This is a cross-post from Spacebattles, updating once a day in the mornings as a way to make...
Broken Mirrors, Black Cats, and Other Wonderful Things [Worm][OC][Brockton Bay]
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Index
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
This is a cross-post from Spacebattles, updating once a day in the mornings as a way to make sure I get up. Index post is here for any fanworks or omakes, first chapter will be posted below. There're going to be gay/trans characters in the story, so if that's not your cup of tea you should probably look elsewhere. I'll link the fight scenes up here at the front if that's what your into.
Summary: Why the hell would anyone want to get assigned to Brockton Bay? The answer is that no one does: it's a punishment detail, except for the few nut jobs that chase disaster like a personal injury lawyer chases an ambulance. Eli Shane isn't a nut job (he thinks?) and has to try and get along with his new coworkers, fight Nazis, and just maybe form a single human connection.
Summary: Why the hell would anyone want to get assigned to Brockton Bay? The answer is that no one does: it's a punishment detail, except for the few nut jobs that chase disaster like a personal injury lawyer chases an ambulance. Eli Shane isn't a nut job (he thinks?) and has to try and get along with his new coworkers, fight Nazis, and just maybe form a single human connection.
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1: Arrival
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
Brockton Bay did not make a good first impression on me.
The first thing I notice was the smell. Sea breezes tainted by dead fish and cigarettes, thick enough that I started worrying about a second-hand coating of tar on my lungs. I have no idea how the Bay missed the nation-wide memo that smoking is bad for you, but the air tastes so strongly of tobacco that I can practically feel the ash on my tongue.
The second thing was just how dirty the sidewalks were. I initially thought it was just a downtown thing, but after a few blocks in the nicer neighborhoods where I spot no fewer than three E88 tags I'm convinced the layer of litter and graffiti was an issue of the city and not just part and parcel of the bog-standard Urban Problems.
The third thing was the white supremacists/antisemites/queerphobes that were somehow still around.
I saw the miniature star spraying bars of light at the ground before I heard the destruction. After running through the not-short list of scary capes in the Bay I grimaced. A literal Nazi, and one of the dangerous ones. Here for less than twenty four hours and already I've witnessed what's probably a felony.
Alex wasn't kidding when he said it was a shithole.
I swerve into a coffee shop, calmly buy a small cup of the light blend, then go to the bathroom while the barista is pouring my drink. After making sure the door is securely locked, I shuck off my clothes, slap the easy-don armor plates and utility belt onto my undersuit, then unlock the bathroom. Once everything is tidied away, I look out the tiny window and push-
-up to the nearby rooftop. I drop the backpack down into a half-empty dumpster (a real shame, I liked the shirt) and start chaining jumps across the rooftops, thumbing the radio built into my lightweight helmet and connecting the local PRT's radio.
"This is Black Cat." Teleport. "Purity is firing down at something just south of downtown." Teleport. "I'm pretty sure I can take her out." Teleport. "Orders?" It's hard to look at the second sun in the sky, but as the lenses over my eyes polarize I slowly get better vision on her. Still can't look at her face, but I just need to drop down from above and apply a foam grenade or tranquilizer.
"Black Cat, this is PRT Sargent Stiles." Non-capes talking means that either the Protectorate haven't engaged or are too busy to reply. "Do not engage unless you can confirm that civilians are clear. Also, you're supposed to be reporting to the Director for introductions later this afternoon. Why are you out on patrol?"
"I was walking through town on my way to the PRT HQ." I stop teleporting and crouch behind an AC unit, slowly scanning over the battlefield. "I saw a glowy lady in the sky blowing stuff up, then decided to investigate in costume." Purity is sending some sort of golden double-helix at a warehouse, blowing through the concrete. It's already half-collapsed, and I can see more than a few people with broken legs on the ground. "Currently she's engaging in property damage and aggravated assault. Not sure if she's killing anyone, but knocking over a building doesn't scream nonlethal to me. Multiple people on the ground, all young adults or adults of Asiatic descent in red and green."
"ABB members," Stiles says. "PRT van is en route to pick them up. What about the Civilians? Is anyone in danger?"
I take a second glance, then shake my head. "I can't be sure, but this looks like an abandoned part of town. Gillfitcher and 83rd, lots of broken windows?"
"Nonresidential," Stiles confirms. "Can you take her out safely?"
I palm a foam grenade, the only one I'm allowed to carry without official deployment. Something something 'reverse engineering' something something 'tinker are the bane of all fun'. "She's too high off the ground for me to K.O. without risking her dropping out of the sky and breaking her neck. I could foam her, but I'm not sure how much that's going to do to a flier."
"Try your best," he says. I nod once and turn off the radio, switching my gaze to just above the star, ignoring the sting in my eyes, then push-
-and pop out just above the star and this close it's blinding too much to look past or deal with but I just need to thumb the one second fuse and I push-
-away. I duck behind another AC unit. A few seconds later I hear more shattering and peek out from being the cover. Purity is flying around erratically, a mass of grey foam covering her head. After a few seconds golden beams radiate around her face and she flies away, a rapidly-receding golden spot in the air. I watch her go, then sigh.
