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Broken Mirrors, Black Cats, and Other Wonderful Things [Worm][OC][Brockton Bay]
- Thread starter T0PH4T
- Start date
15: Fold
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"All in favor of expanding the Wards' responsibilities?" Piggot, Colin, Hannah, and Ethan raise their hands, the last carefully avoiding looking at his wife. I glance towards Sharon from behind my goggles without turning my head. She doesn't react in that very careful way which makes me think he's going to get an earful later. Piggot scratches a note onto a legal pad, then looks back up. "All against?"
Robin's hand shoots up immediately, followed by Sharon's and Roger's shortly thereafter. I try not to feel hurt as they gaze at me dispassionately, waiting for a hand that won't go up. After a few seconds Piggot scratches at the paper, sealing the deal.
"Four votes for, three against, one abstained. The motion carries." She starts packing up almost immediately, slipping papers into a plastic folder and ignoring the rest of us. "I will be discussing modified patrol courses and schedules with Armsmaster at a later date. You are all dismissed." She files out a moment later, leaving the eight of us alone.
Almost as soon as the door is closed on her the argument starts.
"You're fucking up, Colin." The curse hits me like a slap to the face, and when I turn towards its source Robin has his face set in a stony glare. "You're fucking up because you want to climb the ladder and these kids are going to pay for it."
"No one is suggesting that we throw them at capes," Colin replies, remarkably calm for a man who just got cussed out by a subordinate. "We're not going to be pitting them against killers. Youth Guard is going to be involved, double and triple checking everything. Anything you've thought of, every objection, is one they've considered and refined to a science. This is a calculated decision, one which is going to become even more conservative as their lawyers get their hands on it."
"You're missing the forest for the trees," Sharon snaps. "You just gave kids permission to go out and fight for their lives. You can pretty it up, add qualifiers, but unless you want to own up to taking another step towards child soldiers-"
Hannah coughs. Loudly.
I stand up and walk towards the door. I hear another chair scrap behind me, even as voices rise, and soon enough I'm alone in the hallway with Roger.
We stand there in silence for a minute, listening to the muffled shouting.
"I get why you decided not to vote," Roger says quietly.
I resist the urge to tell him that no, he really doesn't, and nod amicably.
"I get that the social stuff is hard, but I really wish you had stood up for this." I get a tight feeling in my chest. I cross my arms, trying to put pressure on it, relieve the choking sensation. "I mean, you fought with them. Do you think they could take on Oni Lee? Krieg? Slimsliver?" He pauses. "What about the real monsters? The ones we're allowed to take off the gloves for. Hookwolf. Lung. Do you think that they're prepared for those fights?"
"I think that I'm not qualified to make those decisions," I reply.
"If not you, who?" He still doesn't sound mad. That makes it burn more. "You have power. You have an understanding of both them and their potential opponents. If you subscribed to Hannah and Ethan's school of hard knocks maybe you could be silently supporting them, but I think Robin was expecting you to vote with him."
I turn down the corridor and start walking. "Let's train." After a second Roger follows, still silent.
He's more aggressive this time. It still doesn't feel like he actually wants to hurt me, though. Just cause pain, just enough hurt to understand what it feels like to be the one behind the blade. It's progress though, and when we switch to sparring with powers he actually manages to tag me with his Arclance. He's still far and away the weakest member of the local Protectorate, but he's learning to leverage what he does have.
I just wish I could look him in the eye.
*****
"How was work?" Jenny asks, slipping into the chair across from me, a broad smile on her face. "Any romantic developments among the Protectorate that I should know about?" Telling her I worked for the PRT was a mistake, the depth of which became apparent only when she revealed that she wrote capefiction. I haven't browsed her archive yet, and frankly I'm a little scared to.
I force a grin to match as I play with the dice in my hand, shrugging. "I had a disagreement with two groups of coworkers. Things seem to be basically amiable, but things are going to be touchy for the foreseeable future." Specifically, Velocity won't be patrolling with Miss Militia for a while and Assault and Battery will be limiting their public appearances while they figure things out.
"Sucks, man," Eric says, brown eyes solemn. He always arrives just after I do, about ten minutes before Jenny and twenty minutes before Sam. "You have any way to smooth it over?"
"Try a cake," Jenny interjects, nodding. "Baked goods are like morphine for relationships. You have to follow them up with something real, but sometimes what you really need is a painkiller while things heal over."
Davis claps his hands quietly, drawing our attention near-instantly. Conditioning, of the extremely useful variety. "Sam's not going to be able to make it today," he says. "So I'm going to say that Professor FitzLager is lost in his laboratory again, working on the next great breakthrough in transportation. For now, there's still a necromancer on the loose, one who's none too careful with keepin' his zombies locked up."
As the story progresses and games of chance are played, I marvel at the skill of Davis. His voices run the gamut from silly to terrifying, a consummate actor with range that puts most capes I know to shame. He ties themes from history into his fantastical stories to ground them, then elevates the real ones with ideological weight, all while making up for the poorly-aged source material that would make a production of The Merchant of Venice proud. It gets me into the game beyond just an optimization exercise, and when we discover a dragon made out of corpses an unexpected thrill of surprise runs through me. We end not long after that, but the impact stays with me as I head back to the PRT base for sleep, pondering.
Robin's hand shoots up immediately, followed by Sharon's and Roger's shortly thereafter. I try not to feel hurt as they gaze at me dispassionately, waiting for a hand that won't go up. After a few seconds Piggot scratches at the paper, sealing the deal.
"Four votes for, three against, one abstained. The motion carries." She starts packing up almost immediately, slipping papers into a plastic folder and ignoring the rest of us. "I will be discussing modified patrol courses and schedules with Armsmaster at a later date. You are all dismissed." She files out a moment later, leaving the eight of us alone.
Almost as soon as the door is closed on her the argument starts.
"You're fucking up, Colin." The curse hits me like a slap to the face, and when I turn towards its source Robin has his face set in a stony glare. "You're fucking up because you want to climb the ladder and these kids are going to pay for it."
"No one is suggesting that we throw them at capes," Colin replies, remarkably calm for a man who just got cussed out by a subordinate. "We're not going to be pitting them against killers. Youth Guard is going to be involved, double and triple checking everything. Anything you've thought of, every objection, is one they've considered and refined to a science. This is a calculated decision, one which is going to become even more conservative as their lawyers get their hands on it."
"You're missing the forest for the trees," Sharon snaps. "You just gave kids permission to go out and fight for their lives. You can pretty it up, add qualifiers, but unless you want to own up to taking another step towards child soldiers-"
Hannah coughs. Loudly.
I stand up and walk towards the door. I hear another chair scrap behind me, even as voices rise, and soon enough I'm alone in the hallway with Roger.
We stand there in silence for a minute, listening to the muffled shouting.
"I get why you decided not to vote," Roger says quietly.
I resist the urge to tell him that no, he really doesn't, and nod amicably.
"I get that the social stuff is hard, but I really wish you had stood up for this." I get a tight feeling in my chest. I cross my arms, trying to put pressure on it, relieve the choking sensation. "I mean, you fought with them. Do you think they could take on Oni Lee? Krieg? Slimsliver?" He pauses. "What about the real monsters? The ones we're allowed to take off the gloves for. Hookwolf. Lung. Do you think that they're prepared for those fights?"
"I think that I'm not qualified to make those decisions," I reply.
"If not you, who?" He still doesn't sound mad. That makes it burn more. "You have power. You have an understanding of both them and their potential opponents. If you subscribed to Hannah and Ethan's school of hard knocks maybe you could be silently supporting them, but I think Robin was expecting you to vote with him."
I turn down the corridor and start walking. "Let's train." After a second Roger follows, still silent.
He's more aggressive this time. It still doesn't feel like he actually wants to hurt me, though. Just cause pain, just enough hurt to understand what it feels like to be the one behind the blade. It's progress though, and when we switch to sparring with powers he actually manages to tag me with his Arclance. He's still far and away the weakest member of the local Protectorate, but he's learning to leverage what he does have.
I just wish I could look him in the eye.
*****
"How was work?" Jenny asks, slipping into the chair across from me, a broad smile on her face. "Any romantic developments among the Protectorate that I should know about?" Telling her I worked for the PRT was a mistake, the depth of which became apparent only when she revealed that she wrote capefiction. I haven't browsed her archive yet, and frankly I'm a little scared to.
I force a grin to match as I play with the dice in my hand, shrugging. "I had a disagreement with two groups of coworkers. Things seem to be basically amiable, but things are going to be touchy for the foreseeable future." Specifically, Velocity won't be patrolling with Miss Militia for a while and Assault and Battery will be limiting their public appearances while they figure things out.
"Sucks, man," Eric says, brown eyes solemn. He always arrives just after I do, about ten minutes before Jenny and twenty minutes before Sam. "You have any way to smooth it over?"
"Try a cake," Jenny interjects, nodding. "Baked goods are like morphine for relationships. You have to follow them up with something real, but sometimes what you really need is a painkiller while things heal over."
Davis claps his hands quietly, drawing our attention near-instantly. Conditioning, of the extremely useful variety. "Sam's not going to be able to make it today," he says. "So I'm going to say that Professor FitzLager is lost in his laboratory again, working on the next great breakthrough in transportation. For now, there's still a necromancer on the loose, one who's none too careful with keepin' his zombies locked up."
As the story progresses and games of chance are played, I marvel at the skill of Davis. His voices run the gamut from silly to terrifying, a consummate actor with range that puts most capes I know to shame. He ties themes from history into his fantastical stories to ground them, then elevates the real ones with ideological weight, all while making up for the poorly-aged source material that would make a production of The Merchant of Venice proud. It gets me into the game beyond just an optimization exercise, and when we discover a dragon made out of corpses an unexpected thrill of surprise runs through me. We end not long after that, but the impact stays with me as I head back to the PRT base for sleep, pondering.
16: River
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
The bad blood lasts until the Empire grows again.
"Three new capes. Victor, Othala, and Rune, brought in from out of town." Colin has their headshots up behind him, blurry pictures refined and enhanced as much as possible. The end result isn't nearly enough to start running facial-recognition software for when they inevitably step over the line, but there's enough there to make out the basics. A tall, blond, handsome man, with a cheery grin on his face as he unloads an assault rifle. A distant shot of a girl in a red bodysuit, a generic gangster in front of her flipping a car onto its side. A younger girl, surrounded by massive clumps of concrete, identity concealed by a domino mask and a thick cloak. Three more Nazis. Dangerous ones. Colin nods to Robin, who nods once and tosses packets of paper across the table to each person.
"The good news is that they're known quantities. Rune is a telekinetic with a massive upper limit. She doesn't do anything too fancy though, just raw strength. Miss Militia, Black Cat, you two have the best chance of tagging her. She's underage, so try to keep the lethality as low as possible." Hannah and I nod. Kids are dumb, and the Wards are always recruiting.
Robin moves on, flipping through his packet. "Othala is a gifting Trump. While she's displayed upwards of a dozen unique powers, the most common abilities she grants are super strength, super speed, some sort of momentum-canceling brute effect, and healing." He looks up, face serious. "This is true healing. No downsides, no devil's bargain, just a few minutes of regeneration and a man bleeding out is hearty and hale again."
Ethan whistles slowly. "Shame she's a Nazi."
"People can change," Sharon comments, making a pointed glance at him. It's half-hearted though, and the look he gives her back is soft and thankful. I smile behind my mask. In a weird way the fascist reinforcements couldn't've come at a better time.
"Under no circumstances is she to be permanently maimed," Robin continues, drawing us out of the moment. "She's done enough PR work that so much as a broken bone would stir up protests, counter-protests, and more trouble than it's worth. Defend yourself if you need too, though."
He flips through the packet again. "The last one, Victor, is a skill vampire, draining anything and everything based on a whole host of factors. The big ones are his focus, skin contact, sight, hearing, etcetera. Known abilities include martial arts, vehicles, languages, and marksmanship." He makes eye contact with me. "He carries a pistol at all times, is a known sniper, and has a history of killing movers. Double digit body count, something of a specialist when countering teleporters."
"They're targeting me." It's a statement, not a question.
"They're targeting you, but they're also trying to change the Empire's image," Colin interjects. Robin sits down and Colin stands up, the slides changing to a now-complete version of the Empire's roster. "Pre-reinforcement, the Empire appeared to be in three main groups: Kaiser's nationalists, Hookwolf's menagerie, and Krieg's Third Reich remnants. While Kaiser is a fairly popular public figure, Hookwolf is generally despised and Krieg isn't much more popular."
"Do you think it has anything to do with wearing an SS officer's uniform?" Roger drawls, to a chorus of chuckles. I snort behind my mask, and even Colin gives a tight grin before going back to his professional demeanor.
"Perhaps. At any rate, the Thinktank believes that this might be an attempt to add sympathetic characters to their line up. Victor can become a master public speaker in a few minutes, Othala provides measurable and immediate quality of life improvements, and Rune can attract younger generations to their cause." He clicks to the next slide, which has a calendar covered with addresses and times. "Until we can strike a blow back, everyone needs to double-down on PR duties. School visits, hospital work, all of it. If you have personal charities that you engage with, please bring them up."
"Amnesty International," Ethan says, face devoid of humor. "Prisons."
"The VA." Robin cracks his neck. "I've already got a few ideas."
I listen as the suggestions pile up, a sinking feeling slowly spreading inside of me. A month of PR work. Even if I sign up for extra patrols, work more with the Wards, spend what little credit I do have to mitigate the damage, this is going to be rough.
"Black Cat." I come back and look across the table. Colin's eyes are unreadable behind his visor, but his mouth is set in a carefully neutral line. "Do you have anything in particular that you'd like us to go over?"
"Autism and associated social disabilities," I snap off, barely hearing the words.
Colin nods as the line of text appears on the screen, looking around. "Does anyone have any pressing questions?" When no one does, the screen shuts off. "Meeting adjourned. Black Cat, could you stay for a minute afterwards?"
"Sure." I trust myself enough for one word. Roger gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder as he leaves, and soon it's just Colin and I.
"If you can't do this, tell me now." He delivers the words dispassionately. "If I'm not going to blame Velocity for not fighting against Lung, I'm not going to castigate you for avoiding a situation you fundamentally cannot deal with."
I think about it, then shake my head. "I can do it. It just takes a lot out of me." I hesitate. "But if it could come on the weekends, at the beginning of my shift..." I trail off, looking away from him.
"That I can do." He packs up his work and heads out the door, pausing before he crosses the threshold. "You know, my door is open if you need it."
I stand up, stretching. "I know." I look back at him. "It's just that if your problem is people, going to a person isn't usually the best solution." I smile, then remember the mask and give him a thumbs up. "I'll manage. I promise to tell you if it gets to be too much."
We part without much more than that, him to tinker and me to plan. I'm going to need a lot of steaks to endure the weeks ahead.
"Three new capes. Victor, Othala, and Rune, brought in from out of town." Colin has their headshots up behind him, blurry pictures refined and enhanced as much as possible. The end result isn't nearly enough to start running facial-recognition software for when they inevitably step over the line, but there's enough there to make out the basics. A tall, blond, handsome man, with a cheery grin on his face as he unloads an assault rifle. A distant shot of a girl in a red bodysuit, a generic gangster in front of her flipping a car onto its side. A younger girl, surrounded by massive clumps of concrete, identity concealed by a domino mask and a thick cloak. Three more Nazis. Dangerous ones. Colin nods to Robin, who nods once and tosses packets of paper across the table to each person.
"The good news is that they're known quantities. Rune is a telekinetic with a massive upper limit. She doesn't do anything too fancy though, just raw strength. Miss Militia, Black Cat, you two have the best chance of tagging her. She's underage, so try to keep the lethality as low as possible." Hannah and I nod. Kids are dumb, and the Wards are always recruiting.
Robin moves on, flipping through his packet. "Othala is a gifting Trump. While she's displayed upwards of a dozen unique powers, the most common abilities she grants are super strength, super speed, some sort of momentum-canceling brute effect, and healing." He looks up, face serious. "This is true healing. No downsides, no devil's bargain, just a few minutes of regeneration and a man bleeding out is hearty and hale again."
Ethan whistles slowly. "Shame she's a Nazi."
"People can change," Sharon comments, making a pointed glance at him. It's half-hearted though, and the look he gives her back is soft and thankful. I smile behind my mask. In a weird way the fascist reinforcements couldn't've come at a better time.
"Under no circumstances is she to be permanently maimed," Robin continues, drawing us out of the moment. "She's done enough PR work that so much as a broken bone would stir up protests, counter-protests, and more trouble than it's worth. Defend yourself if you need too, though."
He flips through the packet again. "The last one, Victor, is a skill vampire, draining anything and everything based on a whole host of factors. The big ones are his focus, skin contact, sight, hearing, etcetera. Known abilities include martial arts, vehicles, languages, and marksmanship." He makes eye contact with me. "He carries a pistol at all times, is a known sniper, and has a history of killing movers. Double digit body count, something of a specialist when countering teleporters."
"They're targeting me." It's a statement, not a question.
"They're targeting you, but they're also trying to change the Empire's image," Colin interjects. Robin sits down and Colin stands up, the slides changing to a now-complete version of the Empire's roster. "Pre-reinforcement, the Empire appeared to be in three main groups: Kaiser's nationalists, Hookwolf's menagerie, and Krieg's Third Reich remnants. While Kaiser is a fairly popular public figure, Hookwolf is generally despised and Krieg isn't much more popular."
"Do you think it has anything to do with wearing an SS officer's uniform?" Roger drawls, to a chorus of chuckles. I snort behind my mask, and even Colin gives a tight grin before going back to his professional demeanor.
"Perhaps. At any rate, the Thinktank believes that this might be an attempt to add sympathetic characters to their line up. Victor can become a master public speaker in a few minutes, Othala provides measurable and immediate quality of life improvements, and Rune can attract younger generations to their cause." He clicks to the next slide, which has a calendar covered with addresses and times. "Until we can strike a blow back, everyone needs to double-down on PR duties. School visits, hospital work, all of it. If you have personal charities that you engage with, please bring them up."
"Amnesty International," Ethan says, face devoid of humor. "Prisons."
"The VA." Robin cracks his neck. "I've already got a few ideas."
I listen as the suggestions pile up, a sinking feeling slowly spreading inside of me. A month of PR work. Even if I sign up for extra patrols, work more with the Wards, spend what little credit I do have to mitigate the damage, this is going to be rough.
"Black Cat." I come back and look across the table. Colin's eyes are unreadable behind his visor, but his mouth is set in a carefully neutral line. "Do you have anything in particular that you'd like us to go over?"
"Autism and associated social disabilities," I snap off, barely hearing the words.
Colin nods as the line of text appears on the screen, looking around. "Does anyone have any pressing questions?" When no one does, the screen shuts off. "Meeting adjourned. Black Cat, could you stay for a minute afterwards?"
"Sure." I trust myself enough for one word. Roger gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder as he leaves, and soon it's just Colin and I.
"If you can't do this, tell me now." He delivers the words dispassionately. "If I'm not going to blame Velocity for not fighting against Lung, I'm not going to castigate you for avoiding a situation you fundamentally cannot deal with."
I think about it, then shake my head. "I can do it. It just takes a lot out of me." I hesitate. "But if it could come on the weekends, at the beginning of my shift..." I trail off, looking away from him.
"That I can do." He packs up his work and heads out the door, pausing before he crosses the threshold. "You know, my door is open if you need it."
I stand up, stretching. "I know." I look back at him. "It's just that if your problem is people, going to a person isn't usually the best solution." I smile, then remember the mask and give him a thumbs up. "I'll manage. I promise to tell you if it gets to be too much."
We part without much more than that, him to tinker and me to plan. I'm going to need a lot of steaks to endure the weeks ahead.
17: Bluff
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
In terms of PR game, the Protectorate ENE is on-point. Everyone knows how to walk the fine line between appearing too scripted and being unprepared, how to smile for the cameras, and it's all tied together with a nice little bow of sincere charity. I've been to cities where getting through a day without having the local team leader cuss out a journalist is considered a triumph, and having everyone basically capable of playing nice with the public is a refreshing change of pace.
It also means that I can fade into the background more easily. Most capes have big personalities, larger-than-life personas that are part act and part genuine egomania, and this team is no exception. Colin thrives in the spotlight, Ethan has a wit that makes him a crowd favorite, and Dauntless is a well-known local darling. I try to get paired with those three as much as possible, to hide in the shadow of their characters. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it really, really doesn't.
*****
It's on a Boardwalk presswalk meet-and-greet that I finally trip up.
"You've hardly said a word so far, Black Cat. What do you think about steady climb in crime?"
I stutter in my walk, then consciously relax my muscles as I twist my head to face the reporter. "The source of criminal activity is pretty far above my pay grade." A delaying tactic, now to dodge. "Generally speaking, I try to do my job, then move on. I leave judgement to the courts." I turn away, physically indicating an end to the conversation.
The reporter apparently doesn't get that though, and casually elbows another camera man out of the way. "What about the rape of a young asian woman by the Docks from last week? Surely you feel something about that? What could inspire such an act?"
I grit my teeth behind my mask, resisting the urge to turn around. A headline-chaser, probably one from an inconsequential rag that gets handed out for free. On the other hand I see a few mikes that do matter subtly angling towards me. Hard mode.
"I may have personal feelings about what I witness, but I am not obligated to share them. I can say that the PRT and BBPD are doing their best to apprehend any and all perpetrators, but-"
"Those perpetrators were found outside a police station this morning with wounds inflicted by a crossbow bolt and signed confessions pinned to their chests. A cape has claimed credit for their capture, choosing the name 'Shadow Stalker'. How do you feel about them passing judgement?"
"I think that the question of the Protectorate's stance on independent parahumans has been stated time and time again, and that if you require a refresher on that answer you can search the internet for five seconds and find the answer," I snap, spinning around. The reporter is smiling, his nicotine-stained teeth wide in a vicious smile. I look him dead in the eye, once more thankful for that my mask is full face. "Now then, if a reporter who's bothered to do more research than a high schooler browsing Wikipedia for a current events paper would like to ask a question of substance, I'd be more than happy to answer that."
"Keisha Ellison from the Brockton Times," a woman in a purple button up and jeans says, severe and commanding. "You transferred here from Detroit, and after going over the publicly available records all I was able to find for a reason was 'personal differences'. Would you care to elaborate on that?"
"No comment," I respond, scanning for Dauntless. He's currently engaged with a different reporter, making grand gestures and eating up camera time. "Other questions?" We only need to be here for another few minutes, tops.
I can hold on.
"In that case would you care to talk about the sudden sabbatical of Desperado?" she asks. "Your transfer and his withdrawal from the public eye are remarkably close together, and it seemed that the two of you got along well before that."
I blink at the sudden rush of emotions, hot and cold and pleasant and horrible and bring to mind the good times where we were laughing in the rain and for a moment I thought this must be how normal people must feel all the time and the bad times when my knives went against Jackie's guns and Alex had to shunt us both to a different world so we didn't accidentally a national incident and too much for right now.
Reflex kicks in and I go still, emotion shunting away to a box I can open at a later date. "The internal affairs of Protectorate personnel are private. I politely request that you cease your inquiries and move to subjects that I can freely discuss." The words sound distant, like they're coming from the distant side of a great chasm.
"Nah, lady raises a good point." This time it's an older man, grizzled whiskers and leathery skin at odds with his fine suit. "John Sminster, Channel Nine. You don't have to give us the nitty-gritty, but if someone's coming in with baggage we'd like to know. Mind giving us a hint?"
"No comment." A thousand phrases spring to mind, excuses, confessions, judgements, something to release the pressure, something to absolve me. Nothing I can share, nothing I should share, not without talking to Jackie. "Next question."
"Actually, we're out of time." I feel a firm grip on my shoulder, metal and unyielding. Dauntless gauntlet. "I know that we haven't filled in all the gaps, but I'm afraid that we've got other duties. Cat, if you'd lead the way."
I teleport to a building corner almost before the last word is out of his mouth, then chain them, one every four seconds, never more than a block at a time. Dauntless stays behind me, well out of my range and far above, practically a sun of glowing energy. If anyone's going to be paying attention to anything, it's going to be to him, a big ol' target. He's got the power to tank it though, and if someone does try to snipe him I can converge on their position fast.
I blink.
I just defaulted to fighting.
That was a lot worse than I thought it was going to be.
For a while the two of us just move, covering ground silently.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
It also means that I can fade into the background more easily. Most capes have big personalities, larger-than-life personas that are part act and part genuine egomania, and this team is no exception. Colin thrives in the spotlight, Ethan has a wit that makes him a crowd favorite, and Dauntless is a well-known local darling. I try to get paired with those three as much as possible, to hide in the shadow of their characters. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it really, really doesn't.
*****
It's on a Boardwalk presswalk meet-and-greet that I finally trip up.
"You've hardly said a word so far, Black Cat. What do you think about steady climb in crime?"
I stutter in my walk, then consciously relax my muscles as I twist my head to face the reporter. "The source of criminal activity is pretty far above my pay grade." A delaying tactic, now to dodge. "Generally speaking, I try to do my job, then move on. I leave judgement to the courts." I turn away, physically indicating an end to the conversation.
