Orderly (Worm Semi-SI)

[Obscura]

A "Patron" has decided the Wormverse is rather depressing, and took steps to remedy the situation, by sending in a champion to fix everything. Pity they didn't think to ask for consent, or check to see that their unwilling champion had so much as heard of the Wormverse, but that's what you get when you have infinitely more power than sense. That might explain the oddities with the letter now that I think about it. Or maybe not. That letter is really weird.

Read and enjoy the mandatory reports of poor, unfortunate "Jacqueline Colere", as well as certain observations on the status of various individuals affected by her actions. Or don't. It's your life, and you can do what you want with it. Be free! Do as thou wilt! Do something awesome!

Warning: May contain seriousness

More serious warning: Orderly contains a lot of the same things canon Worm does, including entomophobia-inducing scenes (not nearly as many or as graphic as canon, but still), gangs and a degree of gang violence, a neo-nazi hate group as an antagonistic faction, mentions of drug abuse, and mentions of Endbringers, their attacks, and the aftermaths thereof.

Orderly is significantly happier than Worm, and involves considerably better decision making, but it's still set in the same world, which means there is a lot of bad stuff. There are only a few chapters with really bad stuff, and I think I've got all of those marked off with specific warnings. Even those don't remotely approach canon in terms of disturbing stuff, but there's some. Nothing I think moves past a teen rating (and feel free to correct me if I'm wrong), and nothing beyond a lot of the Worm fic on this site, but this probably isn't a G. If you're looking at Worm fanfiction in the first place, you're probably fine with that, but better safe than sorry.

Orderly has a TvTropes Page

---

Changing universes, gaining a superpower, and merging mind and soul (if that's even what happened) with a homeless orphan was honestly way less dramatic than I was expecting. Or at least the "changing universes, gaining a superpower, and merging mind and soul with a homeless orphan" part was. The rest of the story, not so much.

---

I should probably explain. Let me start at the beginning.

So there I was, minding my own business, when "the Patron" contacted me. Let me tell you, getting an arrow right between the eyes hurts, even if the arrow has no head and a letter wrapped around it. Never did find out how that inconsiderate jerk managed to pull that little stunt off. I wasn't even outside at the time, and none of the windows in that room can open. I think I'd have noticed if the glass broke, the temperature differential was pretty darn big. My best guess is literally "powers are nonsensical". I mean, really, who sends a letter by arrow? Canada Post does a perfectly fine service. Great contributions all round, propping up the order of society and all that. But I digress. The letter is what's important to the story. That ridiculous letter. It apparently followed me here, in multiple copies even (although I can only find one right now), so I'll just copy it over. I doubt anything less would convey the experience.


To: Resident

Greetings!

I am the Patron, and thou hast been chosen!

A certain buggish superheroic story has drawn my attention, and I have concluded that it is rather depressing! Well I, for one, do not intend to stand idly by. In an effort to solve this problem, I have elected to send a representative (you), to make things better. To that end, in three hours time, at precisely twelve noon, I shall grant thee threefold boons. Firstly, thou shalt be joined with a certain individual, an unmentioned figure, one who was destined to perish during the course of events. Secondly, thou shalt receiveth great powers, that thou might stand tall amidst the game of parahumanity, as well as the instinctive knowledge as of how to use it. Thirdly, thou shalt be shielded from certain threats, which might otherwise prevent thine mission. Thine future shalt be occluded to those with the eyes to see, thine mind and soul utterly shielded against outside intrusion, thy aspect immune to unnatural means of information gathering, and thine power sacrosanct.

All of these things will I give you, that thou might, in turn, give unto others. What is required of thou is merely this, that thou aideth as thou seest fit, and that thou sendeth regular reports unto me so that others might know of mine generosity and be inspiredeth. Thus is our agreement, and our AGREEMENT.

Congratulations, and thou art most welcome!

The Patron!


They didn't even bother to pretend to ask for my consent for that "agreement/AGREEMENT". What, exactly, is the difference between a lowercase agreement and an all uppercase AGREEMENT anyways? And, while I am most certainly not a contract lawyer, I am fairly certain that for whatever was going on to be either sort of agreement would require me to actually agree at some point or other. I might not even have said no. I'd have made them do it a lot differently, but the ability I gained is rather impressive, this body does suit me, and I can do a lot of good with both. Inconsiderate little jerk didn't even bother to ask though. Naughty, naughty, whatever-it-is-you-are.

I mean the writing was pretty "off" too, but I'm not about to hold archaism against somebody, even if it is inaccurate. Given certain things in my past that shall not be elaborated upon, that would be the veritable height of hypocrisy. I remain upset about the "not even asking" thing though. And "resident"? I didn't even live in that building.

Seriously, ask first, mysterious arrow-letter sending being. Really glad that binding or whatever it is that you put on me only requires me to write out and send these reports, not blindly dismiss your every misdeed. Meanie. If we ever meet, you just might be getting an inkpot to the face. (Stuck out tongue.)


Three hours full of panic and semi-effective techniques for dealing with panic later, I was sitting relatively calmly on a rather comfortable chair I had acquired from a yard sale some years earlier, when the promised event occurred. I really miss that chair. It was soft, and a pretty colour, and it was shaped just right. It would have been a real bargain at ten times the price the old owner demanded. It was perfect. Then I closed my eyes for a few seconds, and when I was done the eyes I opened again were not the same ones I had closed. And while the new me was sitting, a run-down and poorly constructed high school bathroom's toilet is nowhere near as nice as that chair. Trust me on this.

At least my new body's leggings and skirt were pulled up. And it was wearing leggings and a skirt, which probably meant female-identifying, which certainly beat the main alternative. Gender dysphoria is no joke. I should know. If you are experiencing gender dysphoria, I strongly encourage you to consult a counselor, psychiatrist or LGBTQ+ organization, but luckily I didn't have to this time. Not about that particular issue anyway. Trust me, talking about your issues and actually dealing with them in a responsible manner really helps. Dysphoria or otherwise.


My new body's memories were fuzzy for a minute or so, but I eventually managed to clear them up. Mostly. My new name was Jacqueline Colere, homeless orphan, Newfoundland refugee (Leviathan, an "endbringer", one of the giant horrifying monsters that attacked cities every 3-4 months, had sunk it. The entire landmass. Kaiju movies really don't compare), half african-canadian and trans in Brockton Bay, a city wherein the largest and most powerful parahuman organization were literal Nazis (and wasn't that just wonderful to learn), and somehow a straight-A student. I wondered how even someone as intelligent as both mes (how many people can say that with a straight face?) could possibly pull that off given homelessness, discrimination, trauma and all that wonderful awfulness.

Besides hard work and lots of talent, a large part of the answer to that was that this joint, Winslow High School, wasn't exactly ivy-league junior. If you were halfway intelligent and put in a decent amount of effort, a description that applied to a depressingly small portion of the student body, getting good grades was hardly unattainable.

Literally living in the school made it a lot easier for a homeless kid too. Living inside a high school was really much better than the streets, or one of the many abandoned warehouses Brockton Bay had acquired since it's economy was dealt a deathly series of unhealable wounds decades ago. There was shelter, food (from the cafeteria and/or the vending machines), running water, computers, and a library, not that any of those were of great quality. Winslow really wasn't putting in the effort, and it showed. How does somebody live in a school for months without anyone intervening?


I mean, I/Jacqueline technically had permission, but looking at it with fresh eyes her/my little written permission slip almost certainly wasn't meant for that. It was probably for the occasional late day studying, or the few extracurriculars Winslow offered, even if the wording was loose enough that everything Jacqueline had been doing was technically legal and allowed. Still, someone really should have noticed by now. Yeah, this joint wasn't exactly ivy-league junior.


My consideration of that artful little bit of understatement (if I do say so myself) was interrupted by the sound of tapping, as if of someone gently rapping, rapping at a bathroom stall's door. Probably because someone was, in point of fact, rapping on the door two stalls down. No ravens involved, thank the ways.

The hesitance and fear in the voice that answered surprised me, although given everything it probably shouldn't have.


"Occupied?"


"Oh my god, it's Taylor! Yeah, do it!" sounded a different voice, this one full of perverse glee, followed by the sounds of splashing and spluttering.

That did not sound good, and, no matter how irritated I was with the individual who put me here, I could hardly stand idly by (or sit idly by, as the case may be). Standing up, I made ready to burst out and interrupt whatever scene of petty cruelty was occurring.


...


Tripping over my own feet probably undermined my dramatic entrance a bit, but in my defense I had literally never used those feet before.

 

[Obscura]

If you've never tripped onto the floor of an ill-maintained school bathroom with three schoolyard bullies looking at you like you were the one doing something wrong (lucky you), then I should inform you that the main thing you notice, besides the pain, is the awkwardness. The Talkwardness-Elevator scale would ordinarily rate this situation as a 2.5, maybe a 2.6 if the bullies were particularly good at scathing looks, but the added complications of my particular case (being suddenly in a different body, universe, etc., etc.) and the fact that two of them were standing on toilet seats pouring various drinks on someone I couldn't see would be enough to raise that rating to an impressive 4.2. There are various other minor factors, but those numbers are sufficient for most non-academic purposes.

What, exactly, was I going to say again?


"Stop! In the name of Love!"

That's probably not right. I do say weird things occasionally, so I can't be entirely sure, but even if it was what I was going to say, I probably shouldn't go through with it.


"You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence."

This wasn't the UK, unless the US had rejoined the British Empire in this universe without me noticing, and I hadn't placed them under arrest. I probably couldn't place them under arrest, but I wasn't an expert on citizen's arrest laws even before I wound up in another universe, which presumably had slightly different laws. Or very different laws. One of the two. I wasn't sure if I was a citizen, which didn't help. Old-Jacqueline hadn't been born here, but I couldn't remember if she'd taken the test at some point. Did American citizenship even work that way for minors?


"IA, IA, CTHULHU FHTAGN!"

No.


"Tell me what you want what you really really want"

Even if I could pull off that voice, it didn't actually imply they should stop. It would kind of egg them on, really. No.


"Iiiiii want to know, have you ever seen the rain?"

That doesn't even make sense!


"One cannot help but be curious as to what, exactly, you think you're doing."

Better, but I don't think that was it.


"SANITY IS FOR THE WEAK!!!"

You know what, let's just go with "One cannot help but be curious as to what, exactly, you think you're doing."


I carefully rose to my feet (mentally asserting, unconvincingly, that they were mine), and looked at the girl holding the door shut (for some reason that was possible, unlike in every other public restroom, where the stall doors could open inward. Or maybe she was just stupid and doing something entirely pointless. 50-50, really). She was a conventionally attractive redhead, well dressed and with obvious care devoted to her appearance. My first impression was of a big fish in a small pond, socially speaking, with a deal of popularity and power that had nothing to do with the majority of students liking her as a person and a lot to do with being better-looking and richer than most of them, possibly with a bit of force of personality or social insight thrown in.

That was a better assessment than I could normally come up with, so I made a mental note to check just how much of Jacqueline's skill in various areas carried over.


Our eyes met, and I spoke "One cannot help but be curious as to what, exactly, you think you're doing".

The surprise on her face was worth its weight in gold.

It didn't last forever, unfortunately.

"Blah blah blah weakling, blah blah blah predators and prey, blah blah blah putting into her place, blah blah blah I is strong, blah blah blah" the three bullies explained, malice in their voices.

Okay, that's not really what they said, but I feel it covers the gist of it pretty well.


I also may not have been paying attention.

I had a good reason, I swear! I was trying to see if the girl they had been tormenting was okay! I didn't see any obvious injuries, so maybe? I'm not a doctor or anything. I don't even play one on TV.

The three bullies (I hadn't learned their names) didn't like that, so they surrounded me and tried to loom menacingly. I was wearing lifts for some reason, big ones, and they weren't especially tall, so that didn't work so well. They were saying something about them being predators and "Taylor" being prey, which really didn't make sense even as an analogy. If I recall correctly, English here was taught with the same level of quality as everything else in Winslow High "School", so that might explain it.

I decided to try and dissuade them. Try being the operative word, as it turned out. With firmness of mind and solemnity of manner, I spoke thusly: "That really doesn't make sense. You're not following the laws of nature at all. You aren't harming her because you must if you desire to live, you are tormenting a girl who doesn't seem to have done anything to you to no real purpose. You are undermining the essential trust that forms the very basis..."

That was as far as I got before the athletic looking dark-skinned one punched me in the face. Then she swept my legs, knocking me to the ground before she put a booted foot on my chest.

She was as good at violence as I was bad at dissuasion. Not that "confused and adapting to an entirely different world" is the best emotional state for discussing things. Neither is "knife at your throat", actually, which is where I found myself next, as the redhead slammed the stall door shut in front of the victim. I was sure it was shut before, so I guess she got distracted or something. It did confirm that the door only opened outward for some reason. Normally I'm in favor of doors that open outward, but you weren't likely to get a panicked crowd pressing so hard against a bathroom stall door that opening outward was an important safety feature.


"Stay in your funtime (not actually funtime) place, weakling." Ms. Violence (not her real name(probably)) snarled. While she blustered, I kicked her in the no-no-touch-touch square. No such thing as a fair fight after all. Except when there is, like in boxing or fencing or martial arts or something like that. That wasn't the case here, unless I was missing something big. From the way she didn't move to retaliate as I bounced up, she wasn't expecting me to fight back. Or to be wearing steel-toed boots. I wasn't expecting me to be wearing steel-toed boots, but there they were, all heavy and metallic and rather well taken care of and just recently slammed into a rather violent girl's sensitive parts at surprisingly high speeds. Jacqueline-me was apparently in better shape than me-me.

Violencey McViolenceface (Almost definitely not her real name, but I don't care) shook off her surprise surprisingly quickly, but not quite quickly enough to prevent me shoving her towards the sinks, nor from slipping my steel-shod foot behind her legs. She tripped and fell backwards, slapping me upside the head on the way down, her head smashing into a cracked, yellowing sink. Well, that's what I expected, anyway.


The way that smirking face got all shadowy and went through the sink reminded me that "the Patron" had supposedly sent me here to fix a superhero genre story, which naturally meant superpowers were real here. I also remembered that I supposedly had one, but if I did I had no idea what it was, or how to use it. At least she didn't seem to notice me noticing her ability. Probably thought that slap had my eyes facing the wrong way, and it's not like I showed any reaction on the outside. The whole situation was so out-there that this didn't really change anything for me. Aside from the fact that I was definitely going to lose this little fracas now. I hadn't had much of a chance before, but if she had powers I definitely was gonna get beaten. Probably in more than one way.

---

I don't really want to detail the rest of that "fight". I received a few more punches, got shoved to the ground again, got stomped on a few times and got kicked in the head more than once. It was, to say the least, not the most comfortable experience of my life. More than one way indeed.

They said something before they left, but I honestly can't tell you what it was. This time I was paying attention, but massive pain and head injuries do not for clear understanding make. That's not something you're going to learn in school, unless you are so unfortunate as to attend a Winslow type institute of "learning". Probably best to just take my word for it.

"Are… Are you okay?"

 

[Obscura]

"Are… Are you okay?"

I failed to respond, mostly because I didn't realize she was talking to me. In hindsight it was pretty obvious, but at the time I was not exactly at the top of my game. I blame evolution, for failing to make me invincible. No, wait! I blame Violence-McViolenceface. That's a much better place to put the blame, don't you think?

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, you tried to help me and now you're hurt and it's my fault and you're bleeding and you tried to help and oh god its my fault".


Irrational guilt. I'd never really understood it, despite not being entirely immune to it myself. It always irritated me, though taking that out on her would be most unjust. I needed to alleviate it somehow. Running a quick check seemed the best way to prove I was fine so I sounded one out:

"The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. One, Two, Three, Four, One, Two, Three. Basic Self-Assessment check Alpha-5 complete. All systems nominal. Hi! I'm Jacqueline Colere, what's your name?"

"T-Taylor Hebert"

"Hello Taylor, it's nice to meet you."

I was very careful with my vocabulary and tone with her. It takes not only genuine concern, but also caution and care to get someone to talk about what's wrong. Hesitance, if you can get it right, is actually quite reassuring, and it looked like all my practice was going to pay off.

Things proceeded naturally from there (word to the wise, staying quiet and letting the other person talk is useful in all sorts of situations), and, eventually, I had the whole sordid tale of betrayal, callousness, cruelty, and misuse of feminine hygiene products. That may sound like a "arson, murder, and jaywalking" type of humourous construct, but that last was actually the worst of the bunch. Stiff competition, that.

Rotting, used tampons and pads left to fester in Taylor's locker wasn't actually the worst part, that would be the part where they shoved Taylor in the locker, rotting horrors still present, and left her there. And that was only one of the many indignities and torments put upon the unfortunate girl by Mademoiselles Hess, Clements and Barnes, the last of whom had been Taylor's closest friend until she betrayed her for no apparent reason.