One blaster/mover with the power peer to Legend and the experience not to get insta-capped by an ambush foaming. One changer who's escaped transport to the Birdcage twice and is immune to just about anything I can bring to bear. A dragon who fought the entire local Protectorate and didn't get taken down, who's holding the line against dozens of capes on his own.
I teleport down to the street and pull out a pair of tourniquets. I pad silently by the groaning gangsters, searching for pools of blood and limbs beyond ruined. Nothing leaps out at me, so I stow them away and turn back on my radio.
"Black Cat reporting in. Purity flew away after getting temporarily foamed. I count eight ABB members on the ground, broken limbs but nothing mortal. The building is not structurally sound. Permission to investigate? Over." I lean to the side and strain my eyes, searching for a clear sign of habitation.
"Sergeant Stiles here. Only investigate where you can immediately escape in the event of a collapse." Only the outer rooms then. I start circling the building, looking for movement, for ruby red, for any sign of life at all. "Once the PRT vans arrive, get to the PRT building with all due haste. Do you copy? Over."
"Black Cat copies," I say, shutting off the radio again. I complete two rings around the building, then give up and sit down on a fire hydrant, keeping an eye on the injured criminals.
I really, really hate punishment details.
The first thing I notice was the smell. Sea breezes tainted by dead fish and cigarettes, thick enough that I started worrying about a second-hand coating of tar on my lungs. I have no idea how the Bay missed the nation-wide memo that smoking is bad for you, but the air tastes so strongly of tobacco that I can practically feel the ash on my tongue.
The second thing was just how dirty the sidewalks were. I initially thought it was just a downtown thing, but after a few blocks in the nicer neighborhoods where I spot no fewer than three E88 tags I'm convinced the layer of litter and graffiti was an issue of the city and not just part and parcel of the bog-standard Urban Problems.
The third thing was the white supremacists/antisemites/queerphobes that were somehow still around.
I saw the miniature star spraying bars of light at the ground before I heard the destruction. After running through the not-short list of scary capes in the Bay I grimaced. A literal Nazi, and one of the dangerous ones. Here for less than twenty four hours and already I've witnessed what's probably a felony.
Alex wasn't kidding when he said it was a shithole.
I swerve into a coffee shop, calmly buy a small cup of the light blend, then go to the bathroom while the barista is pouring my drink. After making sure the door is securely locked, I shuck off my clothes, slap the easy-don armor plates and utility belt onto my undersuit, then unlock the bathroom. Once everything is tidied away, I look out the tiny window and push-
-up to the nearby rooftop. I drop the backpack down into a half-empty dumpster (a real shame, I liked the shirt) and start chaining jumps across the rooftops, thumbing the radio built into my lightweight helmet and connecting the local PRT's radio.
"This is Black Cat." Teleport. "Purity is firing down at something just south of downtown." Teleport. "I'm pretty sure I can take her out." Teleport. "Orders?" It's hard to look at the second sun in the sky, but as the lenses over my eyes polarize I slowly get better vision on her. Still can't look at her face, but I just need to drop down from above and apply a foam grenade or tranquilizer.
"Black Cat, this is PRT Sargent Stiles." Non-capes talking means that either the Protectorate haven't engaged or are too busy to reply. "Do not engage unless you can confirm that civilians are clear. Also, you're supposed to be reporting to the Director for introductions later this afternoon. Why are you out on patrol?"
"I was walking through town on my way to the PRT HQ." I stop teleporting and crouch behind an AC unit, slowly scanning over the battlefield. "I saw a glowy lady in the sky blowing stuff up, then decided to investigate in costume." Purity is sending some sort of golden double-helix at a warehouse, blowing through the concrete. It's already half-collapsed, and I can see more than a few people with broken legs on the ground. "Currently she's engaging in property damage and aggravated assault. Not sure if she's killing anyone, but knocking over a building doesn't scream nonlethal to me. Multiple people on the ground, all young adults or adults of Asiatic descent in red and green."
"ABB members," Stiles says. "PRT van is en route to pick them up. What about the Civilians? Is anyone in danger?"
I take a second glance, then shake my head. "I can't be sure, but this looks like an abandoned part of town. Gillfitcher and 83rd, lots of broken windows?"
"Nonresidential," Stiles confirms. "Can you take her out safely?"
I palm a foam grenade, the only one I'm allowed to carry without official deployment. Something something 'reverse engineering' something something 'tinker are the bane of all fun'. "She's too high off the ground for me to K.O. without risking her dropping out of the sky and breaking her neck. I could foam her, but I'm not sure how much that's going to do to a flier."
"Try your best," he says. I nod once and turn off the radio, switching my gaze to just above the star, ignoring the sting in my eyes, then push-
-and pop out just above the star and this close it's blinding too much to look past or deal with but I just need to thumb the one second fuse and I push-
-away. I duck behind another AC unit. A few seconds later I hear more shattering and peek out from being the cover. Purity is flying around erratically, a mass of grey foam covering her head. After a few seconds golden beams radiate around her face and she flies away, a rapidly-receding golden spot in the air. I watch her go, then sigh.