The reporter apparently doesn't get that though, and casually elbows another camera man out of the way. "What about the rape of a young asian woman by the Docks from last week? Surely you feel something about that? What could inspire such an act?"
I grit my teeth behind my mask, resisting the urge to turn around. A headline-chaser, probably one from an inconsequential rag that gets handed out for free. On the other hand I see a few mikes that do matter subtly angling towards me. Hard mode.
"I may have personal feelings about what I witness, but I am not obligated to share them. I can say that the PRT and BBPD are doing their best to apprehend any and all perpetrators, but-"
"Those perpetrators were found outside a police station this morning with wounds inflicted by a crossbow bolt and signed confessions pinned to their chests. A cape has claimed credit for their capture, choosing the name 'Shadow Stalker'. How do you feel about them passing judgement?"
"I think that the question of the Protectorate's stance on independent parahumans has been stated time and time again, and that if you require a refresher on that answer you can search the internet for five seconds and find the answer," I snap, spinning around. The reporter is smiling, his nicotine-stained teeth wide in a vicious smile. I look him dead in the eye, once more thankful for that my mask is full face. "Now then, if a reporter who's bothered to do more research than a high schooler browsing Wikipedia for a current events paper would like to ask a question of substance, I'd be more than happy to answer that."
"Keisha Ellison from the Brockton Times," a woman in a purple button up and jeans says, severe and commanding. "You transferred here from Detroit, and after going over the publicly available records all I was able to find for a reason was 'personal differences'. Would you care to elaborate on that?"
"No comment," I respond, scanning for Dauntless. He's currently engaged with a different reporter, making grand gestures and eating up camera time. "Other questions?" We only need to be here for another few minutes, tops.
I can hold on.
"In that case would you care to talk about the sudden sabbatical of Desperado?" she asks. "Your transfer and his withdrawal from the public eye are remarkably close together, and it seemed that the two of you got along well before that."
I blink at the sudden rush of emotions, hot and cold and pleasant and horrible and bring to mind the good times where we were laughing in the rain and for a moment I thought this must be how normal people must feel all the time and the bad times when my knives went against Jackie's guns and Alex had to shunt us both to a different world so we didn't accidentally a national incident and too much for right now.
Reflex kicks in and I go still, emotion shunting away to a box I can open at a later date. "The internal affairs of Protectorate personnel are private. I politely request that you cease your inquiries and move to subjects that I can freely discuss." The words sound distant, like they're coming from the distant side of a great chasm.
"Nah, lady raises a good point." This time it's an older man, grizzled whiskers and leathery skin at odds with his fine suit. "John Sminster, Channel Nine. You don't have to give us the nitty-gritty, but if someone's coming in with baggage we'd like to know. Mind giving us a hint?"
"No comment." A thousand phrases spring to mind, excuses, confessions, judgements, something to release the pressure, something to absolve me. Nothing I can share, nothing I should share, not without talking to Jackie. "Next question."
"Actually, we're out of time." I feel a firm grip on my shoulder, metal and unyielding. Dauntless gauntlet. "I know that we haven't filled in all the gaps, but I'm afraid that we've got other duties. Cat, if you'd lead the way."
I teleport to a building corner almost before the last word is out of his mouth, then chain them, one every four seconds, never more than a block at a time. Dauntless stays behind me, well out of my range and far above, practically a sun of glowing energy. If anyone's going to be paying attention to anything, it's going to be to him, a big ol' target. He's got the power to tank it though, and if someone does try to snipe him I can converge on their position fast.
I blink.
I just defaulted to fighting.
That was a lot worse than I thought it was going to be.
For a while the two of us just move, covering ground silently.
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it."
18: Pair
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
I look at the dice on the table, which stubbornly refuse to the numbers I need to keep my grip on the train. "Damn. Bust."
"There's still hope. Does anyone have Fate to burn?" Sam asks, scanning the table, then locking eyes with Jenny.
The older woman holds up her hands, leaning back slightly in her chair. "I've got a Legend chip, but I'd have to burn a blue chip as well to give it to him. That's a lot of control we'd be forfeiting, and with due respect he's not in good shape right now." She gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry, Eli."
"Nah, it makes sense. No hard feelings." I've been rolling low this session, picking up wounds left and right, and I haven't exactly been dishing it out in return either.
Eric holds up his hands in a T. "First, I think I've got to call us all out on metagaming here. Second, having an extra player is going to be worth more on average than a reroll or bonus. Third, let's take a step back: is a Legend fate chip more important than a PC? I think not."
"No," Sam says.
Jenny sighs, picking up a black chip and a blue one. "Probably not."
"Maybe?" Three sets of eyes lock onto me. I shove my apprehension down and shrug. "I'm just the driver with a gun. What use is a coachman going to be against a mystic?"
Sam sighs, flaring his nostrils. "You're Marshie Slim, the courier who's crossed the border more times than you have fingers, a statement that means something special with you. You've got an in with every branch of the mail service in the West, and the only one of us who could possibly wrangle this mech."
Davis coughs politely and Sam deflates a little. "Sorry about RP'ing for you," he mutters, avoiding my eyes.
"More to the point, we're a team," Eric says, motioning to each player in turn. "Succeed, fail, something in between, we do it together. Maybe not everyone is equally invested in their characters, but out of respect for the code we've got to do our best to keep them alive, even if it's hard."
There's a pause as we turn to look at Jenny. She starts, twitching a little in her seat. "Oh, it's my turn to speak? Sure, take the chip." She tosses the blue plastic circle into the middle of the table, then the black on to me, which I catch on reflex. When we all keep staring at her she raises an eyebrow. "I was sold once Sam brought up the driving skill. Arine sure as hell isn't going to be crashing this train safely."
"Tick tock tick tock," Davis says, the cue that we're falling behind.
I hold out the Legend chip to him. "Marshal, I'd like to reroll my strength check to hang onto the train as I fall from the top."
Davis takes the chip and waves his hand at my motley collection of two and threes. "Reroll accepted. Lets see how you do the second time around."
I pick up three eight-sided dice, juggle them in my hand, then roll my eyes as I hold them out for Sam to blow on. Then I take a deep breath and toss the bones, watching the black and silver dance across the table. One, seven, eight. I reroll the ace. Eight. I roll again. Two, eighteen total. I turn to Davis, hopeful.
He rolls some dice behind the screen, makes a show of thinking about the result, drawing out the tension for all it's worth.
Then he smiles.
"As you all hang onto the roof of the train for dear life as it climbs the side of the near-vertical chasm, Marshie slips off, the winds whipping at his limbs and the ground coming up fast," he says, looking each of us in turn. "Faster than thought, his arms shoots out and snags the railing of the caboose, abruptly changing his arc, right back into the car. He's sore, battered, and bruised, but still alive."
A cheer goes up at the table and I slump in my seat, letting out a quiet sigh. I still have to work my way back up through the train, and the main party is going to have a tougher time fighting their way through the passenger cabins without me.
The show is still going though, and as we move onto the next round of climbing checks I can't help the smile creeping across my cheeks.
*****
"Sorry about earlier," Sam says as we pack up. Davis and Jenny are always the first out, and Eric tends to have gym sessions, so the two of us usually get a few minutes alone afterwards to just talk.
"It's cool," I reply. Today wasn't the first day he's taken someone else's business as his own, and after the first few times I've learned to live with it.
He lets out a small huff. "No, it's not. I've been trying to work on it and I'm not making progress."
I sling my bag over my shoulder and meet his eyes. Hazel, with little flecks of gold in the middle, and utterly determined.
I spread my hands. "What would you like to do to make it up to me?" Giving people a chance to 'redeem themselves' tends to be the fastest route to getting back on good terms, even if there's nothing to forgive.
"A meal. My treat," he says tightly.
I blink.
Oh.
Apparently my hesitation goes on just a little too long, because Sam tears his gaze away and brushes past me. "Forget it, wasn't that big a deal-"
"Wait." Sam pauses by the door, still not looking at me. "I know a place," I say, slowly, quietly. "A steakhouse. We split the cheque, go as friends. That's where we start. Is that okay with you?"
The silence stretches on for long enough that I think I've fucked it up, misjudged the situation, made a fool of myself, and goddammit this is why I can't have-
"Deal." Sam's straightened up. He's still staring out at the street, still not addressing me directly, but his shoulders are thrown back a little, and I think I hear something bright in his voice. "Email me some times that work for you."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone to contemplate just what I've gotten myself into.
"There's still hope. Does anyone have Fate to burn?" Sam asks, scanning the table, then locking eyes with Jenny.
The older woman holds up her hands, leaning back slightly in her chair. "I've got a Legend chip, but I'd have to burn a blue chip as well to give it to him. That's a lot of control we'd be forfeiting, and with due respect he's not in good shape right now." She gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry, Eli."
"Nah, it makes sense. No hard feelings." I've been rolling low this session, picking up wounds left and right, and I haven't exactly been dishing it out in return either.
Eric holds up his hands in a T. "First, I think I've got to call us all out on metagaming here. Second, having an extra player is going to be worth more on average than a reroll or bonus. Third, let's take a step back: is a Legend fate chip more important than a PC? I think not."
"No," Sam says.
Jenny sighs, picking up a black chip and a blue one. "Probably not."
"Maybe?" Three sets of eyes lock onto me. I shove my apprehension down and shrug. "I'm just the driver with a gun. What use is a coachman going to be against a mystic?"
Sam sighs, flaring his nostrils. "You're Marshie Slim, the courier who's crossed the border more times than you have fingers, a statement that means something special with you. You've got an in with every branch of the mail service in the West, and the only one of us who could possibly wrangle this mech."
Davis coughs politely and Sam deflates a little. "Sorry about RP'ing for you," he mutters, avoiding my eyes.
"More to the point, we're a team," Eric says, motioning to each player in turn. "Succeed, fail, something in between, we do it together. Maybe not everyone is equally invested in their characters, but out of respect for the code we've got to do our best to keep them alive, even if it's hard."
There's a pause as we turn to look at Jenny. She starts, twitching a little in her seat. "Oh, it's my turn to speak? Sure, take the chip." She tosses the blue plastic circle into the middle of the table, then the black on to me, which I catch on reflex. When we all keep staring at her she raises an eyebrow. "I was sold once Sam brought up the driving skill. Arine sure as hell isn't going to be crashing this train safely."
"Tick tock tick tock," Davis says, the cue that we're falling behind.
I hold out the Legend chip to him. "Marshal, I'd like to reroll my strength check to hang onto the train as I fall from the top."
Davis takes the chip and waves his hand at my motley collection of two and threes. "Reroll accepted. Lets see how you do the second time around."
I pick up three eight-sided dice, juggle them in my hand, then roll my eyes as I hold them out for Sam to blow on. Then I take a deep breath and toss the bones, watching the black and silver dance across the table. One, seven, eight. I reroll the ace. Eight. I roll again. Two, eighteen total. I turn to Davis, hopeful.
He rolls some dice behind the screen, makes a show of thinking about the result, drawing out the tension for all it's worth.
Then he smiles.
"As you all hang onto the roof of the train for dear life as it climbs the side of the near-vertical chasm, Marshie slips off, the winds whipping at his limbs and the ground coming up fast," he says, looking each of us in turn. "Faster than thought, his arms shoots out and snags the railing of the caboose, abruptly changing his arc, right back into the car. He's sore, battered, and bruised, but still alive."
A cheer goes up at the table and I slump in my seat, letting out a quiet sigh. I still have to work my way back up through the train, and the main party is going to have a tougher time fighting their way through the passenger cabins without me.
The show is still going though, and as we move onto the next round of climbing checks I can't help the smile creeping across my cheeks.
*****
"Sorry about earlier," Sam says as we pack up. Davis and Jenny are always the first out, and Eric tends to have gym sessions, so the two of us usually get a few minutes alone afterwards to just talk.
"It's cool," I reply. Today wasn't the first day he's taken someone else's business as his own, and after the first few times I've learned to live with it.
He lets out a small huff. "No, it's not. I've been trying to work on it and I'm not making progress."
I sling my bag over my shoulder and meet his eyes. Hazel, with little flecks of gold in the middle, and utterly determined.
I spread my hands. "What would you like to do to make it up to me?" Giving people a chance to 'redeem themselves' tends to be the fastest route to getting back on good terms, even if there's nothing to forgive.
"A meal. My treat," he says tightly.
I blink.
Oh.
Apparently my hesitation goes on just a little too long, because Sam tears his gaze away and brushes past me. "Forget it, wasn't that big a deal-"
"Wait." Sam pauses by the door, still not looking at me. "I know a place," I say, slowly, quietly. "A steakhouse. We split the cheque, go as friends. That's where we start. Is that okay with you?"
The silence stretches on for long enough that I think I've fucked it up, misjudged the situation, made a fool of myself, and goddammit this is why I can't have-
"Deal." Sam's straightened up. He's still staring out at the street, still not addressing me directly, but his shoulders are thrown back a little, and I think I hear something bright in his voice. "Email me some times that work for you."
Then he's gone, leaving me alone to contemplate just what I've gotten myself into.
19: Raise
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
Sam and I agree to meet at a coffee shop by the Carrion Pit at six thirty, then walk our way over there. Neither of us put down any thoughts about what we'd do after that, but so long as I kept my thoughts locked onto the hour to hour and a half where I knew, roughly, what was going to happen, I could keep my worries compartmentalized. Dinner, drinks, and conversation. Simple.
Things went wrong immediately.
"Hi." Sam's looking up from his phone screen. Instead of responding I just stare back, standing ramrod straight. He's ditched the graphic tees and jeans for a button-up and dark slacks, barely-perceptible vertical stripes stretching out his form. Instead of contacts he's picked up a pair of black rimless glasses, which frame a pair of wide, surprised eyes, which are quickly covered up as he groans and begins to ball them in.
"I... really did not expect you here. Guess we both arrived early."
I glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter past five. Maybe a little more.
"That seems right," I say neutrally.
Sam sighs, slumping in his chair and putting away his phone. "I was planning on doing some stuff before we went out. I mostly work online, so anywhere with wifi is my office. I also don't like being late, so I figured that I could just set up shop and...
He trails off, looking up at me. Then he looks away, clearing his throat. "Anyway. I'm here, you're here. Let's go!" Sam pushes away from the table, shrugs on a raincoat, and stands up, a slightly-forced smile plastered across his face.
We walk in silence, just two men on a stroll in the same direction. The steakhouse is behind us and growing farther away with every step, but the quiet is tense enough that shattering it would feel wrong. Sam isn't making a move to speak either, so maybe this is what he's looking for.
Except he asked me to dinner. And dressed up. And is wearing rings for the first time since I've met him.
I take a breath, then let it out.
"If you're really not interested, just tell me now."
I stop walking and turn. Sam has one hand hidden behind his body but is otherwise open with me, a supremely tired look on his face.
"If you're only questioning, only want to experiment, or some other shit like that, let's just not. I didn't get that vibe from the sessions but I've been wrong before, and I really don't just want another one-night stand."
I process the words, try to fit them into the situation, then give up. "Did I do something wrong?"
"You haven't done anything," Sam replies, voice rising a little. In session, that's typically a warning sign for an incoming rant. I need to clarify things, and fast.
"I have no idea what to do. I've never gone out with a friend before, and I don't want to mess it up." A pause. When he doesn't bite my head off, I continue, "Would you like me to try something?"
Sam opens his mouth, stops, then tries again. "You've never been on a date?"
I shake my head. "I've never went out to a meal with someone I know personally for fun."
A complicated series of expressions flit over his face, things I only catch snatches of until it settles on something like regret. "Sorry about the heat then. It's just," he fumbles for words, then throws up his hands. "Just nothing. I escalate stuff, fast, assume the worst. Easier to deal with the bad stuff that way, even if it's stupid. I've gotten better at recognizing when it happens, but you shouldn't have to deal with the fallout."
Sam looks away from me, twisting a ring on his index finger. Awkwardly, I reach out and pat him on the shoulder. He jolts a little under the hand, then looks at me, caution on his face.
"I get that," I say quietly.
*****
After that things get a lot better.
Sam does most of the speaking, prompted by a few fairly standard get-to-know-you questions I memorized as a base for small talk.
He's a software engineer that does mostly freelance work, currently employed by Medhall to clean up their server farms. The work is 'easy' for him and pays well, even if he has to go in and apply some percussive maintenance in the meatspace from time to time. He came from Smalltown Nowheresville, got lucky enough to end up with a first-gen computer before it was clear that they were going to be the next big thing, and rode the wave of industry until he ended up in Brockton Bay.
Sam doesn't talk about his family and I don't ask.
We kill some time talking about the stupidest problems he's had to solve, which run the spectrum from telling someone to press the power button in order to turn on a desktop to taking apart a tower into its component parts and reassembling them in exactly the same way in order to somehow solve an issue with the stats program the entire office was trying to run, and then the conversation turns to me.
"Out of curiosity, what do you do for the PRT?" I tilt my head at the non-sequitur and Sam shrugs. "I've spent a lot of time talking about me, which is pretty boring. What about you?"
"Mostly hidden behind NDA's. I can legally tell you that I work in the field and that it's a high-risk environment. Sorry," I add.
Sam nods. "I've signed a lot of those. Can't run the risk of tanking stock prices because the public learned about a massive fuck-up that got fixed. Yours secrets are probably a little more dangerous though."
I smile as we take another right and the Carrion Pit comes into sight. "With due respect, you have no idea."
The waitress recognizes me when we come in, and after a moment of deer-in-the-headlights eyes she quickly escorts us to my usual spot, then sets another place when Sam takes the seat by the wall. That leaves me with my back to the entrance, but it's a small thing, and I compensate for it by taking a deeper draft of my gin than usually. Sam, for his part, chooses a beer darker than the wood of the table, which he holds up for a toast.
"To friends," he says, with a slight tightness to his grin.
I smile back, warmly as I can, and clink my glass against his own. "To a pleasant evening."
It's only after the first round of drinks that we really loosen up.
Things went wrong immediately.
"Hi." Sam's looking up from his phone screen. Instead of responding I just stare back, standing ramrod straight. He's ditched the graphic tees and jeans for a button-up and dark slacks, barely-perceptible vertical stripes stretching out his form. Instead of contacts he's picked up a pair of black rimless glasses, which frame a pair of wide, surprised eyes, which are quickly covered up as he groans and begins to ball them in.
"I... really did not expect you here. Guess we both arrived early."
I glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter past five. Maybe a little more.
"That seems right," I say neutrally.
Sam sighs, slumping in his chair and putting away his phone. "I was planning on doing some stuff before we went out. I mostly work online, so anywhere with wifi is my office. I also don't like being late, so I figured that I could just set up shop and...
He trails off, looking up at me. Then he looks away, clearing his throat. "Anyway. I'm here, you're here. Let's go!" Sam pushes away from the table, shrugs on a raincoat, and stands up, a slightly-forced smile plastered across his face.
We walk in silence, just two men on a stroll in the same direction. The steakhouse is behind us and growing farther away with every step, but the quiet is tense enough that shattering it would feel wrong. Sam isn't making a move to speak either, so maybe this is what he's looking for.
Except he asked me to dinner. And dressed up. And is wearing rings for the first time since I've met him.
I take a breath, then let it out.
"If you're really not interested, just tell me now."
I stop walking and turn. Sam has one hand hidden behind his body but is otherwise open with me, a supremely tired look on his face.
"If you're only questioning, only want to experiment, or some other shit like that, let's just not. I didn't get that vibe from the sessions but I've been wrong before, and I really don't just want another one-night stand."
I process the words, try to fit them into the situation, then give up. "Did I do something wrong?"
"You haven't done anything," Sam replies, voice rising a little. In session, that's typically a warning sign for an incoming rant. I need to clarify things, and fast.
"I have no idea what to do. I've never gone out with a friend before, and I don't want to mess it up." A pause. When he doesn't bite my head off, I continue, "Would you like me to try something?"
Sam opens his mouth, stops, then tries again. "You've never been on a date?"
I shake my head. "I've never went out to a meal with someone I know personally for fun."
A complicated series of expressions flit over his face, things I only catch snatches of until it settles on something like regret. "Sorry about the heat then. It's just," he fumbles for words, then throws up his hands. "Just nothing. I escalate stuff, fast, assume the worst. Easier to deal with the bad stuff that way, even if it's stupid. I've gotten better at recognizing when it happens, but you shouldn't have to deal with the fallout."
Sam looks away from me, twisting a ring on his index finger. Awkwardly, I reach out and pat him on the shoulder. He jolts a little under the hand, then looks at me, caution on his face.
"I get that," I say quietly.
*****
After that things get a lot better.
Sam does most of the speaking, prompted by a few fairly standard get-to-know-you questions I memorized as a base for small talk.
He's a software engineer that does mostly freelance work, currently employed by Medhall to clean up their server farms. The work is 'easy' for him and pays well, even if he has to go in and apply some percussive maintenance in the meatspace from time to time. He came from Smalltown Nowheresville, got lucky enough to end up with a first-gen computer before it was clear that they were going to be the next big thing, and rode the wave of industry until he ended up in Brockton Bay.
Sam doesn't talk about his family and I don't ask.
We kill some time talking about the stupidest problems he's had to solve, which run the spectrum from telling someone to press the power button in order to turn on a desktop to taking apart a tower into its component parts and reassembling them in exactly the same way in order to somehow solve an issue with the stats program the entire office was trying to run, and then the conversation turns to me.
"Out of curiosity, what do you do for the PRT?" I tilt my head at the non-sequitur and Sam shrugs. "I've spent a lot of time talking about me, which is pretty boring. What about you?"
"Mostly hidden behind NDA's. I can legally tell you that I work in the field and that it's a high-risk environment. Sorry," I add.
Sam nods. "I've signed a lot of those. Can't run the risk of tanking stock prices because the public learned about a massive fuck-up that got fixed. Yours secrets are probably a little more dangerous though."
I smile as we take another right and the Carrion Pit comes into sight. "With due respect, you have no idea."
The waitress recognizes me when we come in, and after a moment of deer-in-the-headlights eyes she quickly escorts us to my usual spot, then sets another place when Sam takes the seat by the wall. That leaves me with my back to the entrance, but it's a small thing, and I compensate for it by taking a deeper draft of my gin than usually. Sam, for his part, chooses a beer darker than the wood of the table, which he holds up for a toast.
"To friends," he says, with a slight tightness to his grin.
I smile back, warmly as I can, and clink my glass against his own. "To a pleasant evening."
It's only after the first round of drinks that we really loosen up.
20: Payout
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"Thanks for going out with me. I mean it."
"Thanks for asking," I reply, adjusting Sam's arm. Over the course of the dinner I learned a few more things about him, the most salient of which right now is that he's a lightweight who enjoys the taste of dark, strong beers. When I assured him that I'd help him get home, he told the waitress to keep the drinks coming until he couldn't pronounce a random word out of a pocket dictionary. Turns out he's exceptionally articulate, and the first sign of his advanced stage of inebriation was the sudden stumble as he stood up.
That and the smell.
"Seriously. Like, I know I'm a handful. A big one. It's one of the reasons I try to inflict myself on other people as little as humanly possible. But when mister pale, and mysterious walks in and starts gaming all broody-like, sometimes you've just gotta go for it, you know?" A more charitable person would say he smells like a brewery and leave it at that. Personally I think he smells like an operating room.
"Thank you for the compliment. Here, let me drive you home." I dig my keys out with my free hand and click the fob.
"Anyway, you've got that 'TDH' look going for you, you know? Like, not actually because you're so white that you'd burn through a window but you always wear black and have black hair and it really works." Sam is able to buckle himself into his own seat, and once I get into the driver's seat he keeps going. "I think I've said this before, but you're really handsome. Like, not top one percent, but top five easy."
"Where do you live?" I turn on the car, flick the heating dial as far into the red as it can go, then dig a water bottle out of the compartment behind the gearstick and hold it out to Sam. If I had known that being sober around drunk people would put conversations into easy mode, I'd have bought more alcohol illegally as an undergraduate.
Sam rattles off an address, then busies himself with rehydrating while I pull up his home on my phone and pull into traffic. It's one of the nicer parts of town, an apartment building that's within a reasonable distance of Downtown and Boardwalk but far enough away that you don't have to worry about becoming collateral in a cape fight.
For a while I just drive, letting Sam's babbling wash over me, offering the occasional interjection to make sure he knows I'm listening. It's soothing, almost like a quiet room and music.
"Do you think I'm handsome?"
Once I've ensured that I haven't accidentally sideswiped anyone, I pull over and look at Sam. He's got a serious face on, the half-empty water bottle cradled in his lap.
"I think I'm alright. Like, at least as handsome as you. I work pretty hard at it, spend some time in a gym, all that stuff. I read up on fashion, know how to put together an outfit, and I've mostly figured out how the confidence thing looks. So, give it to me. One to ten, go." He smiles, but there's a nervous edge to it.
I open my mouth, then close it. I owe him an honest answer, which means more than a quick 'yes you're pretty'. So I look at Sam, really look at him, and think about it.
A brunette, about my height, with clear-enough skin. He's got a sparse beard over cheeks and lips, with a rounding to his face that just a little off. Muscular, but it's an even distribution of weight. He twists one his rings as my eyes roam up and down his body, drawing attention to his fingers. His nails have been chewed to the quick, but they're well taken care of. His fists clench, then relax, splaying wide.
