Interlude: Abigail
(Thanks to
@Slamu for the original Omake!)
***
Abigail Ross did a very important job.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes? As parahuman activity steadily rose - at least 17% increases each year over the past five years alone - the PRT and Protectorate were rapidly becoming the glue which held society together. Increasingly it was
they that enforced even mundane, street-level crimes, and new laws were now expected to be run through a battery of friendly PRT Thinkers before even reaching the debate floor. Worse, there hadn't been a bill passed in the last decade that didn't have a rider on it granting the PRT an exemption, or making allowances for Protectorate heroes.
Beyond the halls of courtrooms and political offices, parahumans had steadily become the very fabric of the Average American's reality; when she was a little girl, Abigail's father had told her about how important sports like baseball, football, and basketball were, how people would walk around wearing jerseys and collecting trading cards cards. Even the most common head covering in America is called a
baseball cap. The sport was still around, of course, but how could a man hitting a ball with a stick compare to the sort of pomp and splendor that parahumans wore about them like a cloak (sometimes literally)?
Now office drones swapped scores with their "fantasy cape leagues," assembling teams of heroes and villains and comparing successful heists and arrests, power synergies and bounties and a plethora of other minutia. Abigail's husband had gotten their son Robert into the PRT trading card scheme, eagerly (and at length) explaining to her why trading Snaptrap and Armsmaster for Legend had been a great move on his part and how it would let him show up one of his classmates when they checked in on the official PRT Fantasy Cape League scoreboard at the end of the week.
Abigail winced, but tried not to put a damper on Robby's high spirits. He was graduating 6th grade soon, and wanted desperately to be one of the cool kids, so she only kissed him twice before guiding him to the minivan at the end of his first school day of the week. He still complained, but it left a smile on Abigail's face - until she pulled out of the middle-school's parking lot and immediately hit a red light.
***
Eleanor didn't complain, just slid into the back seat as usual when Abigail finally pulled in late to her elder daughter's high school.
Hero High School, renamed for the fallen Original Tinker, when years ago it was once
Abraham Lincoln High School.
Not that Eleanor talked to Abigail much these days, or anyone in the family for that matter. She had started rebelling, as all sixteen year-olds are expected to do, but Abigail only wished that her sweet, bubbly little girl would have stayed around a little bit longer; the gloomy, all-black-and-heavy-mascara teen sitting behind her was both a stranger and a constant, painful reminder of her job these days.
Abigail sometimes wondered if her daughter was trying to dress up like Taylor Hebert's 'robot mode' because Abigail's own job revolved around the teenaged Ward, or because Weaver was simply the name on every high-schooler girl's lips… and every teenaged boy's mind. Abigail never pushed her daughter about it, however, knowing from her own youth and from her experience in the Youth Guard that pushing young girls about their identity was the best way to get them to rebel even harder.
It was, she reminded herself, that devil Glenn Chambers' fault. Not her daughter's teenaged rebellion, though when she was feeling uncharitable she wasn't above blaming him for that as well. No, it was the…
commoditization of a young woman that he pushed off on the public. The young heroine's face was nearly everywhere now, plastered on every product you could imagine, and the routine media discussions about popular heroes almost always had some snippet about the famous Ward.
But poor Weaver was just the latest casualty in a long line of rampant commercialization of heroic personas: product endorsements, idolization, TV and movie roles, school speeches… if there was a way for a parahuman to be thrown in front of the public eye, the PRT was there with some form of propaganda in one hand and marketing scheme in the other.
But it wasn't the adults that joined the Protectorate life of their own free will that concerned Abigail, it was the children enrolled in the Wards program. Ostensibly, children joined as a way to learn how to control their powers while still keeping a grounded and sane lifestyle, but by now it was evident even to the general public that the PRT considered the Wards program to be a "junior Protectorate" program. Martin Uriel at least paid lip service to the Youth Guard's mandates, but she'd heard stories about some of the other cities' Directors that had not only had their Wards patrolling the streets, but actively engaging murderous supervillains in combat.