One blaster/mover with the power peer to Legend and the experience not to get insta-capped by an ambush foaming. One changer who's escaped transport to the Birdcage twice and is immune to just about anything I can bring to bear. A dragon who fought the entire local Protectorate and didn't get taken down, who's holding the line against dozens of capes on his own.
I teleport down to the street and pull out a pair of tourniquets. I pad silently by the groaning gangsters, searching for pools of blood and limbs beyond ruined. Nothing leaps out at me, so I stow them away and turn back on my radio.
"Black Cat reporting in. Purity flew away after getting temporarily foamed. I count eight ABB members on the ground, broken limbs but nothing mortal. The building is not structurally sound. Permission to investigate? Over." I lean to the side and strain my eyes, searching for a clear sign of habitation.
"Sergeant Stiles here. Only investigate where you can immediately escape in the event of a collapse." Only the outer rooms then. I start circling the building, looking for movement, for ruby red, for any sign of life at all. "Once the PRT vans arrive, get to the PRT building with all due haste. Do you copy? Over."
"Black Cat copies," I say, shutting off the radio again. I complete two rings around the building, then give up and sit down on a fire hydrant, keeping an eye on the injured criminals.
I really, really hate punishment details.
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2: Introduction
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"There appears to be nothing out of line with your chosen course of action," Piggot says from behind her desk, looking up at me neutrally. She didn't ask a question so I don't respond. I've had bosses like her before, and one of the worst things I could do would be mouth off. Better to just to keep my head down, be a good little parahuman, and give her as few excuses as possible to staple me to a wall. After another few seconds she sighs and waves at me, the flab on her arm jiggling slightly in her sleeve. "You are dismissed," Piggot says, turning away from me and going back to her computer. "Armsmaster and a few others are waiting for you in room four one four." I drop out of parade rest and promptly leave the room, mentally preparing for social engagement.
The PRT troopers I pass don't so much as give me a second glance, which makes sense. Something would have to go horribly, horribly wrong for the staff to not be informed about the newest addition to the roster of the local team of capes, especially when that person has a stranger rating. Wouldn't want anyone to accidentally kill their ally in a case of hilariously ironic friendly-fire, after all. My retina scans clean and my badge lets me call the elevator just fine, which means that someone is doing their job right.
Eventually I'm in front of of the door to room four one four, trying to beat down the entirely-unreasonable apprehensions I have about entering the room. Twice I raise my hand to grab the door knob. Twice it falls back to my side, limp and helpless.
I grit my teeth, tilt my head back, and run through the list of reasons to open the damn door.
One, it's not going to get easier. First contact needs to be made at some point, and pushing that date off will only make the first impression worse, which will make future meetings more difficult, which will transform into a cascading series of failures that end with a terrible work environment and no benefit of the doubt when/if I need it. Best to just bite the bullet and move on.
Two, this is what I signed up for. Part of being a member of the Protectorate is that you have to be able to work with and tolerate the team you're assigned to. Maybe that's unpleasant, maybe it's not but ultimately I am trading temporary discomfort for money, an exchange that forms the basis of every single economic transaction on the planet. I agreed to do a job and the jitter in my fingers isn't going to stop me from doing it.
Three, all my reasons for not wanting to open the door are stupid. It takes time for people to form connections, and of all the places to engage with people this is probably among the safest. There's a whole book of rules on what is and is not okay, everyone understands that this is a work environment, and there's a common social expectation that keeps people close enough to be respectful and distant enough not to start anything without a number of other stimuli, none of which I will provide.
My hands stays at my side.
Okay, plan B.
I bite my tongue. In the moment of pain where the pain is at the forefront of my mind, I force my hand to the brass knob, twist it without thinking too hard, and push.
The first step is always the hardest.
I walk into the room quietly. A small kitchenette, a large refrigerator, and two table with four chairs each, at one of which is is a trio of parahumans. Two men, one woman. One suit of power armor, one scarlet visor, one set of blue circuits. The man in power armor nods in my direction then stands up, extending a hand towards.
"Hello, Black Cat. I'm Armsmaster, the leader of Protectorate East-North-East." I take his hand and give it a shake. Firm, but not the painful squeeze that speaks of someone who doesn't know how to handle super strength. Either he's gotten really used to moving around in his suit or he's actually just good enough to make servos that can switch between a roughly human grip and whatever the top end of his gauntlet is. Maybe both.
"Good to meet you," I reply formally, releasing his hand and sitting down in the empty chair. "You two are?" I ask, motioning to the other two occupants.
"He's Assault and I'm Battery," the woman says. "And before you try to do something with the names, remember that we've been working together for quite literally years. Any and every conceivable ounce of humor has been extracted from them, and trying will not suddenly make the jokes funny again."
"It really is a chore, being so good at comedy that you leave nothing for the next generation," Assault adds with a wistful sigh, prompting Battery to roll her eyes. I give Armsmaster a sideways glance behind my mirrored lenses and catch small twitch at the corner of his mouth. He's on good terms with the rest of his team then, and the joke probably isn't out of character for Assault.
Keeping my distance may be more difficult than I thought.