"Yeah. Had a lot of anxiety issues as a kid. Still do, kinda, but I'm a lot better at coping with it. Fingernails were the first casualty." His smile is less feeling and more mask now.
I reach over and take his hand.
Sam's breath catches.
"I'm bad at people. I think I've already told you that." I run my thumb over his knuckles. "I think you got a taste of that at the start. I'm going to have to keep secrets. Big ones. Part of that's work, part of that's me being paranoid." I squeeze. "I'd like to give this a shot though."
For a long while we just sit there in the car, taking in the moment.
Then Sam snorts.
"I asked you to rate me and that's what you came up with?" Now he's laughing, shoulders shaking and eyes closed.
I sigh, shaking my head. "See, I try to be romantic and this is what happens. I told you I don't people well."
"No, it's cute." After a few deep breaths, Sam squeezes my hand back. "I'm a big boy, Eli. I can handle a little mystery. Now seriously, tell me."
I drum my fingers on the back of his hand, something fluttering twitching in my chest as I feel him shudder at the motion. "A solid nine."
"Nine? Who's a ten?" Sam asks with mock indignation.
"Legend," I state simply.
Sam pouts, then drops his head to the side. "Fine. I will be second fiddle to Legend."
I raise an eyebrow. "Second fiddle? I just said that he's a ten, not that I'd be into him. Now, can I get my hand back? I kind of need it to drive."
The rest of the ride passes in a companionable silence. Sam doesn't invite me up when he gets out of the car, nor does he go for a kiss, both of which I'm thankful for. We do have a hug though, one which feels a little more than friendly. It's only when I'm back in my room at the Rig that I start really thinking about what I've done.
"Thanks for asking," I reply, adjusting Sam's arm. Over the course of the dinner I learned a few more things about him, the most salient of which right now is that he's a lightweight who enjoys the taste of dark, strong beers. When I assured him that I'd help him get home, he told the waitress to keep the drinks coming until he couldn't pronounce a random word out of a pocket dictionary. Turns out he's exceptionally articulate, and the first sign of his advanced stage of inebriation was the sudden stumble as he stood up.
That and the smell.
"Seriously. Like, I know I'm a handful. A big one. It's one of the reasons I try to inflict myself on other people as little as humanly possible. But when mister pale, and mysterious walks in and starts gaming all broody-like, sometimes you've just gotta go for it, you know?" A more charitable person would say he smells like a brewery and leave it at that. Personally I think he smells like an operating room.
"Thank you for the compliment. Here, let me drive you home." I dig my keys out with my free hand and click the fob.
"Anyway, you've got that 'TDH' look going for you, you know? Like, not actually because you're so white that you'd burn through a window but you always wear black and have black hair and it really works." Sam is able to buckle himself into his own seat, and once I get into the driver's seat he keeps going. "I think I've said this before, but you're really handsome. Like, not top one percent, but top five easy."
"Where do you live?" I turn on the car, flick the heating dial as far into the red as it can go, then dig a water bottle out of the compartment behind the gearstick and hold it out to Sam. If I had known that being sober around drunk people would put conversations into easy mode, I'd have bought more alcohol illegally as an undergraduate.
Sam rattles off an address, then busies himself with rehydrating while I pull up his home on my phone and pull into traffic. It's one of the nicer parts of town, an apartment building that's within a reasonable distance of Downtown and Boardwalk but far enough away that you don't have to worry about becoming collateral in a cape fight.
For a while I just drive, letting Sam's babbling wash over me, offering the occasional interjection to make sure he knows I'm listening. It's soothing, almost like a quiet room and music.
"Do you think I'm handsome?"
Once I've ensured that I haven't accidentally sideswiped anyone, I pull over and look at Sam. He's got a serious face on, the half-empty water bottle cradled in his lap.
"I think I'm alright. Like, at least as handsome as you. I work pretty hard at it, spend some time in a gym, all that stuff. I read up on fashion, know how to put together an outfit, and I've mostly figured out how the confidence thing looks. So, give it to me. One to ten, go." He smiles, but there's a nervous edge to it.
I open my mouth, then close it. I owe him an honest answer, which means more than a quick 'yes you're pretty'. So I look at Sam, really look at him, and think about it.
A brunette, about my height, with clear-enough skin. He's got a sparse beard over cheeks and lips, with a rounding to his face that just a little off. Muscular, but it's an even distribution of weight. He twists one his rings as my eyes roam up and down his body, drawing attention to his fingers. His nails have been chewed to the quick, but they're well taken care of. His fists clench, then relax, splaying wide.
"Yeah. Had a lot of anxiety issues as a kid. Still do, kinda, but I'm a lot better at coping with it. Fingernails were the first casualty." His smile is less feeling and more mask now.
I reach over and take his hand.
Sam's breath catches.
"I'm bad at people. I think I've already told you that." I run my thumb over his knuckles. "I think you got a taste of that at the start. I'm going to have to keep secrets. Big ones. Part of that's work, part of that's me being paranoid." I squeeze. "I'd like to give this a shot though."
For a long while we just sit there in the car, taking in the moment.
Then Sam snorts.
"I asked you to rate me and that's what you came up with?" Now he's laughing, shoulders shaking and eyes closed.
I sigh, shaking my head. "See, I try to be romantic and this is what happens. I told you I don't people well."
"No, it's cute." After a few deep breaths, Sam squeezes my hand back. "I'm a big boy, Eli. I can handle a little mystery. Now seriously, tell me."
I drum my fingers on the back of his hand, something fluttering twitching in my chest as I feel him shudder at the motion. "A solid nine."
"Nine? Who's a ten?" Sam asks with mock indignation.
"Legend," I state simply.
Sam pouts, then drops his head to the side. "Fine. I will be second fiddle to Legend."
I raise an eyebrow. "Second fiddle? I just said that he's a ten, not that I'd be into him. Now, can I get my hand back? I kind of need it to drive."
The rest of the ride passes in a companionable silence. Sam doesn't invite me up when he gets out of the car, nor does he go for a kiss, both of which I'm thankful for. We do have a hug though, one which feels a little more than friendly. It's only when I'm back in my room at the Rig that I start really thinking about what I've done.
21: Break
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"This is dumb," Vista groans, spinning around in her chair. Kid Win's lost in a tablet, stylus flying across the screen and probably sketching out some sort of reality-warping device, but I catch a glance that tells me he's not entirely unsympathetic to Vista's plight.
I sigh and refrain from commenting. Engaging with a teenager about the banality of work isn't going to be a productive use of my time, and frankly letting them get their complaints out now is probably for the best.
"Hey. Cat."
I crane my neck to look at the girl. Twelve years old and more experienced than anyone else on the team, she's closer in personality to Hannah than Sharon, with a not-entirely-faked hardness and core of steel. She's also twelve, though. "Yes?"
"How long do you think we'll have to wait for to get some action?"
I mull over the question, then shrug one shoulder. "Sometime this week there will probably be a cape skirmish."
Vista crosses her arms and frowns. "This is dumb. What's the point of letting us engage if there's nothing to fight?"
"Show of force. Speak softly and carry a big stick and all that," Kid Win says. When we both turn to look at him, he shrinks a little. "Winston Churchill said it. He was the Prime Minister of England during the Second World War."
"Best gun is the one you never have to shoot," I say, nodding at him before turning back to the console. "While you guys can probably take any normal group of thugs on without taking casualties, the chances aren't good enough for you to patrol alone. Once they are, hopefully you can keep the peace while we pull some more aggressive action on the other parahuman gangs. If you guys see a fight, then something's either gone horribly wrong or right in all the worst ways."
"So we're in exactly the same position as we were before, but now we might be stretching our legs over a slightly larger area?" Vista kicks her legs out, pushing away from the console. "As I said: duuuuuuumb."
"Change takes time," I say, moving back so I can keep an eye on her share of the screens as well. "You guys are the first Wards department to be pushed into potential combat scenarios proactively. There are a million ways this can backfire, most of which end with Director Piggot crucified on Youth Guard's entirely-reasonable platform and Armsmaster reassigned to a quarantine zone."
I let that sink in for a while, checking on the joint patrols venturing around the city. Armsmaster is with Triumph, grooming the soon-to-be-Protectorate Wards team leader while Assault and Battery start forming rapport with Aegis. Once Clockblocker and Gallant prove that they can be trusted to remain composed in a high-pressure situation, they'll be going out too. I just have to hope that the people in charge doesn't ask me to try and give anyone a pep talk.
"So why are we here?" This time it's Kid Win, flipping a screwdriver as he meets my gaze.
An easy question with a whole lot of wrong answers. Time for some creative truths. "You both have mover ratings. Vista can bring a squad of PRT troopers down on someone in a third of the time it takes a van to arrive, you've got flight, and I tie Oni Lee for second fastest in the city."
"We're also the two youngest Wards," Vista says, kicking back across the room.
I sigh. "Yes. You are. We are trying to keep kids who haven't finished high school from fighting against people who can and will try to kill them."
"But us going out on PR patrols when anyone could ambush us is okay?" Vista asks sarcastically.
I flare my nostrils, trusting my mask to hide the sign of frustration. "Vista, how many cape fights have you been in?"
"Five," she answers proudly.
"How many of them stood their ground ?" I ask. "How many of them were backed into a corner, thinking about a future in the Birdcage, and willing to risk everything to avoid that? How many of them were psychopaths with no respect for human life or the absolute hell Legend will rain down on anyone who kills a Ward? How many of them actively wished you harm, had a grudge against you that they would be willing to die for, take hostages for, break the rules for?" I turn around, leaving the console unmanned. "Did you ever lose?"
The quiet is deafening.
"You're asking for us to throw you headfirst into one of the most dangerous professions there is. More to the point, you're asking for the most dangerous parts of it, the kind of things that you have to be paid extra for because otherwise there's a class-action suit about uneven work/pay ratios. And you're asking for that as a minor."
"Age is just a number," Vista murmurs, but her heart's not in it. I wince.
Fuck.
"That's why you're getting a chance," I say, not entirely sure if it's true. "We need to know that you can handle extra responsibility, console duty and all. We're easing you in, making sure you can take the mental strain as well as the physical."
Vista doesn't respond and Kid Win picks up his tablet.
"I'm going to go tinker a bit," he says, glancing between the two of us. "Is that okay?"
I wave at him silently, tracking him as he leaves the room. Then I look back to Vista, who's trying to glare a hole in the floor.
"Sorry. I got a little heated." I push to the side, motioning to her side of the console.
After a moment, she takes the opening, rolling forward to take her place at a keyboard. We work together in near-silence for a bit, only speaking to our respective patrol agents. For about an hour the atmosphere is professional, cordial, and all sorts of wrong.
Then it's not.
"You're a bit of a dick, you know that?"
I blink, then turn to the side. Vista's fingers are dancing over her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. Some combination of PHO threads, social media sites, and a cape tracker site.
"Like, I know that we get special treatment. I don't always remember, but I know that." She closes a tab, then opens one and goes to the exact same site. "It's still dumb though. Chris has been around for a few months. I have a year of experience on him. More." Her fingers stopped. "And he'll be team leader before I will."
I don't know what to say to that. I think about something supportive, then dismiss it as trite. Solidarity might work, but it could be taken as support of her or for support of the tradition. That, and leaving Vista to stew in her own thoughts seems like a bad idea. I need to show some sort of affirmation, a recognition of her value, something that will put her up, even just a little.
I think about what Roger would do.
Awkwardly, I reach out and give her shoulder a squeeze. "If it helps, you're the best Wards team I've worked with."
"What do you mean?" The words are still flat, but some response is better than no response.
"You guys get into the exercises, try to think outside the box. When I hit back, you don't sit down and complain." I let go and go back to typing. "You try. That's worth something."
Vista snorts and we don't talk for the rest of the shift. I think things are better though, even if only by a little bit.
I sigh and refrain from commenting. Engaging with a teenager about the banality of work isn't going to be a productive use of my time, and frankly letting them get their complaints out now is probably for the best.
"Hey. Cat."
I crane my neck to look at the girl. Twelve years old and more experienced than anyone else on the team, she's closer in personality to Hannah than Sharon, with a not-entirely-faked hardness and core of steel. She's also twelve, though. "Yes?"
"How long do you think we'll have to wait for to get some action?"
I mull over the question, then shrug one shoulder. "Sometime this week there will probably be a cape skirmish."
Vista crosses her arms and frowns. "This is dumb. What's the point of letting us engage if there's nothing to fight?"
"Show of force. Speak softly and carry a big stick and all that," Kid Win says. When we both turn to look at him, he shrinks a little. "Winston Churchill said it. He was the Prime Minister of England during the Second World War."
"Best gun is the one you never have to shoot," I say, nodding at him before turning back to the console. "While you guys can probably take any normal group of thugs on without taking casualties, the chances aren't good enough for you to patrol alone. Once they are, hopefully you can keep the peace while we pull some more aggressive action on the other parahuman gangs. If you guys see a fight, then something's either gone horribly wrong or right in all the worst ways."
"So we're in exactly the same position as we were before, but now we might be stretching our legs over a slightly larger area?" Vista kicks her legs out, pushing away from the console. "As I said: duuuuuuumb."
"Change takes time," I say, moving back so I can keep an eye on her share of the screens as well. "You guys are the first Wards department to be pushed into potential combat scenarios proactively. There are a million ways this can backfire, most of which end with Director Piggot crucified on Youth Guard's entirely-reasonable platform and Armsmaster reassigned to a quarantine zone."
I let that sink in for a while, checking on the joint patrols venturing around the city. Armsmaster is with Triumph, grooming the soon-to-be-Protectorate Wards team leader while Assault and Battery start forming rapport with Aegis. Once Clockblocker and Gallant prove that they can be trusted to remain composed in a high-pressure situation, they'll be going out too. I just have to hope that the people in charge doesn't ask me to try and give anyone a pep talk.
"So why are we here?" This time it's Kid Win, flipping a screwdriver as he meets my gaze.
An easy question with a whole lot of wrong answers. Time for some creative truths. "You both have mover ratings. Vista can bring a squad of PRT troopers down on someone in a third of the time it takes a van to arrive, you've got flight, and I tie Oni Lee for second fastest in the city."
"We're also the two youngest Wards," Vista says, kicking back across the room.
I sigh. "Yes. You are. We are trying to keep kids who haven't finished high school from fighting against people who can and will try to kill them."
"But us going out on PR patrols when anyone could ambush us is okay?" Vista asks sarcastically.
I flare my nostrils, trusting my mask to hide the sign of frustration. "Vista, how many cape fights have you been in?"
"Five," she answers proudly.
"How many of them stood their ground ?" I ask. "How many of them were backed into a corner, thinking about a future in the Birdcage, and willing to risk everything to avoid that? How many of them were psychopaths with no respect for human life or the absolute hell Legend will rain down on anyone who kills a Ward? How many of them actively wished you harm, had a grudge against you that they would be willing to die for, take hostages for, break the rules for?" I turn around, leaving the console unmanned. "Did you ever lose?"
The quiet is deafening.
"You're asking for us to throw you headfirst into one of the most dangerous professions there is. More to the point, you're asking for the most dangerous parts of it, the kind of things that you have to be paid extra for because otherwise there's a class-action suit about uneven work/pay ratios. And you're asking for that as a minor."
"Age is just a number," Vista murmurs, but her heart's not in it. I wince.
Fuck.
"That's why you're getting a chance," I say, not entirely sure if it's true. "We need to know that you can handle extra responsibility, console duty and all. We're easing you in, making sure you can take the mental strain as well as the physical."
Vista doesn't respond and Kid Win picks up his tablet.
"I'm going to go tinker a bit," he says, glancing between the two of us. "Is that okay?"
I wave at him silently, tracking him as he leaves the room. Then I look back to Vista, who's trying to glare a hole in the floor.
"Sorry. I got a little heated." I push to the side, motioning to her side of the console.
After a moment, she takes the opening, rolling forward to take her place at a keyboard. We work together in near-silence for a bit, only speaking to our respective patrol agents. For about an hour the atmosphere is professional, cordial, and all sorts of wrong.
Then it's not.
"You're a bit of a dick, you know that?"
I blink, then turn to the side. Vista's fingers are dancing over her keyboard, her eyes fixed on the screen. Some combination of PHO threads, social media sites, and a cape tracker site.
"Like, I know that we get special treatment. I don't always remember, but I know that." She closes a tab, then opens one and goes to the exact same site. "It's still dumb though. Chris has been around for a few months. I have a year of experience on him. More." Her fingers stopped. "And he'll be team leader before I will."
I don't know what to say to that. I think about something supportive, then dismiss it as trite. Solidarity might work, but it could be taken as support of her or for support of the tradition. That, and leaving Vista to stew in her own thoughts seems like a bad idea. I need to show some sort of affirmation, a recognition of her value, something that will put her up, even just a little.
I think about what Roger would do.
Awkwardly, I reach out and give her shoulder a squeeze. "If it helps, you're the best Wards team I've worked with."
"What do you mean?" The words are still flat, but some response is better than no response.
"You guys get into the exercises, try to think outside the box. When I hit back, you don't sit down and complain." I let go and go back to typing. "You try. That's worth something."
Vista snorts and we don't talk for the rest of the shift. I think things are better though, even if only by a little bit.
22: Spar
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"Three. Two. One." I cross my arms and teleport back. "Mark."
Dauntless's Arclance flashes across the space between him and the squad of PRT troopers, catching one in the chest and sending him stumbling back. Another three lift plastic rifles and start shooting as they rush forward, their guns going fwipfwipfwip as paintballs flicker across the room. Dauntless gets his shield up in time, zapping the projectiles into nothingness, then jumps into the air. The PRT agents keep their guns aimed on him, now alternating fire while the other reloads. The Arclance flickers again and they scatter.
As the exercise goes on, I take note of where Dauntless makes mistakes, even as Sergeant Able next to me is doing the same for his own troopers. While many PRT/cape engagements ultimately come down to who shot first, there's enough value in cross-branch training that a few near-live fire exercises are invaluable experiences for both parties involved. For the troopers, it's a chance to see how well the handbook has sunk in, along with a practical demonstration of just how dangerous capes can be. For the capes, it's proof that a superpower doesn't make you invincible, a truth that's frequently hard to swallow.
Dauntless is uniquely suited to such a situation. His Arclance is strong enough to be painful, but weak enough that the odds of him permanently injuring someone are extremely low. The rest of his kit is exceptionally versatile, forcing the troopers to think on their feet, but not so completely overwhelming that victory is impossible. If the troopers lose, it will feel preventable which will hopefully get some healthy competition going. If Dauntless loses, he's a good enough sport for it to not damage the PRT and Protectorate's relationship.
Another PRT trooper goes down to the Arclance, but at the cost of Dauntless's Arcbubble. Testing has rated his shield at multiple rifle shots before it needs a recharge, which we simulate using some timing tech from Armsmaster. The remaining two troopers pop out of cover and unleash a hail of fire on Dauntless, painting his armor green, purple, and yellow.
"That's game," I shout, crossing my arms. "PRT squad claims victory. Now shake hands."
Dauntless floats the ground and walks across the field to the group of four officers, one of which is being helped to her feet by two others, while the first officer to go down is jogging over from the sidelines. As they converse, I look towards Sergeant Able.
"Your troopers did well," I comment.
He shakes his head. "If that was Purity, we'd be attending funerals. Your man Dauntless isn't trying too hard to kill them, even if he's pretty good at not getting killed."
I shrug. "Most capes aren't Purity. I'd take this squad versus most of the Empire, especially with containment foam."
Able grunts. "Not wrong. Same time on Wednesday?"
"They can fight Miss Militia and Velocity," I confirm, drawing a cackle from Able.
"The boys'll love that," he mutters, walking off towards the troopers as they disengage with Dauntless and head towards the shower rooms.
I grab a bottle of water and cross the room towards Dauntless. Somehow I ended up as the main liaison between the PRT field squads and the Protectorate. Armsmaster still handles the majority of the paperwork and does all the communication with the higher levels of command, but the initial agreement to have Wards/PRT training sessions as a way to safely gain experience battling normal humans armed with guns quickly ballooned to something much larger.
"Good work." I hold out the plastic container and offer a thumbs-up.
Dauntless shakes his head as he takes the bottle. "They ran rings around me. I should've kept moving, broken lines of sight, tried to isolate them."
"Breaking line of sight means that they can move about without worrying about you," I counter, holding out a hand. Dauntless pulls off his helmet, revealing a flushed, sweat-soaked face. Powers or no, running around in twenty pounds or more of armor without a brute rating is hard. Supposedly his gear has been getting incrementally lighter as he charges it, but for now it's still a workout.
He twists off the top of the bottle and takes a long chug, finishing nearly a third before coming up for air. "What did I do wrong?"
"You did stay too still. If you're not fighting someone with an auto-hit, it makes more sense to keep moving and accept the loss in accuracy. If you had stayed directly above them with the ceiling lights at your back, they'd have a harder time trying to shoot you. Also, I have no idea why you're not changing altitude more frequently."
"It makes me queasy," he says sheepishly, taking another sip of water.
I think about it and barely manage to restrain the urge to laugh. "We'll look into air sickness pills. For now, try to remember that you can move in three dimensions."
Dauntless nods, finishing off the water bottle, then holding out a fist to me. I look at it, then to him, and slowly make contact.
He grins. "You just won me thirty bucks, you know. Miss Militia, Assault, Armsmaster and I set up a pool for who could get you to reciprocate a friendly gesture."
"I haven't been that aloof," I say, turning away and heading towards the locker rooms. "Besides, technically it might be a Ward who won that pool."
Dauntless falls into step beside me, already stripping off his armor. "Really? What, have you been tutoring them on the side?"
I lift an eyebrow behind my mask. "It depends. Does a middle finger count as a friendly gesture?"
"You're talking about your training exercises again aren't you?" Dauntless says flatly.
I grin. "The ones filled with good cheer, learning, and surprisingly creative expletives. Tell me, where did Vista learn about the beast with two backs?"
Dauntless groans as I chuckle, and after striping down the two of us heading for separate shower stalls. "That was not friendly, and if you could not antagonize the Wards that would be great."
"I'll stop when it becomes a problem." Then I flick on the hot water and lose myself in steam and heat.
Dauntless's Arclance flashes across the space between him and the squad of PRT troopers, catching one in the chest and sending him stumbling back. Another three lift plastic rifles and start shooting as they rush forward, their guns going fwipfwipfwip as paintballs flicker across the room. Dauntless gets his shield up in time, zapping the projectiles into nothingness, then jumps into the air. The PRT agents keep their guns aimed on him, now alternating fire while the other reloads. The Arclance flickers again and they scatter.
As the exercise goes on, I take note of where Dauntless makes mistakes, even as Sergeant Able next to me is doing the same for his own troopers. While many PRT/cape engagements ultimately come down to who shot first, there's enough value in cross-branch training that a few near-live fire exercises are invaluable experiences for both parties involved. For the troopers, it's a chance to see how well the handbook has sunk in, along with a practical demonstration of just how dangerous capes can be. For the capes, it's proof that a superpower doesn't make you invincible, a truth that's frequently hard to swallow.
Dauntless is uniquely suited to such a situation. His Arclance is strong enough to be painful, but weak enough that the odds of him permanently injuring someone are extremely low. The rest of his kit is exceptionally versatile, forcing the troopers to think on their feet, but not so completely overwhelming that victory is impossible. If the troopers lose, it will feel preventable which will hopefully get some healthy competition going. If Dauntless loses, he's a good enough sport for it to not damage the PRT and Protectorate's relationship.
Another PRT trooper goes down to the Arclance, but at the cost of Dauntless's Arcbubble. Testing has rated his shield at multiple rifle shots before it needs a recharge, which we simulate using some timing tech from Armsmaster. The remaining two troopers pop out of cover and unleash a hail of fire on Dauntless, painting his armor green, purple, and yellow.
"That's game," I shout, crossing my arms. "PRT squad claims victory. Now shake hands."
Dauntless floats the ground and walks across the field to the group of four officers, one of which is being helped to her feet by two others, while the first officer to go down is jogging over from the sidelines. As they converse, I look towards Sergeant Able.
"Your troopers did well," I comment.
He shakes his head. "If that was Purity, we'd be attending funerals. Your man Dauntless isn't trying too hard to kill them, even if he's pretty good at not getting killed."
I shrug. "Most capes aren't Purity. I'd take this squad versus most of the Empire, especially with containment foam."
Able grunts. "Not wrong. Same time on Wednesday?"
"They can fight Miss Militia and Velocity," I confirm, drawing a cackle from Able.
"The boys'll love that," he mutters, walking off towards the troopers as they disengage with Dauntless and head towards the shower rooms.
I grab a bottle of water and cross the room towards Dauntless. Somehow I ended up as the main liaison between the PRT field squads and the Protectorate. Armsmaster still handles the majority of the paperwork and does all the communication with the higher levels of command, but the initial agreement to have Wards/PRT training sessions as a way to safely gain experience battling normal humans armed with guns quickly ballooned to something much larger.
"Good work." I hold out the plastic container and offer a thumbs-up.
Dauntless shakes his head as he takes the bottle. "They ran rings around me. I should've kept moving, broken lines of sight, tried to isolate them."
