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An Imago of Rust and Crimson (Worm crossover)

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6.07
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    • An Imago of Rust and Crimson

    Chapter 6.07

    I was back in my own body; the shell of meat that I'd never left before today. It wasn't that pretty and it came with its own aches and pains, but as I sloped off down the night-time streets of Brockton Bay, I realised I'd missed it.

    Maybe Kirsty was right when she said I was really an angel wrapped in human flesh, but you couldn't live in the Other Place. It wasn't a human place. The chill air of the version of Brockton Bay everyone else occupied was balmy compared to the biting cold of my personal hell. It was nice to breathe in and smell only fast food, gasoline, and a hint of the sea from the east.

    Actually, as I turned into a commercial street lined with late night takeaways I felt better than I had any right to. Now the pins-and-needles had faded, I realised that my shoulder wasn't hurting. It didn't feel like that was because of the painkillers. It was like I'd never been hurt. And all the other injuries I'd accumulated today weren't there either. I'd been using enough of my powers in there that my lips should have been cracked and bleeding, but I felt fine. No, I felt great.

    When I put light pressure on my shoulder, it didn't hurt at all.

    "Holy crap," I whispered to myself. I worked my shoulder, raising my hand above my head, and it was fine. I slipped off the sling, and rotated it. Yep. No issues there. How the hell had my arm healed itself?

    It was just like I'd felt after I'd taken down Ryo. Where the Other Place had eaten many of his arms. Where I'd picked up some of the glow. And I'd been so sure he'd been hurting me, but when I checked afterwards I hadn't even had any frost burns. Right now I was glowing again, because I'd fed on 'tech.

    This was incredible. The glow even healed me? It wasn't as good as after Ryo, but I guessed I'd got less from the tinkertech and I'd used most of it up fixing my shoulder.

    My reflection in the glass of a shuttered shop looked fine. My skin even had a healthy glow to it, rather than just being pale and sallow. It wasn't all great – I hadn't put on any make-up after my shower earlier in the evening and my scars looked pink and inflamed and more obvious than I remembered – but it was a real improvement.

    Was this a 'me' power, or was it common to people like me? Common to metahumans. "Metahumans," I said, trying out the word on my tongue. It… kind of made sense. 'Meta' as a prefix was all about self-referential things – metatextual works were writing about writing. And my constructs were powers with their own powers. Phobia ate fear, cherubs moved things and spied on people, angels tore holes in space and carried things through the Other Place.

    I'd need to talk to Kirsty about it. Her answers probably wouldn't make sense, but she'd probably be able to tell if Mister Black had lied to me. Then my brain kicked into gear. I could see if she could do the healing and if it really was a thing people like us could do. Because if it was, the three-eyed man and the bird woman could do it too. That might be important later.

    I stopped in front of a McDonalds, staring through into the well-lit warmth. But then again, how much of what he just said was actually true? How much of it was him fucking with my head? Had he done that to get me to accept his warning about the SIX Slaughterhouse, or had he just been feeding me bullshit?

    My stomach grumbled. Yeah, I didn't need to do everything now. I might have already eaten, but life was too complicated to care about that. People said I was too skinny anyway. Plus, a Big Mac didn't have much beef in it these days, so that debatably made it healthier. That had to count for something.

    Mulberry Park was nearby. I didn't want to be around other people. The air out here was cold, and there was a low mist hanging over the grass of the block-sized park. It reminded me that summer was coming with its sea fogs. The lights of the docks bled the eastern sky to red like a false dawn. A baby wailed in one of the nearby houses. Up in the sky were the lights of government drones. I hoped they weren't looking for me.

    While I ate, I tried to put together today. I felt like I was overloaded with facts, but didn't have the understanding to tie everything together. Names and claims and SIX flocked through my head. Was my healing linked to the way the three-eyed man claimed to be part of some secret group really running the government? How did SIX relate to the Patriots? What did it mean that Tash's dad who knew people who were linked to skinhead gangs didn't want her doing gang things but was hiding she was a parahuman from the government?

    I'd grabbed a notepad and scribbled some of my thoughts down. They didn't make any more sense on paper. I slurped my coke, stirring the straw around. You know, it really seemed like they were putting more and more ice in them these days. The cup was, like, half ice by volume. And my overactive brain couldn't help but wonder if Mister Black had diluted any truth he'd told me with space-filling lies.

    There weren't any answers by the time I'd finished. There was a part of me that wanted to go to my lair and maybe start drawing up a mind-map, but I shut that part down. My weird-shit-ometer was burned out for today. And I was tired.

    Of course, I hadn't made it home before I got diverted. My route took me past Tash's street, and I paused. The lights were on in her house, streaming out from windows where the curtains hadn't been drawn.

    It was like they were asking someone to spy on them. Of course I wrapped myself in Isolation and peered in.

    The first window was just a kid a few years younger than me on a games console. Yeah, she had a brother, didn't she? That didn't matter. I circled the house, stepping over the dog in the back yard, and peered into the kitchen.

    Her dad was there, hunched over at the kitchen table. His shoulders were shaking, and he had a beer in front of him.

    I didn't feel sorry for him. Maybe I should have, but I didn't. I was glad I'd seen it, because it showed me that even someone like him could be hurt. It stopped me dehumanising him.

    But he was the one who was involved in this whole Caesar thing. If me and Tash were too similar for my liking, then he was Dad, reflected through a mirror darkly. And Dad wouldn't do that sort of thing. He'd die before getting involved with the Patriots. The idea that these people were fine with supporting school gangs – and real gangs too – was disgusting.

    He was just a man, upset that his daughter had been arrested. But that just made him worse in my eyes. He wasn't sitting at the kitchen table with a beer for Alexander or any of the dumb swaggering skinhead idiots who were also in the cells.

    I dug in my bag for my notepad and a pen. "Get T's dad's cell to see who else he's been calling," I wrote. He and that attorney Martison were my leads.

    But not tonight.

    I snuck in through our front door, but there wasn't any need. Dad was where I'd left him. His shirt was rumpled and he was drooling slightly. "Come on, old man," I told him, nudging him until he stirred. "You've fallen asleep in front of the TV again. It's nearly eleven. And sleeping like that can't be good for your back."

    "Mmmph… Taylor?" He blearily stared at his watch, wiping his mouth. "Did I… oh, yeah. Mmrgh." With a groan, he rolled off the couch and ambled through to the kitchen. "My mouth tastes like cotton wool." He ran his tongue around his mouth as he opened the fridge. "And blood, too. I hope a filling hasn't come out."

    I'd hoped he'd be getting a glass of water, but he was getting a beer. I could stop him, I thought. But no. Not the way I'd meant when I thought it. "Another beer, Dad?" I asked instead. "That's probably why you fell asleep on the couch." Technically a lie, but it was for the greater good of getting him to drink less.

    He paused where he was. "Yeah, I guess," he said, instead going for an OJ.

    I sidled through, keeping my distance. "How're things, Dad?" I asked. I kept my hands in my pockets and my elbows tucked in. It wasn't deliberate, but I felt vulnerable. "Not just for you. Overall."

    He took a long slurp of his drink. "Could be better," he said. "Could also be worse. Things at work are… well, they're holding on. We've got work for the next six months, at least. The Tribune project is… well, we've secured some funding. We're not all the way there yet, but," he finished off his drink, "well, what happened to Tim set us way back."

    Oh yes, Dad's friend who'd been shot. I hadn't heard anything about him in ages, so there'd probably been no improvement. Or Dad just hadn't been telling me anything. I had no room for complaint there. I kept things from him too. "Well, uh, that's good. And it's good that your union paper thing is working out."

    "Might be working out. Might be working out. I don't want to be too hopeful, in case… life finds another thing to throw in our way. Though it's not going to be a union thing."

    He didn't want to say 'life'. He was clearly thinking of something more concrete. "Oh? I kind of thought it was a newsletter thing."

    "No, it's going to be a proper one. A bunch of the unions are working together, and we have other backers too." He put down his glass on the surface. "You probably don't remember, but even up to five years ago, there were two papers in the area. Then the Times bought out the Herald and shut it down and…" He started washing his glass in the sink. "Listen to me ramble on. I guess for you, five years ago is ancient history."

    "Well, it is a third of my life ago," I said.

    "Oh God, don't put it like that. You make me feel old." He sighed, and ran a hand over his balding head. "On that note, it's not long until your birthday. It's nearly June. Put any thought into what you want to do? Or want?"

    I shrugged awkwardly. "I don't really…"

    And then I trailed off. I could feel the words taking shape in my mind, almost as if one of my creatures was placing them there. Maybe they were there. After all, they were part of me. I was going to justify that I didn't want anything big. I was going to say that money was tight and I didn't need anything big and churn out my usual excuses. Which were right, all of them were. But I was still using them to avoid having to face people.