"Those are the formal introductions," Armsmaster says, clasping his hands in front of himself and fixing his visored gaze at me. There's a short whirring noise and the visor collapses into the helmet, which in turn collapses into the collar of his armor. "Informally, I'm Colin Wallis. It's good to have you here." He smiles, soft and genuine, and I smile back reflexively behind my mask.
"Sharon," Battery says, pulling off her helmet and running her hand through short brown hair. "Going to agree with Colin, it's good to see you. We're outnumbered pretty bad here."
"Ethan," Assault says, flipping up his visor. "In the interest of inter-team solidarity, how do you feel about a night out? Dinner, a movie, maybe drinks?"
"Should I be worried about being replaced by the flavor of month?" Sharon asks dryly, arching an eyebrow. I blink, looking between the two of them. Together, then. Not sure how deep it runs, but probably more than friendly colleagues.
"Nah, just a guy's night out. Me, Robin, maybe Roger, and if Colin wants to join..." He trails off, giving the other man a meaningful look.
Colin shakes his head. "Working with Dragon," he explains, smile fading to something more neutral. "Send me the receipts and I'll see if I can get it redeemed."
"Just Robin and I for sure then," Ethan says, looking to me. "So, you in?" The pressure of the three sets of eyes is a physical thing, and only years of built-up steel keep me from buckling.
Why do people have to be so hard?
I reach up and open the zipper around my neck. Then I pull the gap in my undersuit up and over my head, the fabric stretching easily to accommodate it. I give my scalp a good scratch, delaying for a second to get my breath back, then nod once.
"Eli. Eli Shane. What time do you want to meet?" I ask, ignoring the dread in my throat as I meet Ethan's eyes.
The PRT troopers I pass don't so much as give me a second glance, which makes sense. Something would have to go horribly, horribly wrong for the staff to not be informed about the newest addition to the roster of the local team of capes, especially when that person has a stranger rating. Wouldn't want anyone to accidentally kill their ally in a case of hilariously ironic friendly-fire, after all. My retina scans clean and my badge lets me call the elevator just fine, which means that someone is doing their job right.
Eventually I'm in front of of the door to room four one four, trying to beat down the entirely-unreasonable apprehensions I have about entering the room. Twice I raise my hand to grab the door knob. Twice it falls back to my side, limp and helpless.
I grit my teeth, tilt my head back, and run through the list of reasons to open the damn door.
One, it's not going to get easier. First contact needs to be made at some point, and pushing that date off will only make the first impression worse, which will make future meetings more difficult, which will transform into a cascading series of failures that end with a terrible work environment and no benefit of the doubt when/if I need it. Best to just bite the bullet and move on.
Two, this is what I signed up for. Part of being a member of the Protectorate is that you have to be able to work with and tolerate the team you're assigned to. Maybe that's unpleasant, maybe it's not but ultimately I am trading temporary discomfort for money, an exchange that forms the basis of every single economic transaction on the planet. I agreed to do a job and the jitter in my fingers isn't going to stop me from doing it.
Three, all my reasons for not wanting to open the door are stupid. It takes time for people to form connections, and of all the places to engage with people this is probably among the safest. There's a whole book of rules on what is and is not okay, everyone understands that this is a work environment, and there's a common social expectation that keeps people close enough to be respectful and distant enough not to start anything without a number of other stimuli, none of which I will provide.
My hands stays at my side.
Okay, plan B.
I bite my tongue. In the moment of pain where the pain is at the forefront of my mind, I force my hand to the brass knob, twist it without thinking too hard, and push.
The first step is always the hardest.
I walk into the room quietly. A small kitchenette, a large refrigerator, and two table with four chairs each, at one of which is is a trio of parahumans. Two men, one woman. One suit of power armor, one scarlet visor, one set of blue circuits. The man in power armor nods in my direction then stands up, extending a hand towards.
"Hello, Black Cat. I'm Armsmaster, the leader of Protectorate East-North-East." I take his hand and give it a shake. Firm, but not the painful squeeze that speaks of someone who doesn't know how to handle super strength. Either he's gotten really used to moving around in his suit or he's actually just good enough to make servos that can switch between a roughly human grip and whatever the top end of his gauntlet is. Maybe both.
"Good to meet you," I reply formally, releasing his hand and sitting down in the empty chair. "You two are?" I ask, motioning to the other two occupants.
"He's Assault and I'm Battery," the woman says. "And before you try to do something with the names, remember that we've been working together for quite literally years. Any and every conceivable ounce of humor has been extracted from them, and trying will not suddenly make the jokes funny again."
"It really is a chore, being so good at comedy that you leave nothing for the next generation," Assault adds with a wistful sigh, prompting Battery to roll her eyes. I give Armsmaster a sideways glance behind my mirrored lenses and catch small twitch at the corner of his mouth. He's on good terms with the rest of his team then, and the joke probably isn't out of character for Assault.
Keeping my distance may be more difficult than I thought.
"Those are the formal introductions," Armsmaster says, clasping his hands in front of himself and fixing his visored gaze at me. There's a short whirring noise and the visor collapses into the helmet, which in turn collapses into the collar of his armor. "Informally, I'm Colin Wallis. It's good to have you here." He smiles, soft and genuine, and I smile back reflexively behind my mask.