"Breaking line of sight means that they can move about without worrying about you," I counter, holding out a hand. Dauntless pulls off his helmet, revealing a flushed, sweat-soaked face. Powers or no, running around in twenty pounds or more of armor without a brute rating is hard. Supposedly his gear has been getting incrementally lighter as he charges it, but for now it's still a workout.
He twists off the top of the bottle and takes a long chug, finishing nearly a third before coming up for air. "What did I do wrong?"
"You did stay too still. If you're not fighting someone with an auto-hit, it makes more sense to keep moving and accept the loss in accuracy. If you had stayed directly above them with the ceiling lights at your back, they'd have a harder time trying to shoot you. Also, I have no idea why you're not changing altitude more frequently."
"It makes me queasy," he says sheepishly, taking another sip of water.
I think about it and barely manage to restrain the urge to laugh. "We'll look into air sickness pills. For now, try to remember that you can move in three dimensions."
Dauntless nods, finishing off the water bottle, then holding out a fist to me. I look at it, then to him, and slowly make contact.
He grins. "You just won me thirty bucks, you know. Miss Militia, Assault, Armsmaster and I set up a pool for who could get you to reciprocate a friendly gesture."
"I haven't been that aloof," I say, turning away and heading towards the locker rooms. "Besides, technically it might be a Ward who won that pool."
Dauntless falls into step beside me, already stripping off his armor. "Really? What, have you been tutoring them on the side?"
I lift an eyebrow behind my mask. "It depends. Does a middle finger count as a friendly gesture?"
"You're talking about your training exercises again aren't you?" Dauntless says flatly.
I grin. "The ones filled with good cheer, learning, and surprisingly creative expletives. Tell me, where did Vista learn about the beast with two backs?"
Dauntless groans as I chuckle, and after striping down the two of us heading for separate shower stalls. "That was not friendly, and if you could not antagonize the Wards that would be great."
"I'll stop when it becomes a problem." Then I flick on the hot water and lose myself in steam and heat.
23: New Hand
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"What are we?" Sam asks, breaking the companionable quiet.
"Dating." I finish my mouthful of pasta, then take a sip of water and look at him expectantly. Sam's staring into his plate of lasagna like it holds the answers to life's mysteries.
"I mean, yeah. I kind of figured that out when you asked me out to lunch. But what are we going to tell the groups?" He looks up, brows furrowed.
I tilt my head. "As much or as little as you want."
"I don't want to tell them." I put down my fork, resigning myself to eating the food lukewarm, and open my ears.
Sam groans, scratching his head. "It's like- they all know I'm trans. That I trust them with. Worst-case scenario I just tell them to fuck off and find a different gaming group. I'm not going to do that," he assures me, head popping up for long enough to look me in the eye. "It's just an option I have. Had." His gaze drifts over my shoulder, becoming lost in thought. "Now if I tell them we're together, that's going to mess with the group dynamic. Jenny would never stop bothering us for details, Eric would try to be supportive in the most overbearing way in the world, and Davis would start wondering if the two of us were colluding at the table it's just-"
Sam cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I don't want the drama."
"Okay."
For a second there's silence.
"What?" Sam's looking up at me with a confused expression on his face.
I shrug. "You don't want to tell them anything. I'm a fairly private person. Let's not tell them."
After a moment Sam nods. "Good. We agree."
I wait a little longer, then go back to my pasta. It's colder, but still more than edible. Sam resumes working away at his food as well, and we finish the meal in a companionable silence.
Sam walks a little closer to me when we leave.
*****
In practice very little changes.
I still work the late shift, though now I stop trying to get off it. Deadlands sessions proceed much the same way they always do, though now Sam adds in the occasional small touch when no one else is looking. Work is still work, with no major offensives from any side so far.
That's not to say things aren't different. I now have two different regular social engagements: the gaming group and the dates with Sam. That is a one hundred percent increase in willful human interaction, and combined with the regular trips to hospitals, schools, and the deepening bonds with the rest of my coworkers, and the effort of being social is steadily wearing at me. I'm still well within my limits, but I am a little bit outside my comfort zone.
That's not always a bad thing, mind.
"Settled?" Sam asks. He's sitting in my lap, arms linked around my neck and a near-vicious grin on his face. His place, since I don't really have one of my own, and he's on top because that's the way he likes it.
"Enough." I've got my breathing light and even, my muscles relaxed, and my voice is as warm as I can make it. Even with all that, my pulse is out of control, powerful enough that I can feel each heartbeat. I'm hyper aware of exactly how much of me is in contact with Sam, how much fabric separates the two of us, and how this must look from the outside.
I take a deep breath, hold it, then let go.
"Ready when you are," I murmur.
*****
I used to be afraid of heights. I could barely look out windows it was so bad, an instant weakness in the knees whenever I contemplated just how much space there was between me and the ground. I thought for sure that I'd never get over it and resigned myself to a life of fear, marking airplanes and skyscrapers with big red signs and turning the other way when people talked about roller coasters.
Then I discovered bouldering.
Rock climbing without the ropes, with a greater focus on difficulty over endurance. Visual, tactile puzzles, ones which were problems, always beatable. It was a marriage of intellectual and physical challenge that I never knew I needed until I was gifted a membership and some shoes. I showed up with low expectations, prepared for yet another hobby ruined by other people.
Instead when I asked to be left alone, I was left alone.
It was peaceful in a way I've nearly never replicated. Just me, a solvable problem, and enough time to work through it. I went home sore to the bone, and once the aches had faded I was on the first bus back. I was able to fail, to fall, and so long as I wasn't an idiot about it I could always get back up and try again. It's hard for a fear to remain strong through a few dozen falls, and after the hundred or so time I found myself jumping off the wall instead of climbing down, savoring the hit of adrenaline that came with the plunge. It was in those seconds, those less-than-seconds, that I learned to love the laser-focus that came with risk.
It was also the first place I kissed a man.
*****
"You doing alright?" Roger asks, placing a paper cup in front of me and settling into an empty chair. There's a short period of time in between the fuck-off o'clock shift and the morning patrol that's officially for the exchange of information and resources. Unofficially, it gives Armsmaster and Dauntless a few more minutes to suit up and Hannah and I the chance to cool our jets for a bit.
I sip at it, then take a deeper drink once I know it's palatable and not liable to burn my throat. "No. Why?"
"Just wanted to check in." After short pause he clears his throat. "Say, would you-"
The intercom crackles to life. "All Protectorate members to briefing room two. This is an emergency."
I'm moving for the door before the announcement is over, pulling down my mask and taking inventory of the gear I have on me. Foam grenades, sedative patches, zip ties, a collapsible baton, and my emergency knife. No guns, no explosives, no weapon I'd actually want to duel with. "I'll meet you there. I need to make a pit stop, I'll attend by conference call until then."
I look back over my shoulder once. Dauntless is fumbling his helmet back on, mostly out of his chair and already armed. I nod once. He'll be a while. "I'll see you soon."
Then I turn towards the fire stairs and start jogging towards them, tapping on my communicator. "This is Black Cat, requesting permission to use my power to travel to the armory and retrieve lethal armaments. Master/stranger password is queue-arr nine six eight four six one zero."
I get a response just as I burst through the door. "Deputy Director Renick, you are cleared for both."
I look over the edge, down four stories, and teleport there. Then I turn around, press through another door, and keep chaining jumps, flickering through the base like a ghost. The adrenaline's kicked in by now, and I can almost notice the increased detail I'm picking up.
Time to earn my keep.
"Dating." I finish my mouthful of pasta, then take a sip of water and look at him expectantly. Sam's staring into his plate of lasagna like it holds the answers to life's mysteries.
"I mean, yeah. I kind of figured that out when you asked me out to lunch. But what are we going to tell the groups?" He looks up, brows furrowed.
I tilt my head. "As much or as little as you want."
"I don't want to tell them." I put down my fork, resigning myself to eating the food lukewarm, and open my ears.
Sam groans, scratching his head. "It's like- they all know I'm trans. That I trust them with. Worst-case scenario I just tell them to fuck off and find a different gaming group. I'm not going to do that," he assures me, head popping up for long enough to look me in the eye. "It's just an option I have. Had." His gaze drifts over my shoulder, becoming lost in thought. "Now if I tell them we're together, that's going to mess with the group dynamic. Jenny would never stop bothering us for details, Eric would try to be supportive in the most overbearing way in the world, and Davis would start wondering if the two of us were colluding at the table it's just-"
Sam cuts himself off, shaking his head. "I don't want the drama."
"Okay."
For a second there's silence.
"What?" Sam's looking up at me with a confused expression on his face.
I shrug. "You don't want to tell them anything. I'm a fairly private person. Let's not tell them."
After a moment Sam nods. "Good. We agree."
I wait a little longer, then go back to my pasta. It's colder, but still more than edible. Sam resumes working away at his food as well, and we finish the meal in a companionable silence.
Sam walks a little closer to me when we leave.
*****
In practice very little changes.
I still work the late shift, though now I stop trying to get off it. Deadlands sessions proceed much the same way they always do, though now Sam adds in the occasional small touch when no one else is looking. Work is still work, with no major offensives from any side so far.
That's not to say things aren't different. I now have two different regular social engagements: the gaming group and the dates with Sam. That is a one hundred percent increase in willful human interaction, and combined with the regular trips to hospitals, schools, and the deepening bonds with the rest of my coworkers, and the effort of being social is steadily wearing at me. I'm still well within my limits, but I am a little bit outside my comfort zone.
That's not always a bad thing, mind.
"Settled?" Sam asks. He's sitting in my lap, arms linked around my neck and a near-vicious grin on his face. His place, since I don't really have one of my own, and he's on top because that's the way he likes it.
"Enough." I've got my breathing light and even, my muscles relaxed, and my voice is as warm as I can make it. Even with all that, my pulse is out of control, powerful enough that I can feel each heartbeat. I'm hyper aware of exactly how much of me is in contact with Sam, how much fabric separates the two of us, and how this must look from the outside.
I take a deep breath, hold it, then let go.
"Ready when you are," I murmur.
*****
I used to be afraid of heights. I could barely look out windows it was so bad, an instant weakness in the knees whenever I contemplated just how much space there was between me and the ground. I thought for sure that I'd never get over it and resigned myself to a life of fear, marking airplanes and skyscrapers with big red signs and turning the other way when people talked about roller coasters.
Then I discovered bouldering.
Rock climbing without the ropes, with a greater focus on difficulty over endurance. Visual, tactile puzzles, ones which were problems, always beatable. It was a marriage of intellectual and physical challenge that I never knew I needed until I was gifted a membership and some shoes. I showed up with low expectations, prepared for yet another hobby ruined by other people.
Instead when I asked to be left alone, I was left alone.
It was peaceful in a way I've nearly never replicated. Just me, a solvable problem, and enough time to work through it. I went home sore to the bone, and once the aches had faded I was on the first bus back. I was able to fail, to fall, and so long as I wasn't an idiot about it I could always get back up and try again. It's hard for a fear to remain strong through a few dozen falls, and after the hundred or so time I found myself jumping off the wall instead of climbing down, savoring the hit of adrenaline that came with the plunge. It was in those seconds, those less-than-seconds, that I learned to love the laser-focus that came with risk.
It was also the first place I kissed a man.
*****
"You doing alright?" Roger asks, placing a paper cup in front of me and settling into an empty chair. There's a short period of time in between the fuck-off o'clock shift and the morning patrol that's officially for the exchange of information and resources. Unofficially, it gives Armsmaster and Dauntless a few more minutes to suit up and Hannah and I the chance to cool our jets for a bit.
I sip at it, then take a deeper drink once I know it's palatable and not liable to burn my throat. "No. Why?"
"Just wanted to check in." After short pause he clears his throat. "Say, would you-"
The intercom crackles to life. "All Protectorate members to briefing room two. This is an emergency."
I'm moving for the door before the announcement is over, pulling down my mask and taking inventory of the gear I have on me. Foam grenades, sedative patches, zip ties, a collapsible baton, and my emergency knife. No guns, no explosives, no weapon I'd actually want to duel with. "I'll meet you there. I need to make a pit stop, I'll attend by conference call until then."
I look back over my shoulder once. Dauntless is fumbling his helmet back on, mostly out of his chair and already armed. I nod once. He'll be a while. "I'll see you soon."
Then I turn towards the fire stairs and start jogging towards them, tapping on my communicator. "This is Black Cat, requesting permission to use my power to travel to the armory and retrieve lethal armaments. Master/stranger password is queue-arr nine six eight four six one zero."
I get a response just as I burst through the door. "Deputy Director Renick, you are cleared for both."
I look over the edge, down four stories, and teleport there. Then I turn around, press through another door, and keep chaining jumps, flickering through the base like a ghost. The adrenaline's kicked in by now, and I can almost notice the increased detail I'm picking up.
Time to earn my keep.
24: Hold 'Em
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
The theory is that a fight between a pair of teleporters is over in an eyeblink. That it goes to whoever can ambush the other first, either because capes at this level have the gear to instantly take out any non-brute they run across or because there's a twist on the teleportation that gives them some even-more obvious route to victory. Like any theory, there's an element of truth to it, but it also falls apart fast in the real world.
I growl as yet another grinning-demon clone dies in ashes under my knife, then flicker away, spinning as I throw in random teleports and try to gain my bearings among the chaos. The other four members of the Protectorate are doing their best to contain Lung without accidentally escalating him into something they can't deal with. While they do that, I'm supposed to screen them and ensure that Oni Lee doesn't cut them to ribbons, all while also staying clear of Victor's sniper fire, Purity's beams of property damage, and stray lasers from New Wave.
It's all fucked.
I increase the speed of my teleports, staying well-clear of the friendlies and glancing at Purity once more. She's moving too fast to be more than a white blur, engaging in a fairly one-sided aerial battle with Lady Photon while directing the majority of her blasts at the steadily-growing rage-dragon, who's fighting Assault, Battery, Armsmaster, and the twin with the spear, who's hitting hard enough to throw him through city blocks. Miss Militia and Victor are playing the most dangerous game of peek-a-boo of all time, and Oni Lee just teleported above-
I flicker behind the clone (because of course it's a clone) and jam a blade through the soft spot on the back of its head, through the cloth hood and into the part of its brain that it really needs to function, then teleport away as Lady Photon squawks at the sudden weight of a corpse, which is still less dangerous than three seconds of a psychopathic ninja armed to the teeth going at it.
I keep flickering above the battlefield, listening for either Victor's location from my communicator or the tell-tale red-and-green flicker of Oni Lee. I'm slightly faster at teleporting than he is, and in a one-on-one fight the stranger effect tilts the odds far enough in my favor that Lee'd run rather than try to kill me. Hell, versus anyone who isn't Purity or Lung, I like my chances against anyone currently on the field.
This isn't a one-on-one fight though.
Then I see Assault get clipped by a bar of light from the Nazi murder-sun and have to stop thinking about the why of the fight and focus on the how.
*****
As soon as we're back inside the the Rig I tear off my mask and take my first unimpeded breath of air in at least an hour. Then I take a few more, panting and staggering for a chair as Armsmaster walks past me, merely flushed from upwards of twenty minutes of continuous cape fighting.
Tinkers are such bullshit.
"What happened?" Dauntless asks, several water bottles in his arms. I gratefully accept one and pour it over my head, savoring the brief rush of cold, then taking as second and swallowing it down in long, slow sips.
"Lung and Oni Lee attacked an Empire stronghold," Armsmaster says. He takes a bottle of water, his Halberd balancing impossibly on a point as he twists off the top, then grabs it again after taking a sip. "Several Empire capes took the field, Lady Photon attempted to engage and assist, which provoked the Empire to target us as well."
"Hannah got shot in the lung, Robin was cut up, and Ethan got his leg blown off. Sharon's with Ethan while Panacea grows him a new right foot, Armsmaster is fine, and I'm fucking exhausted," I summarize, probably with more venom than Roger deserves. Definitely with more venom than he deserves.
On the other hand, fuck.
"Robin will be up by the end of the day and Hannah the day after that. They will both be receiving mandatory paid vacation for a week to recuperate, during which they will not be engaging in patrols unless a more serious emergency occurs," Armsmaster says, finishing the bottle of water and taking another. "Ethan will be on indefinite medical leave while he adapts to his new limb, and Sharon will be working half hours during that time."
"That leaves us down basically three capes for a week, and down one and a half for way longer than that," Roger replies, looking between the two of us.
I shake my head, water and sweat droplets spraying from side to side. "Didn't even get any damage on the Nazis, and I'm pretty sure I never stabbed any version of Lee that didn't dissolve into ash. We. Lost."
Armsmaster doesn't acknowledge my statement, but I think I can see his jaw tightening. "The three of us can patrol solo, but we'll need reinforcements in the meantime. This is short notice though, and I suspect we won't receive anything for at least another three days. Additionally, there is no combination of time-slot juggling that lets us all remain under the maximum number of labor hours in a week."
I turn up to look at him. "In other words, we either need to decide which parts of the week just aren't worthing showing up the office for, or we need to pull another few parahumans out of our collective ass."
Armsmaster is quiet for minute, during which I finish another bottle of water.
"I should've been out there," Roger says quietly.
I growl. "And do what? Try and taze Lung into submission?" I see Roger wince and nearly whine. Fuck. "I didn't-"
"The Wards."
Roger and I both turn to Armsmaster, who's nodding to himself. He looks up at us, visor unreadable. "The Wards can patrol in the daytime, escorted by Dauntless and I in turn. Cat will be the night shift, calling up both of us if there's another cape fight. Four to twelve, twelve to eight, and eight to four, on-call for the two hours before and after your shift. It works. Barely."
I blink. "You're serious."
Armsmaster looks between the two of us. "Can you handle it?"
"Yes," Roger says without a trace of hesitation. "When do I start?"
I open my mouth, then pause. There's no way in hell that I'm going to have the energy to engage with other humans after these shifts, not even over the phone. I think I can probably skip session, but Sam...
"Cat?" Armsmaster is looking at me. So is Roger.
I meet their combined gaze for almost three seconds, then turn away, too fucking done with the day to argue.
"Count me in. I just need to send some emails."
I growl as yet another grinning-demon clone dies in ashes under my knife, then flicker away, spinning as I throw in random teleports and try to gain my bearings among the chaos. The other four members of the Protectorate are doing their best to contain Lung without accidentally escalating him into something they can't deal with. While they do that, I'm supposed to screen them and ensure that Oni Lee doesn't cut them to ribbons, all while also staying clear of Victor's sniper fire, Purity's beams of property damage, and stray lasers from New Wave.
It's all fucked.
I increase the speed of my teleports, staying well-clear of the friendlies and glancing at Purity once more. She's moving too fast to be more than a white blur, engaging in a fairly one-sided aerial battle with Lady Photon while directing the majority of her blasts at the steadily-growing rage-dragon, who's fighting Assault, Battery, Armsmaster, and the twin with the spear, who's hitting hard enough to throw him through city blocks. Miss Militia and Victor are playing the most dangerous game of peek-a-boo of all time, and Oni Lee just teleported above-
I flicker behind the clone (because of course it's a clone) and jam a blade through the soft spot on the back of its head, through the cloth hood and into the part of its brain that it really needs to function, then teleport away as Lady Photon squawks at the sudden weight of a corpse, which is still less dangerous than three seconds of a psychopathic ninja armed to the teeth going at it.
I keep flickering above the battlefield, listening for either Victor's location from my communicator or the tell-tale red-and-green flicker of Oni Lee. I'm slightly faster at teleporting than he is, and in a one-on-one fight the stranger effect tilts the odds far enough in my favor that Lee'd run rather than try to kill me. Hell, versus anyone who isn't Purity or Lung, I like my chances against anyone currently on the field.
This isn't a one-on-one fight though.
Then I see Assault get clipped by a bar of light from the Nazi murder-sun and have to stop thinking about the why of the fight and focus on the how.
*****
As soon as we're back inside the the Rig I tear off my mask and take my first unimpeded breath of air in at least an hour. Then I take a few more, panting and staggering for a chair as Armsmaster walks past me, merely flushed from upwards of twenty minutes of continuous cape fighting.
Tinkers are such bullshit.
"What happened?" Dauntless asks, several water bottles in his arms. I gratefully accept one and pour it over my head, savoring the brief rush of cold, then taking as second and swallowing it down in long, slow sips.
"Lung and Oni Lee attacked an Empire stronghold," Armsmaster says. He takes a bottle of water, his Halberd balancing impossibly on a point as he twists off the top, then grabs it again after taking a sip. "Several Empire capes took the field, Lady Photon attempted to engage and assist, which provoked the Empire to target us as well."
"Hannah got shot in the lung, Robin was cut up, and Ethan got his leg blown off. Sharon's with Ethan while Panacea grows him a new right foot, Armsmaster is fine, and I'm fucking exhausted," I summarize, probably with more venom than Roger deserves. Definitely with more venom than he deserves.
On the other hand, fuck.
"Robin will be up by the end of the day and Hannah the day after that. They will both be receiving mandatory paid vacation for a week to recuperate, during which they will not be engaging in patrols unless a more serious emergency occurs," Armsmaster says, finishing the bottle of water and taking another. "Ethan will be on indefinite medical leave while he adapts to his new limb, and Sharon will be working half hours during that time."
"That leaves us down basically three capes for a week, and down one and a half for way longer than that," Roger replies, looking between the two of us.
I shake my head, water and sweat droplets spraying from side to side. "Didn't even get any damage on the Nazis, and I'm pretty sure I never stabbed any version of Lee that didn't dissolve into ash. We. Lost."
Armsmaster doesn't acknowledge my statement, but I think I can see his jaw tightening. "The three of us can patrol solo, but we'll need reinforcements in the meantime. This is short notice though, and I suspect we won't receive anything for at least another three days. Additionally, there is no combination of time-slot juggling that lets us all remain under the maximum number of labor hours in a week."
I turn up to look at him. "In other words, we either need to decide which parts of the week just aren't worthing showing up the office for, or we need to pull another few parahumans out of our collective ass."
Armsmaster is quiet for minute, during which I finish another bottle of water.
"I should've been out there," Roger says quietly.
I growl. "And do what? Try and taze Lung into submission?" I see Roger wince and nearly whine. Fuck. "I didn't-"
"The Wards."
Roger and I both turn to Armsmaster, who's nodding to himself. He looks up at us, visor unreadable. "The Wards can patrol in the daytime, escorted by Dauntless and I in turn. Cat will be the night shift, calling up both of us if there's another cape fight. Four to twelve, twelve to eight, and eight to four, on-call for the two hours before and after your shift. It works. Barely."
I blink. "You're serious."
Armsmaster looks between the two of us. "Can you handle it?"
"Yes," Roger says without a trace of hesitation. "When do I start?"
I open my mouth, then pause. There's no way in hell that I'm going to have the energy to engage with other humans after these shifts, not even over the phone. I think I can probably skip session, but Sam...
"Cat?" Armsmaster is looking at me. So is Roger.
I meet their combined gaze for almost three seconds, then turn away, too fucking done with the day to argue.
"Count me in. I just need to send some emails."
25: Table Talk
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
The first day passes almost without incident. Maybe because your average Nazi gangbanger knows that if they get caught after they hospitalized three heroes they're going to go away and stay away, maybe because the next Endbringer fight is coming up and the Empire have enough sense to not stir the pot any more than they already have. Whatever the source, I get through my midnight patrol without so much as a peep from any of the major gangs, or even the minor ones.
My absence from session got planned out by Davis easily enough. Marshie has to attend a funeral, which will be the lead in to the next adventure. If I can't make next week either, then he'll be kidnapped, and the quest will be to rescue the team's valet. I also got emails from Jenny and Eric wishing me good luck on my emergency shifts, along with a promise of a care package. Sam offered to show up for a hug, but I told him that I needed to conserve my social batteries. After I screwed that up, I spent a few minutes assuring him that he was more important than work, that this was just an emergency measure, that I'd totally understand if he moved on after this and that this was all coming out wrong and-
"Eli. Chill."
I take a deep breath, flexing my fingers and squeezing the phone. "Sorry. Just a lot of shit all at once."
"Swearing now?" Sam laughs, staticky and amused.
I sigh and shake my head. "I generally don't but this deserves it."
"I'm a big boy. I can take a little absence," Sam says warmly. "Date's off this week, don't contact you at the office, you're going to be incommunicado for a few days. I've got it all?"
I nod. "About the size of it."
"See you next week," he says. Neither of us hang up. I can't move my arm to put down the handset.
I'm petrified.
"I love you." The words sound distant, like they're spoken by somebody else. I hear an inhale over the phone, then a sudden dial tone as the line disconnects.
I stand there for another minute, just listening to the drone.
Then I slam the plastic back into the receiver and stomp towards my room.
*****
Day two isn't much harder than day one. A few bar hoppers ask me for a selfie, and when I move on without comment they hurl some abuse at me. Easy enough to ignore, and the Director has put the kibosh on PR events for the foreseeable future. Pretty hard to find the time for school visits when you can barely fill out the patrol schedule, after all. I might catch some flack if I tried something like that during the day, but the chances of any paper worth the name making a deal of it are low enough that I'm willing to conserve the energy.
It's a marathon, not a sprint. I keep reminding myself of that.
