. "Taylor Hebert, ma'am."



She eyed my hand for a moment before taking it. The woman had a firm grip. "Kayden Russell. I understand you were the one watching Aster tonight?"



"That's right."



"Good, good. My preference would've been Victoria, but I'm glad Carol was good enough to find"—she looked at Aisha the way a baker would eye a crust of moldy bread—"a suitable replacement."



I didn't need to see Aisha to know she was chomping at the bit to give this lady a piece of her mind, but I dearly hoped she could read the room. Aster giggled, oblivious to all, and I hoisted her up into my arms, care pack in hand. "She was a handful, but we had a good time tonight."



"I'm glad," Kayden's expression softened as she took in Aster's delight. "Did she eat?"



"Every bite." I declined to tell her that the bland excuse for food she'd sent along went straight into the compost heap out back.



"No accidents?"



"I'm surprised you potty trained her so young."



"She's a smart one."



"She really is," I held Aster in my arms and she gave a sleepy yawn. Part of me didn't want to give her back: not in a weird way, but because she was such a sweet, if troublesome, kid. Madison was right about one thing... toddlers don't judge. She adored Aisha. That wouldn't last for too much longer if I handed her back.



But for better or worse, I wasn't this kid's parent. I put Aster in Kayden's waiting arms and watched as she cooed. "Who's my good girl?"



"Aster!"



"That's right!" Kayden looked up and smiled, the first genuinely positive expression she'd had since she arrived. "Thank you so much."



"Do you need me to load up her bag?"



"No need, I've got it," she said, slinging Aster on her hip and grabbing the care pack. "Have a good night."



"You too."



"Say 'bye', Aster."



"Bye, Tay-Tay!" Aster squealed and I gave her a small wave. Then she looked at Aisha and grinned. "Bye, Choco-lady!"



Kayden froze mid-step and she looked back at me, that same cold look back in her eyes. "No one mentioned that you had help tonight."



Something about her tone, her face, that look dug a nail in the primal part of my brain. Fight or flight. I should've assuaged her concerns with an Emma-worthy smile and sent her off with a thank you.



Fuck that.



Sparky had a theory they liked to talk about. "Tee, you know all that turn the other cheek bullshit? They go low, we go high? Fuck that. They go low, we go lower. They hit us? Hit them back harder."



"Oh, I had a lot of help tonight," I said with a placid smile. "Aisha's just a gem and cuddled and played with her all evening. We kicked back and watched Roots since I have the whole series on DVD, had some soul food, and I explained why my bestie uses they/them pronouns and why Karen haircuts are ugly as sin."



Kayden's cheeks went an ugly shade of red. "You what?!"



"I took her into the kitchen and taught her what spices are and where they come from. I would've made Paprikash, but I didn't have enough paprika or sour cream. And to round out the evening, I made flash cards explaining my views on true gender equality," I stepped close, looming over the petite woman. "And when I say true gender equality, I mean equality in a very literal sense. If you dare try to argue with me, I'll make you look like an idiot. If you slap me, I'll slap back because these fists are rated 'E' for Everyone and that's the kind of man I am. And if you look at my friend like she's trash one more time, I'll steal the eyes right out of your head, you pasty, crunchy bitch."



Kayden's mouth hung open like a fish gasping for water. She glanced behind me at Aisha on the stoop, who gleefully flipped her off.



Aster looked between all of us, a happy smile on her face. "Bitch!"



"You brat," she seethed. For half a second, I swear I saw a mote of light glimmer in her eye. "Don't you ever threaten a mother with her daughter."



One bratty turn deserves another. "Guess what? My Mom's bigger."



She paled for a moment before that haughty look returned to her face. Her voice quaked when she spoke again. "I'll remember this."



"Good for you. Take Vitamin D for that. Castor oil for constipation. It'll help with that stick up your ass."



Kayden had murder in her eyes, but rather than say anything else, she simply turned on her heel and walked away. Aster waved at us through the back seat window as her mother peeled out and the smoke made me cough. "Ugh, good riddance to bad rubbish."



I went back to the stoop and sat down next to Aisha, rubbing my forehead. "I need a drink."