    I couldn't let myself become Tash. Because if I kept on locking myself off from the world, if I kept on hiding behind Isolation and binding my hands in chains so I'd never reach out and risk getting hurt again, I'd be primed to be just like her. It wouldn't keep me safe. The point would come that someone would find me, and by then I'd be desperate for an actual human connection.

    I needed to pick my friends, or they'd be picked for me.

    "You know what?" I said. "I'll see if there's anything coming out around that time period. I can get Sam, Luci, some of the other girls I know – maybe see if Leah can have a day out of the hospital – and we can go see a movie or something."

    Dad smiled at me – actually smiled, not just moving the corners of his lips up. "Yeah. Yeah, that'd be good."

    "And I'll go look around second-hand book stores and get you a list of books I want." I paused. "And. Uh. I kinda need a new bookshelf."

    "… Taylor."

    "What? I do!" It was so unfair. "I'm having to double-stack my books. It's not good for their spines."

    He gave a weary chuckle as he grabbed the dish cloth and dried his glass. "You're so much like your mother sometimes. It's her fault we have so little wall space."

    I puffed out my cheeks. "You're making fun of me."

    "I'm not, I'm not. I'm just making a… an accurate observation."

    "Hmmph. You're mean."

    "Shoo." He made flapping gestures at me. "Go to bed, Taylor. You have school tomorrow."

    "Urgh. I do. You'd think they'd give us the day off after an exam. But you have work too!"

    "I'll be heading up soon. I just need to lock up and put the dishes away."

    "Yeah, sure." I thought of Tash's dad, slumped over not so far from here. It was his fault, but… "Love you, Dad."

    He turned, frowning. "What prompted that?"

    "I don't say it much." Urgh, this was cringeworthy. So much for spontaneous displays of affection. No good deed goes unpunished. "And. Uh."

    "If you're doing it because you want more books for your birthday…"

    Thank you, God, a way out. Save me, shallow humour! "Damn, you got me."

    "Yeah." Dad paused. "I do love you, though. I'm sorry for shouting at you earlier."

    "Yeah." I swallowed, and for a moment nearly confessed. "Sorry for being out late. And not telling you things. Like where I was going to be."

    "Kids need a bit of freedom." He sighed. "I told myself I'd never be my father. But I do worry about you."

    "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

    There were really no more words, so he got back to the dishes and I headed upstairs. In my room, I stripped down and checked my body. The injury under the bandage on my shoulder was gone as if it'd never been. The blood on the bandage was the only evidence that it'd ever existed.

    "Need to dispose of that somewhere he won't find," I muttered. With a sigh, I had a cherub dump it down in my lair. I was going to have to clean that place up some day.

    With that done, I got dressed for bed and went to do my teeth. Maybe I should start carrying a tiny toothbrush and toothpaste around with me so I could clean my mouth out after I did Other Place stuff, I thought idly as I brushed away.

    I was feeling much better than that last time I was staring at myself in the bathroom. All things considered, I had done good things today. I'd saved Megumi. I'd found out about the Patriot conspiracy and I'd stood up to Mister Black and his people. They were all victories – little ones, but still victories.

    "Metahuman," I said again. I still wasn't used to the term. I'd never heard of the word before and maybe it was just jargon that Mister Black had made up. Despite all that, I liked it. It had a nice fit.

    How many people like us out there, were there? There couldn't be that many, could there? I'd only seen two metahumans in the field among Mister Black's people. Even if he was also one, they seemed to use genejacks for everything they could. I didn't believe it was just because of the fear of SIX. The PPD sent people patrolling in pairs and even a little group like New Wave could have way more parahumans than that.

    Well, that wasn't any of my concern.

    I'd learned my lesson today. I wasn't going to mess with the grey men again. It wasn't that I was scared; I was just being sensible. Though I'd be right to be scared, if I was. The bird lady had seen through Isolation while the three-eyed man could see me when I walked out of my body. They knew when I sent cherubs to spy on them and could follow my creatures back. They had some source of 'tech on side and their grey men were equipped with thing that let them find me. They'd nearly got my name. I hated that. I really didn't like the idea that they could just shut down my main advantages. And if even half what they'd said about SIX was true, I was well clear of it. I liked not being crazy. No, I was best off well clear of them.

    Now, on the other hand, Caesar's people were a different ball game. They wouldn't have people like me – metahumans – to get in my way. They deserved to pay. And Dad hated them. I could help him out by exposing them. He'd like that. I could make him feel better without messing around with his mind.

    And yes, the fact that this would probably be long, slow, and safe investigation work as I found out how far this network went did cross my mind. I could take things slowly because when I rushed things, I seemed to make plenty of mistakes and bad decisions. And this way I could make sure to make time for myself; hang out with Sam, try to be social with Luci and her friends, even devote some time to helping Kirsty because she deserved someone being nice to her.

    After all, the exams were over. I'd have all summer.
     
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  • Threadmarks
    • Yeah, Taylor, I "believe" you.

    It's like when Elliot from Mr. Robot makes promises that he would act normal now. He never keeps them
     
    EarthScorpion said:
    Plus, a Big Mac didn't have much beef in it these days, so that debatably made it healthier. That had to count for something.
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    EarthScorpion said:
    It was like they were asking someone to spy on them.
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    EarthScorpion said:
    Technically a lie, but it was for the greater good of getting him to drink less.
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    The self-justification is well over nine thousand here!:rofl:

    EarthScorpion said:
    They knew when I sent cherubs to spy on me and could follow my creatures back.
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    'on them'?
     
    dpara said:
    Yeah, uh. Things are looking good. wtf
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    It's past climax into denouement of this arc.. it's nicely placed calm between storms.

    EarthScorpion said:
    Now, on the other hand, Caesar's people were a different ball game. They wouldn't have people like me – metahumans – to get in my way. They deserved to pay. And Dad hated them. I could help him out by exposing them. He'd like that. I could make him feel better without messing around with his mind.

    .
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    That's must be the one of the most Taylor plan ever and in now way turn into clusterf*ck.
     
    disagreement said:
    Yeah, Taylor, I "believe" you.

    It's like when Elliot from Mr. Robot makes promises that he would act normal now. He never keeps them
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    Or it's like when someone makes a bunch of mistakes, realizes how they've messed up, and decides to address the problem and do their best to be a better person! Like, you know, real people do all the time? Humans are messed up, but not that messed up, and not everyone goes into deathspirals in the face of crisis like canon Taylor did. I've reacted like this to fuck-ups of my own way less drastic than the consequences she's seen happen. This reads to me like a young woman having a moment of real, actual character development, and deciding to change things going forward.
     
    Kaiya said:
    Or it's like when someone makes a bunch of mistakes, realizes how they've messed up, and decides to address the problem and do their best to be a better person! Like, you know, real people do all the time? Humans are messed up, but not that messed up, and not everyone goes into deathspirals in the face of crisis like canon Taylor did. I've reacted like this to fuck-ups of my own way less drastic than the consequences she's seen happen. This reads to me like a young woman having a moment of real, actual character development, and deciding to change things going forward.
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    Seconded. The introspection and post-mortem analysis here was actually pretty well done, IMO.

    Then again, just recognizing and analyzing her mistakes may not be enough to keep her from making more of the same in the future. Here's hoping she uses this info to actually improve her in-the-moment decision-making processes going forward. I'm personally hoping she establishes some general rules, e.g. "don't use powers to blindly scout out areas where SIX stuff is reported to be".
     
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    EarthScorpion said:
    And Dad wouldn't do that sort of thing. He'd die before getting involved with the Patriots.
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    EarthScorpion said:
    The Tribune project
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    EarthScorpion said:
    "No, it's going to be a proper one. A bunch of the unions are working together, and we have other backers too."
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    "Tribune?" As in, "an official in ancient Rome chosen by the plebeians to protect their interests?"

    ... Ah, well. Sorry, Taylor.
     
    I hope things go back into a downward spiral once more as they're my favorite parts with all this uplifting stuff being rather dull by comparison. I like overwhelming pessimism and cynicism with the best feels being ones that invoke depression!
     
    The Nomad said:
    Current arc is over, then? No interlude?

    Any ETA on the next batch of updates?
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    Literally every single Imago interlude has involved me getting part way through it, and then feeling things were fundamentally flawed, and throwing the entire thing out. Every. One. The first interlude was originally something totally different written from the PoV of someone working at the psyche hospital; you nearly got a Danny interlude instead of the Vicky interlude that in the end was the one I finished. This time is no different.