If Abigail Ross ever got Emily Piggot alone in a room, she'd give the cow a piece of her mind.
What kind of evil person sends children into combat?
The death of Abigail's niece, Suzy, had opened Abigail's eyes to that world five years ago. Mary, her sister, had confided in her weeks after the funeral that Suzy was Light Brite, the young Ward that the news had reported dead only a few days earlier.
Suzy had died in a
three way gang fight, involving
five parahuman supervillains. Suzy had been
alone.
Mary had been too devastated to fight the PRT after that, but Abigail knew that the same thing could happen to her own Robby or Eleanor… if she didn't do something about it.
Which, thinking about Eleanor again, brought her back to current assignment: Weaver, aka Taylor Hebert. Survivor of Brockton Bay, daughter of a supervillain that had apparently tried to kill her
during the Endbringer fight. Now, a ward of the state, and caught up in Chambers machinations - all this, barely a month into her new life.
When she'd been paraded about on television upon her arrival to Philadelphia, it was all Abigail Ross could do to just leave the living room instead of picking up her cell phone and screaming at that lazy PRT director.
***
Still internally fuming at the memory, Abigail barely finished pulling into her garage before Robby and Eleanor bolted from the minivan and into the house; Robby likely tearing up to his room to play one of those new PRT-affiliated video games he got for his birthday last week, and Eleanor undoubtedly off beg Nathan for use of his car.
Nathan may have been the love of her life and the father of her children, but he had absolutely no spine when it came to Eleanor's 'puppy-dog eyes'.
It's not that Abigail didn't want her little girl going out on the town - Abigail was friends with enough of Eleanor's friends' mothers that that base was covered - but… ok, she didn't want Eleanor going out on the town. The news was reporting that the usual gang fighting was heating up over the last week. She trusted her daughter, she just didn't trust
everyone else.
Still, with the kids gone or busy, maybe Nathan would be able to pull himself away from his Admin job for… no, she had too much work to do right now, what with poor Taylor being locked up the whole last week on Protectorate Island. "Master/Stranger protocols" her dainty little behind! She'd received the reports of what Taylor had been up to this whole time: working on Tinker projects for the PRT!
How low do you have to be to lock up a fifteen-year-old, traumatized orphan? Just to put them to work in a sweatshop - a literal one, judging by those pictures of her slaving away night and day in sweatpants and a hoodie?!
Abigail made her way into the kitchen, putting away the groceries she had picked up before fetching the kids from school, and then shuffled her sock-clad feet along the carpeted hallway just enough to give Nathan a zap when she snuck into his den and poked the back of his neck.
At his cute yelp and playful growl, she gave a little squeal as she let him chase her around the den before he gave her a quick smooch and promised retribution later tonight.
Blowing her curly black bangs in a huff, Abigail gave him a kiss to make sure he'd remember, then hummed her way to her own home office in the basement.
***
One hour and many reviewed case documents later, Abigail once again felt the urge to pick up her cell phone and give Director Martin Uriel a piece of her mind. Or, if not Uriel, Branch Manager Lindsey McLaughlin.
The Brockton Bay Wards had already been swiftly transferred from Rhode Island's adoption system to Philadelphia's own, and then moved to the top of the list - a list that usually meant at least half a year of waiting. The PRT had even pulled strings across the country, offering relocation packages to parents willing to take on the responsibility for taking in a Ward…
… all except for Taylor Hebert.
Yes, Taylor was now a ward of Pennsylvania, not Rhode Island - otherwise Abigail wouldn't have been put on her case - but the PRT almost seemed content to let Taylor languish in the system as long as humanly possible. This wasn't illegal, but Wards usually received far greater attention in the adoption system; it was an unsubtle, downright disgusting carrot that the PRT used on those children that had lost their families in the process of becoming a parahuman.
Normally, Lindsey would be all over a flagrant attempt to keep a child in limbo like this, especially for a Ward so caught-up in the limelight, but that this had gone on for at least two weeks without any movement whatsoever was appalling.