Between that, the quarterly giant monster attacks that had left Jacqueline-me an impoverished refugee with a dead father, literal nazis being the largest super organization around, Jacqueline-me's mother dying as "cape" fight collateral damage, and sundry other horrors I now knew and remembered, I was starting to see why Meanie-McPatronpants described whatever horrible story I had been sent into as "rather depressing".


If this was a story at all, since I only have word-of-patron on that and literally hopping into a story and having it be a whole world was strange even by the high standards of "Earth Bet'" (which apparently is what the natives called it). And Earth Bet had some really high standards for weirdness. And awfulness.


This world was broken, in a way I'd hoped to never see. I'd have to fix that. Pulling it off probably wasn't impossible, or I wouldn't have been sent. Or I'd have been sent with more than what I had, to the point where it was possible. I could fix things! I could make things better! I could, piece by piece, mend the basic fabric of society! And I'd do it, or die trying! Probably the latter, to be honest, but I'd try anyway. I was going on in that vein for quite some time, but eventually something flashed and caught my eye.


That's when I noticed that I was surrounded by ghostly gears, forming a clockwork halo around my upper body. Taylor was just looking at me, so I decided to use a mirror. The mirror was in surprisingly good condition, but that wasn't what caught my attention. My skin shone like polished brass, and my eyes had neither pupil nor iris, only elaborate clock faces, hands, nub, and roman numerals included. A clock could be heard loudly ticking, coming from nowhere and everywhere. And then I noticed that the mirror was not the only thing in surprisingly good condition. The floor was clean, to a degree I suspected it had never been before, and getting cleaner before my eyes. The tiles actually gleamed. The ill-maintained sink Sophia Hess had gone through now looked, if not pristine, at least well-taken-care-of, and the other sinks were mending and unyellowing slowly but with surety. The mirrors shone like they were newly polished. A torn pocket on my skirt mended itself, one copy of a certain letter still inside, though I wouldn't notice that until later. The paint on the walls of the room and the stalls alike was unpeeling and reapplying itself. I wasn't bleeding, or maybe I was just bleeding a lot less than I should have been, and the pain was lessening by the second.

Then the effect faded. My eyes regained pupil and iris, my skin returned to what Jacqueline's memories told me was at least close to its normal shade, the gears vanished into the ether and the ticking got quieter and quieter until it could be heard no more.

Well, that happened. It was a thing. I should probably say something, shouldn't I? I went into stream of consciousness speaking.


"Well, that happened. It was a thing. Not sure what, but it was a thing. Alright, alright. So, Jacqueline girl, you transformed into a clock-human hybrid thing and the world started to turn orderly around you. You are a walking, talking, source of order and restoration in a world almost lost to chaos and rot. Wait, how do you know that? Because you are supposed to know and the order field activating pulled up the instinctive knowledge all parahumans are supposed to get about how their powers work. It may have been meddled with that a bit, your power doesn't normally do mind stuff. At least they're providing some kind of consideration.

"Your power brings order, repairs damage and undoes the effects of wear and tear, rot, and poor maintenance, as well as deliberate destruction. It works on everything within your radius, which grows larger the more you focus on bringing order, and smaller when you lose focus. The larger it is the more obvious the effects become,the more you start developing things like brass skin, clock-eyes, spectral cogwheels and phantom ticking and the more and the faster it can affect your environment.

"At the moment your field barely extends past your skin and the only visible sign that it exists is that your skin looks a barely noticeable touch more brass-like. And there is someone staring at you, slightly unnerved by how you are talking to yourself, so maybe you should address her."

Silence reigned.


In the end, it fell upon me to break it.

"Well, we have a new parahuman, an extensive campaign of torment carried out by a different parahuman, an attack on said new parahuman by the criminal parahuman, and a lot of confusion. We should probably contact the authorities. The Parahuman Response Team would seem to have jurisdiction. Does that sound good to you, Taylor?"

" _________________"


I suppose shock was a reasonable reaction to the situation, but it wasn't very helpful.

Lets see, according to my very limited training, the best thing to do for it would be to take her to her home and give her time. That would require me to know where she lived though. I'd go to the office, but if an eighth of what Taylor told me was true(and I had little doubt that at least most of it was) that would not end well. She'd probably be expelled for beating me up or something. Oh well, plenty of empty classrooms around. I took Taylor by the shoulders and left the restroom for the first time. Into the breach, my friends, into the breach.

 

[Obscura]

I managed to guide Taylor to an empty classroom without incident. The halls were lifeless, lunch having ended sometime during all the ruckus. All the other students were in class. Or, knowing Winslow, were skipping entirely. Either way, they weren't going to interfere. Probably wouldn't even if I started slapping Taylor silly in the middle of the cafeteria at the height of lunch hour, now that I thought about it. Like I said earlier, Winslow isn't exactly ivy-league junior.

I just sat her down and let her process things. And drew a maze on the chalkboard. An actual chalkboard, I should note, not a whiteboard or some sort of screen. Winslow. I'm surprised the room actually had chalk and furniture, and that's not nearly as much of an exaggeration as it should be. It certainly didn't have enough to actually teach anything to a full class. Except PE, I guess, but there really wasn't enough space for that. Not any of the fun options, anyway. Shutting down that unproductive line of thought, I moved on to considering my broader situation.

What, exactly did "the patron" want? For that matter, what did I want?


For the first, if I took my interdimensional kidnapper at their word, they wanted this world to get better, and regular reports from me so they could show off. I could feel the compulsion for the latter pounding at my brain, so they obviously wanted the reports, but I felt no urge to help beyond what could be explained by being shoved into a bad situation with the ability to help. Which was probably enough. My generous soul would do the rest.

I couldn't exactly blame the people of this world for the Patron's actions, and even if I could, leaving them to the current conditions of Earth Bet would be wildly disproportionate. If the Patron had ulterior motives or nefarious plans, I had no reasonable way to figure them out. How exactly does one investigate someone who one has never met, and who probably exists in an entirely different world?

For my part, I wanted to get the proper authorities onto Taylor's case, make the world better, and that was about it. I really needed some more goals. Maybe make a move for publicity and try for a reputation for integrity?


Hitting the gangs wouldn't help, especially not with my powerset. Violence is sometimes necessary, but it doesn't really fix things. Except for the occasional purely violence-driven psycho (of whom there were a lot more here than at home, but still not all that many), most criminals had reasons for their actions and violence wouldn't make them go away. Killing the "Slaughterhouse 9" who wandered around the country committing atrocities (and who exemplified the "purely violence-driven psycho" type I mentioned earlier) would help slow down the decay, but it wouldn't fix anything, and I had no way to do that anyway.

Hitting the local nazis would be satisfying, but risky, and wouldn't really reduce crime or bigotry, just spread it around. Hitting the other two big gangs, the "Asian Bad Boys" and "The Merchants" would, at best, splinter them. And I had no direct way of hurting anybody that a normal untrained teenage girl didn't. In short, violence wasn't the answer and I wasn't any good at it anyway. Some might argue with me about the first part, but I was confident in the second. So that left fixing things in the most direct manner possible, by fixing things. Medicine and repair to mend the world, one piece at a time.


To do that, I'd need allies. A team who, if someone struck at me, would strike back. Or, rather, while I didn't need them to start fixing things, I would absolutely need them to not get killed or press-ganged if I was seen doing so. Probably the latter, parahumans who could heal were valuable. The PRT-sponsored teams were out, the PRT was strictly law enforcement, not repair or medical work. And the Wards needed parental permission, which would be problematic. Canada's own team, The Guild, dealt with all sorts of issues, but they were invitation-only and didn't accept minors anyway.

The gangs were right out, I wasn't about to work with groups ideologically based around hate and racism, which left only the Merchants, who were awful in just about every non-racist way, including all sorts of non-racial bigotry. And they had an unpleasant amount of racism too, it just wasn't their main focus like with the other two.

New Wave, on the other hand, had its appeal. They were a hero group, aligned with but separate from the PRT and its Protectorate and Wards. They didn't believe in secret identities, preferring a message of accountability and a human face, something I tended to agree with. That had gotten one of them killed, which had in turn caused the movement to stagnate. Perhaps I could reverse that. Maybe not, but even if I couldn't, they had one of the two other parahumans in the city who could heal, and the only one putting it to good use. They already had the framework I needed to be allowed to tend to people.

Overall, New Wave seemed like the best choice for me, though I'd have to check further to be sure. Especially since I had no relatives or friends in this world who could be used to hurt me if my identity was known. And I was really bad at keeping secrets. Hiding that I was from another world and in someone else's body would be bad enough. Making nice with the PRT and its teams wouldn't hurt at all though. I'd need all the help I could get.


Alright then. So the plan for the moment was to wait for Taylor to recover, take her to her home and grab whatever records she has of the bullies' actions (but mostly Sophia's, since she was the parahuman), see if she wants to go to the PRT with me or wait at home, go to the PRT, report the bullying campaign and my abilities, ask to meet New Wave, then find something to eat and somewhere to sleep, being as nice and friendly as I can manage along the way. Worst comes to worst, I'd eat and sleep in the school. It'd only sort of be the first time.

I opened my eyes, ready to wait, only to get a Taylor to the face. Should have expected that, to be honest, but she recovered faster than I anticipated. Good on her. I should probably listen to what she's saying though.

"Sophia's a parahuman?! You're a parahuman?!"


"Yes, I saw, and yes, apparently. It's a surprise to me too." Not quite in the way I implied, but true enough. I was certainly surprised, but it had a lot more to do with the fact that parahumans existed than who, specifically, was one. I was used to a world with a lot fewer blatant violations of all the laws of physics and biology. Seriously, how does turning into a shadow and back with no consequences make sense?


"Alright then" she said, in a deceptively calm tone. Probably furious on the inside. She certainly had good reason to be. Best get that pointing in the right direction. I had no desire to get beaten to a pulp for the second time today.

She probably wouldn't do that, but I wouldn't have guessed Sophia would viciously assault me for trying to talk her out of her bullying, and I definitely wouldn't have guessed I'd be sent to another world out of the blue. This was not a day for taking unnecessary chances.


I outlined a bit of my plan. "Okay, Taylor, this is probably a touch overwhelming right now, but we need to think things through and act with deliberation. If you are okay with it, here is what I think we should do. First, we get any records and evidence of their harassment that we can get our hands on without drawing attention from the staff or other students. Then we head to the PRT. We report everything, and neither lie nor exaggerate, so that our statements can't be torn apart. I talk to the nice officers about my options, you get all the details you can to them, then you head home, talk to your father if you're comfortable with that, and get some peace. Does that sound good to you?"

Nailed it. Right delivery and everything. All that training had to pay off sometime. She listened, too.

She nodded uncertainly, then once more, more firmly. Determination shone from her eyes. Or maybe it was hatred. Or something entirely different, like the desire to go ice-skating. Facial reading is not my forte. I'm gonna assume it was determination. Nice spine on the girl. Takes a licking and keeps on ticking, though I was the one who resembled a Rolex.

I smiled, though it didn't quite reach my eyes, and spoke with as much confidence as I could muster: "Lead on, my friend."

 

[Obscura]

Taylor:

Taylor wasn't sure what to think about Jacqueline Colere. She'd known the girl was there, of course. Girl went into a stall, didn't come out, doesn't exactly take a genius to realize she's still in there. Even without controlling and knowing the location of every bug within two city blocks, it wasn't hard. She hadn't had any bugs in the room, since it was a bathroom and that was gross and an invasion of privacy, but she'd known Jacqueline Colere was present, if not her name or anything else about her. Except that she dressed a little nicer than Winslow really merited. The skirt, leggings, and top were all old, but they had a formality and sense of class to them that few Winslow students could boast. The boots were the odd element there, but they actually went with the rest of the outfit surprisingly well.

Taylor hadn't forgotten everything Emma had taught her, though not for lack of trying.


Now, several bizarre incidents later, she knew less about Jacqueline than when she had never heard of the girl. Jacqueline had repeatedly done things that simply didn't make sense. First she'd burst out of her nice safe stall to stand up to Emma and her minions, despite never having spoken to Taylor before. She had to have known about the bullying before, right? It wasn't like the trio had tried to keep it secret. The whole school knew. Right? Tripping and falling on her feet walking less than five feet was a bit odd, but haste could easily explain that.

What wasn't so easily explained was that Jacqueline, who had never met Taylor and had no reason to like or help her, had been going out of her way to do exactly that. Not even the vicious beating Sophia had given Jacqueline had stopped the girl from being gentle and kind to Taylor, and she knew that wasn't just her personality because she couldn't quite hide the effort it took her. Maybe the girl was naturally nice, but the sheer level of care and consideration she was showing had to be deliberate.

And the girl didn't seem to have any sort of motive, as far as Taylor could tell. She'd just leapt in to help, and kept doing so even after getting beaten rather severely for it. Did she have some sinister ulterior motive, or was Taylor just having a hard time trusting people after Emma? Taylor just didn't know.


Then there was the elephant in the room. Powers. Jacqueline had them, apparently didn't know about them beforehand, and had just taken them in stride. Sure there was a little bit of panic and confusion, but one bizarre monologue was far less than turning into a clockgirl with a powerful Shaker ability really merited, even if it wasn't right in front of a witness (Taylor). Sure she didn't know Taylor had powers too, but shouldn't she be at least a bit worried? She hadn't so much as asked Taylor not to tell anybody.

And now the girl, who had somehow led her to an empty classroom without her noticing, was drawing on the chalkboard. Not anything important, as far as she could tell, but who draws a maze at a time like this? Let alone such a spectacularly complicated one. Taylor wasn't sure if she'd ever seen better, not that she had paid a lot of (or any) attention to mazes in the past. And were her eyes closed? Surely that would interfere with maze drawing. Actually it was, the quality of Miss Colere's work had dropped dramatically. The cut off between the really nice area and the only sort-of nice area was obvious. And Taylor was going off on a tangent.


Taylor started stepping forward, mostly unconsciously, trying for a closer look in hopes that things would start making sense. Then the girl's eyes snapped open, and before she knew it Taylor was shouting.


"Wait! What?! Sophia's a parahuman?! You're a parahuman?!


And, of course, Jacqueline Colere didn't so much as blink. In a quiet, calm, and kind voice, she answered: "Yes, I saw, and yes, apparently. It's a surprise to me too."

Not that she looked even the slightest bit surprised.


Taylor's confusion and anger reached the level of utmost furious serenity, such was the strangeness that was Jacqueline Colere. "Alright then." Taylor idly noted that she (Taylor) almost sounded calm. Also that she was totally dry and not at all sticky, but that was not what was important right at that moment.

The girl, of course, kept talking, so very reasonable. Like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth. Heck, with her powers, maybe it wouldn't. It was still impressive and unnerving though. Taylor was unpleasantly reminded of Madison for a moment, with her oh-so-innocent act, but dismissed that uncharitable thought.

"Okay, Taylor, this is probably a touch overwhelming right now, but we need to think things through and act with deliberation. If you are okay with it, here is what I think we should do. First, we get any records and evidence of their harassment we can get our hands on without drawing attention from the staff or other students. Then we head to the PRT. We report everything, and neither lie nor exaggerate, so that our statements can't be torn apart. I talk to the nice officers about my options, you get all the details you can to them, then you head home, talk to your father if you're comfortable with that, and get some peace. Does that sound good to you?"

There was only one possible response to that. Taylor nodded. Then she considered the possibility of actually getting justice without going Carrie on the school, and nodded once more, more firmly.


"Lead on, my friend"

And Taylor, blushing a little at that last word, did.

 

[Obscura]

For such a generally terrible city, Brockton Bay had a surprisingly good public transit system. No LRT or trams, more's the pity, but they had an excellent bus service. Even if I resented the bus companies for the death of streetcars, the modern bus system was adequate. And a lot less racist than it used to be. It was also a mostly respected safe place, so you didn't have to worry about being harassed or robbed on your trip. Or at least you didn't have to worry as much as you did pretty much everywhere else. This was Brockton Bay, after all. Still, our trip to Taylor's house wasn't held up by anything more complicated than me not having money for a ticket, something which Taylor handled without comment. The bus was even mostly clean. A lot cleaner than Winslow, anyway, except for that bathroom my order-field had had its way with. (Note to self, come up with a catchier name for that.) Wow, that would really be handy for chores and cleaning my room.

If I had chores or a room. It's not the most original insight that has ever graced my brain, but being a homeless orphan sucks.

Taylor's house didn't look like anything special. Standard size and colour for its lower-middle class neighbourhood, a little neglected, with a dangerous front step I narrowly missed discovering the hard way. Fortunately, Taylor warned me before I put any weight on it.

I was prepared to wait outside while Taylor went in to grab her notes, but she insisted that I come in. That was nice of her. Unless she was just luring me in so she could murder me. It wasn't very likely, but there was so much awfulness lurking in Earth Bet that I wouldn't be entirely surprised. Very disappointed, yes, and deeply horrified, but not entirely surprised.

Cynical? Who, me?