"Pretty sure your mama and her friend drained the county."



"Probably," I said. "Sorry about that."



"Why?" Aisha bumped shoulders with me. "Not gonna lie, I probably would've punched that lady right in the tiddy if you hadn't said anything."



"Nah, that would've just hurt for a minute. I want her to wake up thinking about what she's teaching that kid."



"You ever get kicked in the nuts before? Believe me, she would've remembered me punching her."



"More times than I'm willing to admit, but yeah. I get it."



"Still," she said. "That was awesome. You should do it more often."



"I try to be diplomatic."



"Like with your old boo?"



"My what?"



"Your Ex. Your old piece. Freckles told me you used to hang with that red headed bimbo on YouStream."



"I never dated Emma."



"Then why do you have a pic of the two of you as your laptop background?"



"It's complicated."



"Doesn't seem like it to me," she breezed. "Red decides to fuck off and do her own thing, so you should fuck off and do yours. Easy peasy."



"She started it," I grumbled. I'd honestly forgotten about the wallpaper: a pic Anne took of the two of us on a hammock in her backyard. It was a nice memory.



It was the week before she decided to drop me completely.



"So? You've got a brain in your head. And you've got options, you know," Aisha leaned against my shoulder. "Just think about it. Freckles knows her shit."



"Amy's good people," I said. "Just high strung."



"Nah, my bro's high strung. I love him, but goddamn, he needs to get laid or he's gonna have a heart attack before he turns 20."



"That bad?"



"Worse. He's 17 going on 35. Likes to play all responsible and shit but he's just as clueless as the rest of us," she sighed. "But he's trying."



"Do you want to stay with him?"



She stared up at the stars. "I dunno. I haven't tried to think about it. Not like I'll know anything unless the social worker actually gives him custody."



"Well, just so you know... you've got options too."



"What do you mean?"



"Did Amy tell you about my friend?"



She shook her head, so I went on. "Sparky's... a friend. My best friend. They've been through a lot of shit over the years. Some of it's not my story to tell, but when they moved to the tent city, things got a lot better."



"I fucking hate camping."



"Not that kind of tent," I said. "It's a small community. They"—I stopped and thought about my plans for the weekend—"We look out for each other. Anyone can come and stay, so long as you follow the Golden Rule."



Aisha had a skeptical look in her eye. "And what's that?"



Mom had a whole creed of sayings and koans that spread among her more hardcore 'followers', some weirder than others: Alexandria pads her chest being a doozy. But my main rule, one that she gave her whole support to, was very simple. "Don't be a dick."



"Huh," she said, leaning against me again. "I'll think about it."



The front door burst open and Mom flopped out, landing square between the two of us. "Taaaaaaylorrrrr~!"



"Hi, Mom," I said. "Did you have fun?"



"I always has fun," she said, face flushed and smelling like a brewery. "Where's Ashley?"



"Aisha!"



"Oh, ya," Mom said, rolling over to look up at us. Her eyes glazed as the cold air hit her. "Sheeee's preeetty."



"Damn straight," Aisha said.



"And I gots good ne-new, er, News!" Mom leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. "Don't make plaaaaanszez. Tomorr, Tom. Friday! You got a date!"



I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Fortunately, Aisha stepped up to the plate. "What?!"



"Yeh, it's a, er... a secret date? You dunno whose gonna be," she murmured, a big smile on her face. "Ya, you'lll like her. She kyoot."



The words finally came to me. "I don't need you to get me a date, Mom."



Aisha muttered something I couldn't quite make out (get off of my game, lady) but Mom wormed her way up to sit. "When Aishley leaves, I tell Taylor, 'kay Danny?"



My blood went cold and my throat dried up, words trying and failing to leave my lips. She hadn't done that in a long time. A very long time.



I felt someone poking me in the shoulder and I blinked. Aisha was staring at me. "You okay, Taylor?"



"Yes," I said. "Yes, I'm Taylor."

---

(Author's Note:... Woof, so this one got away from me a little. I'm not mad, though. It turned out quite nicely and got everything I wanted across. Hopefully it was worth the wait! Again, many thanks to my writing discord friends, the lovely folks on the Toybox discord, and Malix for assistance with a few jokes...)