    You will be getting an Interlude, yes. Once I've written it. :p

    But then Imago will be going on hiatus, for three reasons. Firstly. this past arc was IMO a sparkling success in the power of pre-writing and getting the entire arc flowing from polishing it and cutting up chapters. So I want to pre-write Imago arcs in future, which does mean, yes, they'll be much more interspersed - but you can guarantee that once an arc starts, you'll be getting weekly updates until it's done. I think the previous way of doing things was resulting in both arc bloat but also a certain formlessness because it could be a month between story updates. This way, it should ensure the previous update is fresh in mind.

    Secondly, I have some backseat projects going on that you might be seeing some of, possibly even before the end of the year. Including the sequel to @Aleph's Power Games. But that means I broadly need a clean slate to dedicate the time they deserve.

    And thirdly, the criticism and the like I managed to get from you lot is something I've taken full account of, and put a lot of thought into compared to my old plan. And as a result, I have broadly thrown out a lot of my old ideas. When Imago returns, expect something that's sort of a soft-reboot/sequel - things'll be continuing without resetting any character development, but there'll be much more focus on trying to keep character interactions from being lost and reframing the context so it doesn't get caught in a rut of "Taylor hides at school, meddles in criminal things at night".
     
    Thanks for the information! I'm excited to see what's in this story's future-it's probably my favorite worm fanfic that still active.

    The plan as it is now sorta gives me TV season vibes, which is sorta cool.
     
    Zangunaz said:
    Thanks for the information! I'm excited to see what's in this story's future-it's probably my favorite worm fanfic that still active.

    The plan as it is now sorta gives me TV season vibes, which is sorta cool.
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    Heh. That's actually a pretty damn appropriate way of looking at things. Think of this arc as the dramatic climax to the first season (which had some problems with pacing early on and clearly spent a lot of its budget on its location sets and thus used them to pad time), and Arc 7 onwards will be Season 2.

    Also, amusingly enough, Imago is the oldest wormfic that updated last year. It's one of the Great Old Ones of Wormfics; one of the paltry few still going which were started before Worm ended.
     
    Fellow Sufferer said:
    Any chance that Green Sun Illuminates the Void is getting a sequel?
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    There is optimism, then there is this.

    Either way, I'm looking forwards to the new season of Imago. I'm hopeful now that they replaced that hack writer with someone who knows what they're doing. Kind of concerned that the new one looks like the old one but with glasses, a mustache, and a big nose. But hopefully just because they're related doesn't mean that they follow in each others footsteps.
     
    The_Knowing said:
    Then what are the Outer Gods?
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    The Outer Gods can be recognized by their soul, whose name is Nyarlathotep and whose nature is entropy. He lures people in with promises of wonders and shows them horrors that reveal the nature of the universe, leaving no shadow of doubt: all is dust, all will return to dust, there is no hope, only destruction.

    As such, once one carefully studies the nature of Nyarlathotep and compares it to that of Worm fanfics, the truth becomes clear: the Outer Gods lurk within the alt-power OP Taylor fics, their faces almost visible (for those brave and foolish enough to know how to look) in each locker scene, in each Lung fight, in each time Taylor joins the Wards...

    Where lies the dead fic that came from the hand of the bashing writer I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead to share with the Worms that gather in the forums and surround the world with the power of their lives while from the dimlit halls of other boards forms that never were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw what could have been. In the black water with the sun shining at midnight, those fic shall come ripe and in the darkness of that which is golden shall be completed to reveal the revelation of the fatal flaw in the writing.
     
    6.0x - Ten of Swords
  • Threadmarks
    • An Imago of Rust and Crimson

    Suits 6.0x

    Ten of Swords

    Anger tasted like old coins. Anger tasted like coarse ash and burnt food on the tongue. But more than anything, right now anger tasted like the sub-par coffee that the management was serving at this 'emergency' meeting. The air was humid as summer crept in and tempers were flaring.

    "And so you see that with these exceptional circumstances, certain rationalisations of the core staff have to be made. Now, of course, we hope that this transition will be as easy as possible, but…"

    It wasn't Jamie doing this. It wasn't someone who could empathise or commiserate. Those weren't 'desirable assets for the long term viability of the finances'. The higher ups had brought in some slick-suited bastard without a heart who could rattle off this bullshit. Because that's all it was. Mealy-mouthed, corporate bullshit.

    "With market conditions as they are, we're going to have to transition to a more as-needed workforce. Now, ideally we'd like the Dockworkers Union to aid us by agreeing to shift selected members to a short-term contract basis." The man paused, to see the reactions from the union representatives.

    Danny had no idea what this weasel was expecting. He cleared his throat. "The negotiated agreement lasts until December 2013," he said. He had his notes, and he had Lucas beside him. The company had no authority to break the hard-won three year deal they'd signed only last January. "I can't see any reason for us to agree to this."

    "Yes, yes, I understand," and the corporate weasel paused, "but some flexibility on your part would be appreciated."

    "Appreciated how?" Oh, how Danny fought to keep the sarcasm out of his tone. "That is to say, while I do understand you'd like that, we have a standing agreement. One that you can't unilaterally change."

    Lucas nodded. "Daniel is right," the union's attorney said. "We haven't broken the terms. There's been no strikes, no violations of the agreement. You can't unilaterally waive it."

    "So far we've been given no reason to consent to… what? How many people do you want to kick down to contract status?" Danny felt the bile rise.

    "That would be… thirty initially, rising to eighty over a three year transition period. Now I understand that this would be a major change, but-"

    His blood ran cold. Eighty? Kicking eighty of the shift workers down to contractees? "Then you can go-" he bit back his words, clenching his teeth. "No," he ground out. The bad coffee on the table sung an alluring song. It'd look so much better covering this slimeball's pink shirt. And if he was twenty years younger he'd have done it, no question about it. But he couldn't afford to do that these days. Not with Taylor to think of, not with the knowledge of what it would cost him and how little it would accomplish. So he forced the anger down inside, swallowing its red-hot coal. "If you want that, you'll have to break the agreement."

    At last there was some response from the corporate man. Oh, that wasn't something he wanted. The union had agreed not to strike in return for protecting jobs and no more replacement of full time workers with contractors. And then there were the break clauses - no, this man really didn't want to be the one telling this to his boss. "Be reasonable," he implored.

    "You're asking something exceptional," Lucas said, shooting a glance in Danny's direction. He understood what it meant, and kept quiet. "Something pretty unreasonable, if you ask me."

    "It's not unreasonable - it's important for the long term financial stability of the business."

    Danny exhales. "So are good worker relations," he said slowly, knuckles white. "We've been given no reason to agree to this. If you want to bring this up when the agreement expires, that's another matter. But you've given us nothing and want us to agree to downgrade eighty people to contractors."

    And that pretty much weighed down any further progress like an anchor.

    "Jesus, Dan," Lucas said, hands in his pockets as they stepped out of the building for some fresh air. He loosened his suit jacket, shirt straining at the seams underneath. Seagulls cried overhead and cargo crates waiting to be unloaded groaned in the wind. "You looked like you were about to go slug him one." He offered Danny a cigarette.

    "No thanks." He sighed. "I nearly was. Probably wouldn't have done a thing. He was so fucking greasy, my fist would have slid right off him."

    "Ha! Yeah!" Lucas lit up, perching on an iron bollard by the water's edge. It was hot and humid despite the overcast weather, and rust coated the bollard in patches where the paint had peeled. "I think we're fucked," he said eventually, exhaling a cloud of blue smoke into the air.

    Danny sighed. "Yeah," he said morosely. "We might be able to hold them until the agreement comes up for renewal, but I don't think we'll be able to get the same deal next time." He booted a discarded beer can, sending it arcing into the water with a clatter. "You know they're fucking doing it because they want to improve the stock value for a sale."

    "Yeah. Yeah, they are."

    White gulls cried out mournfully, diving into the oily ocean. A deflated red balloon bobbed up and down with the lapping of the waves. A jogger in a white hoody touched one of the bollards by the water's edge, turning around and heading back her way. The two men stared out into the ocean, past the narrow headlands at the entrance to the bay.

    "At least we know it's coming," Danny said. He hated trying to look on the bright side. "Maybe if we can find some people who want to leave anyway, we can… fuck, I don't know, present them with a compromise position of 'planned redundancies'. Get the people who wanted to leave anyway a payoff. Something we can use for next round."

    "Good thinking." Lucas exhaled again, tapping off ash from his cigarette. "God, when were you the sensible one around here?"

    Danny chuckled. "It's been years since I got in street fights, Lucas."

    "Yeah, we all grow old. We pick up wrinkles and grey hair." Lucas patted his belly. "And weight around the middle. Well, not you. You're still skin and bone. You've lost weight. You should come over and Eric'll feed you up. You eating OK?"

    "Best I can. The stress is getting to me," Danny admitted. "Thanks for the invite."

    "Hah. Yeah, the stress is getting to all of us." The other man ran his free hand through his greying dirty blond hair. "How's the Tribune stuff going?"