"Sharon," Battery says, pulling off her helmet and running her hand through short brown hair. "Going to agree with Colin, it's good to see you. We're outnumbered pretty bad here."
"Ethan," Assault says, flipping up his visor. "In the interest of inter-team solidarity, how do you feel about a night out? Dinner, a movie, maybe drinks?"
"Should I be worried about being replaced by the flavor of month?" Sharon asks dryly, arching an eyebrow. I blink, looking between the two of them. Together, then. Not sure how deep it runs, but probably more than friendly colleagues.
"Nah, just a guy's night out. Me, Robin, maybe Roger, and if Colin wants to join..." He trails off, giving the other man a meaningful look.
Colin shakes his head. "Working with Dragon," he explains, smile fading to something more neutral. "Send me the receipts and I'll see if I can get it redeemed."
"Just Robin and I for sure then," Ethan says, looking to me. "So, you in?" The pressure of the three sets of eyes is a physical thing, and only years of built-up steel keep me from buckling.
Why do people have to be so hard?
I reach up and open the zipper around my neck. Then I pull the gap in my undersuit up and over my head, the fabric stretching easily to accommodate it. I give my scalp a good scratch, delaying for a second to get my breath back, then nod once.
"Eli. Eli Shane. What time do you want to meet?" I ask, ignoring the dread in my throat as I meet Ethan's eyes.
3: Same Shit
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"Just one gin and tonic."
*****
I should really go home soon.
*****
"I... don't sing."
*****
Maybe this night won't be so bad.
*****
"It's been an hour? Okay, one more."
*****
Fact one: Robin is a vet.
*****
"You're married?"
*****
Fact two: Roger has a fragile ego.
*****
"Listen, if any of us want company we're going to have to split up."
*****
Fact three: Ethan is a merry drunk.
*****
"What time is it?"
*****
Fact four: Hannah is terrifying and also not looking for anyone at the moment.
*****
"One more, then I'm going home. This time for real."
*****
Fact five: they're good people.
*****
"Okay, yeah, maybe I'll need some help."
*****
Fact six: they don't know why I transferred.
*****
*****
*****
Everyone's got their own hangover cure.
Some people just keep drinking. Can't have a hangover if you're constantly drunk, after all. Some people power through the pain and just put on a mask of stoicism as it tears at the inside of their skull. That takes more willpower than I have without a few days of preparation. There are even some people with the foresight to not drink so much that their liver can't handle it. Normally, that's me.
I groan as my alarm drives a pair of railway spikes into my temples. Right. Six o'clock. Time to get up. With one hand I slap at my bedside table until my phone stops squeaking, and once the klaxon is off I lay there, strongly considering calling in a sick day.
Then my good sense reasserts itself and I slowly lift myself out of bed. When my head doesn't punish me for the action, I look around and take in my surroundings.
It's a pretty standard PRT guest room. An inoffensive dresser, a door that leads to a closet-sized bathroom, sheets that are in the strange middle ground between industrial and comfortable, and a decidedly non-standard bar napkin with a pair of lips imprinted on it in purple lipstick.
I pick up the souvenir and squint. A number, a name, and a 'call me' written in red ink. I think about it for a moment, then head over to the bathroom. I drop the napkin in the waste bin, strip, and take a moment to stare at myself in the mirror.
Twenty something and fit, with the light scarring from the cape life that you can't escape without a specific kind of brute rating. A knife-like jaw that's too severe to be classically handsome but apparently still kind of interesting, painfully short black hair, and ice blue eyes.
Also tattoos. Way too many tattoos.
I step under the shower and crank on the cold water.
Then next few minutes are uncomfortable but not unbearable. I resist the urge to swallow down some of the liquid cascading around me and instead focus on scrubbing myself into some semblance of clean and awake. After my teeth start chattering I shut off the water, towel off, then dress in the generic cape uniform and domino mask some kind soul threw onto the dresser. Once I feel a little more like a human I head down to the cafeteria.
"Orange juice, water, a banana, toast, and whatever non-bacon ham you've got. I'd actually prefer beef or turkey bacon, if you have it." The cook gives me a knowing look as she piles the food onto my tray but doesn't comment. I nod politely in thanks once I have the food, then amble over to an empty table to eat.
I feel the attention of the people around me. It's not heavy, not oppressive, perfectly bearable, but it's there. I see a fresh-faced recruit stand up, only to be pulled back into his seat by an older woman. I incline my head at her, then go back to wrapping meat in bread and forcing protein into my body.
One of the biggest draws to working for the PRT is the parahumans. Meet them, talk to them, and if you play your cards right maybe get powers by proximity alone. It's a hell of a lot more complicated than that and you end up with almost as many bigots as fetishists, but no honest PRT agent is going to say that the capes aren't a factor in their mind. Once you get in though, you learn that parahumans tend to prefer to not be treated like zoo animals, that there is a very good reason capes tend to only enter long-term relationships with other capes, and one-night-stands with people who are more individually powerful than you aren't a good idea regardless of whether that power is explicit or implicit.