I do notice myself checking my watch more frequently. You wouldn't think an hour added to either end of a shift would be back-breaking, and it's not. It is, however, noticeable. I remember seeing a curve in an economics class, one which described the fall of productivity in successive hours of work. The gist of it was that you could improve output by lowering man hours, but the implicit message was 'give your employees breaks or else you'll lose money'.
I sigh and force myself to slow my pace. More than covering ground, my job is to be a reminder that the Protectorate is still a presence to be feared, that the battle was a setback and not a defeat. Semantics, but important ones. It's about the journey, not the destination, and all that zen nonsense.
I get back to the PRT HQ having seen zero crime, a few more gang tags than there were yesterday, and enough drunks to tear away my last shreds of respect for the Brockton Bay citizenry. Sleep comes in fits and starts, disturbed by nightmares that disappear as soon as I open my eyes and not returning for what feels like hours, which is probably just a few hours. I eye my packet of sedative packets, then turn them into the Quartermaster.
It's a bad road to go down.
*****
Day four is when someone makes a move. It's not the Empire or the ABB.
"Who are the Merchants?" I ask, flickering across the city. I was able to snag a few hours of sleep and a shot of Armsmaster-brand stimulants, which means that I feel awake and will act awake for maybe the next two hours. After that I'm going to crash hard and maybe get enough rest to handle the calmest eight-hour shift of all time.
"Drug dealers, with an impressive cape lineup and surprisingly little territory. Vehicles tinker, a mover/shaker that can throw around dumpsters, and a brute with ablative armor that doubles as near-super strength." The voice over the comms is a PRT agent I haven't met and I don't have the social brain power to spare to remember her name.
I come to the top of a building and pause. "Does the last one usually look like a blob of garbage the size of a semi truck that's grown sentient and capable of brawling with Hookwolf?"
What I can only describe as an ocean of trash is flowing around the park, tearing up the grass and destroying playground equipment with every motion. It's being chased by a four-limbed wolf made of blades, needles, and other sharp implements, who's tearing great chunks of garbage away from the mass. The loss of material from the main mass is small but noticeable, and the few blows the garbage elemental is throwing back don't seem to be affect Hookwolf at all.
"Mush won't be able to keep up for long," the agent responds. "He needs detritus from his environment to form his shell, and once that's worn away he's a baseline human. The Merchants use him as a distraction while Skidmark and Squealer beat their retreat. If he's fighting, chances are they're both already long gone."
"And I can't do damage to either of them." Not strictly true, but given that a crowd of civilians is not literally at risk plastic explosives would be far and away an overreaction. "ETA on Armsmaster and Dauntless."
"Six minutes," the agent answers sadly. In other words, an eternity. I sigh and start flickering around the outskirts of the battlefield, looking for civilians. When I find none, I head back up to a rooftop and settle in to watch the show. I'm almost grateful for the break.
Almost.
My absence from session got planned out by Davis easily enough. Marshie has to attend a funeral, which will be the lead in to the next adventure. If I can't make next week either, then he'll be kidnapped, and the quest will be to rescue the team's valet. I also got emails from Jenny and Eric wishing me good luck on my emergency shifts, along with a promise of a care package. Sam offered to show up for a hug, but I told him that I needed to conserve my social batteries. After I screwed that up, I spent a few minutes assuring him that he was more important than work, that this was just an emergency measure, that I'd totally understand if he moved on after this and that this was all coming out wrong and-
"Eli. Chill."
I take a deep breath, flexing my fingers and squeezing the phone. "Sorry. Just a lot of shit all at once."
"Swearing now?" Sam laughs, staticky and amused.
I sigh and shake my head. "I generally don't but this deserves it."
"I'm a big boy. I can take a little absence," Sam says warmly. "Date's off this week, don't contact you at the office, you're going to be incommunicado for a few days. I've got it all?"
I nod. "About the size of it."
"See you next week," he says. Neither of us hang up. I can't move my arm to put down the handset.
I'm petrified.
"I love you." The words sound distant, like they're spoken by somebody else. I hear an inhale over the phone, then a sudden dial tone as the line disconnects.
I stand there for another minute, just listening to the drone.
Then I slam the plastic back into the receiver and stomp towards my room.
*****
Day two isn't much harder than day one. A few bar hoppers ask me for a selfie, and when I move on without comment they hurl some abuse at me. Easy enough to ignore, and the Director has put the kibosh on PR events for the foreseeable future. Pretty hard to find the time for school visits when you can barely fill out the patrol schedule, after all. I might catch some flack if I tried something like that during the day, but the chances of any paper worth the name making a deal of it are low enough that I'm willing to conserve the energy.
It's a marathon, not a sprint. I keep reminding myself of that.
I do notice myself checking my watch more frequently. You wouldn't think an hour added to either end of a shift would be back-breaking, and it's not. It is, however, noticeable. I remember seeing a curve in an economics class, one which described the fall of productivity in successive hours of work. The gist of it was that you could improve output by lowering man hours, but the implicit message was 'give your employees breaks or else you'll lose money'.
I sigh and force myself to slow my pace. More than covering ground, my job is to be a reminder that the Protectorate is still a presence to be feared, that the battle was a setback and not a defeat. Semantics, but important ones. It's about the journey, not the destination, and all that zen nonsense.
I get back to the PRT HQ having seen zero crime, a few more gang tags than there were yesterday, and enough drunks to tear away my last shreds of respect for the Brockton Bay citizenry. Sleep comes in fits and starts, disturbed by nightmares that disappear as soon as I open my eyes and not returning for what feels like hours, which is probably just a few hours. I eye my packet of sedative packets, then turn them into the Quartermaster.
It's a bad road to go down.
*****
Day four is when someone makes a move. It's not the Empire or the ABB.
"Who are the Merchants?" I ask, flickering across the city. I was able to snag a few hours of sleep and a shot of Armsmaster-brand stimulants, which means that I feel awake and will act awake for maybe the next two hours. After that I'm going to crash hard and maybe get enough rest to handle the calmest eight-hour shift of all time.
"Drug dealers, with an impressive cape lineup and surprisingly little territory. Vehicles tinker, a mover/shaker that can throw around dumpsters, and a brute with ablative armor that doubles as near-super strength." The voice over the comms is a PRT agent I haven't met and I don't have the social brain power to spare to remember her name.
I come to the top of a building and pause. "Does the last one usually look like a blob of garbage the size of a semi truck that's grown sentient and capable of brawling with Hookwolf?"
What I can only describe as an ocean of trash is flowing around the park, tearing up the grass and destroying playground equipment with every motion. It's being chased by a four-limbed wolf made of blades, needles, and other sharp implements, who's tearing great chunks of garbage away from the mass. The loss of material from the main mass is small but noticeable, and the few blows the garbage elemental is throwing back don't seem to be affect Hookwolf at all.
"Mush won't be able to keep up for long," the agent responds. "He needs detritus from his environment to form his shell, and once that's worn away he's a baseline human. The Merchants use him as a distraction while Skidmark and Squealer beat their retreat. If he's fighting, chances are they're both already long gone."
"And I can't do damage to either of them." Not strictly true, but given that a crowd of civilians is not literally at risk plastic explosives would be far and away an overreaction. "ETA on Armsmaster and Dauntless."
"Six minutes," the agent answers sadly. In other words, an eternity. I sigh and start flickering around the outskirts of the battlefield, looking for civilians. When I find none, I head back up to a rooftop and settle in to watch the show. I'm almost grateful for the break.
Almost.
26: Bust
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
It's the second to last day that I snap.
"Come on, just one picture! Pose? Come on!" A group of teenagers, maybe not out of middle school, certainly not out of high school, have been following me for nearly half an hour. They haven't stepped in front of me, haven't asked for anything inherently unreasonable, so I can't just teleport away. If this had happened a week or two ago, I'd probably grant their requests and shrug off the hassle.
It's not a week ago though, and if I have to interact with another person in any meaningful way I'm going to need to punch something.
"Hey man, can you just stop walking for a minute? Like, we won't even stand next to you, we'll just get you in the background, okay?" The girl asking is a head shorter than me, with a small blemish on her cheek and hair pulled back into a trio of off-center pigtails. I keep my gaze locked forward and keep walking, the sound of my long strides drowned out by the click-clack of hard-soled uniform shoes. I don't recognize which school they're from, but I have to assume it's one of the nicer ones, filled with entitled brats who don't get that no means no. The best response to them is usually the silent treatment, and after it becomes clear that you're not that interesting they end up leaving you alone.
Then I come to a red light.
For once, there's someone across the street, a pair of drunks leaning on one another for support. I can't just teleport across, not with them in the splash zone of my stranger effect, and now that I've stopped moving the pack of children has surrounded me. I manage to keep my fists from clenching. Barely.
"You may have a photo," I whisper, quiet enough that I almost think they might miss it.
Then they go silent and my hopes are dashed.
The next minute is a bustle of activity, filled with flashing phones, squeals of delight, and almost-touches that I can barely stand. My full-face mask means that I can frown throughout the whole thing, a small rebellion that still isn't enough. I'm painfully aware of how easy it would be to teleport away and the potential results of doing so, of exactly how many people are around me, and how they're all just kids who probably don't understand why anyone would be scared of having their picture taken.
Eventually the crosswalk goes green and I start walking again. The crowd parts before me, and for a bare second I relax.
Then a pair of arms wrap around me.
Reflexes are a funny thing. They touch on a number of different situations, everything from jerking a hand away from a hot surface to stepping out of the way of a commuter on the street. We don't think about them for the most part, and when we do it's mostly after the fact. You don't catch your balance and go 'huh, that would be difficult to tell a computer to do'. Instead you just go on with whatever it was you were doing before you self-corrected a huge mass of weight set on top of a pair of meat stilts.
That casual disregard of near-instantaneous action is what leads me to pause only after I've flickered away. When I look over my shoulder a girl is on the ground, hands covering her face, multiple other children clustered around her. I register an ache on my elbow, put together the pieces, then flicker up to a rooftop.
I tap on my communicator. "Black Cat to control, I have just struck a school girl in the face. Please advise."
*****
Director Piggot stares at me from across her desk, face impassive. I stand at parade rest, looking over her head and doing my best to remain calm.
"This is a disaster." I don't disagree. She sighs, hands folded in front of her and a frown etched deeply into her face.
"Normally, what I would do is have you put in a transfer request to some town in the middle of nowhere, let the public's rancor cool, and let you rebrand somewhere else. That is not currently feasible." She pauses. "You're already working the graveyard shift, and assigning you to PR work would be completely counterproductive. No one's would take a conduct review seriously, and we don't have the time to force you to go to a seminar on how to interact with children." She barks a humorless laugh. "I think the pay dock goes without saying, but I don't think it'll actually do anything."
She hasn't asked a question yet, so I don't say anything.
Director Piggot sighs again. "Honestly, I'm more disappointed than anything else. Not surprised, but disappointed. Consider yourself on call for the foreseeable future while I wait for the girl's lawyer to finish polishing up his lawsuit. You will not be patrolling, you will not be attending PR events, and if I hear that you've been seen by the public in any meaningful way outside of a cape fight I will send you to Madison and damn the consequences. Am I clear?"
"Yes ma'am," I reply dully.
She nods. "I've already informed Armsmaster of your situation. You're dismissed."
I turn on my heel, leave quietly, and head down to the armory. I disarm, slip into plain clothes, and check out a car from the motor pool. For a long time I sit in the driver's seat, just staring out the window, spinning the key around my finger, trying to figure out where to go.
I don't have the appetite to go to the Carrion Pit. Session's not for another four days, and even then I'm not sure I'll have the energy for it. Sam deserves better than how I am right now. People in general are going to be bad, and I can't exactly go out to bust some heads for release.
I need closure.
After one more revolution, I catch the keys, push them into the ignition, and bring the car to life. With my other hand I plug in an old number, one I was sure I'd never call again. That I'd never need to call again.
Alex picks up on the second ring. "Is anyone dead?"
"No. Can we talk?"
"Come on, just one picture! Pose? Come on!" A group of teenagers, maybe not out of middle school, certainly not out of high school, have been following me for nearly half an hour. They haven't stepped in front of me, haven't asked for anything inherently unreasonable, so I can't just teleport away. If this had happened a week or two ago, I'd probably grant their requests and shrug off the hassle.
It's not a week ago though, and if I have to interact with another person in any meaningful way I'm going to need to punch something.
"Hey man, can you just stop walking for a minute? Like, we won't even stand next to you, we'll just get you in the background, okay?" The girl asking is a head shorter than me, with a small blemish on her cheek and hair pulled back into a trio of off-center pigtails. I keep my gaze locked forward and keep walking, the sound of my long strides drowned out by the click-clack of hard-soled uniform shoes. I don't recognize which school they're from, but I have to assume it's one of the nicer ones, filled with entitled brats who don't get that no means no. The best response to them is usually the silent treatment, and after it becomes clear that you're not that interesting they end up leaving you alone.
Then I come to a red light.
For once, there's someone across the street, a pair of drunks leaning on one another for support. I can't just teleport across, not with them in the splash zone of my stranger effect, and now that I've stopped moving the pack of children has surrounded me. I manage to keep my fists from clenching. Barely.
"You may have a photo," I whisper, quiet enough that I almost think they might miss it.
Then they go silent and my hopes are dashed.
The next minute is a bustle of activity, filled with flashing phones, squeals of delight, and almost-touches that I can barely stand. My full-face mask means that I can frown throughout the whole thing, a small rebellion that still isn't enough. I'm painfully aware of how easy it would be to teleport away and the potential results of doing so, of exactly how many people are around me, and how they're all just kids who probably don't understand why anyone would be scared of having their picture taken.
Eventually the crosswalk goes green and I start walking again. The crowd parts before me, and for a bare second I relax.
Then a pair of arms wrap around me.
Reflexes are a funny thing. They touch on a number of different situations, everything from jerking a hand away from a hot surface to stepping out of the way of a commuter on the street. We don't think about them for the most part, and when we do it's mostly after the fact. You don't catch your balance and go 'huh, that would be difficult to tell a computer to do'. Instead you just go on with whatever it was you were doing before you self-corrected a huge mass of weight set on top of a pair of meat stilts.
That casual disregard of near-instantaneous action is what leads me to pause only after I've flickered away. When I look over my shoulder a girl is on the ground, hands covering her face, multiple other children clustered around her. I register an ache on my elbow, put together the pieces, then flicker up to a rooftop.
I tap on my communicator. "Black Cat to control, I have just struck a school girl in the face. Please advise."
*****
Director Piggot stares at me from across her desk, face impassive. I stand at parade rest, looking over her head and doing my best to remain calm.
"This is a disaster." I don't disagree. She sighs, hands folded in front of her and a frown etched deeply into her face.
"Normally, what I would do is have you put in a transfer request to some town in the middle of nowhere, let the public's rancor cool, and let you rebrand somewhere else. That is not currently feasible." She pauses. "You're already working the graveyard shift, and assigning you to PR work would be completely counterproductive. No one's would take a conduct review seriously, and we don't have the time to force you to go to a seminar on how to interact with children." She barks a humorless laugh. "I think the pay dock goes without saying, but I don't think it'll actually do anything."
She hasn't asked a question yet, so I don't say anything.
Director Piggot sighs again. "Honestly, I'm more disappointed than anything else. Not surprised, but disappointed. Consider yourself on call for the foreseeable future while I wait for the girl's lawyer to finish polishing up his lawsuit. You will not be patrolling, you will not be attending PR events, and if I hear that you've been seen by the public in any meaningful way outside of a cape fight I will send you to Madison and damn the consequences. Am I clear?"
"Yes ma'am," I reply dully.
She nods. "I've already informed Armsmaster of your situation. You're dismissed."
I turn on my heel, leave quietly, and head down to the armory. I disarm, slip into plain clothes, and check out a car from the motor pool. For a long time I sit in the driver's seat, just staring out the window, spinning the key around my finger, trying to figure out where to go.
I don't have the appetite to go to the Carrion Pit. Session's not for another four days, and even then I'm not sure I'll have the energy for it. Sam deserves better than how I am right now. People in general are going to be bad, and I can't exactly go out to bust some heads for release.
I need closure.
After one more revolution, I catch the keys, push them into the ignition, and bring the car to life. With my other hand I plug in an old number, one I was sure I'd never call again. That I'd never need to call again.
Alex picks up on the second ring. "Is anyone dead?"
"No. Can we talk?"
27: Buy In
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
It's late when I pull into the car park off I-90, maybe ten minutes away from Rochester. It took me maybe six hours to get here, a not-small part of that spent trying to track down Alex's preferred brand of liquor, some shot glasses, and tonic water. After double-checking the locks on the car, I head over to a bench and check my phone. One message from Alex. I flick to the messenger app.
5 minutes.
I set a timer and look expectantly towards the west, cracking open a bottle of seltzer water. It feels strange, sipping it without the gin, but I'm going to need my head in order if I'm going to be of a mind to listen.
*****
Stitchskin drops down out of the sky without fanfare.
"How're you doing?" Alex asks, pulling off his freaky bird-skull helmet with a wet splorch, idly swiping some clear fluid off his face.
I shrug. "Off work. Active work. They're reserving the right to call me up for fights and stuff."
"And all it took was punching a little girl in the face," he says dryly, grabbing the set of shot glasses.
For a while we both just sit there, drinking, me in a PRT hoodie and sweats, Alex in a meaty wing suit complete with actual wings and a cluster of slurpee-sized scramjets that probably run on human souls. It's a companionable silence, one where neither us need to nor want to speak. I assemble a briefing in my mind, just the important bits, the details that matter most. Coworkers, bosses, social life, and all the rest.
When I'm ready and not a second before, I start talking.
*****
"So, as far as I can see, you haven't actually fucked up that bad," Alex says, a few minutes after I finish my tale.
I sigh. "How on earth do you come to that conclusion?"
"Well, for one you're still employed," Alex says, tossing a glass from hand to hand, the glass clicking against bone. He cut himself off after three, but he still likes playing with the drinking paraphernalia. "That counts for something. Also, you're hardly the first Protectorate member to hit a kid. They've got a procedure for this."
"Yeah. Relocation." I finished my water ages ago, and now I'm stuck screwing and unscrewing the cap of the bottle back on. "I'm nuclear waste. The Director all but told me that the only reason I wasn't sacked was because they were already short on people."
Alex waves his arm dismissively, claws tracing indescribable patterns through the air. "Immaterial. You're going to come out fine in the end. This too shall pass."
"You know, there's only so many times you can say that before it becomes meaningless." I give up and throw the plastic bottle into a near-overflowing recycling bin.
Alex doesn't respond to that. Instead he stacks the shot glasses up, seals the bottle of tequila, and holds them out to me. I take it wordlessly, put them in the passenger seat of the car, then go back to standing next to him.
Another silence stretches out.
"The roster in Chicago is doing alright," he says quietly, looking up at the sky. "Myrddin's still off, Revel's still covering his blind spots, and everyone else is doing their best to keep up."
"Good," I reply. After a moment, "Is Anomaly still doing acid recreationally?"
"Yeah, but he's doing less now. Braizer's got him on TCG's now, nerding out on Fridays together." Another pause. "Jackie..."
I shake my head. "I can't."
Alex nods. "I'll tell her that."
He gives me an awkward, one armed hug. I return it. After that we part ways, him slipping back into the skull helmet with a sucking noise straight from a B-list horror movie and me with a gentle rumble of a car engine.
Alex specializes in animating dead flesh, then replacing what's missing with something extra. He has biosuits that grants passive regeneration, brains in jars with the computational power of a research university, and gauntlets sharp and strong enough to let him rip apart an engine block. From a purely utilitarian perspective he's an absolute treasure, capable of filling any number of roles with an extremely low overhead.
When I met him, he was a social pariah. Turns out that pre-Protectorate he had been robbing graves, and his tech is distinctive enough that the PR department didn't even try to disguise his identity. He genuinely didn't see the problem with digging up old bodies for the sake of science, got heated about it on camera, and ended up burning most of his bridges among the upper echelons before they could be built. He did poorly popularly, didn't work well with people, and wasn't so powerful that he could just shrug people off entirely. He didn't want to talk to me, I didn't want to talk period, and soon enough we ended up paired together on nearly every shift. From there it was a few polite text conversations to something like friendship.
We didn't share hobbies, go out drinking together, or anything that would resemble a traditional bond. Alex would rant quietly about something, I would provide a sympathetic ear, and in return he'd offer his company as a way to pretend like I was interacting with people. Neither of us talked about anything explicitly, pressed for more detail, or did anything except for listen.
That was enough.
When I needed help catching Jackie, he said yes without hesitating. When I got hauled in for a court-martial, he stuck out his neck for me. When I needed a place to stay because our apartment had been blown straight to hell, he gave me a spare key. All he asked for in return was a complete and utter lack of bullshit in our conversations and maybe my corpse when I died. After I agreed to that and showed him the will, he got in contact with Miss Militia and found me a new department to work at.
I don't think I'm ever going to want to spend time with people, but his presence is the least draining I've encountered so far.
5 minutes.
I set a timer and look expectantly towards the west, cracking open a bottle of seltzer water. It feels strange, sipping it without the gin, but I'm going to need my head in order if I'm going to be of a mind to listen.
*****
Stitchskin drops down out of the sky without fanfare.
"How're you doing?" Alex asks, pulling off his freaky bird-skull helmet with a wet splorch, idly swiping some clear fluid off his face.
I shrug. "Off work. Active work. They're reserving the right to call me up for fights and stuff."
"And all it took was punching a little girl in the face," he says dryly, grabbing the set of shot glasses.
For a while we both just sit there, drinking, me in a PRT hoodie and sweats, Alex in a meaty wing suit complete with actual wings and a cluster of slurpee-sized scramjets that probably run on human souls. It's a companionable silence, one where neither us need to nor want to speak. I assemble a briefing in my mind, just the important bits, the details that matter most. Coworkers, bosses, social life, and all the rest.
When I'm ready and not a second before, I start talking.
*****
"So, as far as I can see, you haven't actually fucked up that bad," Alex says, a few minutes after I finish my tale.
I sigh. "How on earth do you come to that conclusion?"
"Well, for one you're still employed," Alex says, tossing a glass from hand to hand, the glass clicking against bone. He cut himself off after three, but he still likes playing with the drinking paraphernalia. "That counts for something. Also, you're hardly the first Protectorate member to hit a kid. They've got a procedure for this."
"Yeah. Relocation." I finished my water ages ago, and now I'm stuck screwing and unscrewing the cap of the bottle back on. "I'm nuclear waste. The Director all but told me that the only reason I wasn't sacked was because they were already short on people."
Alex waves his arm dismissively, claws tracing indescribable patterns through the air. "Immaterial. You're going to come out fine in the end. This too shall pass."
"You know, there's only so many times you can say that before it becomes meaningless." I give up and throw the plastic bottle into a near-overflowing recycling bin.
Alex doesn't respond to that. Instead he stacks the shot glasses up, seals the bottle of tequila, and holds them out to me. I take it wordlessly, put them in the passenger seat of the car, then go back to standing next to him.
Another silence stretches out.
"The roster in Chicago is doing alright," he says quietly, looking up at the sky. "Myrddin's still off, Revel's still covering his blind spots, and everyone else is doing their best to keep up."
"Good," I reply. After a moment, "Is Anomaly still doing acid recreationally?"
"Yeah, but he's doing less now. Braizer's got him on TCG's now, nerding out on Fridays together." Another pause. "Jackie..."
I shake my head. "I can't."
Alex nods. "I'll tell her that."
He gives me an awkward, one armed hug. I return it. After that we part ways, him slipping back into the skull helmet with a sucking noise straight from a B-list horror movie and me with a gentle rumble of a car engine.
Alex specializes in animating dead flesh, then replacing what's missing with something extra. He has biosuits that grants passive regeneration, brains in jars with the computational power of a research university, and gauntlets sharp and strong enough to let him rip apart an engine block. From a purely utilitarian perspective he's an absolute treasure, capable of filling any number of roles with an extremely low overhead.
When I met him, he was a social pariah. Turns out that pre-Protectorate he had been robbing graves, and his tech is distinctive enough that the PR department didn't even try to disguise his identity. He genuinely didn't see the problem with digging up old bodies for the sake of science, got heated about it on camera, and ended up burning most of his bridges among the upper echelons before they could be built. He did poorly popularly, didn't work well with people, and wasn't so powerful that he could just shrug people off entirely. He didn't want to talk to me, I didn't want to talk period, and soon enough we ended up paired together on nearly every shift. From there it was a few polite text conversations to something like friendship.
We didn't share hobbies, go out drinking together, or anything that would resemble a traditional bond. Alex would rant quietly about something, I would provide a sympathetic ear, and in return he'd offer his company as a way to pretend like I was interacting with people. Neither of us talked about anything explicitly, pressed for more detail, or did anything except for listen.
That was enough.
When I needed help catching Jackie, he said yes without hesitating. When I got hauled in for a court-martial, he stuck out his neck for me. When I needed a place to stay because our apartment had been blown straight to hell, he gave me a spare key. All he asked for in return was a complete and utter lack of bullshit in our conversations and maybe my corpse when I died. After I agreed to that and showed him the will, he got in contact with Miss Militia and found me a new department to work at.