    "Could be better. Could be worse. It's not helping with the stress either way."

    "I'll bet." Lucas sighed. "Look at us, two old men. We're not even trying to win anymore. We're just desperately trying to lose not as badly as we could. Where did the fire go?"

    "God, I don't know. I just don't know." The anger in the meeting was all gone, and now he just felt numb. And cold. And old.

    The waves gently lapped against the dockside; grey sea under a grey sky.


    The days drew themselves out.

    The rain was an unpleasant splattering of small droplets that were half-way to being mist as he drove back from work one Tuesday evening. They painted orange halos around the sodium streetlights. Danny's headlamps were two knives through the gloom. The car was low on gas. He'd have to see how long he could eke it out until the next refill. Maybe he could find a way to hold off until next month...

    As soon as he turned his keys in the lock, he was hit with the smell of cooking. He stamped off his boots and shed his coat, then headed through to the kitchen. "What's going here?"

    His daughter looked up from her book, from where she was sprawled out over two chairs. "I cooked," Taylor said, looking distinctly smug.

    "Get your feet down," Danny said automatically. "What do you mean, you cooked?"

    "I mean I cooked." She gestured over to the side, where there were two covered bowls. "You've been going on about how I needed to learn. So I did it."

    It was true he'd been trying to hammer it into her. Taylor had her mother's tastebuds; considering food an inconvenience that was unfortunately necessary - for medical reasons, if nothing else, but… "I'm just surprised you did it now."

    Taylor crossed her arms, frowning. "Because when I got home from the thing with Luci, I realised there was nothing in the fridge - again - and I knew you'd be back late. Again. So I went and got some things and then I decided to cook too. It couldn't be that hard."

    "Um."

    "Don't worry, I didn't get anything expensive - and I got a receipt." Taylor smirked. "Do you want to open a tab, or will you settle up now?"

    The worst part was that this was a meaningful question. Things would be easier this month if he could put off paying for shopping. "So, what is it?" he asked.

    "Well, it's…" With a little panache, Taylor removed the covering plates to reveal two bowls of noodle soup. Soggy stir-fried vegetables floated amongst an oily sheen.

    Danny grinned. "Didn't feel like anything too hard, did you?"

    "It was the first time I did something like this! 'Hard' could go wrong!"

    "That stuff kept me alive through college," Danny said, shaking his head. "Stock cube in boiling water, then stir-fry some vegetables and some meat and… you did remember to put in the stock cube and cook the meat?"

    "It's, ah, just vegetables," Taylor admitted. "The meat was expensive and I didn't have much cash on me." She puffed out her cheeks. "But of course I did actually cook things! I wouldn't just put raw meat in with the noodles!"

    "I just had to check. For the sake of my gut and your health."

    "I'm not stupid! Any other criticism?" his daughter asked sarcastically.

    He considered things. "A bit of advice in future. You used too much oil in the pan," Danny said. Droplets glistened from the surface of the soup.

    "I did? But it said to make sure it was covered to stop the vegetables burning."

    "Yes, but not that kind of covered. You just add a little bit and roll it around a hot pan. You don't fill the bottom of the pan with it. Otherwise you're just shallow-frying things."

    "Oh. I guess that's something to note for next time."

    "But," he hastened to add, "it was a good first solo effort! Let me just put my things down and we can eat!"

    "Yeah, uh, I think I probably should heat this up," Taylor said, touching the side of the bowl. "It cooled down fast."

    "Those bowls do that," Danny agreed, heading upstairs.

    Ten minutes later, they were eating on trays in front of the TV. The System was on, and Jack was creeping through a warehouse while Alice ran distraction against their superiors.

    "How was work?" Taylor asked. She wasn't paying much attention to the TV. There was a book propped up in front of her on the coffee table. Danny peered at it, and frowned. That looked like some kind of textbook - and not something she was reading for school. Gray's Anatomy?

    "Fine, fine. Things are happening. What are you reading?"

    She glanced up at him. "Oh, something I found in a used book store. It's a medical textbook."

    "It looks pretty new."

    "Yeah, it does. I guess some student sold off their books after dropping out or something. I was lucky to grab it."

    "Mmm". Things didn't seem quite right. "Do you want to be a doctor now?"

    "No," Taylor said quickly. "It's just curiosity. It was going cheap, so I thought - might as well get it."

    "Oh. What, did you find it when you were out with Luci?"

    "I didn't come straight back. I went to rummage for books."

    "You do that a lot," Danny said thoughtfully.

    "I like books!"

    "Hmm," he said again. He turned back to the TV, but it wasn't registering. Instead he was staring at his daughter's face in the reflection; pale, bespectacled, paying more attention to the book than him or the TV. Why would she go out and get a medical textbook? It'd be one thing if she wanted to become a medic, but she'd always leaned more towards the humanities - just like Annette.

    And she had been spending a lot on books recently. Sure, she always tried to get things secondhand if she could, but he damn well knew he wasn't generous with her allowance. Could she really afford that?

    The rest of dinner passed in awkward silence, broken by just as awkward conversation. And when she was done, Taylor vanished up to her room. As he picked up her tray, he smelled the scent of old rusty metal. There for a moment, but gone the next.


    Smoky back rooms and cold white boardrooms. Danny had seen too many of both in the course of trying to get the Tribune set up. He preferred the former. They were more honest about their murky nature.

    But the committee members were all crammed into an office Heather had contributed to the cause. The room smelled of the cleaning products they made downstairs, joined by wet coats and wet hair. Henry Christoff from the Teamsters lit up, adding a blue haze to the air.

    Danny adjusted the blinds, staring out at the soggy grey street. There was a tent set up on the street corner opposite. A man and his dog hid from the rain, holding a hand-written sign that said "I Fought In Caracas". He'd been there last time they'd met here. Probably Danny closed the blinds as a precaution. It wouldn't do to let anyone see in.

    "Thanks Danny." Scott had finished setting up his flipchart. Tall and built like a linebacker gone to seed, he had to stoop slightly to avoid cracking his head on the low lights at that end of the room. He rubbed his shaven head, wedding ring gleaming in the light. He'd been the editor of the Times, before they'd purged half the staff with the buyout a few years back. "So it's time for the weekly status update. I know you've all got places to be, but there are a few important things we need to address. As far as things are going, we're still on schedule for the first issue. We've begun setting up in the new offices. The problem is with the finances. Constance?"

    Constance couldn't have been more different to him. She was a tiny African-American woman with a thin face, who regardless of weather always dressed two steps more formally than everyone else in the room. "R-right!" she said. Her stammer wasn't a sign of nervousness. She spoke like someone would snatch away her words if she didn't get them out and so they fell over each other as they left her mouth. "So the, the, the core of the problem is this; the long term viability of the Tribune. As it stands we've got two months of operation viable, but it's the cash flow that'll be an issue. In the medium term, not the long term. Sales aren't reliable and our d-distribution network can't match the Times - especially s-since several sellers have made clear their intention that they will not stock us. The Times is putting on pressure to-"

    "We can't let ourselves become more vulnerable to corporate control!" Henry said, raising his voice two steps louder than needed.

    "W-we need money!" Constance snapped back instantly. "Sales are not reliable. I say this time and time again. The Times can cut their prices long enough to drive us out of business. Or put pressure on the sellers to not distribute us. We need the advertising revenue locked in!"

    "If we let the corporations in, if we let them get their fat hands on the Tribune, then it's all over!"

    "This is not your pet project! If we can't turn a profit, we'll all..."

    "Everyone!" Danny rose, raising his hands. "Voices down, please. No one in here is the enemy. OK? Christoff, please don't interrupt Constance. You'll have time to raise your points. But right now we're just covering the weekly update."

    Henry squared up against him - and slumped. The tension left the room. He was a good man. He just didn't have a good hold on his anger. Danny knew the feeling - but Henry didn't have kids and hadn't ever married. Danny had. "Yeah, yeah. Sorry."

    "No problem, man," Danny said. "Just… chill a bit. Constance, eh? Go on."

    She flashed a smile at him. "Thank you. Now, as I was s-saying…"


    "Gas prices hit a new high today of $8.02, refusing to drop below the eight dollar mark. Is this the new normal, and what impact will this have on an already unsteady economy? Riots in Dallas continue for a fourth day despite the deployment of the National Guard, with seventeen fatalities reported so far. Shocking revelations during the trial of Christine Palmers, aka Godmother. In sport…"

    Danny sighed, and let the white noise of the television blend into the background, massaging his balding scalp. He couldn't focus on things. Some of it was simple stress. The Tribune project was draining him. But he found himself growing more and more concerned about his daughter.

    He shouldn't be worried. That was the worst thing. He had no real reason to be worried. Oh, there were minor things, but that was all they were; minor. Everything seemed to be going much better with her. A vast improvement over last year.