I begged out of entering Taylor's room, saying "I wouldn't feel right invading your private space, especially when you're dealing with all this thisness". It was even true, although I mostly just wanted to avoid the temptation of a bed. Today was far from done and it had already dragged on for far too long. I may have decided to fix as much as I could, but that didn't mean I didn't get tired. Especially when I had what was probably a concussion.

Still, no rest for the wicked, especially if I had a concussion. Sleep might mean I would never wake up again, and that was a possibility that I'd rather avoid. Never sleep with a concussion until a medical professional clears you, kids. I tried lounging on the couch instead. Tried being the operative word, I was apparently too stiff. Sitting sort-of normally would have to do. Lounging properly is harder than it looks.

Not that it mattered all that much, since Taylor was back within 5 minutes, carrying a set of rather nice notebooks. Not all that expensive looking, but pleasant in a classy, understated, sort of way. I suspected the contents were not nearly so pretty, but you had to take beauty where you found it. Especially on Earth Bet. Especially especially in Brockton Bay. I idly noted from the covers that Taylor's middle name was Anne, and that her handwriting was a lot better than mine. Like, a lot. She could have done it professionally, as far as I could tell, while mine was just awful, and probably even worse now that I was in a different body, one with a head injury at that. Yes, I was a little bit envious, thanks for noticing.

Okay, fine. I was and still am a little bit envious. Happy?


I deliberately waited for Taylor to take the lead on our trip to the PRT. It would be quite a bit better for her if she was the one taking the initiative. Build up confidence and all that. She did not disappoint. This time, I didn't encounter the slightest difficulty in reading her emotions. Rage and confusion had transmuted to grim determination, and it was a sight to see. This was her moment, this was her cause, and it was her will that would bring down the Trio. Which, incidentally, was what she called the three horrible excuses for teenage girls who had decided to ruin her life for no apparent reason. I had merely enabled Taylor to seek justice, and I was glad for it. Justice is always sweeter when the victim overcomes the indignities heaped upon them to get it.

The same applies to vengeance, even more so actually, but that stuff rots your teeth right proper. And your soul, more to the point. Still, I wasn't entirely immune to the sweetness of the Justice/Vengeance spectrum.

I may have decided to avoid violence myself, and I knew full well cracking down rarely solved anything, but justice was still immensely satisfying. Especially when it meant the victim could rise anew. Taylor never saw it, but a smirk was firmly planted on my face as I followed her out the door.


Journeying, traveling, bus taking, etc. etc. etc. You don't really need me to describe it. Taylor had the exact same look of absolute determination on her face the whole way, which drew a little attention, but that didn't matter. I was just glad she wasn't faltering.

Standing before the imposing might of the PRT building (a perfectly ordinary office building from the looks of it, except with a PRT sign), I found myself wondering whether I was dressed appropriately for the occasion. I probably should have been worrying about what was going to happen, but I just couldn't. Blame the Patron throwing me into this, or Sophia Hess and her violence, or my head injuries, or even just me being weird, but I couldn't put any emotional weight on the possibility of this going wrong. Sue me.

So my clothes. I guess they were decent enough. I did take the lifts out, though. The accursed things were really uncomfortable to walk on, and I wanted to look small and pitiable, not tall and intimidating. Not that I was at all intimidating even with the lifts. Cute, yes, adorable even, but not intimidating. I looked like every teacher's favourite bright young spark of an adorably dedicated student.

As for my actual clothes, black skirt, black and white top, thick black glasses that were oddly cute, black leggings, and the only non-black piece, a nifty steel locket did a decent enough job, though it'd look a lot better with a flashy scarf. That last was a relic of Jacqueline's mother and of her old home. It had a piece of Newfoundland's soil in a little vial in the locket-space, and the locket itself had been made by my Jacqueline's father. It may not have been the slightest bit flashy, but it had a lot of metaphorical weight. Hadn't noticed it before, but it was perfectly clear now. I found I could lean on it, emotionally speaking, and that concerned me. It seemed Jacqueline was not entirely gone. I didn't know if that was comforting or disturbing. Both, I guess. I really didn't want to think too much about Jacqueline as a person. Was she gone? Was she part of me? Had she gone into this willingly, or had that thrice-accursed Patron done what they had done to me, only worse? I just didn't know, and that hurt.

I couldn't really describe it. It was a hole in my heart reaching into my brain. It was a gnawing rat feasting upon my sense of self. It was a series of really bad metaphors that did nothing to actually explain what I felt.


I couldn't think about it anymore. What was past would have to be past. I forced myself to step into the PRT building, and into the future.

 

[Slow Learner]

I went and read more on AO3. Big issues. I'm 16 chapters in and had to drop the story because of the glacial pacing and angst. The character is trans but might as well have been female all along. Her trans status is used as an excuse to rant about various topics that the reader doesn't care about and distracts from the plot. I lost interest after the second rant about how she's afraid of nazi's because of this, despite no one knowing her trans status and having no background paperwork. She outright manipulates people and it's framed as a good thing because she's "The Protagonist."

My impression of the main character is she's one of those OC characters who warp the entire story around their personal drama.

OCs have a bad reputation in fanfiction for precisely this reason. If you want people to be interested in your works try cutting down on the internal monologues, angst, and show plot progression.

 

[Obscura]

I went and read more on AO3. Big issues. I'm 16 chapters in and had to drop the story because of the glacial pacing and angst. The character is trans but might as well have been female all along. Her trans status is used as an excuse to rant about various topics that the reader doesn't care about and distracts from the plot. I lost interest after the second rant about how she's afraid of nazi's because of this, despite no one knowing her trans status and having no background paperwork. She outright manipulates people and it's framed as a good thing because she's "The Protagonist."

My impression of the main character is she's one of those OC characters who warp the entire story around their personal drama.

OCs have a bad reputation in fanfiction for precisely this reason. If you want people to be interested in your works try cutting down on the internal monologues, angst, and show plot progression.

Click to shrink...

The pacing is pretty slow on a per chapter basis, I'll admit, so that might not be your cup of tea. She definitely manipulates Taylor, to a goal of her own good, but it's not really framed as a good thing. It's presented that she doesn't feel that bad about it, and she has reasons not to, but I think you're falling into the "everything the protagonist does is presented as right" trap, when it isn't. At least no more so than is inherent in her being the one doing most of the presenting. As for angst, there definitely is some, a lot of it around where you stopped reading. As for warping the story around their own drama, that applies at a few points, but not most of the story.
She's scared of Nazis for a number of reasons, and being Trans is only one of them. It definitely has something to do with Nazis being a major power where she happened to arrive. Her being Trans isn't one of the main defining features of the story, nor is it supposed to be. As a trans woman myself, I rather want trans characters around who aren't defined by it.

For internal monologues, that's a key part of the story that isn't going away. Sorry if you don't like that.

 

[Obscura]

So it turns out that walking into the PRT as a new parahuman who wants to report an assault by a different parahuman gets you seen to impressively fast. Putting out just enough aura that my eyes went clock-face might have helped. Not that I did it on purpose, it just turns out that wanting justice and talking to the authorities is enough to push my radius out a bit. I guess it is "bringing order" of sorts. I suppose the control mechanism for my power is a smidge more organic than I thought it was.

Taylor, due to being the one who'd actually approached the desk, thunder in her expression, got just as much attention as I did. That kind of official attention was always hard, especially for somebody whose main experience with authority was the Winslow administration, but she could handle it. I hoped. I really don't have all that much evidence to support that hope, but sometimes you have to have faith. She'd recovered from the Juice Incident pretty quickly, but she seemed to see the PRT, since they represented authority, as a bit of an antagonist, something she'd have to force to do their job. Hard not to, in her position, but I hoped she'd be able to recover from that in time. It probably wasn't good for her.


The room I was ushered into was nicer than I'd been expecting. Nothing over the top, just a bog-standard conference room, but it had decorations and softish chairs and a whiteboard, and there were refreshments on the table. Helping myself to a glass of water, I was looking away from the door when someone came in. A cough seized my attention with slightly embarrassing alacrity.

I hadn't been expecting a cape, particularly one I didn't recognize. Not that I recognized all that many heroes, Jacqueline's knowledge of the cape scene was mostly focused on who to avoid, and my grasp on her knowledge wasn't as good as hers had been, her memories weren't quite as real to me as I remembered them being to her. If that makes sense.

Actually, even if it doesn't make sense, it's still true. Deal with it. Though they were getting a little clearer. I hadn't even heard of Brockton Bay before all this, and by now it was like I'd lived here for at least a couple months. Old Jacqueline had been here for years though, so clearly it wasn't all the way. At least not yet.

This was presumably a hero, since the PRT had sent him to talk to me. Bright red everything and that cocky grin on his face indicated the "subtlety, what's that?" school of thought that pretty much required either great stupidity or serious backing. At least that was true back home, not sure how accurate that is here. Superpowers might let you get away with that kind of thing. Probably did actually. I know I'd find it a lot harder to stand up to someone who could splat me with a flick of their wrist. Sassing Patron-baka aside. They've earned it.

"Hey, kid, are you alright? You've been staring off into space for the last minute" he said, entirely correctly, much to my chagrin. I shook myself and nodded. He smiled even more, and introduced himself. "I'm Assault, with the local Protectorate. I hear you've had an interesting day?"

Okay, be friendly, be polite, you need all the help you can get. Also, be cute. Be freaking adorable.

Seriousness is one of the more basic acts to learn, but making it look like an act is trickier. At least making it look like an act on purpose is trickier, anyway. Practice is your watchword there. In this case, I was deliberately letting through just a bit of my (genuine, but deliberately poorly concealed) nervousness and childishness.

"A bit of an understatement, I am most afraid, Mr. Assault. Since the lunch bell rang, I've stumbled across a vicious campaign of torment and harassment waged by three school-age girls against another school-age girl, been brutally assaulted when I tried to talk them out of it, discovered that the school-age girl who assaulted me was a parahuman, discovered I was a parahuman, helped the target of the aforementioned campaign through shock, or at least tried, and gone across the city twice trying to sort things out."

I was leaving out the part about mergers, patrons, and alternate universes. I didn't want to seem any crazier than I actually was. (I wasn't silly enough to assume I was perfectly sane. No one is, in my experience.)

"Like I said, interesting. And you don't need to call me Mr." spaketh the wiseguy.

"I should probably explain. Let me start at the beginning." I told him, ignoring the second part of his statement. My "probably" was laced with just the right hint of nervousness. I was rather surprised how well I pulled it off, actually. Just a bit of frantic essence sold the image perfectly.

Yes, I used exactly the same phrasing at the start of these reports. I find myself making cryptic statements I need to elaborate on a lot, so expect to hear it again. Full disclosure, I cribbed quite a bit of what you've read here from the explanation I proceeded to give Assault. "Patron" may be able to force me to make these reports, but that doesn't mean I can't be a little lazy about repeating myself, especially if it's the first time for you lot anyway. If Patron doesn't like that, or the way I'm dropping the "the" from their self-appointed title, they can tell me themselves. Or just suck it up, it's not like I really owe them anything. Jerk. I'm not going to try putting the adorableness into text though, except in quotes and stuff. These reports are annoying enough already.

I started with how I'd overheard the ongoing incident, proceeded through falling on my face and my unsuccessful attempt at diplomacy, went on to getting punched in the face, carried that through to my counterattack and seeing Miss Hess go through the sink, covered the vicious beating I received afterwards in more detail than I like to think about, the clockwork aura (and there's that catchier name) and my revelations about it, a brief sweep of what I'd learned from Taylor, deciding to go to the PRT, picking up Taylor's journals and actually going to the PRT. "And then I got seen to really quickly and ushered into this room and I was thirsty and then you walked up behind me and coughed and then you know what happened"

Assault looked uncommonly serious. Or maybe he was usually serious and his prior behaviour was what was uncommon. I tended to doubt that theory though, he did not give off that impression. I think it was his eyes, they glimmered with amusement far too much. I'd never actually seen eyes glimmer before, but they did. Maybe Jacqueline had a better eye for that sort of thing than I did, or maybe it was a power thing. I know she had better eyes in general. She had to wear glasses, yes, but her prescription wasn't anywhere near as strong.

"And you are completely certain of all of this?" he said.

"As certain as I can be. There are head injuries and parahuman powers involved, after all." I conceded.

"Bleepedy Bleeping Bleep."


He actually said something else, but I'd rather not repeat it. I hope you don't mind. I wondered why this case made him so angry. I mean, it was awful, yes, but awful things happened in Brockton Bay all the time. Seriously, there hadn't been a day without a violent incident of some sort in decades. I guess most of them were less protracted? Or maybe he was just getting fed up. He seemed like he'd been a cape for a pretty long time.

A small amount of time later (I was the only clock in the room, and I didn't have a second hand) (and I couldn't see my own face without a mirror, which I didn't have) (and my aura wasn't turned up enough to go full clock-hands for eyes) (and I didn't know if my eyes in clock-face mode corresponded to the actual time anyway), he said something less profane, remarkably politely for how angry he had been, and probably still was: "Would you mind staying a little longer, I'm afraid my superiors will have further questions? Also, do you have a preferred cape name?"

"Not at all, Mr. Assault, and I rather like La Mademoiselle de Ma'at. It's a little on the nose, but I feel it carries the right impression", I demurred.

"Isn't that a bit of a mouthful?" Mr. Assault questioned

"Mayhaps, but it will serve for the moment" I replied

"Indubitably" spaketh the Mr. Assault

"Indubitably" La Mademoiselle de Ma'at verbalized

That's when we both broke down giggling.

---

After that, things returned to normalcy, such as it was. People came in, asked questions, received answers, and left. Some of them made sense, like the one who tried to help me recall the fight blow-by-blow. Others less so, like the one who asked me my opinions of each of their Wards one by one. I had no reaction to most of them, not having heard of them before, but one, a "Clockblocker" stood out. I was, after all, sort of a clock, and clocks that don't work get thrown out. If this individual could block me, that was all sorts of terrifying.

Maybe that doesn't actually follow, but it had been a long day with several shocks to my system and multiple blows to the head. Fears don't have to be rational to be scary, especially when you're already off-balance.

After a while, some of the people were less "asking a few questions" and more "explaining a few things", but that was alright. Some of it I already knew, like why picking superpowered fights by yourself wasn't a good idea, and some of it was clearly a "subtle" attempt at pushing me into the Wards, but a lot of it was new and useful information, though it was all clearly oriented towards the parahuman as warrior/parahuman as champion of justice mentality. I guess that's what they see the most. Parahumans apparently almost all just jump into conflict like it was catnip or something. They certainly seemed more than a touch surprised that the idea didn't appeal to me in the slightest.

The unwritten rules were interesting. A sort of moderating force on the raw chaos that was the constant parahuman struggle for dominance. No going after or revealing civilian identities, no rape, keep combat non-lethal (though accidents did happen, as was inevitable with even "non-lethal" violence when you had enough of it). Such were the strictures that kept the forces of order from dealing with some of the worst, but also kept villains from making a complete mess of society. Moderating that sort of conflict was a good thing, in my book. Parahumans posed almost all the problems of terrorism and/or irregular warfare back home, but worse. Keeping that from bringing society crashing down was a constant necessity, and the unwritten rules were a big part of that.

The no revealing civilian identities rule was sort of like the rules about disclosure in the trans community, but if these rules got broken it wasn't just the unfortunate disclosee who could get murdered. Though there were a lot fewer open capes here than there were open trans people back home. New Wave did it, and did it well, but they were just about the only ones. Aside from the capes who simply couldn't pretend to not be capes, but almost all of them had to take a lot of extra precautions.

The director poked her head in briefly, I think just to get the measure of the new parahuman in town. I made sure to be extra respectful to her, that's got to be a really tough job, especially here. If I was in her position, the city would be on fire within the week. Quite possibly literally. There were multiple villainous pyrokinetics in Brockton Bay, after all, and hundreds of gang members with access to lighters and gasoline. Most of whom hated each other and the forces of law and order. Despite her unimpressive appearance, I was in more than a little bit of awe at the woman who'd held this city together for nearly a decade.

Assault also had me make a quick stop at one of their medical areas. When a building is as likely to be attacked as a PRT headquarters was, it was apparently only common sense to have more than one. Especially given the number of very nasty villains who liked to attack medical personnel and the wounded. I didn't know the exact number, but the guy used the word villains, as in plural, so clearly it wasn't a one time thing. I didn't have a concussion as far as they could tell, although that might just have been my aura fixing things, and my other injuries were healing very nicely. As in, faster and cleaner than would be possible without parahuman powers or Tinkertech being involved, even if I had gone to a hospital, but not nearly as fast as most parahuman healers could do. Panacea apparently would have everything but the possible concussion done in less than a minute, and the concussion only wouldn't be fixed in that time because she couldn't affect brains.