Someone puts their tray down across from me, a bowl of cereal and a nauseating amount of bacon taking up nearly all of the space on the tray. I look up. A middle-eastern woman in military fatigues, wearing a domino mask with the stars and stripes impressed across it. A knife is sheathed under one arm, and half a dozen different holsters criss-cross her body, all empty.
"I regret that I wasn't able to meet you when you arrived. Generally, either Armsmaster or I stand ready as a back-up for whoever's on patrol, and he had just come off shift. Miss Militia." She extends her hand over the table, locking eyes with me.
"Black Cat." I shake her hand. It's calloused, the large bumps that speak of regular use. "No worries. Any hazing rituals I should know about?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing I know about. I do have you scheduled for a patrol at eight with me downtown, with a heavy schedule for the next few weeks in an attempt to get you used to city, but that's not meant to be too harsh."
"It's not," I confirm, scraping the rest of my food together and scarfing it down as fast as possible. I chug the rest of the water and orange juice, the wipe my face with a napkin. "I'm about ready to head out if you are. Just need to suit up in a real costume."
She nods, turning to her own food. "I'll join you in the motor pool. Don't get lost."
I pick up my tray and head for the doors.
I wonder if they've sent over my Brown Box yet?
*****
I should really go home soon.
*****
"I... don't sing."
*****
Maybe this night won't be so bad.
*****
"It's been an hour? Okay, one more."
*****
Fact one: Robin is a vet.
*****
"You're married?"
*****
Fact two: Roger has a fragile ego.
*****
"Listen, if any of us want company we're going to have to split up."
*****
Fact three: Ethan is a merry drunk.
*****
"What time is it?"
*****
Fact four: Hannah is terrifying and also not looking for anyone at the moment.
*****
"One more, then I'm going home. This time for real."
*****
Fact five: they're good people.
*****
"Okay, yeah, maybe I'll need some help."
*****
Fact six: they don't know why I transferred.
*****
*****
*****
Everyone's got their own hangover cure.
Some people just keep drinking. Can't have a hangover if you're constantly drunk, after all. Some people power through the pain and just put on a mask of stoicism as it tears at the inside of their skull. That takes more willpower than I have without a few days of preparation. There are even some people with the foresight to not drink so much that their liver can't handle it. Normally, that's me.
I groan as my alarm drives a pair of railway spikes into my temples. Right. Six o'clock. Time to get up. With one hand I slap at my bedside table until my phone stops squeaking, and once the klaxon is off I lay there, strongly considering calling in a sick day.
Then my good sense reasserts itself and I slowly lift myself out of bed. When my head doesn't punish me for the action, I look around and take in my surroundings.
It's a pretty standard PRT guest room. An inoffensive dresser, a door that leads to a closet-sized bathroom, sheets that are in the strange middle ground between industrial and comfortable, and a decidedly non-standard bar napkin with a pair of lips imprinted on it in purple lipstick.
I pick up the souvenir and squint. A number, a name, and a 'call me' written in red ink. I think about it for a moment, then head over to the bathroom. I drop the napkin in the waste bin, strip, and take a moment to stare at myself in the mirror.
Twenty something and fit, with the light scarring from the cape life that you can't escape without a specific kind of brute rating. A knife-like jaw that's too severe to be classically handsome but apparently still kind of interesting, painfully short black hair, and ice blue eyes.
Also tattoos. Way too many tattoos.
I step under the shower and crank on the cold water.
Then next few minutes are uncomfortable but not unbearable. I resist the urge to swallow down some of the liquid cascading around me and instead focus on scrubbing myself into some semblance of clean and awake. After my teeth start chattering I shut off the water, towel off, then dress in the generic cape uniform and domino mask some kind soul threw onto the dresser. Once I feel a little more like a human I head down to the cafeteria.
"Orange juice, water, a banana, toast, and whatever non-bacon ham you've got. I'd actually prefer beef or turkey bacon, if you have it." The cook gives me a knowing look as she piles the food onto my tray but doesn't comment. I nod politely in thanks once I have the food, then amble over to an empty table to eat.
I feel the attention of the people around me. It's not heavy, not oppressive, perfectly bearable, but it's there. I see a fresh-faced recruit stand up, only to be pulled back into his seat by an older woman. I incline my head at her, then go back to wrapping meat in bread and forcing protein into my body.
One of the biggest draws to working for the PRT is the parahumans. Meet them, talk to them, and if you play your cards right maybe get powers by proximity alone. It's a hell of a lot more complicated than that and you end up with almost as many bigots as fetishists, but no honest PRT agent is going to say that the capes aren't a factor in their mind. Once you get in though, you learn that parahumans tend to prefer to not be treated like zoo animals, that there is a very good reason capes tend to only enter long-term relationships with other capes, and one-night-stands with people who are more individually powerful than you aren't a good idea regardless of whether that power is explicit or implicit.
Someone puts their tray down across from me, a bowl of cereal and a nauseating amount of bacon taking up nearly all of the space on the tray. I look up. A middle-eastern woman in military fatigues, wearing a domino mask with the stars and stripes impressed across it. A knife is sheathed under one arm, and half a dozen different holsters criss-cross her body, all empty.