For goodness sakes, all the other Wards have already started meeting with prospective parents! Meanwhile Taylor sits in a padded cell doing slave labor!
The reasoning for Taylor's imprisonment hadn't cleared up upon review, either. Even though Youth Guard case workers received a clearance level just under the local PRT Director with respect to their specific Ward, there were more reports surrounding Taylor marked "Classified" reports she had the ability to access. Even worse, most were set that way on the authority of Director Martin Uriel himself.
But Abigail ross hadn't backed down when the PRT played hardball after Suzy's death, and that settlement had ensured Mary and the rest of her family would never need to work another day in their life. She'd thought Uriel had learned from that, and the way the Philly Wards' lives had improved since then made it look like the arrogant bureaucrat could learn.
If Uriel believes he can get away with something like this on my watch, Abigail thought, cracking her knuckles in determination,
the Youth Guard is going to make him pay through the nose.
Just as she began reaching for Taylor's Form 289 report from last Monday in the massive pile of papers that was her desk, a loud, blaring series of klaxons overrode the Channel 8 news she had tuned low in the background.
The S-Class Alarm.
Heart dropping into her stomach, Abigail turned to the large TV she had on the wall behind her, hoping against - but still somehow expecting - news of the recently-awoken Simurgh making its way to Philadelphia. There had been too many rumors on the internet forums about Taylor being Behemoth's target in Brockton Bay...
But all thoughts of Endbringers and where her children were at this very second flew out of Abigail's mind as she beheld not a warning from the PRT about shelters and evacuation routes, but a scene straight out of a horror movie. Familiar men and women in a familiar office-looking building being gunned down and torn to shreds by familiar animal-drones. Sometimes the image cut to a group of panicked PRT workers trying to flee down a hallway only for the walls themselves to suddenly slam together… and then separate again, likely just so that the camera could see the massive stains and torn shreds of cloth.
Abigail Ross barely made the half-step to her garbage can before noisily vomiting her lunch into and all around it. For a split-second, all she could hear was the rushing sound of her - mostly liquified - fried chicken casserole hitting the paper in the wastebin and the hardwood floor around her desk, but the
screams continued unabated behind her.
Thoughts of
why and thoughts of
how were beyond her at this point, as her head mechanically turned back to the unrelenting massacre of PRT workers and soldiers on Protectorate Island. For a moment, she even thought she saw the old-fashioned detective outfit of Trace on the screen, but the moment was lost in a screeching flutter of cybernetic birds.
Then she saw Chevalier fighting off a massive gorilla and-
Abigail almost screamed at the sight of the massive primate lunging past the Protectorate leader and seizing the young girl behind him in a crushing grip. Chevalier's follow-up stab to the gorilla only made things worse, burying the baseball-themed Ward underneath the robotic gorilla's twitching corpse.
Instead, Abigail just covered her mouth and continued to weep, not even possessing the strength to call out to Nathan as she watched Chevalier appear to ignore the fallen Ward and attack the birds fluttering uselessly around him. Only after the hallway was clear did he seem to take notice of his downed charge, but after prying her loose from the gorilla's corpse he suddenly turned and left her in a collapsed heap! What was he
doing?!
Slumping back in her chair, weary in confusion and sickness, Abigail's heart leapt back into her stomach at the sight of Taylor Hebert - still in her sweats but now in her 'robot mode' - suddenly appearing sprawled on the ground just past the massive wall of armor that slammed down behind her. The video couldn't hear what Chevalier and Taylor were saying, as the camera had begun to shake uncontrollably and emit a deep, rumbling howl that shook the walls of Abigail's basement…
The swinging of the light above Abigail made her realize that the sound wasn't coming from her TV's speakers.
For almost fifteen seconds, Abigail Ross finally understood what Aunt Meredith had meant when she talked about growing up in California all those years ago.
***
By the time the screen showed Bladedancer and that absolutely
radiant blue-crystal woman carving a hole into the Administration Center's cafeteria, Abigail was gathered with Nathan and Robby in the living room, watching the events unfold on the TV there. She and Nathan had been in agreement that Robby was in no way old enough - if anyone ever was - to witness the depravity that was being broadcast across every local TV station and radio airwave, but their little talker had made the point that it'd be all over the internet within the hour and there was no way he'd be able to avoid the news at school.