There were a lot of other stops and questions, but they weren't as interesting. They did get me to do a little demonstration, putting a lot of little mechanical things and broken electronic devices around me for my aura to fix, which it did. Though I did have to pump it up a little. This wasn't official official power testing, but they wanted to have some idea of what I could do and scheduling the official lab had to be done in advance. We did that for half an hour, conversations continuing for most of that time once it became clear that talking and listening didn't stop my aura from working. Several people, including me, received or were sent things after that, though I didn't recognize most of the names.

I got a little baggie with a PRT-issue cell phone, a couple basic masks, a neat little miniature first aid kit ,and a little thingy of pepper spray. The cell phone had been one of the testing items, having been thrown into a television during something they wouldn't tell me about, but after half an hour in my aura it was better than new. Or maybe just like new, or possibly even a little worse than new. I didn't really have a good picture of how well it worked when it was new, but it was perfectly serviceable now, which was what was important. Not sure how it compared to the baker's dozen other cell phones they put in my aura.

Anyway, they said they were giving me all that for my safety. Apparently they didn't want me getting killed. I had suspected as much, but it was nice to have confirmation. Even if the agent who ruffled my hair when she said that didn't know how to ruffle hair properly. You have to be gentle and not rush things, Wolfe. They'd even been really nice when I told them why I didn't want to join their Wards. Apparently most young parahumans reach out and punch somebody and stir up trouble, and regulating that impulse was one of the major driving forces behind the Wards organization. Since I had zero intention of doing that, it wasn't as big an issue. They did say they'd look into alternatives and ways around the violencey requirement, which was also nice of them.


Eventually, I was released back into the lobby, where I found Taylor speaking with a strange man. Strange as in I didn't know him, not as in weird. It saddens me that I had to specify that, but after the day I'd had…

Welp, in for a penny, in for a pound. I went to speak with Taylor and the man who was presumably her father.

 

[Obscura]

How, exactly, does one join a conversation that is already in progress? That was one particular skill neither past-me had been good at. (Making myself believe things, including that I was Jacqueline Colere as well as the girl who'd received that annoying arrowgram, was another one, but I was learning quickly. It helped that there was some actual evidence.) I quickly reached for the cheat-sheet I make a point of keeping on my person when I go out, then realised that it, unlike that stupid letter, hadn't come with me. Or is it letters? I'm not sure how it works with multiple copies that are all identical. Instead, I pulled out my new phone and used the default search engine.

Okay, that's right, listen for openings, wait for them to notice you, and don't do anything to get attention until somebody tags you in. Sounds familiar.


"Why didn't you tell me, Taylor?" the man mourned, sounding utterly dejected.

Okay, nope. Not getting involved in that. There was absolutely no way me interfering wouldn't make things worse. Trust me on this. Even if I knew the entire context, which I absolutely did not, people tended to not appreciate outsiders butting in on family matters. Especially ones involving secrets, serious situations, lack of trust, or perceived failure of parenting. This involved at least three of those, probably all four. They'd tear me apart if I tried to step in, even if I knew how in the first place. Which I didn't. At all. Trust me on this.

Instead of leaping in and getting them mad at me and each other for no good reason, I elected to find myself someplace to loiter where they'd be sure to see me. My first choice was an oldie but a goodie: leaning against the wall. Walls are a classic for the "cool-kid" lean because it looks good from just about every angle.

Except for those that looked through the wall, which was totally possible because I had foolishly picked the building's transparent front. I want to say glass, but Shatterbird of the Slaughterhouse 9 could shatter every bit of glass for miles around with a scream, and glass was just really vulnerable to attack in general, so it probably was something tougher that just looked like glass. Either way, it was transparent, and I would look really silly from the other side, so no.

I decided to try somewhere else. Throughout the lobby there were some rather nice rounded pillars, so I decided to try one of those. I'm not quite sure whether they were Corinithian, Ionic, or some more modern variant, since I couldn't quite see the capitals, but they were nice whichever they were.

Thud.

So it turns out rounded pillars, at least ones that are polished enough, are really slippery. Like trying to lean on buttered steel, but without the inevitable staining. I picked myself up and resigned myself to just sitting down like the uncool non-rebel I totally was. Two failed "cool-kid" leans in a row proved it. I just wasn't cool.

That's when I noticed they had actual couches in their lobby, which was really neat. Okay "cool" was what I actually was thinking, but I've really been overusing that word in this report. Instead of sitting, like the uncool non-rebel I was, I would lie down like the tired individual that I also was. That actually worked, which was somewhat of a surprise to me by that point, and I was even still in a position where the presumed-Heberts would have to notice me on their way out. It's all in the angles.

Naturally, given everything, I fell asleep within seconds. I did not dream. As much of a cliche as it is to immediately fall into a meaningful dream, maybe a prophetic one, the instant you fall asleep in a strange place, one actually doesn't start dreaming until they've passed through the non-REM stage of sleep, which takes time. Not a consistent amount of time, but it does take time. Also wrong is the idea that if you're really, really, exhausted you pass into a dreamless sleep. It's a useful dramatic device, but in actuality you actually go into REM faster when you're really tired. I have no idea why but neither does anyone else, so you can't blame me. That applies to pretty much everything about sleep and dreams, really. We have some fairly okay theories (in the scientific sense) of what happens, but when it comes to why, we are basically at the level of toddlers arguing over who should get the last cookie. Less shouting and spurious statements though. Usually. The world of science isn't quite as professional, rational and rigorous as it would really like to be. Scientists are human beings, after all. They put their pants on one leg at a time. Except the ones who prefer other types of bottomwear. I like skirts myself, but I have to put the leggings, shorts, or sundry other types of skirt-accomplices on one leg at a time. I can put on the skirts two legs at a time, but that's not really all that remarkable. Hopefully the patron isn't going to pay that much attention to this obviously useless tangent. If you know anyone or anything that can help with this sort of awfulness, please contact them. Law enforcement would be best, or at least I hope law enforcement exists at that level, but whatever you can do is appreciated. Skirts are a lot like kilts in that way. Or those hospital clothes things that are designed to be put on easily even with disabilities. There are a fair number of bottomwears that are designed to be put on two legs at a time, really. Not pants though, which is probably why the idiom uses them instead of skirts. That and sexism.

Anyway, I fell asleep. I didn't have a concussion, so that was alright.

 

[Obscura]

As far as methods of waking up go, being quietly shaken on the shoulder is one of the better ones. It's not as good as being awoken by the smell of pure deliciousness cooking, but it sure beats having an air horn go off a couple centimetres from your ear. Don't ask how I know that.

Seriously, don't.

Anyway, I made my way to consciousness far too early, and found myself looking right into the face of the man I was assuming to be Taylor's dad.

I deny any and all claims that I let out a small shriek and banged my head against the couch padding in panic.

"Easy there, it's alright. I'm Danny, Taylor's dad. I'm told you helped my daughter out today." His voice was strangely soothing, filled with a vast calm and care that warmed my heart. Or maybe that was the head injury and all the trauma of the day talking. Either way, I was glad to hear it.

Which helps explain why I, in my just-waking-up state, went and hugged him, mumbling "Daddy, I missed you". Not that having an explanation, no matter how reasonable it was, made it less embarrassing when I realized what I had done.

It was most fortunate that they seemed bemused by it, and not something worse, and nothing more will be said about the matter.

Nothing.


An unspecified amount of time later, I found myself being offered a ride home.

A home I didn't actually have.

Welp, better tell him. Maybe I'd even get somewhere to sleep out of it.

I should probably have felt guilty about thinking about how to get something out of him, but I was really out of it and frankly I felt what I wanted was entirely reasonable.

"So I, umm, I don't actually have one of those." Smooth, me.

Then again, being hesitant had helped me out with one Hebert already, though this time it wasn't on purpose. They didn't say anything, but they looked a little confused (and more than a little worried, though they were trying to hide that).

Guess I made one of those cryptic statements that needed further explanation again. I should try to cut down on those, but I probably won't. Promises to keep, miles to go before I sleep, and all that.

"I should probably explain. Let me start at the beginning."

I did warn you to expect to hear that again.

"So I was born in a little hospital in Corner Brook and life was really good for a while. I mean there was that incident with Speakeasy but the rest of the time life was good but then Leviathan happened and sank the city and my home along with the rest of Newfoundland and Mom and I made it out cause we were close to the shore and Dad owned a boat but Dad was visiting Mount Pearl and was too far from the coast and the boats to get out and then we were in Brockton Bay and we settled and adjusted even if Mom kept up our passports and tried and tried to find us a place back in Canada but a few months ago Lung got into a big fight with the empire and our house burned down and mom was in it and she didn't make it out and I've been staying at the school ever since cause they gave me a permission thingy for that but I'm pretty sure that's not what they actually meant it to be used for and..." That's the point where the warmth and pressure of the hugs they'd managed to put me in without me noticing got to me and I managed to stop my rambling, leaving only the sound of tears falling and the occasional quiet sob to fill up the silence.

The old Jacqueline Colere was definitely not gone. I wouldn't have been that strongly affected if I was purely the girl Patron had kidnapped from her home universe. Not by those memories in specifica anyway. So I wasn't entirely myself, whoever "myself" was, and that idea only made things worse in terms of my complicated emotional situation. Patron, wherever and whatever you might be, you have a lot to answer for. At some point, all the feelings overcame the physical world, and then...

I don't really feel like continuing this now. I'm sure that the nails in my brain will eventually drive me to report to you again, so I guess you'll hear from me then. Whoop-de-freakin da.

 

[Riha]

Oh hey, I've been following this on AO3 for a bit now. Good to see it on here as well!

 

[Obscura]

Emily:

Director Emily Piggot of the Parahuman Response Team's East-North-East branch was a busy woman. The Empire had stepped up their harassment of minorities near their territory, and the PRT would have to be seen to do something. Oni Lee had hit one of their warehouses, which may or may not have been the reason for the Empire's stepping up, and he'd been seen staking out several more locations. Über and Leet had damaged the boardwalk and gotten away clean, which would be both embarrassing and expensive. Circus had struck again. The Merchants were being the Merchants. The Undersiders hadn't done anything in a while, but that probably just meant they were planning something. Lung hadn't been heard from for a while, but that was too good to last. And, because all that wasn't bad enough, there might be a bomb Tinker in the city. All that was on top of the usual paperwork and logistics of running a PRT department. The last thing she needed was a major PR crisis in the making.

Naturally, that's exactly what she had. Shadow Stalker had apparently been tormenting one of her classmates for over a year, and in a way that couldn't just be dismissed as high-school [bravado]. Attempted murder would be a better description, or criminal harassment, or [funtime] bioterrorism. And Emily had only been told about it now. Heads were going to roll for this. The psychotic rogue technically-a-Ward she'd never wanted in the first place would be going straight into Master/Stranger screening as soon as she arrived for her shift. Emily didn't think they'd find anything, but in a situation like this it was best to have all the bases covered. She could nail Shadow Stalker to the wall after her guilt was unquestionable. Possibly literally. Emily knew how to electrify things, and that knowledge could be applied to nails.

That fact that the situation could have been much worse did little to reduce her rage. Actually, it stoked the fires. If the girl who'd stumbled across the whole mess hadn't taken things straight to the PRT, any number of things could have happened, none of them good. She could have gone straight to the media, and dealt Brockton Bay's trust in the PRT a blow it might never recover from. She could have sold the information to the gangs, and then she'd have a dead Ward on her hands, something she'd have to go to great lengths to avenge no matter how little Shadow Stalker deserved it. She could have..

Emily tore her mind away from could-have-beens. The matter would be investigated fully, and those who'd hidden or neglected to discover that information would face the consequences. That wasn't her job right now. As the director of the Parahuman Response Taskforce East North East, she needed to look to the future.

Curiously, the brightest looking part of the future was the same girl who'd brought the Shadow Stalker mess to her attention in the first place. Jacqueline Colere. Emily found herself in the awkward position of actually liking a parahuman for the first time since Ellisburg.

Normally, parahumans pushed all the wrong buttons for Emily, and not just for reminding her of Nilbog or all the "heroes" who'd abandoned her squad to be eaten by his monsters. The vast majority of capes thought they knew better than her, or the structure of the PRT, and Emily knew they were wrong. Getting bizarre abilities didn't mean you knew better than the law. Thinkers were generally the worst, but all capes seemed to show it to differing degrees. Except Colere, who showed almost superstitious awe at Emily's accomplishments. Emily was honest enough with herself to admit that getting some actual recognition was nice.

The Hebert case was proof enough that the girl had the right instincts. She'd tried to talk the perpetrators down rather than use violence or threats, though her lack of training showed in the results. Then she'd discreetly gathered evidence and gone straight to the proper authorities. Most parahumans would have punched first and asked questions later, or at least arrogantly gone in and "fixed" the problem themselves. Sure her efforts weren't exactly inspired, but they showed a level of basic common sense that was sadly lacking in most capes.

The Hebert girl was hiding powers, Emily was fairly sure. The "locker incident" sounded like an archetypical trigger event, and she'd shown just a little more awareness than an ordinary human should have. Taylor hadn't told the PRT about them, but authority issues were only to be expected in a case like this. Handling the case with due diligence, treating her with respect, and making an example of Shadow Stalker and anyone who'd covered for her would probably help with those issues a lot. Getting Taylor Hebert into the Wards wouldn't be easy, but it should be entirely doable. Emily certainly needed every sane parahuman she could get, even if "sane" was very much a relative term when it came to capes.

Meanwhile, getting Jacqueline Colere into the Wards would be simple enough. Wards normally patrolled to justify the expense of outfitting, training and paying them, and Emily certainly wouldn't mind being a little less outnumbered, but Jacqueline Colere didn't want to enforce the law herself, and frankly with her powerset patrolling would be both risky and largely pointless. Honestly, her being more inclined (by both ability and personal preference) to supporting Emily's troops off the battlefield over frontline combat let Emily trust her a little more. Parahumans were unreliable in a fight, as Ellisburg had shown her, but that didn't necessarily apply to logistical or medical support capes. Who, after all, shouldn't be fighting in the first place. As a good soldier, Emily Piggot knew just how important it was to treat your medic and quartermaster nicely, and just how vital they were. As Director, Emily Piggot could simply approve Jacqueline Colere as a Ward without requiring patrols, probably using healing and/or repair duties to justify things to her superiors. It wouldn't be hard. Healers were immensely valuable. And if the other directors wanted access to Colere's abilities (and they almost certainly would), and Colere was her Ward, Emily could force them to actually give her enough resources to do her job properly.


The girl's desire to join New Wave instead of the Wards could be handled in a number of ways. Simply meeting Brandish might do the job, the woman's paranoia could easily muck up any such arrangement. Emily could show accountability by throwing the book at Shadow Stalker, which she was already inclined to do, and perhaps by letting the girl be an open cape if she wanted to. Providing the necessary security would be a pain, but it certainly would undermine the Empire in a way they couldn't retaliate to. Plus Emily suspected that New Wave had their own skeletons in their collective closet, and if she dug them up…

First though, she'd have to call them, and arrange a meeting.

She'd also have to get a better name for the girl. "La Mademoiselle de Ma'at" wasn't going to cut it.

 

[Obscura]

The next thing I remember, outside of my own head that is, is a sense of warmth and the soft pressing of skin on skin that is human contact. There was a Taylor next to me, sitting in the back of a beaten-up old truck that I'd never seen before, her hand stroking my hair, trying to calm me down. Not just trying, actually. She was saying something, but I hadn't heard any of it. I sort of quirked, and she started again. We were heading to her house, she explained, and I'd be staying with them for a while, if I was okay with that. I didn't object.

As for how the last report ended, I'd just like to say that no one can be strong all the time. Stress wears at the mind, pain cuts deeper and subtler than you ever expect, and all the weight of the world is heavier and more constant than can be born by anyone, no matter how strong they think they are. Word to the wise, it's better to let yourself be weak sometimes.

If you don't, well, you can end up breaking a lot faster than you'd think. Everyone needs help, especially the ones who insist they don't. Not everyone can be helped, mostly the ones who don't want to be helped can't be, but that's a story for another time. Professionals are generally your best bet, but just about anyone can help, as long as they're actually trying. If all that stress and pain and weight hits you just wrong, at just the wrong time, the results can be unfortunate, to say the least. No one can be strong all the time. Trying doesn't end well. Don't ask how I know that.


Seriously, don't.


I certainly was no exception, and this was a time I could afford to not be strong. The only way to be even sort of indestructible is to deal with the damage before it consumes you utterly. Not that trying the healthy way is infallible, but it's safer than the alternative.

But the warmth and the stroking of the hand on my hair are pleasant, and the hum of the engine is reassuring, and I just let myself be lulled into a state of gentle calm.

Naturally, that's when some guy in Merchant colours started screaming obscenities and firing an assault rifle in the air wildly. Cheap thing, not well taken care of at all, the jerk probably hadn't even read the maintenance manual, but it was still putting bullets into the sky. He was about half a block away from us, and not looking at our vehicle in particular, so we weren't in any more danger than all the other people on the street, but it still was quite unfortunate and very loud.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: this world is broken.