"I regret that I wasn't able to meet you when you arrived. Generally, either Armsmaster or I stand ready as a back-up for whoever's on patrol, and he had just come off shift. Miss Militia." She extends her hand over the table, locking eyes with me.
"Black Cat." I shake her hand. It's calloused, the large bumps that speak of regular use. "No worries. Any hazing rituals I should know about?"
She shakes her head. "Nothing I know about. I do have you scheduled for a patrol at eight with me downtown, with a heavy schedule for the next few weeks in an attempt to get you used to city, but that's not meant to be too harsh."
"It's not," I confirm, scraping the rest of my food together and scarfing it down as fast as possible. I chug the rest of the water and orange juice, the wipe my face with a napkin. "I'm about ready to head out if you are. Just need to suit up in a real costume."
She nods, turning to her own food. "I'll join you in the motor pool. Don't get lost."
I pick up my tray and head for the doors.
I wonder if they've sent over my Brown Box yet?
4: Routine
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
They didn't send over my Brown Box yet. On the other hand, I do have an actual costume now. A bodysuit, combat boots, and a tactical vest, all in black, with a full-face mask and green mirrored lenses covering my eyes. It took some finagling to get a costume this concealing approved by the PR department, but they were mostly reasonable when I told them it was for primarily personal reasons. Small mercies.
I take another look at the frustratingly-plain goggles, sigh, then pull them over my head and flip up the hood, running my hands over the top of my head to make sure that the ears are standing up. I got used to having a pair of tinkertech lenses on hand, ones that would let me see through almost any level of dust or rain, magnify things up to a factor of fifty, and automatically mark targets as I saw them.
I shake my head and start loading up a utility belt with confoam grenades, tranquilizer patches, and a stun gun. The goggles were nice, but I don't need them. Maybe I could ask Armsmaster to maintain a second pair, but probably not on my first official day of work. I'll have to make do without for now.
By the time I get to the motorpool Miss Militia is already sitting on a motorcycle, idly flipping a knife around her hand. I give her a wave and the blade blurs green and black before turning into a pistol of some kind and twirling into a holster.
"I've heard that your teleport has a secondary effect. Does it stop you from using it while on PR patrols?" she asks. I'm almost certain she's read the description of my power, but asking the parahuman in question to describe their abilities is also not a bad idea.
"Localized unawareness of me for a few seconds on arrival. I've been told it's pretty disorienting, so I try to avoid using it on pedestrians." I try to avoid thinking of the effect as a feature or flaw. It's too easy to get stuck in vicious cycles.
"Can you drive a motorcycle?" she presses, slapping the side of her bike lightly, expression unreadable behind an American flag bandana. I shake my head. She jerks a thumb behind her. "Get on. I'll take you out to our patrol area. We'll see about getting you a license."
"Why? I have a native mover power and motorcycles are dangerous." I settle onto the seat behind her, accepting a plain black helmet and securing it over my head. I loop my arms around her stomach and pull myself forward, awkwardly trying to squeeze the bike between my legs.
"A motorcycle can hop curbs much more safely than a car can," Miss Militia explains, revving the engine and slowly taking us out of the garage. "It can weave between traffic, enter public parks, and generally is a much more versatile vehicle than a car. While you could ride in a van with the PRT agents, Armsmaster and I find that it is worth getting the technical know-how just in case." I take in the view over her shoulder as we roll up a ramp and onto the street. A few people have the cameras out pointed at the two of us. Great. "Besides, motorcycles are more fun."
Then she puts on the gas and I stop thinking about the people watching.
*****
One harrowing ride later and we're in Empire territory, walking down surprisingly-clean streets decorated with poorly spray-painted swastikas, misspelled German slogans, and the occasional simple slur. We mark the locations for civil services, and along the way Miss Militia gives me the cliffnotes on the more minor players, along with roughly how the city is split up. Currently Lung controls the Docks and the Empire commands a huge swathe of the suburbs. Downtown and some of the wealthier neighborhoods are basically free of organized crime, as is the Boardwalk, the biggest tourist attraction of the Bay. A few other small gangs migrate between the two swathes of territory, and the independent cape scene is surprisingly healthy.
I shake my head as I log another obscenity, this time targeting homosexuals and transgender people. "You guys don't need reinforcements. You need Alexandria to drop by for an enthusiastic month of Nazi hunting, followed by a few decades of economic growth."
"It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. Or looks, for that matter." Miss Militia looks across the street at a man with close-cut blond hair. He turns away instantly, grimacing but toeing the line. "Lung lacks the ambition to seriously try to take over the city, and the Empire's roster is fluid enough that Kaiser can't launch a sustained war without worrying about losing a key cape halfway through. Unpowered membership for both groups is fairly low considering the powers of the people at the top, and the courts tend to try and put Nazis away for good."
"Still," I say, snapping my notebook shut as her bike comes back into view. "This isn't anything like Chicago. If the Folk tried something this blatant, Myrddin wouldn't stop until half of them were in the 'Cage."