At least he hadn't been forced to sit and watch as Weaver sawed through Who's legs, arm, and performed emergency field surgery on Who's crushed chest. Abigail had lost whatever remained of her stomach's contents when the graphite-skinned young woman's hands had morphed into black, vicious-looking saws and blades that cut through skin like butter... and all that
blood...
Still, she hadn't missed the blush on Robby's face when that hussy Bladedancer and the crystal woman kissed. Nathan still had to give him "The Talk", but Abigail didn't feel this was a good time for it.
Trying to talk sense into Eleanor over the phone had failed, so Abigail had to resort to confiscating her driver's license if the young lady didn't stop trying to take pictures of the deadly light show around Protectorate Island and drive home
immediately. Eleanor had been furious, of course, but Abigail didn't want any of her family on the roads when the heroes had absolutely no way to provide a timely supervillain response.
The Overleague and the Philly Phils helped out around the town, certainly, but the Overleague were clearly more into it for the merchandising than cleaning up the town and the Phils did more charity work than law enforcement.
So, Abigail and the rest of her family waited for her daughter to make the trek back from the congested Fishtown to their home in East Falls - twenty minutes, at least.
When Vox had suddenly appeared on the screen to announce the 'game' for Bladedancer, Marrow -
Marrow? Her?! - and Chevalier, it had taken a large deal of her willpower not to curse the disgusting charlatan on the spot. Robby and Nathan looked particularly torn, however, which only confirmed her fears that the two had been watching VTV's broadcasts about the gang fights over the last week. She hated how the villain could appear so charismatic while making villainy seem so appealing - which was made worse by the PRT's completely lack of effort towards bringing the criminal to justice.
Well, now look where that got-, Abigail stopped that train of thought, shaking her head.
No, that's disrespectful to all those hard-working men and women that just died. The PRT does try, I've seen it, but it just… never feels like enough.
The synthetic carnage that followed, however, was almost enough to take her mind off the PRT's failings. All three heroes moved with grace, power, and determination the likes of which she had never truly seen in such detail, with the new 'Marrow' literally glowing in a manner that captivated like nothing she had ever…
… no, she thought to herself, stilling at the realization.
I've seen something like that before. Taylor emits something similar when she uses her powers - I've seen it in the testing videos. And when Marrow took off her helmet, she had the same pristine beauty that Taylor does in her 'robot mode'... and a gem in her forehead too!
Her mind whirling at the similarities, Abigail recalled the rumors that the gang warfare as of late had been started because the Protectorate had lost one of their heaviest hitters - at the exact same time that Taylor was sent into "Master/Stranger isolation." Bladedancer and Chevalier appeared the same, but now a week later Marrow looked eerily similar to Taylor's graphite-black form.
Didn't Taylor suddenly re-appear a week after her 'death'?
Abigail could barely focus on the TV, a nervous energy building in her system. Casting a glance at Nathan and Robby, however, showed that they too seemed on-edge, but that was likely due to the winding countdown Vox was shouting out on the television.
Her teeth were on edge, even as she watched Bladedancer and Marrow turn to help rescue the First Cavalry Troop that had somehow gotten trapped in the building earlier on. It was disgusting, being made to choose between their possible friends in the PRT and civilian lives, but there was a spark of relief in knowing that Philadelphia's protectors truly did look out for those who wanted no part in parahuman madness.
Trying to push down the rattling in her teeth that lingered still, Abigail watched with even higher mounting tension as the heroes made it just in time to the security room - apparently saved by Taylor doing...
something... to the door at the last minute. The beleaguered Chevalier managed to shut off the power in the room, but whatever was recording and broadcasting the signal stayed put; with Marrow's room-filling, white-and-purple radiance, the heroes were still clearly visible anyway.