In this case, fortunately, nothing went really wrong. I mean, any situation in which someone's firing a gun on a crowded street has gone really wrong by definition, but nobody got shot. The guy got stung by a wasp on his gun-supporting hand, took his finger off the trigger to swat it, and then got stung a couple dozen times by that wasp and a small swarm of others that roused to its defense. I couldn't see it myself, my glasses had come off, but Taylor told me what happened. That's where pretty much all of my information on the incident comes from, actually. Not like I could see anything. No glasses, just waking up, facing the wrong way and all that.

I hadn't known wasps were social animals, and it did seem awfully convenient, but it was clearly possible, since it happened. I trusted Taylor, she wouldn't lie to me about that. Unless it was just a joke, but it sure didn't seem like it. I wasn't about to complain. The guy was being arrested when we drove away. Hopefully he'd get his life together and eventually contribute something worthwhile to society, but I had my doubts. The American judicial system, Brockton Bay's general corruption, the guy being unwilling to change, any one of those things could easily stop any positive growth on his part dead.

Taylor was looking a little distracted, but I guess gunfire will do that. She was stroking a lot harder now too, and it wasn't nice. I managed to murmur in protest, and she let up.


The rest of the drive to Taylor's house was uneventful, and quite pleasant. At least in comparison to pretty much everything about the rest of my day so far. My really great chair was almost as nice as this, but furniture, even really good furniture, doesn't count as "good day" material if you were ripped away from it forever on that very day. I miss that chair a lot. Right colour, right softness, right everything, really. It was perfect and then it was stolen from me by an interdimensional kidnapper who seemed to think I should be grateful for it.

Yes, I realize that I sound like I'm hyperfocusing on that chair to avoid thinking about the other things I lost when I got grabbed. No, I'm not going to tell you what those other things are. No, that's not just me being petty.

I have no idea and no way of knowing whether this is being read on my homeworld, and there are so very many things that could go wrong if the wrong people find out who half (or thereabouts, I think by this point if you don't get that my identity situation is complicated you never will) of me was. So no, not sharing. It was a really good chair though, and I really do miss it.


The Hebert house looked exactly the same as when I'd last seen it, all of 4-5 hours ago, but it felt immensely different. Before, it was a place to grab the evidence before leaving, a quick smash and grab, except without the smash part. Now it was the closest thing to a home I had.

Weird.

There was an increased sense of familiarity, a feeling of security, and a tinge of comfort, all the things that make a homecoming. Which was the point, I suppose. Provide a feeling of safety and security and all that. Nice people, the Heberts. Unless they were just luring me in so they could murder me. That seemed even less likely than it did before though.

Not that I wouldn't get murdered, but my killer almost certainly wouldn't be Taylor or Danny. More likely, it'd be either the Empire Eighty-Eight, who as neo-nazis would not be happy with an African-Canadian superheroine, or Sophia Hess, who despite having sort of nazi-ish name was actually black, but who was also an exceptionally violent bully who I'd just reported to the cape cops. Being trans and a lesbian wouldn't help with either possibilty, the nazis being nazis and Sophia Hess just not seeming like a very tolerant person in general, but neither should be an issue yet. Old-Jacqueline was a late-bloomer, and hadn't started showing those feelings yet. I'm not actually sure which way that me would have ended up swinging, assuming she'd swing at all. 14 was pretty late, so maybe she'd been ace. Or just oblivious to her own feelings. Probably irrelevant now, anyway.

As for the trans issue, there weren't actually any records of pre-transition me. Either me, actually. One me only had records in a world that wasn't this one, while the other had had the benefit of getting an appointment with NewU before the sinking of Newfoundland. NewU was a tinker, a pretty experienced one, who focused primarily on assisting transitions and on fighting for trans rights. He was officially classified as a Rogue, but since he did all his work for free I considered him a hero. Rogues, actual ones, were parahumans who stepped aside from the constant violence that was most of parahuman society without doing other types of do-goodery. If you did a lot of other types of do-goodery, like Panacea did, or I was planning to, you counted as a Hero without most of the usual downsides, like the constant violence. I felt NewU fit under that category, but Trans people were far from universally accepted, so he was officially a Rogue.

NewU couldn't do anything mundane treatments couldn't, at least that the mundane treatments of the other world the other me had come from couldn't, but the changes he made didn't need maintenance, and they'd been done very quickly after old-Jacqueline had realised who she was, at a very young age. They were also way faster, but that wasn't particularly relevant right now. He could even set things up in advance so puberty would go one way and not the other. Mostly. He couldn't do anything that couldn't be done via mundane means during puberty, he could just arrange it in advance. Any records of the Tinkersurgery or of old-Jacqueline's deadname (and mine, sort of?) drowned with Newfoundland. NewU was out of province at the time, fortunately, but he was also famously discreet. The only patient of his that he'd ever revealed to the public was himself, though a few others had followed his example. I'd do it myself, once I was on firmer ground. I hoped he was doing well. Last I heard he was setting up a secondary clinic in the States, but he was mostly based out of Regina these days. Not for any particular reason, that's just where he was when he got the news and he couldn't hold off the tinker urge long enough to make a careful decision about where he wanted to base himself.

---

Oh, hey, they're heading in. I should probably follow them!

I'm a genius, I know.

 

[Obscura]

"Come into my parlor" spaketh the Taylor, and it was obvious what my answer would have to be. "Said the spider to the fly? Would you perhaps be planning on drinking me dry? Tis not wise to let a parahuman know that before you strike, dearie." I teased, stepping inside. Probably didn't expect me to catch that little literary allusion. The old Jacqueline certainly wouldn't have. She hadn't been one for poetry. An academic near-genius, at least for her age, but not terribly poetic. English had been her second weakest subject. After World Issues, which was so poorly defined and subjective that the only way to fail was to not turn things in and the only way to do really well was if the teacher liked you. Or decided that anybody who turned things in got an A. Gladly was really just the worst teacher when it came to discipline or standards, as even a ninth grader like myself could tell. Or a 3rd grader, if any 3rd grader had ever had the misfortune to encounter him.

The deeply surprised expression on Taylor's face was all the confirmation I needed. The hurried looking around for Danny told me she hadn't told him about my power. Not too surprising, in retrospect, since there was a lot of emphasis on secret identities in parahuman culture, at least on Bet. What little I remembered about Aleph, the only other universe Bet had contact with, indicated their parahumans were more open. And a lot fewer in number and a lot less socially powerful. Her not telling him made sense, and I appreciated Taylor keeping my secrets, but it wasn't something I could accept. I'd have to tell him.


I marshaled my will, gathered my strength, stoked my inner fire and once again assumed the mantle of confidence. I spoke gently, but with the iron gleam of determination underneath:

"Taylor, I appreciate you trying to keep my secrets secret, but I have to tell him. He's taking an awful risk, and he has a right to know about it. Having a parahuman living with you isn't exactly safe, you know?

"I mean, Sophia aside, there are all sorts of nasty people who'll want my abilities, and the odds of me being able to hide everything from all of them are pretty bad. There's a non-zero chance that someone will break in here or hurt you to try to get to me, and you both should be told that before you take that risk.

"I won't say no to your hospitality, but it is a risk for the two of you, and if either of you wants to turn me away because of that, I will certainly understand."


Guilt was written all over her face. It wasn't hard to recognize. Somehow, I didn't think it was about not telling Danny about me. She was keeping a secret, maybe more than one, or had been. That mournful "Why didn't you tell me" back in the PRT lobby certainly hinted at that. She probably hadn't told him about the bullying. Secrecy was habit forming, like sugar or coffee or methamphetamine.

If you keep a secret from someone, it becomes easier to justify keeping more secrets from them, and sooner or later you don't have any real communication at all. Unless you've got a compulsion on you that drives nails into your brain if you don't send them regular (honest) reports, but I'm pretty sure Taylor didn't. Lucky her. Keeping secrets from her one real connection in the world wouldn't be good for her, and while spilling her secrets wouldn't help at all, subtly encouraging her to talk with her father wouldn't hurt.

The subtle arts of conversation and manipulation didn't exactly come naturally to either past me, but the new me had the advantage of over a decade's worth of research, study, and practical experience between Old-Colere and the Other, plus a big shot of determination to fix the world born from seeing just how broken this world was compared to the other. And I was a lot better when I acted with a little less subtlety. Thus, I had a fairly decent idea of where to go next.

"Besides, I'm not really comfortable with keeping secrets, especially from someone who's trying to take care of me. They gnaw away at your insides, guilt feeding upon guilt and lies building more lies, until you've broken something that can't be fixed. That kind of secret makes for alienation, and that sort of distance isn't good for relationships. You can try and try and try to be okay with it, and you tell yourself you'll tell them later, but later can turn to "too late" so very, very quickly. Please don't ask how I know that. I don't want to hide something this important from one of the only adults who's so much as tried to help me since the fire."

It was solid work, made vastly more effective by the fact that I meant every word. Everything about it was ostensibly about me, the old-Jacqueline me, but the message was so broad, so universal, that it would almost certainly apply to her bullying secret.

And that oh-so-subtle hint that I'd kept something from a parent before I lost them would be a powerful motive for her to be honest with her own parent. Not that I was consciously plotting all that out beforehand, but training in that sort of rhetoric pays off. Since I had her best interests in mind and I was being honest about my feelings on the subject, I didn't even feel particularly manipulative.


Which didn't necessarily mean I wasn't being manipulative, I was well aware, but it didn't feel that way. Either way, it certainly made an impression. Taylor's face was practically skeletal, and I was worried I had gone a bit too far. That's the trouble with working with incomplete information, even if you know which direction you need to push someone, it's hard to tell when you're going too far, or when you aren't going far enough. The feeble, stuttered "I see" she responded with seemed to indicate the former. Drat. Time to apply a little gentle reassurance.

I waited a few seconds, then put a hand on her shoulder and looked soulfully into her eyes. I'd have to do this very carefully.

"I don't know what's wrong Taylor, but I know you can handle it. Do not doubt that. I certainly don't. Most people would've broken under what you've endured, myself among them, but you've held strong.

"You've done the right thing time and time again, Taylor Anne Hebert. You went to help me in that bathroom when you could have just hidden and spared yourself. I saw you pushing against that door. You took in a poor orphan girl out of the goodness of your heart. You sought justice, not revenge, against the girls who made your life a waking nightmare. You are a good person, a strong person, and whatever the problem is, I don't have the slightest doubt that you can handle it."


Word to the wise, speaking from the heart makes an impact. So did what Taylor did next. It certainly took me by surprise.

Taylor Anne Hebert, a good, strong person, squared her shoulders and marched inside with determination. That part was only to be expected. As I followed her, I was expecting her to tell her father all about the bullying. Maybe, if I'd been really convincing, she'd tell him about Emma's betrayal.

Instead I got, well, read for yourself:

"Dad, I'm a cape."

 

[Obscura]

Danny:

Danny Hebert liked to think he was a good father. Days like this made sure he knew otherwise.

So many things he should have seen, should have known. So many things he'd had to be told. So many things hurting his little girl that he hadn't stopped, hadn't helped with.

Danny knew Annette wouldn't have let things get this bad, would have seen it and intervened months ago, at the very latest. Probably wouldn't have let the situation emerge in the first place. She'd be disappointed in him, and he'd deserve it. Not angry, and she wouldn't say anything to him, she'd just get to work helping Taylor out, like she deserved, but she'd be quietly disappointed in him for not seeing, for not intervening as their little girl's life was torn apart.

Instead, he'd been totally oblivious. He'd been busy with work, the Association needed everything he could give just to stay afloat, and he knew Annette's death had cut him deep, but that was no excuse. He was a bad father, and he'd try his hardest to make up for it, but it wouldn't change the past.


The day hadn't seemed like anything special when it started. He'd gotten up, eaten the breakfast that Taylor made (and hadn't she taken up an awful lot of the work around the home lately?), driven to work, struggled and strived to find or make work for the countless association members who depended on him to get them the chance to put food on their tables. An ordinary day, though not a good one. Good would be if he'd actually accomplished anything.

Danny hadn't found out anything was wrong until well past two in the afternoon. The PRT called, which never meant anything good. They hadn't given him any details, but could he come into PRT headquarters to answer a few questions about an ongoing investigation? It was worrying, but he could hardly say no. The PRT could make a lot of trouble for the association if he didn't cooperate, and they were at least nominally the good guys.

Much to his surprise, it was about Taylor. They were asking about the locker, which was good in and of itself, but the fact that it was the PRT asking meant a parahuman was involved somehow. Taylor was there too, although she should have been in school, answering questions and trying to put her attackers away. Danny didn't know all that much, but he'd shared everything he did know. He'd do anything to get whoever had shoved his little girl into that filth into prison where they belonged. The agent interviewing him seemed to agree, though he was hiding his anger a lot better than Danny.

Then there were the other questions. Nothing was quite explicitly stated, but Danny Hebert wasn't a fool. The questioning made it quite obvious that the locker wasn't an isolated incident. That it had been just a part, albeit a particularly vicious one, of a protracted and hateful campaign of torment directed against Taylor. He'd never noticed, and she'd never told him. Never felt like she could tell him.

Eventually the interview was over, and he was released into the lobby to wait for his daughter. It had taken longer than he'd have liked, but he understood. Investigation was a protracted and messy business.

The conversation with his daughter was… awkward. Neither of them really knew what to say, and they were both blaming themselves, though Danny knew it wasn't really Taylor's fault. He was the adult, he was the one who should have been taking care of her. It was his responsibility, and he'd failed. He'd have to do better.


Eventually they'd decided they could be equally inarticulate at home. Which is when his plans went off the rails again.

Danny hadn't noticed or recognized the girl sleeping on one of the PRT's couches, but Taylor apparently did. When he'd asked, her answer cut him to the deep. This was the person who'd succeeded where he'd failed. Noticed those girls bullying Taylor, stood up for her, calmed her down, been the voice of reason and laid out a sensible plan, took her to the proper authorities, stood by her side. All the things he should have done.

It definitely wasn't like she didn't have her own problems. Her hugging him when he'd woken her up had been a bit embarrassing, but people did strange things when they were coming out of sleep. Her mumbled "Daddy, I missed you" was more worrying, but it wasn't until he'd automatically offered her a ride home that things went to h-e-double-hockey-sticks.


Her panicked rambling had almost broken his heart, after everything else, but it was what she was actually saying that was really worrying. Danny hadn't caught everything, but what he'd caught was more than bad enough. She'd lost both her parents, was sleeping in Winslow, which today had taught him was even worse than he'd thought it was, and she wasn't dealing with any of it well.

Taylor'd been the one to take the initiative and hug the poor girl, but Danny had followed his daughter in doing so almost immediately. Jacqueline Colere had kept rambling for a bit, then degenerated into quiet sobbing. It hadn't taken long for the Heberts to decide to take the girl home with them. The girl clearly needed help, and it sure beat the time Taylor had practically dragged some poor cat into the house and announced "He followed me home, can I keep him?"


The drive home had been far more exciting than it should have been, but they had all made it to the Hebert house safely. Danny had gone in ahead, to set up somewhere for the new addition to sleep. Jacqueline and Taylor were talking in the doorway. Danny couldn't make out what they were saying, but at least the girl was speaking again.

Taylor marching up to him full of determination took Danny by surprise, but not nearly as much as what she actually said:

"Dad, I'm a cape."

 

[SoldMars]

Danny is going through it today

 

[TheSwicky]

Time for Danny to trigger so they can be 3 capes in one house

 

[Obscura]

Taylor's announcement had definitely caught me off guard, but it wasn't quite the all-consuming revelation it probably should have been. I hadn't had the slightest idea that Taylor was a parahuman, to be clear, but it was far from the biggest surprise of the day. An arrow from nowhere, that thrice-accursed letter, inter-world travel, parahumans existing, being a parahuman myself, and the ever-complicated situation of being two previously different people were all, to be frank, much worse. My sense of shock was more than a touch drained. So while I looked and was flabbergasted, my response wasn't even in the same ballpark as Danny's. I'll certainly remember it though. Danny himself appeared to shut down entirely for a period of time. I'd heard of shutdowns like that lasting days, so it wasn't as long as it could have been, but it was still pretty worrying. Then he started yelling quietly.

It's not as oxymoronic as it might seem. Like with a stage whisper, there were all the hallmarks of yelling/whispering except it was done at just slightly louder than his normal speaking voice. Presumably he didn't want the neighbours overhearing. I had no evidence of the existence of neighbours, but there probably were some. Or maybe he just didn't want to traumatize me and Taylor further. I could hardly blame him.


I decided, right then and there, to stay out of what was clearly a matter for the two of them. I made my way towards the nearest inside door as quietly as I could manage, though I did mouth to Taylor that she could tell him about my power. I wasn't sure if she noticed, but I'd already made it clear he was allowed to know, so I wasn't going to touch it further.