I don't think I'm ever going to want to spend time with people, but his presence is the least draining I've encountered so far.
Well considering he was on patrole and someone jumped on his back... I don't really see the problem with the action as is. He was on edge and reacted without thinking. You don't need any disability for that.
Of course I see how that is bad for PR - but then they've got to ask themselves: Do we want a marketable lineup of living action figures or people who actually go out and fight villains and Endbringers.
Regarding lawsuits... At least in my country if something like that happened with a police officer even if - especially if - it was caught on video he'd get off in an internal investigation, worst case maybe a slap on the wrist.
Though I can see how Black Cat would do badly in any such investigation.
Of course I see how that is bad for PR - but then they've got to ask themselves: Do we want a marketable lineup of living action figures or people who actually go out and fight villains and Endbringers.
Regarding lawsuits... At least in my country if something like that happened with a police officer even if - especially if - it was caught on video he'd get off in an internal investigation, worst case maybe a slap on the wrist.
Though I can see how Black Cat would do badly in any such investigation.
28: New Hand
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
It's only after I'm back into town that I realize I have nowhere to stay.
I can count the number of Protectorate members in major cities with their own places on two hands. If I toss out the couples, one hand. If I toss out the people who are using the place as something other than a home, you end up with just Hermit, and if his little cabin in the woods was anything other than sickeningly rustic I'd throw it out too because of how the location synergizes with his power. Why pay for expensive housing when the PRT is willing to put you up for free? That and it reduces the risk of compromised civilian IDs, of legal issues from power-related damages, and is just generally far less of a hassle than actual home owning. As a result I never bothered getting an apartment, a decision that's now coming to bite me in the ass as I get closer and closer to the PRT HQ.
I sigh, then pull over into a semi-illegal parking position and put my head down on the wheel. Five minutes. I get five minutes to try and think of something that doesn't involve living in close proximity to my coworkers after I screwed the goose. After that, I bite the bullet and try to make the best of a bad situation.
I take a deep breath, set an alarm, start thinking.
Option one: hotels. I dismiss it almost immediately. Too expensive by far, and with the pay cut I'm actually going to have to seriously consider how I spend my money now. If I were to rent a room it could only ever be for a few days, and putting off the confrontation rather than sidestepping it isn't worth financially crippling myself.
Option two: Ethan and Sharon. I reject that too, but only after reviewing my mental notes about the two of them. I think I could trust Sharon to take me at my word if I said that I wasn't going to talk, and even then it would be a tense living environment. Ethan would be a nightmare though, and if I had to spend a lot of time with him in close quarters I can't imagine it ending well. All that and I don't think their condo really has room for three permanent residents.
Option three: car camping. I learned how to sleep on a rock when we were hunting down Wendigo, and while it'll take some acclimation I can just crash in the backseat. I'll have to pick up some blankets since it's getting chillier and keeping the heater running will burn through gas, but the net cost will still be lower than a hotel room. It sounds like a great idea until you realize that Brockton Bay is among the sketchiest cities in the continental US and even their upper-end twenty four hour parking services aren't proof against carjackers. I like my odds versus a man armed with a crowbar looking for a quick score, but then I'd have to bring the car back to the PRT and explain that I got it damaged because I didn't want to talk to people.
Also, said man might just shoot me through the window.
I glance at the timer. Less than a minute. I comb through my mind again. I can't leave town, can't pay for a place, and don't want to risk sleeping without a place. I think about the people I know, the ones who might be willing to put me up, then groan.
This is going to be awkward.
*****
"Rough week?" Sam asks as he opens the door.
"Something like that," I confirm, stepping past him and balling in my eyes. I haven't been up for much longer than I usually am, but driving really takes it out of me and I just went for ten hours of it on maybe four hours of sleep.
The door clicks shut behind me. "If it's something regarding your previous living conditions..."
I shake my head. "No, I could still get a room with the PRT if I really wanted. It just that something happened and things are going to be weird there for a while, and I really don't want to engage with that. Again, if you're at all uncomfortable-"
"No no no," Sam interrupts, waving his hands in front of his face, stepping past me and into the living room. "It's absolutely okay. Crash here as long as you want. I'll get out some sheets, pillows, make up a couch, all that jazz."
"Just the pillow will work. I'm about ready to fall over." Sleeping in my jeans will also help disguise the fact that I don't actually have any clothes on me. I can solve that issue tomorrow though.
"If you're about ready to fall over then you can take the bed." It takes me a second to process the words, and when they finally click I turn around to look at Sam. He's wearing a guileless expression, one that's by all means perfectly genuine. The come-on in it is also apparent enough that I can't imagine he's missed the significance of his words.
"I'd still prefer the couch." Sam turns around at the words and heads for the bedroom and I feel like the worst. Once he's out of the room I take two seconds to grab my head squeeze for a moment, wishing the basic understanding of human speech necessary to come across as any less of an asshole.
When Sam comes back into the room, I promptly walk over and give him a hug, trapping the pillow between us. He promptly reciprocates and presses a light kiss to my check, then loosens the hug a little.
"What brought this on?" he whispers.
"Love you," I whisper in return. He does that hitched-breath thing again and I take step back, the pillow falling flat between us. "Is that-"
"No," Sam interrupts, shaking his head vigorously. "No, it's not that, it's just." He makes a meaningless gesture with his hands in the air in front him. "It's a lot." For a second we just stand there quietly, not quite sure what to say, until Sam clears his throat. "Anyway. It's early. I still have work to do and you need to sleep. We can talk stuff over later."
"Later," I agree, bending down to pick up the pillow. We remain there for a second longer, then turn away in mutual agreement for our respective destinations.
I spend a solid five minutes on the couch remembering our last make-out session. Only after I banish the thought of his lips on my neck do I manage to get my eyes to stay closed, and after that I slowly drift off into blackness.
I can count the number of Protectorate members in major cities with their own places on two hands. If I toss out the couples, one hand. If I toss out the people who are using the place as something other than a home, you end up with just Hermit, and if his little cabin in the woods was anything other than sickeningly rustic I'd throw it out too because of how the location synergizes with his power. Why pay for expensive housing when the PRT is willing to put you up for free? That and it reduces the risk of compromised civilian IDs, of legal issues from power-related damages, and is just generally far less of a hassle than actual home owning. As a result I never bothered getting an apartment, a decision that's now coming to bite me in the ass as I get closer and closer to the PRT HQ.
I sigh, then pull over into a semi-illegal parking position and put my head down on the wheel. Five minutes. I get five minutes to try and think of something that doesn't involve living in close proximity to my coworkers after I screwed the goose. After that, I bite the bullet and try to make the best of a bad situation.
I take a deep breath, set an alarm, start thinking.
Option one: hotels. I dismiss it almost immediately. Too expensive by far, and with the pay cut I'm actually going to have to seriously consider how I spend my money now. If I were to rent a room it could only ever be for a few days, and putting off the confrontation rather than sidestepping it isn't worth financially crippling myself.
Option two: Ethan and Sharon. I reject that too, but only after reviewing my mental notes about the two of them. I think I could trust Sharon to take me at my word if I said that I wasn't going to talk, and even then it would be a tense living environment. Ethan would be a nightmare though, and if I had to spend a lot of time with him in close quarters I can't imagine it ending well. All that and I don't think their condo really has room for three permanent residents.
Option three: car camping. I learned how to sleep on a rock when we were hunting down Wendigo, and while it'll take some acclimation I can just crash in the backseat. I'll have to pick up some blankets since it's getting chillier and keeping the heater running will burn through gas, but the net cost will still be lower than a hotel room. It sounds like a great idea until you realize that Brockton Bay is among the sketchiest cities in the continental US and even their upper-end twenty four hour parking services aren't proof against carjackers. I like my odds versus a man armed with a crowbar looking for a quick score, but then I'd have to bring the car back to the PRT and explain that I got it damaged because I didn't want to talk to people.
Also, said man might just shoot me through the window.
I glance at the timer. Less than a minute. I comb through my mind again. I can't leave town, can't pay for a place, and don't want to risk sleeping without a place. I think about the people I know, the ones who might be willing to put me up, then groan.
This is going to be awkward.
*****
"Rough week?" Sam asks as he opens the door.
"Something like that," I confirm, stepping past him and balling in my eyes. I haven't been up for much longer than I usually am, but driving really takes it out of me and I just went for ten hours of it on maybe four hours of sleep.
The door clicks shut behind me. "If it's something regarding your previous living conditions..."
I shake my head. "No, I could still get a room with the PRT if I really wanted. It just that something happened and things are going to be weird there for a while, and I really don't want to engage with that. Again, if you're at all uncomfortable-"
"No no no," Sam interrupts, waving his hands in front of his face, stepping past me and into the living room. "It's absolutely okay. Crash here as long as you want. I'll get out some sheets, pillows, make up a couch, all that jazz."
"Just the pillow will work. I'm about ready to fall over." Sleeping in my jeans will also help disguise the fact that I don't actually have any clothes on me. I can solve that issue tomorrow though.
"If you're about ready to fall over then you can take the bed." It takes me a second to process the words, and when they finally click I turn around to look at Sam. He's wearing a guileless expression, one that's by all means perfectly genuine. The come-on in it is also apparent enough that I can't imagine he's missed the significance of his words.
"I'd still prefer the couch." Sam turns around at the words and heads for the bedroom and I feel like the worst. Once he's out of the room I take two seconds to grab my head squeeze for a moment, wishing the basic understanding of human speech necessary to come across as any less of an asshole.
When Sam comes back into the room, I promptly walk over and give him a hug, trapping the pillow between us. He promptly reciprocates and presses a light kiss to my check, then loosens the hug a little.
"What brought this on?" he whispers.
"Love you," I whisper in return. He does that hitched-breath thing again and I take step back, the pillow falling flat between us. "Is that-"
"No," Sam interrupts, shaking his head vigorously. "No, it's not that, it's just." He makes a meaningless gesture with his hands in the air in front him. "It's a lot." For a second we just stand there quietly, not quite sure what to say, until Sam clears his throat. "Anyway. It's early. I still have work to do and you need to sleep. We can talk stuff over later."
"Later," I agree, bending down to pick up the pillow. We remain there for a second longer, then turn away in mutual agreement for our respective destinations.
I spend a solid five minutes on the couch remembering our last make-out session. Only after I banish the thought of his lips on my neck do I manage to get my eyes to stay closed, and after that I slowly drift off into blackness.
29: Two Pair
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
We settle into a routine almost instantly.
After the first day's obnoxiously bad snooze, I quickly adapt to Sam's schedule of waking up at midnight and going to bed at four in the afternoon. Apparently it's easiest to get through Medhall's security when the security guards are still sleepy, and the traffic is a breeze.
We both still have work. Sam's job appears to me to be a lot of swear at a screen and hammering furiously at a keyboard until a ding sounds out, at which point he'll take a short break for water, snacks, or a little bit of exercise. The few times that doesn't work he grabs a laptop bag, mutters something about hardware, and then slams the door behind him as he leaves. I don't comment on it, mainly because after you work with someone who regularly destroyed furniture after losing an argument a few angry words really get put in perspective.
I mostly spend my time working through legal issues. The local team of PRT lawyers have gotten the girl's father to consider an out of court settlement, though no terms have been set yet. One of those things will probably be a verbal apology to the girl in question, which won't be hard as I do genuinely regret hurting her. More difficult is that apparently the dad is angling for some sort of exclusive compensation, more than money, and while legal is doing their best it'll probably be easier for everyone involved if I consent to the first thing he asks for.
God I hate the public.
It's not all work, though. Sam introduces me to gaming, an activity I am horrible at. We go to the gym, where the difference between the muscle required for cape fight and the aesthetic build that Sam works for are two very different things. I pick up a pair of speakers and start playing music, and after taking a look at Sam's favorite playlist I mix in a few artists up his alley.
Then there are the dates.
*****
Sam cocks his head, then shakes it. "Nah, I think you're too lanky for stripes."
I roll my eyes and head back into the changing room, shucking off the blue and white button up and reaching for Sam's next pick, a green and white plaid number. Apparently a wardrobe that consisted of entirely black and gray is unacceptable, and after seeing me walk around in company-brand PRT sweats for multiple days on end it was time for a shopping trip.
This time Sam just sighs. "When I looked at that I thought it was going to be festive. Cheery. Instead you look like an after-dinner mint."
"Maybe something a little more understated?" I vetoed the hotter colors straight up, but had to grudgingly give ground on lighter shades on the cool ones.
Sam narrows his eyes. "What was that? Circus polka dots?"
"I could always buy my own clothes," I mutter, softening the words with a smile as I once more switch shirts. The discard pile is growing increasingly large, and after six or seven garments go by without anything quite working Sam gives up and we leave after buying a few pairs of jeans.
"Well this has been a complete waste of time, " he grumbles as we walk down the sidewalk, gently bumping elbows.
I shrug, switching the bag of clothes from one hand to the other. "A purchase was made. Technically that's not nothing."
"Mostly wasted. We still set out to get you a full outfit and didn't come out with that." Sam sighs. "At best we're talking about a half-empty, half-full issue."
"We could get you something. I get the bottom, you get the top." When Sam doesn't respond, I turn to look at him.
He's stopped in the street, a brittle smile on his face and jaw clenched. His eyes are far-out, staring at nothing, and as I stare at him he jitters a little and locks eyes with me.
"I'm good," he says, stiff and combative, and we go back to walking, the good humor ruined. I clench a fist in my pockets, mentally berating myself.
I stay quiet until we get back to his place, then drop the bags by the door and gently rap my knuckles on the wall.
"What?" Sam snaps, spinning around and glaring at me.
"What did I do wrong?" I ask, shoving down the urge to break eye contact and stopping the tremble in my hands.
Sam shakes his head and moves further into the apartment, collapsing onto the couch. "Nothing. You made a suggestion. My stupid, stupid brain interprets that as a challenge to my masculinity, which I deal with by trying to harden up."
I pad into the main room, observing. Sam is baring his teeth, eyes squeezed shut and hands gripping his knees. I see him take a deep breath, and, after a minute of holding it, lets go, the tension flowing out of his body. I sit down next to him, hands in my lap. After a second I gently nudge his arm.
"What can you tell me about?" I ask quietly.
Sam reaches out, taking my hand and falling back against the couch.
*****
List of things Sam avoids:
We stay on the couch for a while longer.
"There's fucking more to it because of course there's more to it but those are the big ones, the shit I actually have to be careful with. It's stupid, all of it, just these tiny things that make it really, really hard to be a person but then again my brain's fucking stupid, so would you look at that? Big fucking surprise." Sam sounds more angry that scared but the fear is there, a river beneath the ice.
I lean into him, squeezing his hand.
He draws in another breath. "I really appreciate this, you know? Just like, hey, I'm here, supporting you? I was with a few guys who thought of all these helpful suggestions, all these simple, easy ways to get my shit under control. You one of them actually suggested that I think calm thoughts?"
"Sounds like an asshole," I say, for lack of anything better to contribute.
"He really wasn't. Nice and all, really handsome, but goddamn he was dumb as a brick. Handy? Andy? Something that told you the lights were on but nobody was home. Anyway, thanks for putting up with this. I just need to..." Sam flutters his free arm, grimacing.
"Rant?" I say, raising an eyebrow.
Sam snorts, a grin spreading across his face. "Fuck, you got me. It is ranting, isn't it?"
For a while there's a comfortable silence, the both of us just recovering as the light slowly fades from the room.
"Feeling better?" I ask once the room is nearly dark.
"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "Lots." He gets up, and this time I move with him, keeping my grip on his hand. He turns towards me, face hidden by shadows, but I can imagine the expression on his face.
"No promises. I'm pretty low-energy right now, and even when I'm not no one's called me enthusiastic." I give his hand a squeeze. "But I would like to sleep with you thought."
The hug is tight, almost uncomfortably so, mixed with a shuddering something that comes out as a growl. I reciprocate, a hum in Sam's ear that causes a fresh series of shivers to travel through him, forcing me to a wall. Things only get less gentle from there, and by the time we finally make it to his bed I know that neither of us are going to be waking up early tomorrow.
*****
It's only after Sam's spent arms collapse around me that I realize how badly I've fallen for him.
After the first day's obnoxiously bad snooze, I quickly adapt to Sam's schedule of waking up at midnight and going to bed at four in the afternoon. Apparently it's easiest to get through Medhall's security when the security guards are still sleepy, and the traffic is a breeze.
We both still have work. Sam's job appears to me to be a lot of swear at a screen and hammering furiously at a keyboard until a ding sounds out, at which point he'll take a short break for water, snacks, or a little bit of exercise. The few times that doesn't work he grabs a laptop bag, mutters something about hardware, and then slams the door behind him as he leaves. I don't comment on it, mainly because after you work with someone who regularly destroyed furniture after losing an argument a few angry words really get put in perspective.
I mostly spend my time working through legal issues. The local team of PRT lawyers have gotten the girl's father to consider an out of court settlement, though no terms have been set yet. One of those things will probably be a verbal apology to the girl in question, which won't be hard as I do genuinely regret hurting her. More difficult is that apparently the dad is angling for some sort of exclusive compensation, more than money, and while legal is doing their best it'll probably be easier for everyone involved if I consent to the first thing he asks for.
God I hate the public.
It's not all work, though. Sam introduces me to gaming, an activity I am horrible at. We go to the gym, where the difference between the muscle required for cape fight and the aesthetic build that Sam works for are two very different things. I pick up a pair of speakers and start playing music, and after taking a look at Sam's favorite playlist I mix in a few artists up his alley.
Then there are the dates.
*****
Sam cocks his head, then shakes it. "Nah, I think you're too lanky for stripes."
I roll my eyes and head back into the changing room, shucking off the blue and white button up and reaching for Sam's next pick, a green and white plaid number. Apparently a wardrobe that consisted of entirely black and gray is unacceptable, and after seeing me walk around in company-brand PRT sweats for multiple days on end it was time for a shopping trip.
This time Sam just sighs. "When I looked at that I thought it was going to be festive. Cheery. Instead you look like an after-dinner mint."
"Maybe something a little more understated?" I vetoed the hotter colors straight up, but had to grudgingly give ground on lighter shades on the cool ones.
Sam narrows his eyes. "What was that? Circus polka dots?"
"I could always buy my own clothes," I mutter, softening the words with a smile as I once more switch shirts. The discard pile is growing increasingly large, and after six or seven garments go by without anything quite working Sam gives up and we leave after buying a few pairs of jeans.
"Well this has been a complete waste of time, " he grumbles as we walk down the sidewalk, gently bumping elbows.
I shrug, switching the bag of clothes from one hand to the other. "A purchase was made. Technically that's not nothing."
"Mostly wasted. We still set out to get you a full outfit and didn't come out with that." Sam sighs. "At best we're talking about a half-empty, half-full issue."
"We could get you something. I get the bottom, you get the top." When Sam doesn't respond, I turn to look at him.
He's stopped in the street, a brittle smile on his face and jaw clenched. His eyes are far-out, staring at nothing, and as I stare at him he jitters a little and locks eyes with me.
"I'm good," he says, stiff and combative, and we go back to walking, the good humor ruined. I clench a fist in my pockets, mentally berating myself.
I stay quiet until we get back to his place, then drop the bags by the door and gently rap my knuckles on the wall.
"What?" Sam snaps, spinning around and glaring at me.
"What did I do wrong?" I ask, shoving down the urge to break eye contact and stopping the tremble in my hands.
Sam shakes his head and moves further into the apartment, collapsing onto the couch. "Nothing. You made a suggestion. My stupid, stupid brain interprets that as a challenge to my masculinity, which I deal with by trying to harden up."
I pad into the main room, observing. Sam is baring his teeth, eyes squeezed shut and hands gripping his knees. I see him take a deep breath, and, after a minute of holding it, lets go, the tension flowing out of his body. I sit down next to him, hands in my lap. After a second I gently nudge his arm.
"What can you tell me about?" I ask quietly.
Sam reaches out, taking my hand and falling back against the couch.
*****
List of things Sam avoids:
- Shopping for clothes
- Cooking burns
- Getting hit on
- Getting interrupted
- Revealing clothes
- Cigarettes
- Churches
We stay on the couch for a while longer.
"There's fucking more to it because of course there's more to it but those are the big ones, the shit I actually have to be careful with. It's stupid, all of it, just these tiny things that make it really, really hard to be a person but then again my brain's fucking stupid, so would you look at that? Big fucking surprise." Sam sounds more angry that scared but the fear is there, a river beneath the ice.
I lean into him, squeezing his hand.
He draws in another breath. "I really appreciate this, you know? Just like, hey, I'm here, supporting you? I was with a few guys who thought of all these helpful suggestions, all these simple, easy ways to get my shit under control. You one of them actually suggested that I think calm thoughts?"
"Sounds like an asshole," I say, for lack of anything better to contribute.
"He really wasn't. Nice and all, really handsome, but goddamn he was dumb as a brick. Handy? Andy? Something that told you the lights were on but nobody was home. Anyway, thanks for putting up with this. I just need to..." Sam flutters his free arm, grimacing.
"Rant?" I say, raising an eyebrow.
Sam snorts, a grin spreading across his face. "Fuck, you got me. It is ranting, isn't it?"
For a while there's a comfortable silence, the both of us just recovering as the light slowly fades from the room.
"Feeling better?" I ask once the room is nearly dark.
"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "Lots." He gets up, and this time I move with him, keeping my grip on his hand. He turns towards me, face hidden by shadows, but I can imagine the expression on his face.
"No promises. I'm pretty low-energy right now, and even when I'm not no one's called me enthusiastic." I give his hand a squeeze. "But I would like to sleep with you thought."
The hug is tight, almost uncomfortably so, mixed with a shuddering something that comes out as a growl. I reciprocate, a hum in Sam's ear that causes a fresh series of shivers to travel through him, forcing me to a wall. Things only get less gentle from there, and by the time we finally make it to his bed I know that neither of us are going to be waking up early tomorrow.
*****
It's only after Sam's spent arms collapse around me that I realize how badly I've fallen for him.
Lawsuit would probably lose hard in court.
They just want to avoid dragging it out because PR. And the exclusive compensation is a flat nonstarter.
Piggot here is being a little less forbearing than she canonically is, IMO.
I suspect BC could demand and get to avoid PR appearances in other departments. Even in BB. Just doesn't know to work the system.
I mean, consider how Cinereal is described in Atlanta:
They just want to avoid dragging it out because PR. And the exclusive compensation is a flat nonstarter.
Piggot here is being a little less forbearing than she canonically is, IMO.
I suspect BC could demand and get to avoid PR appearances in other departments. Even in BB. Just doesn't know to work the system.
I mean, consider how Cinereal is described in Atlanta:
Worm Quotes and WoG Repository | Page 16
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
You're pretty much on the money with regards to the legal angle. "PRT COUNTER-SUES INJURED GIRL" is not a good headline, and throwing a few bucks at the parents of the girl is a lot easier than actually going to court. The "exclusive compensation" is the start of a joke that never really pans out, but it was also an angle rather than a certainty.
As for Piggot/the PR system, this is a few years pre-canon. She's not quite the same level of hardass. He can't, however, opt out of PR entirely. This is Brockton Bay, not Atlanta, and the city is too understaffed to leave anyone on the bench for anything. More to the point, Eli isn't on the same tier as Cineral is: she's among the top seven most powerful heroes in the Protectorate, with a power that lets her rock n' roll in a very public and flashy way.
Eli could do the same, but it would get him more bad press than good.
30: Blind
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
I nod to Armsmaster as he enters the briefing room, a greeting he doesn't return. Velocity and Miss Militia were both here ahead of me but neither tried to start conversation. I haven't seen Dauntless yet, which means that he's probably the one on patrol.
After he's taken his helmet off, Armsmaster looks at me, light bags under his eyes making the stare deeper than I remember. "Before we begin this meeting, I would like to address the elephant in the room. Black Cat, do you feel fit to return to duty after your lapse?"
"Yes." I think about a million other things I could add, ultimately deciding against all of them. More excuses aren't going to be useful, and it's not like making up with my team is going to help with the legal storm.
He looks to the other two Protectorate capes in the room. "Do either of you have questions?" When they both shake their heads he grunts and the screen behind him flicks on, displaying a burnt out car. "Then we shall begin the discussion of the Empire's recent string of car bombings. On the surface level it seems to be focused on Asian business owners, nominal retaliation for Lung's rampage from last month. Thinktank analysis found that each victim also had a graduate degree or better though, and further postmortems confirm that the bodies in the car do not match the victim's dental records."
"Kidnappings? If so, when can we expect ransom requests?" Miss Militia asks.
Armsmaster shakes his head. "The families of the missing persons have not been contacted by the Empire, nor has the PRT received a note on their behalf."
Velocity snaps his fingers. "Victor wants to suck them dry."
"That is my working theory," Armsmaster agrees. The screen shifts to a heat map of the Bay, one which is nearly completely irregular. "This displays the residences of all doctors, engineers, and certified martial artists in the city which fit the usual demographics of the Empire's usual victims. While I've done my best to track down decorated veterans as well, a good number of them do not have a permanent home address." Several white lines appear across the map, twisted and passing through multiple splotches of deep red. "I've restructured our patrols to focus on the highest-risk areas and asked for further Thinktank time, but we are far down the queue."