Her morbid curiosity about the entire point of Vox's 'game' was cut short, however, when the man's throat erupted in a pulsing stream of crimson, and then the man blew his own head off.
Abigail moved to cover Robby's eyes, but her young boy was already white as a sheet. The feeling of loss and failure at having allowed her eleven-year-old boy witness a brutal suicide in high-definition…
Her hand, her arm, her entire body clenched at the sound of a voice
everyone knew.
"A showman to the end. I can respect that."
Abigail remembered when the Slaughterhouse 9 had rampaged through Philadelphia almost ten years ago. She had even been about to pull into a gas station when the Protectorate and Quillboar's fight had spilled into it; the subsequent fireball had blown out her car's windows and damaged her hearing for a month.
She could only watch in mute horror as Jack Slash began ranting about some crazy cult, preaching of how Philadelphia was going to be 'judged' for
nine days. The Slaughterhouse 9 had killed nearly ten thousand people the last time they were in Philadelphia, and that had only been for
four days.
When the mass-murdering lunatic turned the head of one of the poor girls in his captive audience, however, she couldn't help but gasp in gut-wrenching horror. Missy Byron, one of the Brockton Bay Wards - not that she could say that out loud to her family. Thankfully, a tear-filled glance to Nathan and Robby showed that they were too captivated by the rambling madman to notice anything suspicious.
"So! Before the first Day of Slaughter begins, we have a message to our heroes on the Island - their prize, for delighting us all with their wondrous abilities - especially Weaver and Marrow, two more of Autochthon's chosen."
Wait... what?
The screen now only showed Jack Slash and leering visage, but that accusation of his at the end rang a bell in Abigail Ross' mind. Something about the PRT's psych evaluations? It nagged in her head, bringing back the connections she had drawn between Taylor and Marrow earlier, when she heard a woman's cackle coming from the screen.
"That should hold them for a bit, though I don't believe that will keep down two of Autochthon's chosen," Jack Slash sighed wistfully, turning his gaze back to stare through the TV screen and into Abigail's soul with a smile on his face.
"And now a proclamation of judgement, for everyone in Philadelphia: you will find the roads and interstates out of the city decidedly more explosive than before, should anyone try to flee. But only the heretics would dare attempt to avoid Autochthon's judgement, so thus it is fitting that the cowards shall die gloriously in his name!"
Eyes going wide, Abigail desperately reached for her cell phone and pressed redial, hoping to reach Eleanor - who should have been home by now. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nathan enveloping Robby in a hug while her boy sat fixated on the TV screen.
Abigail's phone only yielded a busy signal, the phone lines either unable to handle the sudden panicked load or deliberately sabotaged by the Slaughterhouse 9. She felt like throwing down the blasted device and running out into street to look for her baby girl, but the murderer on the TV screen burst into a laugh.
"Now, let us ring in this glorious holiday with a song! Shatterbird, will you-"
The screen flickered, the S-Class Alert siren blaring from the TV's speakers again for a split-second before Martin Uriel's haggard and furious face filled the screen.
"If you can hear this message, get under cover right now and avoid anything glass!" he shouted, showing more desperate invective than Abigail ever thought the man capable of.
"Windows, TVs, anything with glass in it is about to explode! I repeat, Shatter-"
But Abigail was already grabbing Nathan's arms, the two of them wrapping young Robert in a crushing hug while they grabbed and flipped the plush leather couch over on top of them.
And then that nervous tension, the rattling sensation that had been building in her bones and in her teeth since Vox's 'show' had begun,
exploded.
She could barely hear herself scream over the sound of their dozens of windows, vases, TVs and other appliances being rendered into deadly shrapnel. But as she squeezed her eyes shut and covered her ears to the world, her mind sought a warmer memory. A memory of safety, of security, of
logic in this moment of pure insanity.
She remembered a figure of blazing white, dancing to an unknowable rhythm, in hallways stained with blood but never fearing the touch of it.
She remembered the way the figure moved with confidence, a surety of purpose that struck deep into her very soul.
She remembered that Autochthon was out there, somewhere, and knew that He would save them from this chaos.