The door turned out to open onto a downwards stairway, so I took the chance to put a little more distance between me and what was going on upstairs. I did not want to get between those two. Taylor struck me as someone who'd insist on using her powers to help people, and Danny struck me as someone who'd insist on his daughter being safe. I didn't want to argue with either, especially since they were both right. Hopefully they'd work it out. In the meantime, I had a basement to explore.

In retrospect, I probably should have realised the basement would be dark before I went down. I, naturally, had no idea where the light switch was. I started to stumble around blindly, searching for the lightswitch, then remembered I had a phone now. The light from it wasn't really enough to see by, but it sure made finding the actual lightswitch a lot easier. Problem solving is a valuable skill, folks. It still took way longer than it should have, but most of that was spent figuring out how to turn on the phone in the dark.

And the basement was, wonder of wonders, a basement. Oddly clean, considering the state of the lawn and exterior, but maybe somebody was actually using it. There was an awful lot of stuff down here, but it'd be rude to go through it or anything. They were just taking me in, after all. I decided to look through the door to what was probably the only other room down here.


Wow. There were a lot of spiders in that coal cellar. All neatly jarred and everything. I briefly reconsidered the possibility of "luring me into the house so they can murder me", before realising that almost all of the spiders were alive.

Pains were clearly being taken to keep them that way, so they were probably some sort of pets. After all, it takes a lot of effort to gather that many spiders and keep them from starving to death. I assume, anyway. Spider-ranching was not one of my fields of study. I knew a lot about fictional giant spiders, but most of it probably didn't apply to their smaller, less fictional kin. They ate lesser bugs, like those filthy disease carrying mosquitoes, and wove webs to catch them, and that was about the extent of what I was sure of.

I had studied mosquitoes, if only briefly, and I didn't like them. Rotten little plague-bearers kill more humans than just about any other animal. Except humans. Humans were awfully good at killing each other, purposefully or otherwise. Automobile accidents, war, cancer, industrial pollution, etc., etc., etc.. Unlike with humans though, eliminating the threat that mosquitoes posed to humanity was possible. Well, it would be possible to eliminate the threat humans posed to humanity too, it would just be the very definition of the word "counterproductive".

My point is, spiders ate mosquitoes (and other bugs, I think), so they were alright in my book. And these ones were clearly domesticated. Nobody would bother jarring so many living spiders without a reason, after all. Maybe my hosts would let me feed them. Nobody would miss a few mosquitoes. The little flying plague-rats deserved it anyway.

I started looking around for spider-care supplies. I didn't find any, unless the rather large number of loose insects around counted, but I did find something a bit more interesting eventually. It probably didn't help that I had no idea what spider-care supplies might actually consist of. That was really quite a hindrance when one is looking for supplies for the caring of spiders. What I did find was some sort of outfit.


I have no idea what the outfit was made of, but it felt really nice. It couldn't possibly be real silk, but it was a really good imitation. The bodysuit's tailoring was pretty good, but the colouring wasn't. And I felt the mask was overdoing it more than a little bit. Mandibles, big bright yellow bug eye lenses, with a horribly spottled "camouflage" body? That went way past "edgy" and straight into the territory of "hilariously bad horror-comedy" at highway speeds. I couldn't help it, I started giggling. Apparently they heard it upstairs, somehow, because after a bit I heard Taylor and Danny coming down the steps. Unless it was somebody else clomping around like they owned the place. Probably not that. So it was just my new hosts, about to find me giggling uncontrollably in their basement, surrounded by at least a thousand spiders in little glass jars.

Typical.

 

[Obscura]

Danny:

No parent is ever really ready to hear that their child has super-powers, but Danny Hebert was especially unready. A downward spiral of depression (Not that he recognized it as such) after his wife's death had left him blind to a number of problems, which had built up and up without his intervention, and now all the chickens were coming home to roost. A wild and unruly bunch of chickens into a coop that was meant to hold, at the very most, a tenth their number. Naturally, things exploded into a mess of feathers and talons.

Danny Hebert was, fortunately, able to shut down most of his feelings until he had time to process things. Otherwise he might have gone over to Winslow and strangled the entire faculty with his bare hands. Or at least tried to. He was very, very, angry.

As his daughter told him more and more about the nightmare she'd been put through, he only got angrier. And Emma. Danny Hebert was utterly furious.

Not at Taylor, no, never at Taylor, but at just about everyone else involved with the situation.

And then, as Taylor kept talking, Danny Hebert was afraid. Terrified, really, though not for himself. For Taylor. She'd been hurt so much already, and she thought the only way to keep going was to keep risking getting hurt more. Being a superhero.

Superheroes got killed. Not as often as supervillains, admittedly, but they did. Especially superheroes who acted alone.

Like Taylor was planning to.

Danny couldn't let that happen.

But he didn't want to fight.

He didn't know what to do.

Danny felt like a horrible parent.


Taylor:

Taylor probably could have broken the news more gently, she supposed. Just blurting it out on top of everything else wasn't exactly the most considerate thing she'd ever done to him.

It wasn't the least considerate thing she'd ever done to him, that would be keeping so many secrets in the first place, but it wasn't exactly good.

She'd started keeping secrets to protect him, but she could see now that it hadn't helped either of them in the slightest. Hiding the bullying had just let it get worse and worse, until she had almost broken. The difference between this morning, when everything was awful and being a superhero was the only slim window to escape through, and now, when people believed, believed in and actually supported her and everything seemed like it would work out for the best was stark. Jacqueline was due a lot of the credit for that, but it wouldn't have been an issue in the first place if Taylor had just been honest. Or at least it wouldn't be anywhere near as bad.

Emma's betrayal would still have hurt. A lot. It certainly hurt now.

And while not telling him about her powers hadn't gone really wrong, it could have. Taylor had been planning on going out as a parahuman soon, and all the awful things Jacqueline mentioned could have happened (could still happen) to dad, and he wouldn't have even known about it until it was too late.

All the secrets she'd been keeping had been crushing her, ruining her relationship with the person who cared about her most, and she hadn't even noticed until Jacqueline had told her that she didn't want to risk that exact same danger.

Dad was asking (shouting) a lot of questions. Who, what, when, why?


Taylor gave him answers.

Emma (and a few others, but Emma was the really painful one for both of them)

Insect control

The locker (They had both shuddered at that, and swiftly moved on)

Because she couldn't keep carrying those secrets when she'd realized how much they were hurting them both.

She told him about the bullying, in great detail. She told him about the tripping, and the spitballs, and the insults. She told him about the stolen work, about her plummeting grades. She told him about Mom's flute. About the suspicious lessening in her torment before winter break, and the despair and desperation she'd felt in the locker, though she couldn't bear to talk about that for long.

Taylor could tell he was very, very, angry, but he held his tongue.

At least none of it was aimed at her. Taylor wasn't sure she didn't deserve it.

She told him about discovering her powers, about the thrill of realization and the desperate need to fix things, to make things right, about her need to escape, to be a superhero.

And there was fear, mixed with his anger. He was scared for her. That warmed her heart more than a little, but she needed to keep talking.

She told him about her plans, about the costume she'd been making in the basement, and at last he spoke, asked to see it.

So they went downstairs to the basement. Where they found Jacqueline holding Taylor's costume and giggling uncontrollably.

Taylor had completely forgotten that the younger girl was in the house. Once again, she'd screwed up. She'd left a horribly traumatized child alone. And then let said horribly traumatized child stumble across her collection of insanely dangerous spiders.

Taylor felt like a horrible person.

 

[Obscura]

"Sorry, sorry. Nothing's wrong, I just found this really funny looking outfit and couldn't help laughing." I said. Given the way my day had gone, it was only natural that this was precisely the wrong thing to say.

How was I supposed to know it was her cape costume and she'd put months of careful and exacting work into it? It just looked like really bad drow cosplay. Like if somebody hadn't been reading carefully enough and had somehow mixed up Callistra and Lolth.

Apparently it was real spider silk though, which was actually really neat. Taylor, apparently, had the power to control spiders (at least the smaller, less fictional variety), along with the lesser bugs, like those wretched little mosquitoes. And presumably wasps as well. That thing with the crazed gunman was a little too convenient and I had since remembered that wasps weren't social animals. Not to anywhere near that degree, anyway. Now that I knew that powers that could do that sort of thing existed, and that someone with one was right there beside me, it wasn't hard to connect the dots. I was totally going to call her some sort of ridiculously edgy wasp-based name later.

Taylor wasn't angry, strangely enough. She just hugged me. She did try to defend her costume though. Our discussion of the matter didn't get far before Dungeons and Dragons and Danny both cut into it.

I'd accidentally let slip a crack about Taylor not being a Priestess of Lolth, and he'd caught the reference. We both were very firmly against Taylor emulating that bunch, for a very large number of very good reasons, so, however things shook out, Taylor wouldn't be going out in that monstrosity.

Danny and I both felt it was way too far on the darkside of costuming. Danny was afraid she'd get mistaken for a villain. I was afraid she'd look ridiculous. Between the two of us we managed to convince Taylor not to use it. It was pretty impressive in terms of raw combat utility, but appearances matter.

Now that I'm done tearing down a bullied teenage girl's fashion sense, I should probably tell you how I was totally going to get dragged into the disagreement I had come down into the basement to avoid in the first place. You see, after Taylor agreed to not go out in that costume, the natural question was whether she'd go out at all.

Danny was of the opinion that she shouldn't, or at a minimum, that she should join the Wards, and be a superhero (heroine? They didn't seem to use that suffix that way here, but I was pretty sure they were supposed to. Maybe it just sounded too much like Heroin) in the safest possible way. Taylor was firmly of the "with great power comes great responsibility" school of thought and she didn't want to join the Wards because she was worried that it would be a whole lot of "teenage drama" like high school.

Given what I knew of her high school experience, calling it "teenage drama" was like saying spending a winter at the south pole was "uncomfortably chilly". Technically accurate, but it really fails to convey the gravity of the situation. I thought it was rather unlikely that the Wards would be anywhere near that bad, but I did understand her hesitation.

Being unable to avoid getting involved, since I was right there and couldn't leave without going right between them or asking them to move, I resolved to try and take a compromise position. Hopefully, they'd take it as a starting point for something they could both live with, or even accept it outright. Or they'd unite against the outsider and find unity that way. I could live with either, though the former did seem preferable.

Once again, I mustered all my strength and drew upon all that I knew of oratory. I'd done that more today than either past me had ever needed to in any timeframe less than a solid month, and I was really getting tired of it, but I was getting a lot better at it. Practice does pay off. I also noted that I was a lot more confident and effective when I had a plan already sort of drawn out and the people involved already at least sort of liked me.

Okay, me. When one of them calls on you, strike a balance between safety and actual effectiveness, emphasize that you sympathize with them both, and bring up the possibility of postponing any decision making until you're all less tired and agitated. Especially that last thing.

By the Ways, I was tired.

It took longer than I expected for my turn to come. Apparently neither of them was inclined to bring me into their argument. Instead of being called in and not being able to back out, like I was expecting, I ended up inserting myself into things deliberately. You see, they weren't all that practiced at arguments, and it showed. One of them, I won't say which, ended up pushing a step too far, and, knowing things could go really badly from there, I felt obliged to step in:

"Okay, okay, okay. Let's all take a step back and catch our breaths. (I took a literal step back here, because while that was mostly a figure of speech, a little non-figurative distance couldn't hurt with putting in a little figurative distance). You both love each other, and you both have good reasons for why you've taken your positions.

"Danny, Taylor wants to help fix this broken world, and that's quite admirable. Taylor, Danny cares about you and wants you to be safe, and that's also quite admirable. Not doing anything with Taylor's powers isn't really an option, but neither is going out and picking fights without any backup or solid planning and preparation. Parahumans need to use their powers, and Taylor is quite right that the world in general and Brockton Bay in particular needs serious help. But going it alone is both unsafe and ineffective.

"The Wards are a solid option. I'm considering approaching New Wave because I'm not suited to the role of enforcing the law, but if that's what Taylor wants to do, the Wards are a pretty good choice for that. Alternatively, you could try and join New Wave as a combatant. New Wave is a seasoned and powerful team so it would be a safe choice, and, as families with adults, teenage drama would be either a lot less or a lot easier to avoid. Just don't try and go it alone. It won't work very well and it's insanely risky.

"I'm going to propose we table this discussion for the moment. All our emotions are running hot, we're all tired, and none of us are really in a good state to be making a decision this big. Let's get through tomorrow, do a little research, and then take the weekend to calmly and reasonably discuss and debate Taylor's options."

Huh. Apparently, I am really good at just blabbing on and on until people have no choice but to agree with me. It's a little bit distasteful, but since I'm like 97% sure it'll come in handy a lot I'm not about to complain. For the record, I wasn't nearly as sure about things as I made myself seem. They had both agreed to calm down and decide later, so I'm going to count that as a victory. Though it did turn out that Taylor hadn't told her father about my power, so that was awkward. At least he appreciated my honesty about it after I'd explained everything.

With that, our thoughts, or at least our words, turned to dinner.

 

[Obscura]

Perhaps unsurprisingly, nobody had actually done anything about dinner. Taylor normally did it, since Danny tended to work late, but somebody had dragged her off on some hare-brained scheme and she hadn't had time. Or so she told me. I, of course, plead the fifth.

Well, technically, I plead the eighteenth, but I meant the fifth. I was informed by Danny that the prohibition of the sale of alcohol was something he very much hoped was not relevant, and that that amendment had been repealed anyway. American constitutional law is not my forte.

If you're wondering how I could possibly get those two very different amendments confused, I blame Speakeasy. That little incident had left young Jacqueline Colere with a broad array of concepts stuck in her brain without a whole lot of context. Both amendments came up a lot in conversations involving him, for entirely different reasons.

At least conversation that wasn't arguing was happening, even if a poor innocent orphan child was being mercilessly teased by her cruel and uncaring hosts.

Earth Bet is truly a place of unremitting torment and suffering.

Dinner had to be handled somehow, and ordering something was the obvious answer. All three of us knew how to cook, but we'd also had a long and emotionally exhausting day and there really wasn't enough time to make anything good. Also, Danny was way out of practice, I had no idea where anything was, and Taylor's taste was clearly questionable, since she'd thought that wasp-drow monster was a good look for fighting crime in.

There are many different and wonderful kinds of food in the world, and quite a few of them are available for delivery. The selection in Brockton Bay, though, wasn't as good as it could have been. Between being a relatively small city, large racist gangs, and an economy that could generously be described as "faltering", not a whole lot of people started restaurants to share their unique cultural heritage. That being said, there were still well over a dozen different options.

So, of course, we ended up ordering pizza. There are a lot of different and wonderful kinds of food, but pizza was a safe choice for a family that had just taken in someone new. They had, after all, had exactly zero time to learn what I liked.

The discussion went something like this:

"Pizza?"

"Sure"

"That sounds very nice, thank you"

Politeness cost me nothing, and they had, joking aside, been very nice to me. Even the teasing was clearly designed to put me at ease.

Taylor did denounce me as a heretic when I asked for Hawaiian, but Danny and I ganged up on her, again, and so my need for pineapple and ham was conveyed to whoever it was he was ordering from. Danny and I would share a larger Hawaiian, which would be wonderful, and Taylor would have to content herself with the awfulness that was a "supreme". Such was justice.

We knew we'd have to do something to fill the time before the pizza arrived. Someone suggested Monopoly, but I pointed out that we wanted to actually like each other. I mean, it wasn't Diplomacy, but it wasn't a great option for establishing a friendship/pseudo-familial bond either. As an alternative, Taylor suggested Jenga. That was fun.

I did lose four times in a row because I had no idea how to play Jenga properly, but it was fun anyway. We were in the middle of a fifth game, Danny slowly sliding a block out from the middle of a row, when the doorbell rang, startling him and sending the whole elaborate pile of wood crashing down like the walls of Jericho.

It was, of course, the pizza guy. I mean, they were actually a woman, one with long pink hair at that, but they were the person delivering the pizza. Danny went and paid, leaving us girls to clean up the mess he'd made, and then we all sat around their kitchen table. Plates and glasses were distributed with grave solemnity as we prepared to begin the most essential of rituals: breaking bread together.

In an instant, I was struck with a grand revelation. The pizzaiolo who'd crafted this wonder was clearly a true master of their craft, marked and chosen by the high lords of pizzakind. They had walked all the slopes of Olympus itself searching for the finest of ingredients, slain the seven and twenty demons that guarded the vault of the lord of the underworld, and claimed from the very pantry of the gods that most precious of essences: ambrosia, in its very purest form, all that they might craft the greatest pizza this mortal world had ever seen, a glimmer of raw perfection in an imperfect world. Truly, they were the greatest pizzaiolo to ever walk the earth.

Either that or I was safe and comfortable for the first time in what felt like forever, hadn't had the chance to eat lunch, and breakfast had been half a chocolate bar, since Winslow wasn't exactly a cornucopia. But we all know which was more likely.

The first one. Obviously.