    And yet.

    Oh, that was always the thing. The 'and yet'. It was like he was searching for reasons to be worried, but he couldn't find them. And rather than being sensible and just not worrying, he instead incorporated the 'nothing is wrong' into his worries.

    Sometimes he couldn't find Taylor. She wasn't in her room when he thought she was in the house, and then she'd come back in her sneakers claiming that she'd been out jogging. But she'd never been into jogging before and she always shrugged off any attempt to follow her. Maybe it was just embarrassment at being seen sweating. He'd read that was a thing girls did.

    And he worried that she was improving too much. It didn't feel right. Why had her grades jumped to getting perfect marks in every test? Why was she suddenly cooking and reading medical textbooks? Why would she suddenly be going to hang out with other girls one or two nights a week, after years of being a recluse? He'd always known she was introverted, even before the bullying started. She liked her alone-time, curled up somewhere with a book. And while Sam was harmless, he wasn't so sure about Luci and her friends. He was sure some of them were living in the Ormswood. He didn't want Taylor going anywhere near that neighbourhood.

    Yes, sometimes he worried she was on drugs. Taylor wasn't cheerful. Or she hadn't been cheerful for years, at least. And he felt awful to think like this, but sometimes she seemed like she had no worries - but then the next day she'd be back to her normal serious attitude. Were mood swings like that strange? Or was it just a teenage girl thing?

    So, no, he had no proof. If he did, he could do something about it. But he was distracted and hadn't been paying attention for… god, years. Maybe she'd always been prone to mood swings and she'd been hiding them and…

    Danny thumped the couch. There he was again, getting caught up in an inwards swirl of worry that never had any real answers for him. He always worried and worried and never did anything! And he probably wouldn't ever do anything, because what was he meant to do? Accuse Taylor of being on drugs? If he was wrong, it'd shatter any trust between them - and if he was right, he might just make things worse.

    Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Fuck. Fuck. God, he missed Annette. On lonely nights like this, alone in front of the sofa, he missed her. He missed her comfortable warm presence next to him, he missed the way he could talk to her, he missed her certainty. The way she hadn't worried like he did. She would have to have been better at dealing with a teenage girl than he was.

    He wiped the moisture from his eyes roughly. There was no use being weak. It wouldn't change a damn thing. He had to be strong. That was something he'd learned as a kid.

    Maybe it was just the stress of other things getting to him. He was worrying about his daughter because that was something he could handle. Better that than spend his time fretting about politics; about his job; about the way he was finding himself very tired in the evenings. The last was a cold, nagging worry. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd woken up to find that he was on the couch again.

    He really needed to go to the doctor about that. But not this month. Money was too short for that. He'd just hold out until after the Tribune stuff was through and things were easier. No point throwing away cash when maybe it'd just stop if he wasn't so fucking stressed all the time.

    Danny nursed his beer and his worries alike, as the cathode ray blared out the headlines of a sick world.


    The air was hot and still. Thick clouds hung low overhead, but the weather refused to shift. The heat was back after a brief relief, and now Brockton Bay sweltered in the stifling heat and oppressive humidity of an unusually warm late May.

    Another phone call at midnight. Another dash to the hospital. And-

    "No. Not Lucas too," Danny groaned, thumping the steering wheel. Wasn't Tim enough? Was someone going after all his friends from college? Or was it just the price of daring to want to change something in this fucking world?

    Then came the looming concrete hospital, white corridors and bright light, and the smell of cleaning products. It all blurred together. He couldn't even remember finding a place in the parking lot but there he was; in the emergency ward, meeting with a harried doctor.

    "... and while he was conscious when he arrived, he was showing signs of confusion," she explained. "His condition deteriorated and he lost consciousness during his examination. Combined with the head trauma, we believe he's bleeding inside his skull. As you're one of his listed contacts, we'll need to ask you some questions about his medical history and also need you to sign some consent forms."

    Danny blinked. "But Eric should be-"

    "His partner is in the ER right now." The doctor pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mr Hebert, please, time is of the essence."

    "But what happened?"

    "Please, I don't know what happened. It seems that both of them were assaulted by gang members, but I don't know any more details. I'm going to explain the procedures, and then please sign the consent forms if you consent. After we've done that, then I have questions to ask you."

    Of course he signed, and then sat there and answered what he knew about whether Lucas was prone to seizures (no), whether he knew of any previous concussions or brain injuries (not since his twenties), and whether he had been drinking or taking any drugs (not, not as far as he knew, and he didn't mention that pot when they were younger).

    Then Danny was left in the purgatory of the waiting room, sitting around on call in case they needed any more forms signed. Occasionally the doctors would come out to tell him things. Things like 'internal bleeding in the brain' and 'taking him to the operating room to relieve the pressure before it starts causing major damage'.

    It was past three when he was let through - but not to see Lucas, who was still in the operating theatre. Eric was a mess, right eye so puffed up he couldn't see out of it. One arm was broken and the other so mottled with bruises it looked like he had a tattoo sleeve.

    "Five minutes, nothing more," the nurse said. "He insisted on seeing you when he found you were here. Don't get him excited."

    "Yeah," Eric said. There was a catch in his hoarse voice. "Thanks for… for coming out, Daniel."

    Danny leaned over the bed, and felt himself sway. He collapsed down in a chair, feeling the exhaustion kick in. "He's my friend. Of course I was going to show."

    "They wouldn't let me give consent. Thought I might be concussed." Eric choke-hiccupped. "So it wouldn't count."

    "It's not your fault." The world blurred under the moisture in his eyes. "Eric, what the hell happened?"

    "Skinheads. Fucking skinheads," Eric whispered. "We were just coming back from the cinema, and they jumped us." He let out a sob. "The fuckers were hollering about fags and 'making them squeal'. Haven't had that happen in years."

    Danny reached out, but he couldn't find a safe place to rest his hand without risking hurting Eric more. He felt light-headed. Maybe that's why he said what he did next. "Did it seem like they were after Lucas more than you?"

    Eric frowned. "Yeah," he said. "Maybe. I mean, I… I got this when I tried to step in, but they just kind of beat me down. They… they were kicking him when he was on the ground! And…"

    The nurse cleared her throat. "I told you not to get him excited," she chided Danny. "You should probably leave. He needs his rest."

    "I know. I'm sorry." He levered himself out of the chair. "If you need help, just call me and I'll try to see what I can do," he said.

    "Yeah. Thanks."

    Cold thoughts filled Danny's head as he passed through white corridors and the orange-lit parking lot. They wouldn't leave him alone, even as he drove home.

    Because, sure, it might have been that the skinheads just decided to go beat up a pair of gay men. Eric and Lucas wouldn't be the first targets. But when one of them was a union attorney, something stank as bad as the docks at low tide.

    There was a light on when he got home at four AM. He frowned. Had he forgotten when he rushed out of the house? But no, when he entered the house he found Taylor downstairs, sitting on the couch. She had a thick textbook open, and a mug of coffee in front of her.

    "Why are you awake?" Danny demanded.

    Taylor rolled her shoulders. "Oh, come on, Dad," she said, sounding much older than her still-just-fifteen years. "Sometimes I wake up at four or five in the morning after a nightmare. There's no point in trying to get back to sleep. So I just have ways of coping. Of not feeling as tired."

    Danny slumped. "I didn't know."

    "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you worrying. I'll just… survive." Taylor smiled crookedly. "Pin the tiredness down and nail it to the ground so it doesn't bother me. Now, why were you out?"

    All the nervous energy that had carried him through the night left him and he collapsed down beside her. The old couch creaked alarmingly. "Hospital call," he said shortly. "Emergency."

    "Dad! What happened?"

    He blinked wearily, and realised how it must have sounded to her. "Not for me. For Lucas. I'm one of his emergency contacts."

    "Lucas… Lucas… he's the fat gay one, right?"

    "Taylor…"

    "What? Am I wrong?"

    "No, but you don't have to put it like that." Danny groaned, pressing the balls of his hands into his closed eyes. "You should be in bed. At least try to sleep."

    "By the looks of things, you need bed more than me." She glared at him. "Dad. What happened? You're wound so tight that anyone could see it."

    That was one thing he wasn't going to do. "You don't need my worries unloaded on-"

    "Dad. Talk."

    God, he was so tired and wound up that he wasn't thinking straight. That was the only excuse he had later. Because he did talk. It was like a cork had been removed and all the bottled-up worries were spraying out like cheap champagne. He talked about what had happened with Lucas. He talked about his fears that someone was going for union activists. And once he started he couldn't stop and before he knew it, he was venting about the pressures the union was facing and the problems the Tribune project was running into.

    Taylor leaned over and nudged her coffee towards him. "Drink it."