"Is there anyone in town that we can tap for help?" I ask, trawling through my mental list of contacts. "Rogue postcogs, precogs, or clairvoyants that might have a bone to pick with the Empire?"
Velocity nods. "Blue Caterpillar can see quite far and accurately, but she tends to be almost uselessly cryptic. That, and White Rabbit is extremely gun-shy about letting people talk to her as she can only hold onto a single prophecy at a time without rendering the previous one invalid."
"Try to open up a channel of communication anyway." The slide moves on, this time displaying headshots of all the Wards. "The Wards managed their duties exceptionally well, surpassing all expectations both in conduct and professional performance. What rewards can we dole out for them?"
*****
Clockblocker throws up his hands as I enter the Wards common room, red hair on display and green eyes bright with mirth. "You're back from your vacation! See, if I punched a little girl in the face I'd be screwed, but apparently when you're a full member of the Protectorate-"
"Clock, knock it off," Triumph says, glaring at the younger Ward, then turning to me. "Black Cat, what brings you here?"
"Good news," I answer, smiling behind my mask, the expression only a little faked. "In recognition of your service, Armsmaster has decided that you may receive both additional combat training and additional patrols. Now, these are completely optional-"
A resounding cheer goes up from around the room, punctuated by hi-fives and whoops, including an enthusiastic "Round two!" from Vista.
I hold up my hands defensively. "That doesn't mean today, and you'll still need to get your parent's permission-"
This time the chorus is groans, punctuated by an equally enthusiastic and far louder, "Fuck!"
"Language," I say, glaring at the young girl from behind my mask. After the group stays quiet for a full five seconds I let my hands drop. "I'm still being kept out of the public eye for the aforementioned incident, which means that I'm going to be the one mostly responsible for the training sessions. The next one is in two days. See you then."
I leave after some more well-wishing, thankfully not accompanied by more jokes. From there I grab what little was left in my room, stuff it in a bag, then head for the motorpool to head back to Sam's place. Along the way I run into Roger.
"Hey," he says, bending over panting and holding one hand up. "Gimme a minute."
I wait patiently as Roger catches his breath, then stands up, brushing his hair a little and looking me in the eye.
"How're you doing?" he asks, extending a hand.
I take it and shake. "Better. Pay isn't reduced as much anymore, and I'm back to work."
Roger winces. "Still sucks. So, I missed the briefing, but from what I read of the after-action report it was basically wrong place, wrong time for the girl."
I grimace. "That's about the size of it. I still have a lot I need to clean up, but I'm hoping that I can put this behind me soon."
"Good," Roger says, rubbing his neck and looking to the side. After a second he looks back. "Anyway, I haven't seen you for a week, and given that I'm pretty sure you live on-base that's kind of worrying. If you need a place to crash-"
"Thanks for offering, but I'm currently sleeping with a friend." After a second I register the words that came out of my mouth and smirk at the unintentional pun. "In the literal sense."
Roger blinks. "Okay." After a second he digs his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. "In order to avoid miscommunications like this next time, maybe we should exchange info?"
"Sure." A quick tap later and I can see his profile pic in my contact list. Plus one person I can talk to. For a second we stand there awkwardly, his eyes gliding off me then latching back on a second later, while I try to think of a diplomatic way to ask him to let me go.
"I kind of need to get somewhere," I say carefully, motioning to move past him.
"Right, right." He takes a deep breath. "Wouldyouliketogotodinnerwithme?"
The world stops.
The silence is apparently all the answer he needs, and Roger quickly drops his head and steps to the side. "Sorry. Dumb question. See you later."
There's a second there where I could say something. Explain that it's not him, it's me, and that if he had been a little more vocal earlier I would've considered it. I could warn him that I'm damaged goods on a lot of levels, and that he really isn't missing much. Even something as small as a touch of solidarity, an acknowledgement of how fucking painful it is to ask and be turned down.
Instead I walk away as quickly as I can without seeming like I'm trying to get out and think as hard as I can about Sam.
After he's taken his helmet off, Armsmaster looks at me, light bags under his eyes making the stare deeper than I remember. "Before we begin this meeting, I would like to address the elephant in the room. Black Cat, do you feel fit to return to duty after your lapse?"
"Yes." I think about a million other things I could add, ultimately deciding against all of them. More excuses aren't going to be useful, and it's not like making up with my team is going to help with the legal storm.
He looks to the other two Protectorate capes in the room. "Do either of you have questions?" When they both shake their heads he grunts and the screen behind him flicks on, displaying a burnt out car. "Then we shall begin the discussion of the Empire's recent string of car bombings. On the surface level it seems to be focused on Asian business owners, nominal retaliation for Lung's rampage from last month. Thinktank analysis found that each victim also had a graduate degree or better though, and further postmortems confirm that the bodies in the car do not match the victim's dental records."
"Kidnappings? If so, when can we expect ransom requests?" Miss Militia asks.
Armsmaster shakes his head. "The families of the missing persons have not been contacted by the Empire, nor has the PRT received a note on their behalf."
Velocity snaps his fingers. "Victor wants to suck them dry."
"That is my working theory," Armsmaster agrees. The screen shifts to a heat map of the Bay, one which is nearly completely irregular. "This displays the residences of all doctors, engineers, and certified martial artists in the city which fit the usual demographics of the Empire's usual victims. While I've done my best to track down decorated veterans as well, a good number of them do not have a permanent home address." Several white lines appear across the map, twisted and passing through multiple splotches of deep red. "I've restructured our patrols to focus on the highest-risk areas and asked for further Thinktank time, but we are far down the queue."
"Is there anyone in town that we can tap for help?" I ask, trawling through my mental list of contacts. "Rogue postcogs, precogs, or clairvoyants that might have a bone to pick with the Empire?"
Velocity nods. "Blue Caterpillar can see quite far and accurately, but she tends to be almost uselessly cryptic. That, and White Rabbit is extremely gun-shy about letting people talk to her as she can only hold onto a single prophecy at a time without rendering the previous one invalid."
"Try to open up a channel of communication anyway." The slide moves on, this time displaying headshots of all the Wards. "The Wards managed their duties exceptionally well, surpassing all expectations both in conduct and professional performance. What rewards can we dole out for them?"
*****
Clockblocker throws up his hands as I enter the Wards common room, red hair on display and green eyes bright with mirth. "You're back from your vacation! See, if I punched a little girl in the face I'd be screwed, but apparently when you're a full member of the Protectorate-"
"Clock, knock it off," Triumph says, glaring at the younger Ward, then turning to me. "Black Cat, what brings you here?"
"Good news," I answer, smiling behind my mask, the expression only a little faked. "In recognition of your service, Armsmaster has decided that you may receive both additional combat training and additional patrols. Now, these are completely optional-"
A resounding cheer goes up from around the room, punctuated by hi-fives and whoops, including an enthusiastic "Round two!" from Vista.
I hold up my hands defensively. "That doesn't mean today, and you'll still need to get your parent's permission-"
This time the chorus is groans, punctuated by an equally enthusiastic and far louder, "Fuck!"
"Language," I say, glaring at the young girl from behind my mask. After the group stays quiet for a full five seconds I let my hands drop. "I'm still being kept out of the public eye for the aforementioned incident, which means that I'm going to be the one mostly responsible for the training sessions. The next one is in two days. See you then."
I leave after some more well-wishing, thankfully not accompanied by more jokes. From there I grab what little was left in my room, stuff it in a bag, then head for the motorpool to head back to Sam's place. Along the way I run into Roger.
"Hey," he says, bending over panting and holding one hand up. "Gimme a minute."
I wait patiently as Roger catches his breath, then stands up, brushing his hair a little and looking me in the eye.
"How're you doing?" he asks, extending a hand.
I take it and shake. "Better. Pay isn't reduced as much anymore, and I'm back to work."
Roger winces. "Still sucks. So, I missed the briefing, but from what I read of the after-action report it was basically wrong place, wrong time for the girl."
I grimace. "That's about the size of it. I still have a lot I need to clean up, but I'm hoping that I can put this behind me soon."
"Good," Roger says, rubbing his neck and looking to the side. After a second he looks back. "Anyway, I haven't seen you for a week, and given that I'm pretty sure you live on-base that's kind of worrying. If you need a place to crash-"
"Thanks for offering, but I'm currently sleeping with a friend." After a second I register the words that came out of my mouth and smirk at the unintentional pun. "In the literal sense."
Roger blinks. "Okay." After a second he digs his phone out of his pocket and holds it up. "In order to avoid miscommunications like this next time, maybe we should exchange info?"
"Sure." A quick tap later and I can see his profile pic in my contact list. Plus one person I can talk to. For a second we stand there awkwardly, his eyes gliding off me then latching back on a second later, while I try to think of a diplomatic way to ask him to let me go.
"I kind of need to get somewhere," I say carefully, motioning to move past him.
"Right, right." He takes a deep breath. "Wouldyouliketogotodinnerwithme?"
The world stops.
The silence is apparently all the answer he needs, and Roger quickly drops his head and steps to the side. "Sorry. Dumb question. See you later."
There's a second there where I could say something. Explain that it's not him, it's me, and that if he had been a little more vocal earlier I would've considered it. I could warn him that I'm damaged goods on a lot of levels, and that he really isn't missing much. Even something as small as a touch of solidarity, an acknowledgement of how fucking painful it is to ask and be turned down.
Instead I walk away as quickly as I can without seeming like I'm trying to get out and think as hard as I can about Sam.
Well.
Looks like BC is flatout as oblivious to UST as I used to be.
And Roger missed the "sleeping with a friend" hint.
The little detail about Victor does kinda make sense as a general strategy.
Though you'd wonder why he simply doesn't audit classes at the local university and spread the skill vamping around. Less likely to be detected, less legal risk, less risk of blowback.
You could probably outright pay a homeless veteran for their combat skills with food and shelter and booze.
Cheap. Good PR. Do the same thing with nursing home inmates
Just not mustache-twirling villainy.
Do the same thing with nursing home inmates; a captive population already predisposed to overlooking skill loss like that.
What I'm saying is, bombing cars is stupid.
It draws attention. More attention than simply kidnapping the guys off the street and having people think they moved away.
Then again, criminals aren't always intellectual giants. And you can't steal common sense.
Looks like BC is flatout as oblivious to UST as I used to be.
And Roger missed the "sleeping with a friend" hint.
The little detail about Victor does kinda make sense as a general strategy.
Though you'd wonder why he simply doesn't audit classes at the local university and spread the skill vamping around. Less likely to be detected, less legal risk, less risk of blowback.
You could probably outright pay a homeless veteran for their combat skills with food and shelter and booze.
Cheap. Good PR. Do the same thing with nursing home inmates
Just not mustache-twirling villainy.
Do the same thing with nursing home inmates; a captive population already predisposed to overlooking skill loss like that.
What I'm saying is, bombing cars is stupid.
It draws attention. More attention than simply kidnapping the guys off the street and having people think they moved away.
Then again, criminals aren't always intellectual giants. And you can't steal common sense.
31: Payoff
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"Yes, I knew Dauntless liked you. I'm not blind," Battery says, scanning the streets as we walk through the nicer parts of ABB territory. We attract more attention and less interaction than we would in our usual haunts, which is both a blessing and a curse.
"Apparently I am. When did it start?" On the one hand, no one's going to be listening closely. On the other hand, I don't have the convenient excuse of unfriendly ears to dodge complicated questions.
Battery shrugs. "A week or so after you showed up. Can you think of anything you might've done to make him interested?"
That would be after our training sessions started, around the time he really started getting into it. I nod. "I can think of something."
"Why'd you turn him down?" When I walk beside her in silence for a block she sighs. "I don't have to get an answer, but I'd like to know if I have to worry about either of you coming to blows because one of you said the other one wasn't pretty enough."
I swallow the sudden bitter taste in my mouth as she accidentally treads over some tender ground. "Nothing like that. Roger is a fine man, and anyone would be lucky to have him. It is not an issue on his end."
"You're not wrong." When I give her a look she rolls her eyes. "I'm married, not dead. My husband's a perfectly good catch but he's also a lot of work, and if we didn't have powers I doubt we'd get along half as well. Roger is sweeter than cotton candy, it'd hurt to leave him in the morning, and there's some other stuff that I think he should've told you about before asking you on a date, but from an objective viewpoint I think you could do a lot worse."
I mull over that thought, then decide to let it lie. If Roger wants to try and talk again, I'll tell him no and that will be that. If he doesn't stop then, well, no Director hates capes enough to permit sexual harassment in the workplace.
The rest of the patrol goes basically without incident, and shortly after filling out her forms Sharon heads straight for the sick bay. I think about following her and checking in on Ethan, and eventually turn away. I'm not quite close enough to either of them for that, and frankly I'd rather not try and offer meaningless words.
Instead I get into what's rapidly becoming my sedan and drive towards what's rapidly becoming home.
*****
Sam answers the door dressed in basketball shorts and a baggy shirt two sizes too big, sandy hair askew. Around a yawn, he asks, "How'd work go?"
"Well enough. Yours?" Meaningless pleasantries, but they give me time to think about what I'm going to say next.
Sam shrugs, sitting on the far end of the couch. "Had to pull apart someone's laptop to tell them that shoving rice into the charging port is not a way to preserve battery life, but besides that easy enough."
I lay down lengthwise, with my head in Sam's lap. Almost as soon as I stop moving one of his hands starts running over my scalp, the other falling to my shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. For a while we just stay there, enjoying the physical contact, enjoying touching and being touched, a quiet permission given and received.
He rubs a few strand of hair between his fingers. "It's growing out."
I hum in agreement, one hand going up to my jaw and feeling the few hairs there. "Might need to trim it."
"Do you have to?" When I raise an eyebrow Sam replies with a small smile. "I haven't seen you with long hair before."
"My hair grows thick, not long." That, and long hair is a major disadvantage in a fight. A handle, a source of pain, attached to the single most important part of the body. Much easier to just shave it off.
Sam looks up, settling back against the back of the couch, hand going still. "It was just a thought."
"A coworker hit on me a few days ago." The words come out unbidden, unwanted. When Sam doesn't respond, I continue. "I didn't say anything and he moved on, but I thought you should know. Honest communication and all that." Sam's hand goes back to gently tracing patterns on my scalp. "Sam, talk to me."
He looks down at me quizzically. "What's there to say? Did you expect me to be mad?"
I open my mouth, then close it, nodding. Sam snorts, nose wrinkling and a smirk sneaking across his face.
"You can't control who decides to comment on your ass. I mean, you could trash your appearance and try to push everyone away, but doing that when you enter a relationship would feel really weird. You didn't kiss him, did you?" Sam asks, tilting his head a little.
"No, of course not," I say instantly, heat flowing through me, sending my heart rate skyrocketing and muscles tensing. Never, not once, not to Sam, not to anyone. "I would never-"
Sam shrugs. "Then there's no problem."
I stop speaking and just stare at him. He puts on another small smile, open and honest. "Eli, I trust you."
One of my hands shoots up and pull him down for a kiss. Long, deep, and desperate in a way I almost forgot I had painful amounts of experience with. Sam moves from sitting to straddling above me, the hand on my shoulder gripping now, just this side of bruises.
Eventually we have to break off for air, panting and looking into each other's eyes.
"That might be the hottest thing you've ever said to me," I whisper.
Sam's eyebrows furrow. "That I trust you? Not the 'let me eat your ass' from last night?"
I drag him down again. "Very." Kiss. "Different." Kiss. "Contexts." Kiss. The last one lingers, and I feel Sam's fingers fumbling for my belt. I smile against his lips.
"Bedroom. Now."
****
"Apparently I am. When did it start?" On the one hand, no one's going to be listening closely. On the other hand, I don't have the convenient excuse of unfriendly ears to dodge complicated questions.
Battery shrugs. "A week or so after you showed up. Can you think of anything you might've done to make him interested?"
That would be after our training sessions started, around the time he really started getting into it. I nod. "I can think of something."
"Why'd you turn him down?" When I walk beside her in silence for a block she sighs. "I don't have to get an answer, but I'd like to know if I have to worry about either of you coming to blows because one of you said the other one wasn't pretty enough."
I swallow the sudden bitter taste in my mouth as she accidentally treads over some tender ground. "Nothing like that. Roger is a fine man, and anyone would be lucky to have him. It is not an issue on his end."
"You're not wrong." When I give her a look she rolls her eyes. "I'm married, not dead. My husband's a perfectly good catch but he's also a lot of work, and if we didn't have powers I doubt we'd get along half as well. Roger is sweeter than cotton candy, it'd hurt to leave him in the morning, and there's some other stuff that I think he should've told you about before asking you on a date, but from an objective viewpoint I think you could do a lot worse."
I mull over that thought, then decide to let it lie. If Roger wants to try and talk again, I'll tell him no and that will be that. If he doesn't stop then, well, no Director hates capes enough to permit sexual harassment in the workplace.
The rest of the patrol goes basically without incident, and shortly after filling out her forms Sharon heads straight for the sick bay. I think about following her and checking in on Ethan, and eventually turn away. I'm not quite close enough to either of them for that, and frankly I'd rather not try and offer meaningless words.
Instead I get into what's rapidly becoming my sedan and drive towards what's rapidly becoming home.
*****
Sam answers the door dressed in basketball shorts and a baggy shirt two sizes too big, sandy hair askew. Around a yawn, he asks, "How'd work go?"
"Well enough. Yours?" Meaningless pleasantries, but they give me time to think about what I'm going to say next.
Sam shrugs, sitting on the far end of the couch. "Had to pull apart someone's laptop to tell them that shoving rice into the charging port is not a way to preserve battery life, but besides that easy enough."
I lay down lengthwise, with my head in Sam's lap. Almost as soon as I stop moving one of his hands starts running over my scalp, the other falling to my shoulder and giving it a comforting squeeze. For a while we just stay there, enjoying the physical contact, enjoying touching and being touched, a quiet permission given and received.
He rubs a few strand of hair between his fingers. "It's growing out."
I hum in agreement, one hand going up to my jaw and feeling the few hairs there. "Might need to trim it."
"Do you have to?" When I raise an eyebrow Sam replies with a small smile. "I haven't seen you with long hair before."
"My hair grows thick, not long." That, and long hair is a major disadvantage in a fight. A handle, a source of pain, attached to the single most important part of the body. Much easier to just shave it off.
Sam looks up, settling back against the back of the couch, hand going still. "It was just a thought."
"A coworker hit on me a few days ago." The words come out unbidden, unwanted. When Sam doesn't respond, I continue. "I didn't say anything and he moved on, but I thought you should know. Honest communication and all that." Sam's hand goes back to gently tracing patterns on my scalp. "Sam, talk to me."
He looks down at me quizzically. "What's there to say? Did you expect me to be mad?"
I open my mouth, then close it, nodding. Sam snorts, nose wrinkling and a smirk sneaking across his face.
"You can't control who decides to comment on your ass. I mean, you could trash your appearance and try to push everyone away, but doing that when you enter a relationship would feel really weird. You didn't kiss him, did you?" Sam asks, tilting his head a little.
"No, of course not," I say instantly, heat flowing through me, sending my heart rate skyrocketing and muscles tensing. Never, not once, not to Sam, not to anyone. "I would never-"
Sam shrugs. "Then there's no problem."
I stop speaking and just stare at him. He puts on another small smile, open and honest. "Eli, I trust you."
One of my hands shoots up and pull him down for a kiss. Long, deep, and desperate in a way I almost forgot I had painful amounts of experience with. Sam moves from sitting to straddling above me, the hand on my shoulder gripping now, just this side of bruises.
Eventually we have to break off for air, panting and looking into each other's eyes.
"That might be the hottest thing you've ever said to me," I whisper.
Sam's eyebrows furrow. "That I trust you? Not the 'let me eat your ass' from last night?"
I drag him down again. "Very." Kiss. "Different." Kiss. "Contexts." Kiss. The last one lingers, and I feel Sam's fingers fumbling for my belt. I smile against his lips.
"Bedroom. Now."
****
In college, the few couplings I had didn't tell me anything about having sex. Nobody who was willing to sleep with me knew anything about what they wanted, and all the people who did know had paired up with one another by the time I was willing to put myself out there. After a few disappointing one-night-stands I stopped going to parties and tried focusing on studies. When I got powers, I cut that part of my life away entirely and focused on self-development. The number of identities that have been compromised by significant others is absurd, and marrying another cape doesn't help those odds much. For a long time, I thought that being a dedicated cape and an active sex life were two mutually exclusive things, and at some level I wasn't wrong.
And then I joined the Protectorate and met Jackie.
It took me two days to realize I was being flirted with, and even then I only realized that it wasn't the usual new-guy hazing a week after my first cape fight. She was a physical person, one who used little touches and body language more than words, and it wasn't until I felt her very deliberately grind against me that I got the message.
I said no for a long time. Jackie took that at face value, but also didn't stop asking. I didn't ask her to. A hip bump in the hallway, a brush of knuckles over knuckles, leaning into me a little more than was strictly necessary when we rode together in a PRT van, the occasional scrape of nails up my inner thigh when no one else was looking that would leave me aching for more for hours afterward...
In hindsight I'm surprised that it only took a month for the two of us to sneak off to a secluded corner of the West PRT HQ and hurry our way through a fumbling, frantic fucking.
After that first time we started thinking more. Jackie taught me what she liked, I learned what I needed to enjoy carnal activities, and throughout it all I couldn't help but wonder 'why me?' Jackie would give different answers every time, from my looks to my heart to my power to anything under the sun. All lies, all a part of the masked fear she didn't share with anyone.
Eventually I stopped asking, tension drained from our near-talks, and we became comfortable.
I think that I gave serious consideration to asking her to marry me at one point.
Sam's not like Jackie. She liked games, liked making rules that we'd both end up breaking, stretching out the play for as long as possible, and I moulded to her schemes. Sam's too passionate for that sort of subtlety, for back-and-forth, for acting. Instead he worships, he groans, and he tries to communicate one one hundredth of the sun inside of him. That too I mould to, egging him on with teasing scrapes, from teeth, from nails, as I slowly map the lines on his back that make him go supernova. It's a new story, one that always comes to the same ending, and one that that is eminently comfortable.
I can't compare the two. Apples and oranges, song and dance, blades and bullets, they're two different people, too different to overlay and reduce to a list of objectionable and pleasant traits. I'm not sure I could say which I enjoy more, or whether that's even a question that makes sense. Even now, lying in Sam's arm, sore and sweating and suffused with a haze of contentment, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be in Jackie's arms, to feel her breath on my neck, to have her breasts pressing into my back rather than Sam's arms reaching around me
I turn around just enough to kiss Sam's jaw. He twists to meet me halfway.
"Love you," he whispers.
And then I joined the Protectorate and met Jackie.
It took me two days to realize I was being flirted with, and even then I only realized that it wasn't the usual new-guy hazing a week after my first cape fight. She was a physical person, one who used little touches and body language more than words, and it wasn't until I felt her very deliberately grind against me that I got the message.
I said no for a long time. Jackie took that at face value, but also didn't stop asking. I didn't ask her to. A hip bump in the hallway, a brush of knuckles over knuckles, leaning into me a little more than was strictly necessary when we rode together in a PRT van, the occasional scrape of nails up my inner thigh when no one else was looking that would leave me aching for more for hours afterward...
In hindsight I'm surprised that it only took a month for the two of us to sneak off to a secluded corner of the West PRT HQ and hurry our way through a fumbling, frantic fucking.
After that first time we started thinking more. Jackie taught me what she liked, I learned what I needed to enjoy carnal activities, and throughout it all I couldn't help but wonder 'why me?' Jackie would give different answers every time, from my looks to my heart to my power to anything under the sun. All lies, all a part of the masked fear she didn't share with anyone.
Eventually I stopped asking, tension drained from our near-talks, and we became comfortable.
I think that I gave serious consideration to asking her to marry me at one point.
Sam's not like Jackie. She liked games, liked making rules that we'd both end up breaking, stretching out the play for as long as possible, and I moulded to her schemes. Sam's too passionate for that sort of subtlety, for back-and-forth, for acting. Instead he worships, he groans, and he tries to communicate one one hundredth of the sun inside of him. That too I mould to, egging him on with teasing scrapes, from teeth, from nails, as I slowly map the lines on his back that make him go supernova. It's a new story, one that always comes to the same ending, and one that that is eminently comfortable.
I can't compare the two. Apples and oranges, song and dance, blades and bullets, they're two different people, too different to overlay and reduce to a list of objectionable and pleasant traits. I'm not sure I could say which I enjoy more, or whether that's even a question that makes sense. Even now, lying in Sam's arm, sore and sweating and suffused with a haze of contentment, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to be in Jackie's arms, to feel her breath on my neck, to have her breasts pressing into my back rather than Sam's arms reaching around me
I turn around just enough to kiss Sam's jaw. He twists to meet me halfway.
"Love you," he whispers.
32: Little Blind
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
I'm in the middle of learning how to shift gears on a manual motorcycle when the call comes.
Hannah and I drag our phones out of our pockets almost simultaneously, abandoning our examination of the many-knobbed handlebars to see what control wants this time. We both pause, staring at the message there.
EB. Simurgh. Kenya, Mombasa.