Taylor seemed entirely content with her supreme, never having tasted the true glory that was a hawaiian pizza. We will have to open her eyes eventually, but all things in due time.


Yes, yes, all things in due time.


There was laughing and joking and talking and all of that wonderful nonsense.

Contentedness is where you find it.

Not that I'm not upset with Patron, but allowing irritation, or worse, hatred, to rule you really isn't a good idea. For all sorts of reasons, really.

Besides, if I'm honest with myself, and I do try to be, this whole mess reeks of earnest good intentions leading into a grave mistake, rather than actual malice. If you're reading this, Patron, I sincerely hope you learned from this. If you have, we might actually get along one day. I remain sceptical, but I am hopeful that one day the clearly great power you possess will be used wisely for the side of good. Given this world in particular, it seems a wiser you is something that reality could use.

I am still mad though. Just to be clear. Not enough to strike at you unless you keep making this kind of mistake, and not enough to not do my best for this world, but I am.

Dinner was, in a word, nice, but all things must come to an end. Yes, I'm aware the usual saying only has good things, but in my experience it does also apply to bad ones. Both are usually replaced with more things, often of similar nature though. Things happen and things end, and new things come into their place. It's our responsibility to make the right new things happen. It's not the most elaborate philosophy, but it does work decently well.

I was honestly half expecting to be attacked sometime during that evening, but nothing of the sort happened. Unless tripping on my own feet counts.

It probably doesn't.

Unless someone else forces you to, anyway, and I didn't know of any capes who could do that. Not any who were still alive, anyway. There had been Stumblebum over in St. Johns, who could telekinetically affect people, but only people, and only in the form of a "push" on their limbs or torso, along with a few other minor grab-bag powers. He died with Newfoundland though. Probably anyway, like most of the victims they had never found a body. Kind of difficult to do so when the entire landmass suddenly isn't a landmass anymore. Maybe some other telekinetics could do it, but the only capes around were Taylor and I. As far as I knew.

Strangers are a rare but very real threat.

Soon enough it was time to sleep. Taylor's little bombshell had entirely derailed Danny's efforts to find me a place to do so, not that I could blame either of them. Especially since I'd also forgotten. Being too tired to actually fix the problem, we decided to slap a patch on it and deal with it tomorrow. I'd sleep in Taylor's room, and Taylor would sleep with her father.

I took my pajamas (which technically weren't pajamas, but would serve as such perfectly well), toothbrush, and other things from my pack and did all the necessary things to prepare for the night. Details omitted due to boringness.

Going over the day, I'd gotten a lot done. Outsider me going to me-me hadn't had a good day, but they'd at least adapted quickly. Colere-me had gone from a friendless homeless orphan with no real goals or resources to someone who was still homeless and an orphan, but not friendless, goal less or resource less, and the homelessness and the familylessnes had had a lot of the bite taken out of them. I'd forged two major goals: get the proper authorities on Taylor's case and fix a broken world. I'd even gotten one of them done! Something tells me that the second one is going to take at least a bit longer though. Well, that is a problem for tomorrow. Now is the time of sleep.

 

[Obscura]

Remember what I said a few reports back? About the better and worse ways to wake up? Well, the thing with the airhorn I mentioned way back then isn't actually the worst. Don't get me wrong, it's really bad, but it's not the absolute worst. No, the way I woke up the day after the merger was the worst.

Imagine opening your eyes, being a little confused, everything is foggy and unclear and something isn't right but you can't quite tell what it is and even though you sort of think this place should be familiar and then you open your eyes and it's a little different, but not much, and you are still foggy and unclear and you know you just woke up and the last thing was a dream, and then you realize you aren't really awake and you open your eyes and you think for a second that you're really awake and then it happens again and again and again and again and you think you can't get out and you're trapped and you get desperate and you you open your eyes and hope is crushed again and again, and you open your eyes and its not real you're still trapped in the dream and you try again and again and again and it doesn't work and you don't know how long its been in here or outside and you worry that you're never going to wake up and you try again and again and again and you keep getting different scenes and different rooms but they're all dreams and you have to wake up, wake UP, WAKE UP.

And then you're awake, really awake, but a tiny part of you worries that it's not real, that it's still a dream, and you still haven't really woken up and maybe you never will.

It is not the most pleasant experience in the world.

Frankly, I would have welcomed the airhorn thing by the time it was all over.


I suspect I'd have been a lot more likely to have gotten outside assistance if the whole thing hadn't happened around 5:15 or so. Or if both my hosts hadn't had a really emotionally draining day yesterday, resulting in a dire need for sleep. Or if I had living parents in this reality. Or a lot of things, really.


Anyway, it was really early in the morning and my hosts were probably really tired and I didn't want to disturb them. Fortunately, my PRT issue phone came with Wi-Fi. It was a really nice model, actually, with a lot of extras and all the bells and whistles. Most likely including a tracking device and PRT monitoring, but I didn't actually have anything to hide from them on that score.

There are benefits to doing everything legitimately and openly. Like not worrying about who's going to find the skeletons in your closet, cause there aren't any. And some other benefits, probably. I had mostly just decided to do it that way out of morality.

I guess being able to look at yourself in the mirror without crushing amounts of guilt is a pretty decent benefit.


The first thing I decided to do on the internet was research. Not classwork, I really didn't need or trust the internet for that. No, I was going to research capes, in particular the villainous ones in Brockton Bay. Even if I didn't intend to go hunt down supervillains, there was a chance they'd try something to get their hands on a healer. Plus, Taylor was probably going to try hunting down supervillains at some point. Hopefully she'd be smart about it, but I really couldn't picture her standing idly by.

There were quite a few capes we'd have to watch out for, not all of them being obvious at first glance. If this was a story, the obvious threats were not going to be the most dangerous ones. No, in a superhero story it would be far more dramatic if the real danger is unknown until it is unveiled in a startling reveal.


But first I had to consider the obvious threats. The Asian Bad Boys' capes were dangerous, and everybody knew it. Nobody wants to fight a constantly regenerating dragon or a serial-suicide bomber, and they were both stone cold killers. If you fought them, you were probably dead unless you were seriously powerful, had serious skill, or had serious backup.

Even so, there were only two of them, and neither had shown much interest in press-ganging more. If I avoided them, and did nothing to draw their ire, they almost certainly wouldn't come after me. Especially since Jacqueline Colere wasn't at all asian, and was thus ineligible for membership.


The Empire Eighty-Eight parahumans would be more problematic. None of them had quite the level of "do not fight this person, you will definitely die" rep that Lung or Oni Lee had, but a few of them came close, especially the one they called Hookwolf. Someone who turned into a psychotic mass of whirling hooks and blades in a vaguely wolf-like shape was not someone you wanted going after you. Worse, they had a lot of capes, were really good at working together, and hated all other races. Being neo-nazis and all that. They would not be happy with my existence. Especially since they also hated the LGBTQ+ community with a violent passion. Being neo-nazis and all that. Superpowered Nazis being the largest parahuman organization around was, to put it mildly, not a good thing in my book. I'd have to look at them more later, but I wanted to cover all the groups.


The Merchant's capes weren't nearly as powerful or respected as the Empire or ABB, but they were far more than a match for the likes of me. A woman who made incredibly dangerous vehicles, known by the rather uncouth name of Squealer, gave them far more mobility and firepower than I was comfortable with. This was the gang that made the "Just Say No" campaign's drug dealers look like reasonable, upstanding citizens after all. The other two, Mush and Skidmark (the nominal leader), were dangerous in a fight, but they were largely small timers without ambition. They might take offense if I tried doing something about the problem of drug addiction though.


Faultline's crew were powerful, experienced and numerous, but they were also pure mercenaries who never accepted work within the city, and never killed. As far as the internet knew, anyway. I made note of them, but I had much bigger problems to worry about.


Strangely, it was the supposed smaller players who worried me more. Most of them, anyway. The cat-burglar known as Circus didn't really concern me all that much. What was she gonna do, steal all the valuable stuff I don't have?

Über and Leet were frequently thought of as the joke of the cape community, and with their frequent bumbling and regular explosive equipment failures, it wasn't hard to see why. That being said, I could easily see ways in which their powers could be extremely dangerous. Leet had built an incredible array of powerful Tinkertech, even if it was somewhat unreliable and he never reused ideas for some reason. There was speculation on the Parahumans Online boards that it was something about power limitations. Über was said to be able to rapidly gain any skill, and while the ones he'd shown weren't anything more dangerous than beyond-professional-level martial arts, there were an awful lot of truly dangerous skills in the world.

Bomb-making, marksmanship, assasination, chemical weapons manufacture, and knife work came to mind. And those were just the ones where it would be obvious if he used them. Manipulation, deception, infiltration, psychological warfare: the possibilities were limitless. Even the martial arts could be extremely lethal if he used them that way.

Either they were incompetent idiots with no idea of the raw potential of their abilities, or they were playing the fool on purpose. Given that they'd successfully operated in an incredibly dangerous city without dying, or even ever really facing long-term consequences, for years, idiocy did not seem likely. Hopefully they were just avoiding the risks of being big-time and weren't up to something really nefarious.


Coil's organization was small-time in terms of raw numbers or amount of territory, but they controlled some of the most valuable real estate in town and their relatively few troops were actual soldiers, good ones, with access to Tinkertech and military-grade mundane equipment. The really good stuff, not your stereotypical "remember, your gear was made by the lowest bidder" junk. It frankly baffled me that nobody seemed to think he could be a real threat. Discipline, tactics and equipment count for a lot in a fight, and the organization was better at all three than anyone else in town, including the PRT. Coil had no known parahuman abilities, but vastly superior logistics and training were certainly good superpowers. Most parahumans died if you shot them, after all. Especially if they weren't on guard. He had to have a lot of resources, and either be highly competent in a very broad array of areas or have very good lieutenants and advisors who he worked well with. I'm not sure which would be worse. And just because he had no known parahuman abilities didn't necessarily mean he had no parahuman abilities. He was rather worrying.


The Undersiders were the new kids in town, some of them literally. Grue, their leader, had a decent power and a reputation for competence, but he was also professional enough to not really worry me all that much. Sure he could easily beat me up, but he'd probably need an actual reason to do so.

Heckhound (I refused to touch the PRT issue name) was a known murderess and generally violent individual. She could turn any ordinary cute li'l puppy into a vicious killing machine comparable in raw speed, strength, and ferocity to an angry bear.

Note to self: avoid absolutely anything having to do with dogs.


Regent wasn't known to have done anything really bad, but having a human Master in town didn't exactly reassure me. He could cause muscle spasms, causing similar effects to Stumblebum, albeit in a much more direct fashion.

What worried me was the fact that his power seemed really weak and innocuous, something parahuman powers rarely were. Myself excepted, but I rather doubted how and from whom I had gotten mine was at all typical. Stumblebum had been a grab-bag, with multiple unrelated powers. Parahumans like him tended to have weaker individual powers, compensated for with versatility and/or power synergies. Assuming Regent wasn't also a grab-bag, and there were no signs that he was, he probably wasn't showing his hand. Lots of parahumans downplayed their abilities, especially human Masters and other possessors of scary powers. And what he was showing could easily be a cover for much longer-lasting, broader, or subtler control. Or all three. If it was all three he'd be a nightmare to try to deal with. Unless he was holding back due to morality, and somehow that didn't seem likely in an openly self-declared supervillain.


The blonde girl they called Tattletale was the one who worried me most though. Her powers weren't known, but the way she was often seen cutting at people verbally and her name gave me a sneaking suspicion. She seemed a lot like Speakeasy, except far more sadistic, always saying exactly the right thing to hurt people. Nothing entirely credible, but the stories were remarkably consistent, even if they weren't on the best sites.

Speakeasy had been a Thinker/Master, always knowing exactly what to say (and when and how to say it) to get people to do what he wanted, even if it hurt them or their loved ones. And it pretty much always did, emotionally and sometimes physically. Tattletale seemed to skip the "do what (s)he wanted" part and go right into the part about hurting people, and doing it as much as possible.

If the "tattle" part of her name was accurate, there was probably a lot of truth mixed in with the lies and all of it was aimed exactly right to cause the most harm. It was both scary and infuriating. I resolved to never let her talk to me. I'd smash her jaw if I had to. "Never let the thinker talk" definitely applied here.


It's possible I might have been projecting based off of an old childhood trauma, but I wasn't about to take that risk.

That stuff is really terrifying when you think about it.

Let us put it out of our minds for now.

I rearranged my notes, and moved on to more immediate concerns.

This was a school day.


In terms of actual schoolwork and academics, I'd be fine. More than fine, really, I'd been a straight-A student even before I'd gotten an entire extra person's worth of knowledge and experience shoved into my brain. Or I was a competent student from a level of education higher than the 9th-grade pablum I was expected to take in even before I'd gotten shoved into a straight-A student's brain. Or both. Or neither. Whatever the case may be, I wasn't worried on the academic front.

The existential front could wait.

No, it was the social front I was worried about. For both Taylor and myself. Taylor was the usual target, but I was the one whom the bullies had taken special umbrage to lately. Because I'd acted to help Taylor. Standing up to someone who thinks everyone is beneath them will do that. It probably wouldn't be safe to go anywhere without witnesses. The safest thing for us to do would be to keep our heads down and not draw attention while the investigation was ongoing. Maybe even skip entirely.


Emma, Sophia, and What's-her-name would be on the warpath if they had any inkling about our little expedition to the PRT yesterday. Even if they knew nothing, they'd probably want to "put me in my place" or some such nonsense. 50-50 odds they went after me or they went after Taylor to show that I couldn't protect her. They hadn't exactly been subtle about their twisted little excuse for a philosophy. Honestly, some people just don't realise how insane the garbage they spew sounds.

Like this one time, I got kidnapped by some interdimensional whatchamacallit, and they sent me an arrowgram outright stating, as if it was an unquestionable fact, that I was grateful for it!

Well, I'd talk with Taylor and Danny when they woke up, see what they thought. In the meantime I had internetting to do.


Huh. Apparently the entire world is controlled by a mysterious secret organization for the purposes of … something. None of the "truth-seekers" could agree on what. Or how. Or what the "proof" was. I guess conspiracy theorists are the same wherever you go. What kind of silly name for a secret organization is "Cauldron", anyway?

 

[Obscura]

Post-internetting, I went downstairs to wait for Taylor to wake up. I didn't want to take up her room anymore, but leaving for school without notice would be rude. Also, I had no idea how to get to Winslow from here. Not beyond "by bus" anyway, and since I didn't know which bus or where the stop for the line going towards Winslow was, that wasn't much help. I knew how to get here, sort of, but not back to the "school". I also had no bus fare. So no bus for me.

Since I was downstairs anyway, I decided to make breakfast for my generous hosts. And also for me.

I didn't know where anything was, but the nice thing about being awake this early was that there was plenty of time to look. The potential issue of them not having the right things or me not being able to find something in time I solved via the simple expedient of laying out everything I would need before I got started. That's how I ended up not trying for french toast: they didn't have any powdered sugar. Or maybe they did and I just wasn't looking in the right place. It was a toss up, really.

Pancakes were the obvious alternative, but I didn't know how to make those, and now really wasn't the time to learn.

Fry up it was. I ran into not having something a few times with that too, but the whole setup was pretty flexible. Bit of bacon, bit of sausage. Butter, just in case. Eggs. They weren't high grade eggs, but for what I was doing that didn't really matter. Frying pan, spatula. Sliced bread. Washing materials. With all the ingredients and tools set out, I double checked everything.

---

I had no idea how to turn their stove on safely. Really shouldn't have assumed it'd have the same button set up as I remembered from home on the other world. Some things are so obvious in hindsight. I really didn't want to set fire to the Hebert home. For all sorts of reasons. Mom not least among them.

"Guess I'll read then", I thought to myself. There were a few bookshelves around. Ooh, Don Quixote. Unabridged, even. I, meaning outsider me, am very fond of that book, even if I can never remember to pronounce its eponymous main character's name properly. I know how it's supposed to be pronounced, but that doesn't help. Quicks-oat just sounds right.

Everybody's favourite pseudoknight (No, you can't just decide you're worthy of a knighthood) was arguing about the chivalric duty and whether knights on quests had to pay for lodgings when somebody finally came downstairs.

"Jacqueline, why is all this out?" Danny questioned.

"I wanted to make you guys breakfast cause I was up first and to thank you for everything, but your stove is different from what I'm used to and I'm not sure I know how to use it safely."

"Ah" he sort of dramatically sighed. "Let me show you how it's done."

It rapidly became apparent he wasn't talking about turning the stove on, or even how to properly observe the safety measures. I'm honestly not sure what he was doing differently, but his fry-up smelt a lot better than either past me had ever managed. He was taking a lot of care to explain, but it all seemed pretty much the same as I'd been taught before. I have no explanation for that. His chuckling was kind of reassuring though.