    "There's no way I'll get to sleep if I have coffee now," he mumbled.

    "There's no way you'll get real rest now. Not when you're still so worked up your leg is bouncing."

    He put pressure on it and shook his head, trying to dislodge the fuzzy feeling.

    "You're going to have to power through, Dad. Have some coffee, find something to do, and just work through the tiredness. I promise you," she smiled slightly, "you'll find your second wind by time for work. Then you can crash when you get home." She paused, waiting for a response. "Dad. Drink your coffee."

    He obeyed. Taylor was somehow awful at making instant coffee. It tasted like something had died in the mug. He swallowed, feeling something gritty on his tongue. Yes, he was definitely more awake. Or having a nightmare about the worst coffee ever. One of the two. "God, what was that? Did you forget to clean out the mug or something? That was like drinking old nails."

    "Hey!"

    He shook his head. The lead weights had been lifted off his eyelids and the dull ache behind his temples was gone. "You're going to thrive at college if you can drink awful coffee like that," he said weakly.

    "Heh. I hope so." Taylor sat there with her dressing gown wrapped tight around her. She didn't have her makeup on, so her scars were pink against her pale skin. "I hope your friend gets better. And do you think they'll catch the people who did it?"

    He wrapped his hands tighter around the empty mug. "He's talking, so… maybe. Probably not. The cops won't be looking too hard. Not when a gay man got beaten up by skinheads," he said darkly.

    His daughter turned away, staring out the window into the distance. "No," she said, "I suppose they wouldn't. They'd need solid evidence. And it's not like they'd get it."

    "They wouldn't care."

    She turned to him, smiling. "They might surprise you. People can have good in them. Deep down. Uh. Really deep down in a lot of cases. But you never know what might drag it up."

    Danny winced, running his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Well, at least one of us is thinking positively," he said, heading to the kitchen to make coffee fit for human consumption. "I… I didn't mean to dump everything on you."

    "I asked for it," Taylor said. "And cheer up. I'm sure something will come up for the Tribune."

    He shook his head, pinching his brow. Apparently his daughter was most cheerful at four in the morning. That was a thing. Sure, why not? After the shitshow of today, he'd take what he could get. Even if it was weirding him out.


    When the heat broke, it did with style.

    Rain beat down on the roof and crawled down the windows. A flash of lightning crept its way through the curtains. Danny started counting, out of habit. He'd got to fifteen-Mississippi before the boom came. Nearly three miles away.

    He yawned and stretched, levering himself off the couch. His arm was aching in the rain. When you were a young man getting fired up and fighting in the streets, they never told you that decades later you'd be adding up the bill for all your bruises and broken bones. If he was going to be dozing off, he might as well do it in his own bed. There was no point sitting here by the phone, hoping for good news about Lucas. It'd been days, and no improvement.

    Danny paused. He sniffed the air. There it was again. He could smell damp. Damp, and a hint of rusty metal. Pacing up and down the landing, he tried to pin it down. It wasn't coming from the direction of the bathroom, which was all the way down the end. His jacket? No, he didn't think it was him.

    Nothing. No luck. The smell was gone, or maybe his nose was just used to it. God, that was worrying. He hoped it was just something like a dead mouse under the floorboards, because if the pipes were leaking that'd be bad news. Money would be tight - tighter - this month if he had to get someone in to fix a leak.

    He took a step forwards, and the rotting smell intensified. A convulsive shiver struck him, carried along by a sudden wave of nausea. Another flash banished that smell, lighting the hall in sharp contrast for a fraction of a second. In the aftermath dark shapes squirmed in front of his eyes, until his eyes re-adjusted to the gloom.

    Danny closed his eyes and sniffed. No, it was gone. He'd just have to keep a nose out for it. He reached out for the light switch, and paused. It was gloomy right now. Not pitch black. He'd thought that Taylor was in bed, but there was still a faint gleam coming in through her door. Awkwardly he crept up to her door, slowly shifting his weight from creaking floorboard to floorboard. Was that the TV? It sounded like voices. No, he thought as he pressed his ear against her door. It was radio static in the shape of voices.

    Carefully, he placed his hand on her doorknob, and just as carefully applied pressure until it opened a crack. There was only a single light in the room; the CRT streaming forth white noise. It crackled and hissed. Taylor was sitting on the floor in front of it, something in her hands. Her upturned face was ghostly pale in the light from the screen.

    She wasn't moving. She was barely breathing.

    "Taylor? Come on, don't sit like that. You'll ruin your eyes."

    She didn't say anything. She didn't even react to his presence. Had she fallen asleep sitting there?

    Pushing the door open properly, Danny stepped in. "Taylor?" he asked, raising his voice. There was still no sign of any movement from her. The static hissed and cackled in almost-intelligible voices.

    This wasn't right. And there was that smell again, filling the room. It had to be coming from in here. But Taylor wasn't responding to it and that wasn't right because it was so thick that he could taste it every time he inhaled.

    He reached down and shook his daughter's shoulder. Her head lolled to the side. Her eyes were white, rolled all the way back. And his hand came away wet. He stared at it in the white light of the CRT. It was red. Not the red of fresh blood. The red of old clots. It crawled in his hand. It squirmed and skittered, wriggling off him and down into the carpet. The wet carpet.

    "The fuck…" he whispered, then he shook away the daze. Something was very wrong and it was connected to the smell, he just knew it. Maybe it was some kind of gas or something and Taylor was bleeding and…

    There was someone else in the room with him. He knew it with ironclad certainty. That someone wasn't Taylor. She wasn't there at all. But there was someone right behind him, reeking of rot and blood. The hairs on the back of his neck were all standing on end. He couldn't hear footsteps or hear their breath, but he knew they were there.

    There was something reflected in the glass of the television screen. Something with long hair and no face.

    He whirled. His eyes saw nothing but a teenager's room, littered with books and discarded clothes, illuminated by a CRT. All he could hear was the almost-talking of the white noise. But his other senses knew better. It was right in front of him and it was getting closer and closer and-

    Danny awoke with a start. His face was slick with sweat. The couch was digging into his back, and he groaned as he sat up. His arm was aching in the humidity. The sound of the rain outside sounded almost like TV static.

    "God," he whispered. What a fucking weird nightmare. That's what he got for falling asleep on the couch. He should go upstairs and sleep in his own bed.

    Just the thought made him shiver. Which was ridiculous. That had been a dream. He wasn't going to…

    "Dad?" Taylor was at the foot of the stairs, a glass of water in hand. She was in her pyjamas, glasses perching on her nose. "You shouted?"

    "... yeah? Yeah, I probably. Bad dreams." He wiped his face on his sleeve.

    Taylor said nothing.

    He chuckled. "If you've been having moments like this," he said, trying to make light of it, "no wonder you're up at odd hours. God, that was… that was weird."

    "What happened?"

    Danny shivered. He didn't want to think too much about it. It had felt too real. "I… something bad had happened to you. Some kind of invisible monster. There was blood and… and it was bad."

    "It was just a dream. Look, here I am, real." She paused. "And no more scarred than I am normally."

    "Yeah." He shook his head. "I don't get why you read all those horror stories. What's the fun in being scared?"

    "I like them," Taylor said, a little snootily.

    He rubbed the back of his neck. That reminded him of something. "You… uh, are you still taking the sleeping tablets? It's just it's not good to come to rely on them and…"

    "No. I threw them out," she admitted.

    That was something he could focus on. "And you don't feel you… need them?"

    "God, I'm not an addict." Taylor sighed. "If I have weird and unhealthy behaviours," her tone dripping with self-mockery, "they're not chemical in origin."

    His shoulders slumped. "Do you mean that? About the weird and unhealthy behaviours."

    "No. Not really. Night, though. And you should head up."

    "... yeah, fair enough." Danny sighed. "Night."

    "Night."

    He'd like to say that he slept soundly, but he didn't. The thought of Taylor slumped there, not moving and stinking of blood haunted him. It blurred with other memories; the call from the hospital that something had happened to her at school and the terrible day when he'd had to identify Annette's body when they'd pulled it from the wreckage. Things he couldn't fight. Things that he couldn't touch, couldn't talk to, couldn't stop.

    He was already a failure at keeping Taylor safe. She was a… a strange girl, though he'd never say it to her face. Those thoughts had been nagging him for a while, ever since the night Lucas had been attacked. He couldn't talk to her. Not really. She asked strange questions and didn't think like he did. She had her mother's mind. And that was its own set of worries. Yes, he was still worried about what she got up to when she vanished off with her new set of friends.

    "She's getting close to the age we were," he said to the discoloured patch on the wall where a picture of Annette had hung before he took it down. He massaged his temples. "Maybe it'd be better if she had a little less of you in her. God, what would she do if she had a cause? I know what you did with yours."