 

[nytemaren]

Man, that really adds the trauma to what is a normally nonchalant 'Hai, Taylor desu'

Good work, looking forward to more!

 

[Mujaki]

Okay! So I'm getting the ball rolling on this thing again, which means cast portraits! The talented Fede Rojas is the official illustrator for this story and I think you'll love his interpretation of the various characters.

First up… our delightful protagonist, Taylor Hebert! Fede managed to capture the base idea I had in my head when I see him: an unholy combo of Taylor's canon description (wide mouth, thin lips) with a young Crispin Glover (who is my headcanon fan cast of Danny Hebert) with Kazuma's vibe. Behold!



Funny thing… putting Aqua's color scheme on Taylor also gives the implication that this Taylor will 100% punch a bigot in the face and you know what? I'm good with that.

Up next? Everyone's favorite Best Worst Girl…

 

[Ibuki Suika]

To be cliche; IT LIVES!

Can't wait for shenannigans

 

[Foxxin]

Man, this story must have been posted on a dead ass day originally, because it has none of the recognition it deserves. I normally dislike female-to-male rule 63's, but this is fucking fire. The morning routine scene of Tay watching Emmas stream with the song in the background hit WAY harder than I was expecting up until that point.

 

[Mujaki]

Man, this story must have been posted on a dead ass day originally, because it has none of the recognition it deserves. I normally dislike female-to-male rule 63's, but this is fucking fire. The morning routine scene of Tay watching Emmas stream with the song in the background hit WAY harder than I was expecting up until that point.

Click to shrink...

I noticed that folks aren't usually as chatty here as they are on the other forums, but I'd still get likes and such, so I figured people were reading it and it would find an audience eventually. 😅

I knew writing this thing would likely pigeonhole me as the "Boy!Taylor Guy", but someone made a shitpost in another thread of mine, joking that Aqua would be a better mother than Annette in that story… and the idea just wouldn't leave my head and I knew I had to do a Kazuma-flavored Taylor.

That song is actually by my buddy Tony — he (and his songwriting partner Sam) are The Diary of Atticus by night and he writes jingles for corporate junkets and teaches music by day. It felt fitting, considering what's going to happen by the end of the arc.

Also, the lovely (and irritating) Emma Barnes will be posted tomorrow morning! The next chapter should be up, edits willing, by Monday. It ended up being a beast of a chapter covering waaaaay too much, so I'm splitting it in half and filling it out.

 

[Mujaki]

And now for everyone's favorite Best Worst Girl. Behold!



So this piece was quite the ride! Due to shenanigans (I gave Fede free rein to have fun after shooting him references and telling him she's a streamer and, er, might've neglected to mention she's also a minor), this piece had to be redone. But using influences from Mean Girls, Heathers, and a sprinkle of Kaguya-sama, Fede nailed the precise vibe I wanted.

Up next? The angriest golfer track star in the world…

 

[Mujaki]

Alright, as promised, the angriest track star in the world. Behold!



This piece didn't require a lot of work, funny enough. The hardest part was finding a believable build for her, because Sophia is one of the few Worm characters who is canonically hot (Weld stared at her ass as she was walking away in his Interlude). So there were two points to hit here:

1) She must be dark-skinned (that sounds weird to say, but a surprising number of artists can't really draw black skin tones very well).

2) She must be pretty (another weird thing to say, but a big part of the Trio in canon is the dichotomy between how they look compared to what they're actually like), which is a must because I've seen art that makes her look like a stereotyped "thug".

What we ended up doing was scrolling through college-aged track athletes (since she should be buff) and then paring that build down to what a high schooler should look like. The final result, I think, speaks for itself.

Oh! And the Winslow Wasp logo is courtesy of The Shadowmind, who gave me permission a few months back. If anyone can help me tag them, by the by, please let me know.

Up next? Sparky is taking a little longer to work out (basically designing a character who has no real canon description combined with them being NB and me being a straight dude means I need to have others look them over to make sure we're good), so most likely it'll be Taylor's Blind Date…