I wasn't paying the upstairs a lot of attention, but I liked the thought of Taylor being woken up by the smell of pure deliciousness cooking. Whether it was that which awoke her or something else, the Taylor was soon among us.

For a brief, blissful, period, all was well. Light conversation was made. Food was had. Social bonding was restablished and reinforced. Then I put my foot in my mouth by asking what we should do today about the situation with the bullies. That killed the mood alright.

There were three obvious options, none of them good. We could go in and kick up a big fuss by confronting the bullies and the administration, but it probably wouldn't accomplish much and it might screw up the investigation. We could just go in and pretend everything was normal, but now that Taylor actually was making progress in fixing things/Danny and I knew things were wrong, nobody really wanted to risk more bullying. Or we could skip school entirely, but that felt like cowardice and none of us really liked the idea of truancy anyway.

We all saw the problems and nobody had any answers. Not any good answers anyway. "Can't we just set Winslow on fire" doesn't count.

Tempting though the idea might be.

Maybe we could call the PRT, see what they thought. If going or not going could help or hinder the investigation, that'd at least push us to a decision. Maybe see about power testing or somesuch.

It was as good a plan as any.

Naturally, right in the middle of my musing about the possibility of calling the PRT, Taylor suggested that maybe someone should call the PRT.

Great minds think alike.

Danny, being the responsible adult, nominated himself to take care of it. I mean, I like to think I'm responsible, and Taylor seemed to be pretty responsible except for a bad habit of not telling people about her problems, but he was the adult. Taylor was around 15 and I was just barely 14. Sort of. Jacqueline was. She/I had skipped a grade and Winslow was 9th-12th, and I as a complete whole had no idea how old I was. I might have quite literally been born yesterday. Would certainly explain why I fell for the thing with the wasps.

Also, I was about 86% sure both Taylor and I suffered from some sort of social anxiety. Taylor talking to authority or me talking to someone I couldn't see wouldn't be fun. At all. Danny wasn't without his own issues, I could tell, but talking to people he wasn't emotionally invested in didn't seem to be one of them. Talking to Taylor, on the other hand? It was probably a good thing I'd be there to push them into it and keep things from going really wrong.

I've mentioned it before, but in my experience no one is totally sane. Everyone has their own problems, and dealing with them responsibly is important. On Earth Bet that was even more the case, given the massive amount of problems to go around. One of the many things I'd have to try fixing was the relative scarcity of therapists. Probably can't do anything about that directly, but maybe I could set up a scholarship or something once I had money. Healing like I could do would be valuable, especially in this degenerate society without universal healthcare. Maybe that would be another thing to try to fix, or at least I could help those who couldn't afford medical help out somehow. Probably by clockwork aura, at least as a start.

That aura could help with a lot of things, really. From what I could tell, it could fix just about anything that was physically wrong with just about anything. Not fast by parahuman standards, but faster and more completely than most mundane methods. People, buildings, technology, cultural artifacts, all of it. Couldn't fix dead, though. I felt it would work on corpses, but even if my aura could bring them to perfect physical condition, they'd still be dead. Really gives a new meaning to "live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse". Now you could die old and leave an equally pretty corpse!

Cold comfort to anyone who cared about the deceased though. Including me. I knew where mom's body was, but fixing the burns wouldn't bring her back. I remembered wanting so desperately to fix things, for all the cruel wounds on her body to disappear so she could hug me again and everything would be alright. Now I could get rid of everything done to her body, from the deepest burns to tiniest slivers, and absolutely none of it would make things okay.

I've read that this sort of cruel irony is common with powers. I wanted to fix things to bring my mother back, and I could fix anything except death, the thing I wanted to fix most of all, the thing that had created the need to make things right in the first place. Taylor, from what she'd told me, had wanted to not be alone, for someone to try to help her. She got bugs, who couldn't help her with what really mattered. A lot of Thinkers apparently wanted to know what went wrong, what happened to destroy their lives or take someone from them, and found that knowing didn't do anything to fix it. That sort of thing.

I couldn't fix my own cruel irony, but hopefully I could help others with theirs. Taylor's bugs couldn't be her friends, couldn't fix the things that really needed fixing, but I could. I hoped I could, anyway. I was certainly trying.

Knowing how things went wrong didn't help those Thinkers fix it, but at least in some cases I'd be able to. I'd do what I could to fix those vexing problems that powers so often addressed in the most useless of ways.

My power couldn't bring back anyone I cared about, but it could help stop other people from losing their own loved ones. Directly and indirectly. I could address all sorts of problems, and I would do my best to do so, hopefully in a way that actually helped.

Maybe then this world wouldn't be such a dumpster fire.


I could only hope.

 

[Obscura]

AN: These interludes are presented anachronically (out of order) for dramatic and/or comedic purposes.

Assault:

Ethan wasn't usually a vindictive person. He'd benefited too much from his second chance to easily deny others their own shots at redemption, and even before then he'd never really liked the concept of punishment. Admittedly, a big part of that was because of the possibility of punishment coming his way, but he didn't like it even when it applied to others. Still, he did have his limits.

Shadow Stalker had seriously tested those limits. He could forgive a lot that was done in the heat of the moment, or from people who didn't feel they had any other choice, or at least no good other choice. Sophia Hess's little campaign of torment had no such excuse. One or two petty clashes, a few harsh words? That much he could understand. Everyone had bad days. But Sophia and her cronies had been persecuting Taylor Hebert on a daily basis for well over a year by this point, and they could have backed off at any point. There didn't even seem to be a real reason.

He'd taken the task of bringing the recalcitrant Ward in himself. He'd been smart about it, planned things out carefully to minimize the risk of her escaping or hurting someone trying. Armsmaster had made an electro-cuff thing as soon as they'd learned her weakness, well before people higher up than Ethan had decided that pressing the violent vigilante into the Wards was a good idea. It hadn't been hard to distract her with a bit of meaningless small talk, and she hadn't noticed the cuff until it was already on her. Without her Breaker state, the ensuing fight was over before it began. People didn't associate the hero Assault with good tactics or planning, but if he hadn't been a good planner he would never have gotten away with any of his many crimes for as long as he had.

The girl still wasn't talking, but the sheer contempt she'd shown for her "weakling" victim spoke for itself. She was in Master/Stranger confinement now, but that was pretty much just a formality, a way to be absolutely sure that the situation was as bad as it looked and there wasn't any easy way out of it. It would sure be a lot easier if Shadow Stalker wasn't responsible for her actions, but it wasn't likely. Kinda shows just how screwy the situation was that a 15 year old under PRT protection having been Mastered into absolutely psychotic behaviour was the good option. It was definitely looking like Shadow Stalker was guilty as sin, and Ethan, for one, had no intention of letting her get away with anything.


Lady Photon:

Sarah Pelham wasn't all that surprised to get a call from Emily Piggot, the director of the local PRT branch. Communication between the organization responsible for policing parahumans in Brockton Bay and the leader of the only independent hero group in town was only common sense, although Emily usually had one of her subordinates take care of it.

No, the subject of the call was what was unexpected. New Wave was, loathe though she was to admit it, basically dead in the water. Not sinking, not yet anyway, but the engines were busted, no real force left behind the movement she and the others had so idealistically formed all those years ago. Now somebody wanted to join up, and Emily Piggot was pushing for a meeting. Probably under her terms, but still. Sarah wasn't sure which was more surprising.

Piggot hadn't explained very much, but they were both trying to set up a meeting between the possible new recruit, the PRT, and New Wave. Sarah Pelham decided to reserve judgement until she'd actually met this "Jacqueline Colere"

Emily was almost certainly up to something, Sarah knew her a little too well to think otherwise, but the girl might not be involved in it. It might not even be bad for New Wave. Emily Piggott would stop at very little to keep Brockton Bay as much under control as it ever was, but Sarah agreed with that goal, it was why she became a superhero in the first place, although Emily phrased it more cynically than Sarah ever had. Than she had ever phrased it where someone besides her sister or her husband could hear, anyway.

She did wonder why she'd been asked to make sure her sister came along though.


PRT ENE Records:

Parahuman Response Team East-North-East division Internal Threat Assessment 1597 (La Mademoiselle de Ma'at)

Name: La Mademoiselle de Ma'at (tentative), civilian name redacted.

Disposition: Hero, Currently Unaffiliated. Has expressed interest in joining Independent Hero group New Wave. Cooperative with PRT ENE.

Classifications:

Shaker 1 (Brute 1, Tinker 1): Subject possesses a "clockwork aura" of varying radius and intensity. Intensity and radius appear to both derive from the same factor, the level of focus the subject puts on "creating order". This Shaker effect repairs damage within its area of effect, affecting humans and objects alike. Effect does not appear to be Manton Limited. No known offensive utility. Effect as so far observed is too slow to be meaningful during combat, although the self-repair capacity of Subject has been observed to significantly reduce recovery time. (Brute subrating). Tinker subrating is due to the Aura's effect on technology. Several items have been observed to be "repaired" to a state of function slightly superior to mint condition, hypothesised to be due to correction of minor manufacturing faults and/or perfect maintenance.

Thinker 0/1 (Theorized): Although the subject has no known Thinker powers, several agents have reported that the subject demonstrated a level of calm, clear thinking, and clarity of purpose well beyond the norm for the subject's known age, level of training, and experience. Further testing required.

General information: Subject approached PRT immediately upon discovery of powers, and has been fully cooperative. Subject's power has been deemed useful but non-dangerous, and subject has shown respect and admiration for PRT personnel, particularly Regional Director Emily Piggot.

Personality: Subject is cooperative and friendly, with known heroic tendencies. Subject has expressed an aversion to parahuman violence, but has demonstrated a desire to help both society in general and the PRT in particular.

Notes: Despite her minimal combat ability, the subject is a high-priority target for recruitment, as her healing abilities are of tremendous potential value.

It is also probable that the subject's abilities are more extensive than demonstrated. No direct evidence of such a possibility exists, but given both the subject's newness to her own abilities and the strong tendency of parahuman abilities to be combat-useful it has been deemed a strong possibility.

Recommended Strategies: As the subject is currently well-disposed to PRT and is a priority target for recruitment, it is recommended that agents attempt to diplomatically resolve any conflict with the subject. Should this prove impossible, the subject has no known combat-useful powers, equipment, or training, and in a physical confrontation is effectively an untrained ordinary high-school student. Should her abilities prove more extensive or dangerous than they are known to be, standard Shaker protocols are to be enacted.


Coil:

Thomas Calvert was a careful man. He was also a manipulative and deeply sadistic man without any sense of empathy or concern for others, admittedly. He was practically your classic Hollywood depiction of a sociopath given life, actually. Not that sociopathy is a valid medical diagnosis. Not anymore anyway, and that was probably a good thing in most cases, but in Calvert's case it was probably the best possible. But he was a careful man. He knew full well that all parahumans were dangerous, at least when they wanted to be. The ones who didn't seem dangerous were no exception. He should know. He was, after all, Exhibit A on the subject. Despite his deliberately crafted images as a wise and respectable PRT consultant / a minor bit player technically-a-supervillain, he was far more dangerous than the Empire, ABB or any of the other parahuman criminals of the city.

Thus, it was entirely possible, even probable, that this new player was more dangerous than they seemed. It wouldn't be hard, she seemed about as dangerous as a kicked puppy. No threat ratings higher than a 1, even if that was partly the assessor deliberately using the strictest interpretation of "threat" in order to make sure Colere fell as low in the ratings as possible. Thomas would need to learn why, but more importantly Coil would need to see if this puppy had teeth, and, if so, how big they were and if she knew how to use them. Fortunately for him, Thomas Calvert had been on duty when Danny Hebert called to ask whether the two girls in his house (which would surprise the PRT as a whole, although Coil had the surveillance capacity to be entirely unsurprised) should go to school. Two possible answers presented themselves. Fortunately for him, he could give both. He could split time itself, running two parallel universes with the sole distinction being his own actions, share information between them, and pick and choose which would be the "real" timeline.

He was very smug about that, although he would never admit it. Even if somebody else actually knew what his power was. He was kind of a jerk that way, although not nearly as much of a jerk as he was in so very, very, many other ways.

In one timeline, he did the simple, sensible thing and said that both girls should stay home, and the PRT would have their absence excused, as they had already done for the previous day. This option had the benefit of being exactly what he was expected to advise as a PRT consultant, and would improve his reputation for reliability and trustworthiness. After all, even if the main perpetrator had been shoved into Master/Stranger protocols, sending a pair of young girls into a building where they had been assaulted yesterday would reflect badly on him.

In the other timeline, he did something slightly less sensible. It should perhaps be noted that Thomas Calvert had a definite tendency to be far less cautious when in a timeline he could discard on a whim, so when in a disposable timeline he sometimes did things like taking risks. Or torturing innocent (or guilty, he didn't discriminate) people for information. Or torturing innocent (or guilty, he didn't discriminate) people for his own amusement. Sometimes to death. To his mind, the consequences were only real if he let them be. He was, after all, a jerk.

That simply cannot be overstated.


In this timeline, he said that Taylor should stay home, but Jacqueline should go to school. It'd be suspicious if they were both absent, he justified. It was a risk, but it would probably be thought of as little more than a slight overconcern for the investigation over the victims. He also arranged for orders to be sent to his spy in Winslow, telling him to get Jacqueline Colere into a fight. Pick one himself if necessary. Or maybe he could just kidnap the girl.

It might seem odd that a high-level supervillain would have a spy in a high school, but Coil had spies everywhere, or at least tried to. A lot of low level gangers went to Winslow, and just listening to the ambient gossip got his agent a lot of information on the activity of the other gangs. And it wasn't like the agent knew who he reported to. He thought he was working for one of the little gangs in town, one without any parahumans or worthwhile territory. There were about a dozen of those in town, and even taken as a group they were barely a blip on the radar, but they did have a presence in Winslow. The particular gang his spy thought he worked for didn't actually exist anymore, but without Coil's extensive network of information he had no way to know that.

Coil's network of information was extensive. Hundreds of agents, most of them unaware of who they reported to, dozens of computers, moles in every major organization in the bay (and most of the minor ones) including his own (to root out sloppiness or betrayal), a plethora of supporting assets and logistics, and the immense advantage his power offered in the field of operational intelligence. Few things could truly surprise him. One of those things had happened last night, but Coil wouldn't find out about it until much later.


"John Smith":

Being Winslow's custodian wasn't an easy job at the best of times, but the night had been worse than usual for "John Smith". Some dumb kids had decided a food fight in the cafeteria was a good idea, and, this being Winslow, things had gotten out of hand. Play-violence had swiftly turned to fists and kicks, leaving "John" to mop up the blood and chocolate. As well as all the other foodstuffs. At least now there was only one room left on today's cleaning schedule, the third story girl's bathroom.

---

Clearly there had been a murder, and somebody had gone overboard wiping up the evidence. There was no other possible way any room in Winslow would be that clean. "John" wasn't about to complain. Whistling cheerfully, he packed away his cleaning supplies, put them in the designated area, and walked straight out of the school.

He had way too much alcohol waiting for him at home to care.


Shadow Stalker:

Sophia didn't have any way of knowing how all of this had gone so wrong, but she blamed Taylor Hebert. There were coils inside her brain. She was aware that she didn't really have any reason to blame Taylor for Assault deciding to punch her out and drag her into Master/Stranger confinement, but it was so easy to blame everything on the wimp's weakness. She was kind of a jerk that way, although not nearly as much of a jerk as Coil. agree-AGREE. Maybe she could blame that other girl, the one whose name she'd never gotten. AGREE. It hadn't occurred to Sophia that the girl might snitch to the PRT, but it would explain everything. agree. She had been certain her little use of her power to not smash her head on the sink after the little punk's cheap shot hadn't been noticed, but if it had?

Well that wouldn't be good for her. There was definitely something weird about the girl. Sophia had snatched one of the pieces of paper sticking out of the girl's pocket, and it turned out to be some sort of bizarre letter about comic books and world hopping. Some stupid fan junk,but the syntax was definitely off, she could AGREE with that much. She blinked. Agree with who? Coils within coils and lies within lies. Something was wrong. agree-AGREE.

Nothing was wrong. Sophia Hess was a good girl. The girl talked weird too, if not in quite the same way. Coils within Coil. agree-AGREE. And what was a little starveling weasel like that doing standing up to her in the first place. She listened to her mother, played nice, and followed the rules. She hadn't done anything wrong, ever. There were coils and Coils in her mind, she agreed-AGREED, but she hadn't done anything wrong.

Mara Sorrows (as she was calling herself for now), Master/Stranger confinement overseer, observed silently as Sophia Hess, AKA Shadow Stalker started screaming incoherently about agreements, good girls, and the supervillain known as Coil. The incident was extremely concerning. The interview afterwards, wherein she didn't seem to remember anything past middle school, would be even more so. That her last memory before the Master/Stranger screening cell was of a man in a black bodysuit with a white snake wrapped around it telling her to be a "good girl" was not only concerning, but also deeply disturbing.

Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. agree_AGREE.