    Or maybe, he thought as he lay down, it'd be better if he could… channel that side of his daughter, rather than try to pretend it didn't exist. Maybe she needed good influences, rather than being alone all the time. Not just the eclectic collection of friends she'd made this year. Some kind of proper goal to work towards. With people he could trust.

    Well, it'd be worth thinking about, right?


    Summer arrived, and with that came the sea fogs. One morning in early June, Taylor needed a lift over to Sam's house. And he really had to check the place out for safety. Sure, it was up on Nobility Hill, but that didn't replace personal inspection. He should have done this sooner, but he'd been busy.

    And perhaps Danny also wanted to make sure that was actually where she was going. He didn't quite trust her enough to just let her go on her own. It was a horrible thought, so he tried to pretend to himself that he was just showing more of an interest in her life.

    The Maine sea fog clung to the streets, reducing the world to a blur. Other cars were lighthouses, passed at a distance. Lonely figures waded through low-hanging mist, wrapped in their own problems.

    "So," Danny said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, "you're going to catch a movie with Sam, mmm."

    "Maybe."

    "What do you mean, maybe?"

    "Well, if there's anything we can agree on that's on a showing we can catch. Otherwise we won't."

    "Well, if you need collecting…"

    "Dad, it's fine." Taylor leaned back, the model of a weary teenager. "I have my cell. It's charged. I'll call you."

    Danny wracked his brain trying to think of anything on that teenage girls might want to watch. "Well, wasn't there that… that high school movie out? What about that one?"

    "Going to need to be more precise about that, Dad. Like, way more precise."

    "The one that's a remake? I think?" Damn it, he didn't pay any attention to movies aimed at teenagers. "It's set in the 80s."

    Taylor tilted to stare at him, looking over the top of her glasses. "You know, I could think of movies that are less appropriate for Sam and me than the In The Rose Garden remake, but I'd probably have to put some actual effort into it."

    "Oh."

    "Just trust me, Dad. It's not a good pick." Taylor smiled grimly. "Mental illness, bullying, suicide, and doomed fights against malicious faeries probably should come with some kind of content warning."

    "Oh, yes. Yes, you're probably right there."

    The hills rising above the bay were less foggy than the rest of the city. Wide houses set back from the road emerged from the mist like ships on the water down below. The wisps still around muted the greens, leaving them faded and surreal.

    "Left here, Dad." Then, soon after, "And right, then it's the house with the green garage."

    He pulled to a stop. There was someone working the garden. Danny noticed as his daughter turned to stare at the man - no, the genejack - with a barcode on its lumpy forehead. She pushed her glasses down with a finger, staring over the top of them. "Yeah, I'm not a fan of them," he said softly. "That's a job someone could be doing."

    "... oh, right," Taylor said, blinking. "No, I know they have them. I was just… checking. I couldn't see the barcode at first."

    "Nervous?" he asked as they approached the door.

    "Why would I be nervous? I've been here before."

    Oh. Then came a "Taylor!" as Sam sprang out the door at her. "Oh, sorry, sorry, slightly hyper today, don't mind me."

    The inside of the house smelled of beeswax and flowers. There were white carpets on the floor, and Danny obeyed Sam's instructions to leave his shoes at the door.

    "Oh, Mr Hebert. Hello again," said Sam's mother, covering the mouthpiece of her sleek black cell. "Or Danny, I suppose. I'm not sure whether we're on first name terms yet." She was almost as tall as her daughter, and there was something slightly off about her facial proportions now that he looked at her closely. Something a little too perfect, especially for a woman who had to be approaching forty at minimum. He almost could smell the money.

    He wracked his brain for her name. "Pia," he hazarded.

    "Right. Let me just finish this call, and we can have a drink and a talk before you go. I've been meaning to chat. The kitchen's through there." She put her head back to the phone "No, no, my daughter just has a friend around. Where were we?"

    The two girls vanished off, and Danny was left standing in his socks on the white carpet. He was acutely aware that there were patches on both his heels. With nothing else to do, he stepped into the kitchen with its chilly granite floor. The appliances on the counters were as sleek and black as Pia's phone, and he wasn't even sure where the cupboards were. Reaching up, he flicked one of the cast iron pans hanging from an overhead rail. It chimed like a bell.

    "Not a real kitchen," he muttered to himself. And that was it. It looked like something out of a showroom. What kind of kitchen didn't have scorch marks on the wooden handles of its pans or grease in the corners of the room?

    He sat down on one of the high stools on the bar-style counter, and waited.

    It was nearly five minutes later when Pia stepped in. "Sorry for the delay," she said simply. "Important client business. Tea?"

    "Do you have any coffee?" Danny said, looking around for where that would actually come from.

    "Only decaf." She gave him a wry smile. "Doctor's orders. For me, not Samantha, for once."

    "Then tea's fine."

    He watched with mild interest as Pia told the kettle to boil water for tea, then slid out a panel from what he had thought was the wall to retrieve a teapot and a pot of loose leaves.

    "Clever," he said.

    "Oh? Yes, it keeps the mess out of the way," Pia said, adding a scoop of leaves to the pot and adding the water. "It's silver tip, by the way."

    "I'm surprised you can find anything in here when it's all hidden away."

    "No, no, this way everything is where I left it." She sat herself down on the other side of the bar-like table, crossing her legs. "I'm glad the girls are getting on so well," she said.

    That was something he could agree on. "Sam seems like a good girl," she said.

    "She's never been particularly good at making close friends," Pia said. "It's not all her fault, of course - she's been in and out of hospital for one reason or another far too much. But it means she's not good at moving from 'acquaintance' to 'friend'. I'm glad Taylor's been here for her. I was… worried, what with Leah still in the hospital."

    He nodded sympathetically. "Taylor's had problems - bad problems - with bullying, and one of the main bullies… I only found out this year… used to be her best friend. They were friends ever since she was little, too. Making new friends is important. I guess her and Sam managed to bond."

    "Mmm hmm." She looked across at him over the counter. "It's not easy being a parent. Teenage girls are hard work."

    "Yes, I suppose so," he said. Though money made things easier, and by all indications Pia Yeates had more than enough of that. She poured the tea. Danny stared down at the little handleless clay cup. It was watery and pale yellow, like the sun shining through the mist outside. Steam rose up from its surface. "Nice cups."

    "They were a gift from an employee. I had our in-house attorneys help him clear some irregularities with his residency documents." She swirled her tea. "He gave me this lovely set of traditional tea cups in thanks."

    "Ah." Danny took a sip of his watery tea. It wasn't bitter, he supposed, but it wasn't much of anything. "So what are the girls up to? Taylor said they might be going to see a movie."

    "Yes." Pia sighed. "I suggested they go see… well, I liked the original, but Samantha just laughed at the idea. Never mind that. Don't worry about what they're up to. I'm always careful to make sure I know where Samantha is at all times, in case she has another medical emergency."

    "It can't have been easy," he sympathised.

    "No, it hasn't. But I can't spend time feeling sorry for myself. It's not her fault, after all." She sipped her tea, long fingers wrapped around the tiny cup. "But I have to be honest, I didn't invite you in to talk about the girls. I've been thinking about something, and I wanted to talk to you about it."

    Danny put down his cup. He wasn't sure where this was going. "Go on."

    "You're on the executive committee of the Brockton Bay Tribune. I'm looking to get involved as an angel investor."

    Ice ran up and down his spine. "What are you looking to get from this?" He hated that he asked this. He hated his damn inability to just sit down and take the money. But good things didn't come out of the blue. "Because we all signed an agreement to support editorial independence, so I can't promise you favourable…"

    Pia waved a hand in his direction. "Please, don't think so little of me." She poured herself more white tea. "I support a free press - and I always have. And I can't stand the Times. It's garbage that panders to the small-minded. It stirs up hate against some of my best employees just because they're refugees. It's Max Anders' personal sewage pipe which lets him spout his vile opinions in public. His people always have a platform on it. I've hated him for half a decade now." Her sculpted jaw clenched. "And it supports politicians who'd let my daughter die."

    Danny didn't say anything at first, wrapping his hands around his cup. "I'm sorry for doubting you," he said into the awkward silence.

    "You've had other people looking to buy a voice, haven't you?" Pia looked him directly in the eyes. "You leapt to that too quickly for it to be…"

    "No, no, you're right. We've been approached by several... groups. Ones who wanted the illusion of choice in the news market." He sipped the tea. "Reading between the lines, I think the Times's losing sales. The whole project came about because they fired half their journalists - the ones with, hah, 'suspect opinions' - and the quality nose-dived. We got most of them on board, including the former editor. This isn't meant to be some basement operation. It's a professional business."

    "And that's why I feel safe enough to offer money as an angel investor. I don't intend to be involved in a day to day role. But I want to support the end goal, and I've taken a look at your organisation. I think you won't lose my money, but you need capital for the initial phase to get you off the ground. And I have that capital you need."