Hannah pushed me out of the way as she straddles the bike and guns the engine with one hand, the other affixing her bandana across her face. "Don't wait up."
I pull my own hood up, flicker out onto the street, then turn my head, head up onto the rooftops, and then start heading for the Rig.
Velocity is already there, armed with a flat pistol and a bandolier of knives. He nods once at me as I walk across the rest of the distance.
"Armsmaster is getting your stuff, plus some new toys. Where's Miss Militia?" he asks, all business.
"Coming her by bike. No idea how long she'll be, but my estimates are less than five minutes. How long do we have until pick-up?" Trade questions for questions, ensure that no one's out of the loop, keep the information as concise as possible.
"Seven minutes. I've gotten the BBPD and the PRT agents currently on patrol clearing traffic for her." Armsmaster is clanging across the metal landing pad, two halberds strapped to his back, a third in his hand, and a metal briefcase in one hand. This suit of power armor is far more heavier than his patrol version, more blocky and crude, the silver so deep it almost looks grey. He holds the briefcase out to me, and when I take it I nearly sag under the weight.
"Night vision goggles that won't blind you for looking into a candle, monomolecular knives with disposable blades, and more mundane armaments," he explains as I open up the box and start strapping on. The buckles and layout are intuitive, simple, and completely unlike other tinkertech I've handled before. Normally when I use a teammate's gear they have to explain every single thing, to the point that the power gain isn't worth the hours and hours of training I need to sink into it to learn how to use it. With the golden blades and black handle though, one button ejects the blade and one button locks it. Simple, clean, and utilitarian in the best way.
I look him in the eye. "I'm not a front-line combatant. Even if the Ziz didn't pulp me after spending more than a second in her debris field, I'm pretty sure that a sharp knife isn't going to do much at all."
Armsmaster shakes his head. "I'm aware of your role. Search and rescue for all three Endbringers, along with small payload delivery against Leviathan and crowd management in the aftermath of the Simurgh."
I swallow a lump in my throat, the knife handle far heavier in my hand. "Right. Are we expecting many brutes this fight?"
Armsmaster nods. "The local warlord is a tinker capable of granting permanent, multiplicative bonuses to a host's biology in return for dramatic tradeoffs in other areas. His enforcers are capable of crushing rocks with their bare hands and healing from bullet wounds in less than a minute. They aren't more durable than normal, and wear heavy iron helmets to protect their brains."
"How long has the Simurgh been working on them?" Battery is wearing a full helmet now, tugging at different parts of her costume to get it to sit just right. Ethan is still weak on his legs, and I can only imagine what Sharon said to keep him from coming with her.
Sam.
"I need to talk to someone," I say quietly. Armsmaster nods and motions to the interior of the base. I'm gone a second later, flickering to the locker room, to where my civilian phone is, my connection to Sam. I fumbled the combination, almost cut open the locker, then press the keys more slowly, calmly. Haste makes waste.
I stare at the phone for a long time, trying to figure out what to say. Do I tell Sam? Do I not? What are my odds of dying or being driven insane versus my odds of coming back alive versus how Sam would feel in both scenarios. This is the wrong conversation to have over text, the wrong motivation for revealing it, and the worst possible time to even be thinking about it. Dragoncraft move too fast to have good cell service, and this isn't a phone that can email.
I have one text. Tops.
My work phone buzzes. I check it.
Two minutes.
I grit my teeth, hammer out five words, then hit send and throw my phone back in the locker. Once it's secure again I flicker through the halls back to the landing pad.
When I arrive the Dragoncraft is touching down, already half-full of capes. Miss Militia is back, being given a bandolier of tinker-tech munition by Armsmaster while hushed words are exchanged between the two of them. Dauntless is there, looking woefully under equipped with his weakly-glowing Arclance and shield. When he meets my eyes he looks away, and I wince behind my mask. That needs to be put to rest before we touchdown and start fighting. I take the seat next to him, nodding to the quiet woman on my other side. She's dressed in white power armor with red and black highlights, an eight stenciled across her mask. She pulls out a deck of cards and starts shuffling them one-handed, staring off into space and removing herself from the conversation.
Perfect.
"Hey," I say quietly.
Dauntless heaves a sigh. "I'm sorry."
I shake my head. "Nothing happened. No harm, no foul. I just wanted to..." I trail off, unsure of how to phrase the professional fondness I have for him.
"Tell me that I'm a good guy? That I'm nice? That it's not me, it's you?" The words are bitter but the tone is tired, an old wound reopened.
"I wanted to say that I already have a partner, and that if you had spoken up a bit earlier I might've said yes," I answer quietly.
We fly in silence for a few minutes.
"Oh," Dauntless says. His tone is still a little defeated, but I'd like to think it's less broken than before.
"You're the first to know." I lean gently against him, staring at the pair of capes across from us. One is a figure of glass, glowing purple from the inside out, while the other looks like a hole to space.
After a few seconds I feel Dauntless shudder beside me.
"I'm married, you know?" When I don't answer, he goes on. "I thought I loved her. I really did. We got along well, shared an apartment for years, and figured getting together was more 'making it official' than anything else."
He laughs without humor. "We did alright for the first few months. It was business as usual, paying bills and making meals, and we split the work equally. Happily. We thought that the little record keeping we had proved that we were in love. I mean, who else can make sure that the accounts are even, down to the cent?"
"And then I met a cape at work. I was a cop, you know?" he says, turning to look at me and making a finger gun. "Narcotics. White-collar, and part of the job was talking to a thinker who'd give us a head start. Anyway, the two of us just clicked. Boom. Spark of connection out of nowhere, completely uncontrollable, completely perfect, and even after the investigation was over they found reasons to come by and talk."
Dauntless sighs. "And then one thing led to another, I asked them out to dinner, they said yes, and we were dating. A married man and a cape."
I ponder that. "And your wife..."
Dauntless shakes his head. "Didn't know. Never knew until the thinker back tracked to her and asked me when I was planning to divorce her. Turns out they had been peering into every aspect of my life, trying to find a reason to dump me, and when they finally did they were hoping I'd choose them."
I pause. "Did you?"
I can make out an inch of a tight smile in the strip of empty space on his helmet, a smile filled with hurt. "No."
A chime sounds out.
"Dragon to all occupants, ETA is three minutes. First destination is the Command tent. All thinkers congregate here, along with anyone in a leadership position. If you are in Search and Rescue or Engagement, return to this vehicle after picking up your Containment Collars."
The craft dissolves into a swarm of last-minute gear checks, good-luck rituals, and in a few cases prayers. I see an honest-to-God priest muttering quietly to himself, hands together and eyes closed, and a figure decked out in scrap metal sitting across from them in the same position.
I'm not religious as a rule, but I still lift my eyes to the roof of the Dragoncraft. Even a casual examination of human history makes it difficult for me to buy the existence of the traditional god, but a request costs nothing. That, and superpowers are close enough to either miracles or curses that some higher power might be involved.
Please let this be a good day.
Then the doors open and we step into chaos.
*****
Emergency at work. Love you.
Hannah and I drag our phones out of our pockets almost simultaneously, abandoning our examination of the many-knobbed handlebars to see what control wants this time. We both pause, staring at the message there.
EB. Simurgh. Kenya, Mombasa.
Hannah pushed me out of the way as she straddles the bike and guns the engine with one hand, the other affixing her bandana across her face. "Don't wait up."
I pull my own hood up, flicker out onto the street, then turn my head, head up onto the rooftops, and then start heading for the Rig.
Velocity is already there, armed with a flat pistol and a bandolier of knives. He nods once at me as I walk across the rest of the distance.
"Armsmaster is getting your stuff, plus some new toys. Where's Miss Militia?" he asks, all business.
"Coming her by bike. No idea how long she'll be, but my estimates are less than five minutes. How long do we have until pick-up?" Trade questions for questions, ensure that no one's out of the loop, keep the information as concise as possible.
"Seven minutes. I've gotten the BBPD and the PRT agents currently on patrol clearing traffic for her." Armsmaster is clanging across the metal landing pad, two halberds strapped to his back, a third in his hand, and a metal briefcase in one hand. This suit of power armor is far more heavier than his patrol version, more blocky and crude, the silver so deep it almost looks grey. He holds the briefcase out to me, and when I take it I nearly sag under the weight.
"Night vision goggles that won't blind you for looking into a candle, monomolecular knives with disposable blades, and more mundane armaments," he explains as I open up the box and start strapping on. The buckles and layout are intuitive, simple, and completely unlike other tinkertech I've handled before. Normally when I use a teammate's gear they have to explain every single thing, to the point that the power gain isn't worth the hours and hours of training I need to sink into it to learn how to use it. With the golden blades and black handle though, one button ejects the blade and one button locks it. Simple, clean, and utilitarian in the best way.
I look him in the eye. "I'm not a front-line combatant. Even if the Ziz didn't pulp me after spending more than a second in her debris field, I'm pretty sure that a sharp knife isn't going to do much at all."
Armsmaster shakes his head. "I'm aware of your role. Search and rescue for all three Endbringers, along with small payload delivery against Leviathan and crowd management in the aftermath of the Simurgh."
I swallow a lump in my throat, the knife handle far heavier in my hand. "Right. Are we expecting many brutes this fight?"
Armsmaster nods. "The local warlord is a tinker capable of granting permanent, multiplicative bonuses to a host's biology in return for dramatic tradeoffs in other areas. His enforcers are capable of crushing rocks with their bare hands and healing from bullet wounds in less than a minute. They aren't more durable than normal, and wear heavy iron helmets to protect their brains."
"How long has the Simurgh been working on them?" Battery is wearing a full helmet now, tugging at different parts of her costume to get it to sit just right. Ethan is still weak on his legs, and I can only imagine what Sharon said to keep him from coming with her.
Sam.
"I need to talk to someone," I say quietly. Armsmaster nods and motions to the interior of the base. I'm gone a second later, flickering to the locker room, to where my civilian phone is, my connection to Sam. I fumbled the combination, almost cut open the locker, then press the keys more slowly, calmly. Haste makes waste.
I stare at the phone for a long time, trying to figure out what to say. Do I tell Sam? Do I not? What are my odds of dying or being driven insane versus my odds of coming back alive versus how Sam would feel in both scenarios. This is the wrong conversation to have over text, the wrong motivation for revealing it, and the worst possible time to even be thinking about it. Dragoncraft move too fast to have good cell service, and this isn't a phone that can email.
I have one text. Tops.
My work phone buzzes. I check it.
Two minutes.
I grit my teeth, hammer out five words, then hit send and throw my phone back in the locker. Once it's secure again I flicker through the halls back to the landing pad.
When I arrive the Dragoncraft is touching down, already half-full of capes. Miss Militia is back, being given a bandolier of tinker-tech munition by Armsmaster while hushed words are exchanged between the two of them. Dauntless is there, looking woefully under equipped with his weakly-glowing Arclance and shield. When he meets my eyes he looks away, and I wince behind my mask. That needs to be put to rest before we touchdown and start fighting. I take the seat next to him, nodding to the quiet woman on my other side. She's dressed in white power armor with red and black highlights, an eight stenciled across her mask. She pulls out a deck of cards and starts shuffling them one-handed, staring off into space and removing herself from the conversation.
Perfect.
"Hey," I say quietly.
Dauntless heaves a sigh. "I'm sorry."
I shake my head. "Nothing happened. No harm, no foul. I just wanted to..." I trail off, unsure of how to phrase the professional fondness I have for him.
"Tell me that I'm a good guy? That I'm nice? That it's not me, it's you?" The words are bitter but the tone is tired, an old wound reopened.
"I wanted to say that I already have a partner, and that if you had spoken up a bit earlier I might've said yes," I answer quietly.
We fly in silence for a few minutes.
"Oh," Dauntless says. His tone is still a little defeated, but I'd like to think it's less broken than before.
"You're the first to know." I lean gently against him, staring at the pair of capes across from us. One is a figure of glass, glowing purple from the inside out, while the other looks like a hole to space.
After a few seconds I feel Dauntless shudder beside me.
"I'm married, you know?" When I don't answer, he goes on. "I thought I loved her. I really did. We got along well, shared an apartment for years, and figured getting together was more 'making it official' than anything else."
He laughs without humor. "We did alright for the first few months. It was business as usual, paying bills and making meals, and we split the work equally. Happily. We thought that the little record keeping we had proved that we were in love. I mean, who else can make sure that the accounts are even, down to the cent?"
"And then I met a cape at work. I was a cop, you know?" he says, turning to look at me and making a finger gun. "Narcotics. White-collar, and part of the job was talking to a thinker who'd give us a head start. Anyway, the two of us just clicked. Boom. Spark of connection out of nowhere, completely uncontrollable, completely perfect, and even after the investigation was over they found reasons to come by and talk."
Dauntless sighs. "And then one thing led to another, I asked them out to dinner, they said yes, and we were dating. A married man and a cape."
I ponder that. "And your wife..."
Dauntless shakes his head. "Didn't know. Never knew until the thinker back tracked to her and asked me when I was planning to divorce her. Turns out they had been peering into every aspect of my life, trying to find a reason to dump me, and when they finally did they were hoping I'd choose them."
I pause. "Did you?"
I can make out an inch of a tight smile in the strip of empty space on his helmet, a smile filled with hurt. "No."
A chime sounds out.
"Dragon to all occupants, ETA is three minutes. First destination is the Command tent. All thinkers congregate here, along with anyone in a leadership position. If you are in Search and Rescue or Engagement, return to this vehicle after picking up your Containment Collars."
The craft dissolves into a swarm of last-minute gear checks, good-luck rituals, and in a few cases prayers. I see an honest-to-God priest muttering quietly to himself, hands together and eyes closed, and a figure decked out in scrap metal sitting across from them in the same position.
I'm not religious as a rule, but I still lift my eyes to the roof of the Dragoncraft. Even a casual examination of human history makes it difficult for me to buy the existence of the traditional god, but a request costs nothing. That, and superpowers are close enough to either miracles or curses that some higher power might be involved.
Please let this be a good day.
Then the doors open and we step into chaos.
*****
Emergency at work. Love you.
33: Big Blind
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
It is terrifyingly easy to kill people.
Imagine a small piece of metal, roughly the size of a rock. Now imagine this piece of metal shaped into a roughly aerodynamic form. That is a bullet. You take a mixture of different minerals, apply heat, and suddenly that piece of metal is moving well beyond the speed any carbon-based life form can move without assistance.
Imagine a large piece of metal, at least as big as someone's head. Spread it out until it's half an inch thick. That is what it takes to stop that pebble of metal moving at high speeds.
Ever since humanity learned that sharp things went through material more easily than dull things, offense has always outpaced defense. In order to block a projectile weapon from the same time period, it takes at least ten times the base cost of the weapon, and usually more to maintain and replace. A knight on horseback would cost an absurd amount of money and time to create, from training the knight to training the horse to training the blacksmith to make his mail and plate. Putting together a cavalry charge took decades of man hours and the mobilization of several populations, and resulted in one of the most terrifying sights in human history.
All of that work flushed down the drain as a mob of peasants with two weeks of training each use metal-limbed crossbows to turn them into pincushions at fifty paces.
A pair of frothing brutes, swollen with muscle and eight feet tall, are charging through the Mombasa streets. The local warlord's muscle, apparently far more vulnerable to mental effects than usual. All the civilians are either evacuated or dead, so they've turned their rage onto the street, smashing up the streets and breaking windows by throwing around cars. Normally, the rule for African warlords is to leave the populations and infrastructure alone. No one shits where they eat, and it's in everyone interest for the land and people to be in as good condition as possible. Apparently B-list capes here switch sides at the drop of a hat, and so long as you aren't shooting for the top spot the quality of life is exceptionally good.
Well, good until the Ziz came.
I teleport onto the shoulders of one of the brutes, carve off the top of its head, the stab the golden blade into the mush. I flicker to the other monsters, who's only now registering the loss of his ally, and repeat the action. I'm running out of monomolecular blades, slowly but surely, and when I do I'm probably done for the day. Regular gunfire doesn't destroy their brain fast enough, and regular knives can't get through their skulls.
"Black Cat, you have five minutes of exposure time left. Evacuation is advised."
I growl but nonetheless start flickering away from the slight glass-on-chalkboard noise in the background. As a teleporter I get a little more leeway with regards to when I disengage, but they still try to keep a healthy margin of safety for when people vulnerable to the Simurgh's manipulations try to fight her.
It's the smart thing to do, and I know that intellectually. The only way to even pretend to avoid the Simurgh's influence is to overbuild, over-prepare, and hope for the best. A master/stranger protocol, one which gets matched against the single most terrifying thinker on the planet. The urge to hurt is still there, though, a restless adjustment on the grip of my knife, an eye wandering over the landscape looking for targets. Only that violent impulse, the scream running over the back of my brain, and long practice let me know that I'm currently being mastered.
I slap the knife handle into its clasp and force my hands to my sides, baring my teeth and running through my breathing exercises.
Fuck you, Ziz. Fuck. You.
*****
There are two parts to fighting Endbringers. Step one is the event itself, battling a nigh-indestructible titan that regularly kills between twenty five and seventy percent of the defending parahumans. That part is the part that everyone helps in, where local capes and the Protectorate work together to try and hurt the thing enough for it to leave. People who die here get put on memorials, venerated, and on some level forgiven.
Then there's the aftermath.
For Behemoth, this means that you go over to the ravaged medical tent and wait hours to get any lingering radiation purged. For Leviathan, this means pulling scattered people out of freshly-made lakes, finding a way through the now-drowned city, and helping the locals figure out whether they'll need to move somewhere else tonight. For the Simurgh, that means detainment and analysis.
"Black Cat, you're up," a PRT agent shouts. I dutifully follow them, into the makeshift interrogation room. There are two more people there, one local cape in bright primary colored rags, and another local covered in obsidian and black glass. The one in rags frowns at me, while the one in black speaks at me in a foreign language.
"I'm going to be an interpreter between you and Anansi here. He's going to ask you some questions, look for fallout, and if all goes well you'll be sent home shortly. If not, Reënboog will take you aside and we'll figure it out later." In other words, he'll kill me.
I nod and sit down across from the man in black. "What do you want to know?"
Anansi talks some more, and after a moment the PRT agent looks to me. "Who was the last person you slept with?"
I take a deep breath, hold it, then let it out. So that's how it's going to go.
"I last slept with a man named Sam Strasberg."
The questions don't get easier.
*****
When we get back to Brockton Bay, I'm bone tired. Physically I'm sore and exhausted, barely on my feet. Mentally, I can barely register Armsmaster's words as he helps guide us off the Dragoncraft, tells us that we're to have two days of mandatory paid leave, and that if we want more we can email him at any time.
"Permission to teleport across the city?" I blink. Heavily.
Armsmaster frowns a little, then nods. "May I ask why?"
I wave my hand, stepping away from the group. "Personal. Tell you when I get back. Permission?"
"Granted." As soon as the whole word is formed I'm flickering. Teleportation doesn't take energy, not like walking does. Not like talking. Navigation isn't much more difficult, but I can still only barely make it back to Sam's apartment.
He left his curtains open, so I can flicker into the living room without trouble. After closing them, I check the time. Six in the afternoon. Sleeping then. I feel guilty about how grateful I am, how many questions I get to dodge until morning, but even that's muted. I strip in the bathroom, tossing my vest, mask, and bodysuit into the bathtub. I ignore the mirror, padding naked into the bedroom.
There's a rustle in the pitch black, cloth on cloth. "Eli?" I slip under sheets and wrap my arms around Sam wordlessly. Instantly he reciprocates. "How'd work go?"
"Please." My strings start snapping, one by one, the shadows closing in. "Let me sleep."
Then I think no more.
Imagine a small piece of metal, roughly the size of a rock. Now imagine this piece of metal shaped into a roughly aerodynamic form. That is a bullet. You take a mixture of different minerals, apply heat, and suddenly that piece of metal is moving well beyond the speed any carbon-based life form can move without assistance.
Imagine a large piece of metal, at least as big as someone's head. Spread it out until it's half an inch thick. That is what it takes to stop that pebble of metal moving at high speeds.
Ever since humanity learned that sharp things went through material more easily than dull things, offense has always outpaced defense. In order to block a projectile weapon from the same time period, it takes at least ten times the base cost of the weapon, and usually more to maintain and replace. A knight on horseback would cost an absurd amount of money and time to create, from training the knight to training the horse to training the blacksmith to make his mail and plate. Putting together a cavalry charge took decades of man hours and the mobilization of several populations, and resulted in one of the most terrifying sights in human history.
All of that work flushed down the drain as a mob of peasants with two weeks of training each use metal-limbed crossbows to turn them into pincushions at fifty paces.
A pair of frothing brutes, swollen with muscle and eight feet tall, are charging through the Mombasa streets. The local warlord's muscle, apparently far more vulnerable to mental effects than usual. All the civilians are either evacuated or dead, so they've turned their rage onto the street, smashing up the streets and breaking windows by throwing around cars. Normally, the rule for African warlords is to leave the populations and infrastructure alone. No one shits where they eat, and it's in everyone interest for the land and people to be in as good condition as possible. Apparently B-list capes here switch sides at the drop of a hat, and so long as you aren't shooting for the top spot the quality of life is exceptionally good.
Well, good until the Ziz came.
I teleport onto the shoulders of one of the brutes, carve off the top of its head, the stab the golden blade into the mush. I flicker to the other monsters, who's only now registering the loss of his ally, and repeat the action. I'm running out of monomolecular blades, slowly but surely, and when I do I'm probably done for the day. Regular gunfire doesn't destroy their brain fast enough, and regular knives can't get through their skulls.
"Black Cat, you have five minutes of exposure time left. Evacuation is advised."
I growl but nonetheless start flickering away from the slight glass-on-chalkboard noise in the background. As a teleporter I get a little more leeway with regards to when I disengage, but they still try to keep a healthy margin of safety for when people vulnerable to the Simurgh's manipulations try to fight her.
It's the smart thing to do, and I know that intellectually. The only way to even pretend to avoid the Simurgh's influence is to overbuild, over-prepare, and hope for the best. A master/stranger protocol, one which gets matched against the single most terrifying thinker on the planet. The urge to hurt is still there, though, a restless adjustment on the grip of my knife, an eye wandering over the landscape looking for targets. Only that violent impulse, the scream running over the back of my brain, and long practice let me know that I'm currently being mastered.
I slap the knife handle into its clasp and force my hands to my sides, baring my teeth and running through my breathing exercises.
Fuck you, Ziz. Fuck. You.
*****
There are two parts to fighting Endbringers. Step one is the event itself, battling a nigh-indestructible titan that regularly kills between twenty five and seventy percent of the defending parahumans. That part is the part that everyone helps in, where local capes and the Protectorate work together to try and hurt the thing enough for it to leave. People who die here get put on memorials, venerated, and on some level forgiven.
Then there's the aftermath.
For Behemoth, this means that you go over to the ravaged medical tent and wait hours to get any lingering radiation purged. For Leviathan, this means pulling scattered people out of freshly-made lakes, finding a way through the now-drowned city, and helping the locals figure out whether they'll need to move somewhere else tonight. For the Simurgh, that means detainment and analysis.
"Black Cat, you're up," a PRT agent shouts. I dutifully follow them, into the makeshift interrogation room. There are two more people there, one local cape in bright primary colored rags, and another local covered in obsidian and black glass. The one in rags frowns at me, while the one in black speaks at me in a foreign language.
"I'm going to be an interpreter between you and Anansi here. He's going to ask you some questions, look for fallout, and if all goes well you'll be sent home shortly. If not, Reënboog will take you aside and we'll figure it out later." In other words, he'll kill me.
I nod and sit down across from the man in black. "What do you want to know?"
Anansi talks some more, and after a moment the PRT agent looks to me. "Who was the last person you slept with?"
I take a deep breath, hold it, then let it out. So that's how it's going to go.
"I last slept with a man named Sam Strasberg."
The questions don't get easier.
*****
When we get back to Brockton Bay, I'm bone tired. Physically I'm sore and exhausted, barely on my feet. Mentally, I can barely register Armsmaster's words as he helps guide us off the Dragoncraft, tells us that we're to have two days of mandatory paid leave, and that if we want more we can email him at any time.
"Permission to teleport across the city?" I blink. Heavily.
Armsmaster frowns a little, then nods. "May I ask why?"
I wave my hand, stepping away from the group. "Personal. Tell you when I get back. Permission?"
"Granted." As soon as the whole word is formed I'm flickering. Teleportation doesn't take energy, not like walking does. Not like talking. Navigation isn't much more difficult, but I can still only barely make it back to Sam's apartment.
He left his curtains open, so I can flicker into the living room without trouble. After closing them, I check the time. Six in the afternoon. Sleeping then. I feel guilty about how grateful I am, how many questions I get to dodge until morning, but even that's muted. I strip in the bathroom, tossing my vest, mask, and bodysuit into the bathtub. I ignore the mirror, padding naked into the bedroom.
There's a rustle in the pitch black, cloth on cloth. "Eli?" I slip under sheets and wrap my arms around Sam wordlessly. Instantly he reciprocates. "How'd work go?"
"Please." My strings start snapping, one by one, the shadows closing in. "Let me sleep."
Then I think no more.