    God, but she was right. "Are you certain?" he asked. He didn't want some fake offer that'd be withdrawn. He couldn't take his hopes being dashed. "This isn't a certain thing. I think we're in with a good shot of succeeding, but there is always risk."

    Pia nodded. "Well, let me give you a little background about myself. I started off as a biochemist. I was part of Gene Jackson's research group, and turned my initial investment there into a twenty percent share in his company. When it floated, I sold up. This was just before Red Friday, so I made a fortune. Me and my husband re-invested most of it into a company I bought which went bankrupt in the crash. We now have facilities up and down the east coast, with contracts with the federal government and major biotech firms. I won't talk precise numbers, but suffice to say that I can easily afford to lose the amount of money you seem to need if it all goes south." She tapped her teacup. "Which, incidentally, I hope it won't. So. Are you interested?"

    Danny sat there, feeling the yaw in his stomach. It felt like someone was watching him, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose on end. "Yes," he said, "but I'll need to talk to the committee about it. If they're also interested, we can talk about terms."

    He wasn't lying. Not quite. But he wasn't sure about this, and he wasn't sure about her. He knew Sam's family was rich, but it was one thing to know they had money and another thing to see it so casually demonstrated. If she was telling the truth, she could stroll in and with a single cheque solve all the Tribune's financial problems. But that kind of ridiculous wealth was something that the Tribune was meant to be against.

    Was she really trying to buy him?


    "So, did you talk to Sam's mother?" Taylor asked that night, over mac-and-cheese. The kitchen fan hummed in the background, and outside a police siren wailed.

    "Yeah. Yeah, I did." Danny glanced at his daughter, brow furrowed. "Did you have something to do with that?"

    "What happened?"

    "She offered to be an angel investor to the Tribune. And I'm wondering how she knew about it."

    "Look, Dad." Taylor loaded up her fork. "I'm entirely aware of Sam's political opinions. As is anyone who's her friend. Or has talked to her for an afternoon. And I knew she got that from her mother, because I have been at the same table as those two when eating. Last time I was around her place, it came up over dinner, and I mentioned that I'd heard that people were trying to get a better daily local paper up and started here." Taylor smiled. "I mean," she said, with her mouth full, "I guess she liked the idea."

    "Mmm." Danny crossed his arms on the table, leaning forwards. "Yeah."

    "You don't sound convinced. Isn't it a good thing?"

    It was, and that was the problem. You couldn't trust things that sounded too good to be true. They usually were. And he wasn't sure how the hell some of the others would react when he told them he'd found an investor, and who she was. Henry wasn't going to like it, for sure. "That family sounds like things are… lively," he said instead.

    Taylor shrugged. "Her kid brother's seven, and seems to spend all his time playing video games. I dunno what the dad's like." She caught his eye. "Uh, I get the feeling they're, how to put it. Not divorced, but… um, practically separated. Sam doesn't mention him much - except she told me once he's always off on walking holidays or working. From what I understand, he's got an apartment in DC and spends most weeks there. And, uh. I'm not sure how her mother is, but I kind of get the feeling Sam's kinda bitter about it. I, uh, didn't see him once when I was at the hospital."

    "Oh."

    "Yeah. Oh." Taylor reached for the water. "So, yeah, Dad, you don't need to feel scared that I somehow 'pressured' the rich owner of a biotech company into giving you money or something. Even if that was something I could do, it'd just go wrong." She stared at her glass. "I think you should take the chance. You've put so much effort into the Tribune over the past few months, right? Maybe for once you just got a lucky break."

    Danny grinned at that. "Yeah. It'd be about time. It's just as well that I went with you to Sam's place to make sure it was safe, right?"

    "Yeah. Yeah, it was a good idea."


    Danny's knuckles whitened around the wheel of the car as he drove south to the outskirts of the city. The bulk of the temperamental outdated power plant loomed over the industrial estates out here, steam coming from its four funnels. Old paper mills and chemical factories mouldered slowly in the morning mist that clung to the shadows. Grass and young saplings sprouted from the brownfield sites. Land was cheap out here. No one wanted to buy it and it was too polluted to sell for housing without expensive clean-up.

    He parked the car in the lot and stood back, rubbing his hands together in the chill air. Nearly. It was nearly done. A year of unpaid work, crammed into whenever he could manage, had managed this. They hadn't put the sign up, but the old Allied Dynamics building had been patched up to code and the printing presses Scott had managed to source from a bankrupt paper up in Michigan had been installed.

    His cell buzzed. He checked the text. It was from Eric. Lucas awake. He is talking. V good news. Keep you updated. Danny's heart leapt in his chest, and he grinned foolishly. That was very good news indeed. Things had looked very bad at points, but maybe that meant the worst was past.

    Well, no use standing out in the cold. He headed inside, signing in with the receptionist. There were still dust sheets everywhere, and half the office space was still being worked on, but it was taking shape.

    "Danny!" It was Constance, hair up, bustling with arms full of papers. "What're you doing here… ooo-"

    He managed to grab some of the documents before they hit the ground. "Just looking around. And I needed to talk to Scott about something."

    "He's on the phone right now and I need to g-get these forms signed and then…" She turned to go.

    "Constance. Where do you want these?" he asked, waving the files at her.

    "Oh, right!" She led him through to her small office, stacked with paper. It smelled of ozone from the overworked old desktop printer sitting in the corner. "Just put it on my desk - I'll need to sort through things anyway and there's always m-more to do."

    Danny considered where to find some space on the desk. Eventually by nudging a picture of her family out of the way, he managed to make room. "Okay, is that all?"

    "Yes, thank you." Constance stepped up, squeezing his hand. Up close, he could see she'd had her hair redyed to cover the roots. "And I'm n-not sure if I said this to you yet, but thank you so so so much for finding Pia Yeates. Maybe now I'll be able to get some sleep and not be worrying about where the cashflow for months two and three are coming from and-"

    "Okay, okay." He gently patted her on the shoulder. "You said after the meeting?"

    "Yes, I know, but it's just such a relief and a weight off my shoulders!" Constance drew in a deep breath. "I should cut back on my coffee," she confided in him. "I've b-been humming all day."

    "Yeah, I think we all could do with a good night's sleep," he said wryly. He paused. "You going to be alright?"

    "Yes, thank you." Constance swallowed. "Well, these invoices won't sign themselves. Uh… was there something else you wanted?"

    "I was just going to see Scott."

    "Oh, he should be in. You know where his new office is? We had to move it due to problems with the ceiling and that leaking pipe. It's just down the hall, on the right, past the fire escape."

    Danny nodded, and followed the direction. He rapped on the door. "You busy?"

    "Dan? No, no. Come in."

    Scott's office was apparently serving as a repository for the computers that were going to go in the main room, and there was barely enough space for two men and half a desk between the desktops and CRTs. "Sorry about the tight fit," Scott said, still-boyish features wincing. "I'm keeping an eye on them while we've got the builders in. They were meant to be in storage, but there's been a hold-up and," he shook his head. "The usual chaos of moving into a new place," he said wryly.

    "Hey, Scott." Danny leant against the door. The office smelled of paper, coffee and copy machines. "Doesn't seem real, does it?"

    "No. It doesn't. Hell of a thing. The contracts are signed and we've got arrangements and a big investor." He shook his head again, as if trying to shake away dreams. "Still doesn't seem real."

    "Well, we've just got to make it work now."

    "Yeah, Dan. That's the big thing. Nearly zero day."

    "You think you can do it?"

    "Yeah." Scott leaned forward, dropping his voice. "We've already done some test runs. Even if the office isn't done, the printers are up and running. And we're working on mock-ups for the first issue. We'll be ready, don't worry." He pulled out a key, opening a desk drawer, and retrieved a folded paper. "Look at this. First run prototype."

    Danny picked his way over to the desk to examine the Brockton Bay Tribune. "Feels much more real now it's paper in my hands," he said. "Although," he grinned, "you're going to need a better headline than lorem ipsum."

    "It's just a mock up, don't worry. We'll have the news for the first one. Something big and eye-grabbing, if my contacts pull through."

    "Good, good." Danny paused, wondering how to put it. "I got a favour to ask."

    "Oh. Go ahead, Dan."

    "How are you for staff?"

    "Holding up, holding up. We're going to need to keep it lean for the initial bit until we have a good market share, but there are plenty of people I know who're willing to freelance." He glowered. "Plenty of people who've been screwed over by the Times."

    "Mmm." Danny paused, and took a breath. "By any chance, would you be looking for any interns? Just for the summer, when you'll need help getting set up."

    Scott looked him in the eye. "Got someone in mind?"

    "Yeah. I do."
     
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