"The Folk are also half the size of the Empire," Miss Militia says, kneeling down to unlock the chain around the back wheel of her bike. "That, and I doubt you've had to fight any cape as dangerous as Lung when he's ramped."
"That's fair." I put my helmet back on, trying to ignore the quiver in my stomach as it anticipates the journey ahead. "So, where to next?"
"Lunch, then you get to meet the public," she says, throwing her leg over the bike. "How do you feel about Italian?"
"Sounds great," I say, sitting down behind her. "Say, any chance you could slow down a little? You know, just like twenty miles per hour or so."
The engine revs. "Faster, you say?"
"No, I definitely didn't say-"
I take another look at the frustratingly-plain goggles, sigh, then pull them over my head and flip up the hood, running my hands over the top of my head to make sure that the ears are standing up. I got used to having a pair of tinkertech lenses on hand, ones that would let me see through almost any level of dust or rain, magnify things up to a factor of fifty, and automatically mark targets as I saw them.
I shake my head and start loading up a utility belt with confoam grenades, tranquilizer patches, and a stun gun. The goggles were nice, but I don't need them. Maybe I could ask Armsmaster to maintain a second pair, but probably not on my first official day of work. I'll have to make do without for now.
By the time I get to the motorpool Miss Militia is already sitting on a motorcycle, idly flipping a knife around her hand. I give her a wave and the blade blurs green and black before turning into a pistol of some kind and twirling into a holster.
"I've heard that your teleport has a secondary effect. Does it stop you from using it while on PR patrols?" she asks. I'm almost certain she's read the description of my power, but asking the parahuman in question to describe their abilities is also not a bad idea.
"Localized unawareness of me for a few seconds on arrival. I've been told it's pretty disorienting, so I try to avoid using it on pedestrians." I try to avoid thinking of the effect as a feature or flaw. It's too easy to get stuck in vicious cycles.
"Can you drive a motorcycle?" she presses, slapping the side of her bike lightly, expression unreadable behind an American flag bandana. I shake my head. She jerks a thumb behind her. "Get on. I'll take you out to our patrol area. We'll see about getting you a license."
"Why? I have a native mover power and motorcycles are dangerous." I settle onto the seat behind her, accepting a plain black helmet and securing it over my head. I loop my arms around her stomach and pull myself forward, awkwardly trying to squeeze the bike between my legs.
"A motorcycle can hop curbs much more safely than a car can," Miss Militia explains, revving the engine and slowly taking us out of the garage. "It can weave between traffic, enter public parks, and generally is a much more versatile vehicle than a car. While you could ride in a van with the PRT agents, Armsmaster and I find that it is worth getting the technical know-how just in case." I take in the view over her shoulder as we roll up a ramp and onto the street. A few people have the cameras out pointed at the two of us. Great. "Besides, motorcycles are more fun."
Then she puts on the gas and I stop thinking about the people watching.
*****
One harrowing ride later and we're in Empire territory, walking down surprisingly-clean streets decorated with poorly spray-painted swastikas, misspelled German slogans, and the occasional simple slur. We mark the locations for civil services, and along the way Miss Militia gives me the cliffnotes on the more minor players, along with roughly how the city is split up. Currently Lung controls the Docks and the Empire commands a huge swathe of the suburbs. Downtown and some of the wealthier neighborhoods are basically free of organized crime, as is the Boardwalk, the biggest tourist attraction of the Bay. A few other small gangs migrate between the two swathes of territory, and the independent cape scene is surprisingly healthy.
I shake my head as I log another obscenity, this time targeting homosexuals and transgender people. "You guys don't need reinforcements. You need Alexandria to drop by for an enthusiastic month of Nazi hunting, followed by a few decades of economic growth."
"It's not nearly as bad as it sounds. Or looks, for that matter." Miss Militia looks across the street at a man with close-cut blond hair. He turns away instantly, grimacing but toeing the line. "Lung lacks the ambition to seriously try to take over the city, and the Empire's roster is fluid enough that Kaiser can't launch a sustained war without worrying about losing a key cape halfway through. Unpowered membership for both groups is fairly low considering the powers of the people at the top, and the courts tend to try and put Nazis away for good."
"Still," I say, snapping my notebook shut as her bike comes back into view. "This isn't anything like Chicago. If the Folk tried something this blatant, Myrddin wouldn't stop until half of them were in the 'Cage."
"The Folk are also half the size of the Empire," Miss Militia says, kneeling down to unlock the chain around the back wheel of her bike. "That, and I doubt you've had to fight any cape as dangerous as Lung when he's ramped."
"That's fair." I put my helmet back on, trying to ignore the quiver in my stomach as it anticipates the journey ahead. "So, where to next?"
"Lunch, then you get to meet the public," she says, throwing her leg over the bike. "How do you feel about Italian?"
"Sounds great," I say, sitting down behind her. "Say, any chance you could slow down a little? You know, just like twenty miles per hour or so."
The engine revs. "Faster, you say?"
"No, I definitely didn't say-"
5: Exhaustion
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
I don't linger over food. Sometimes I wish I did, wish I could find it within me to stretch a plate over an entire conversation, but I can't. It's there to be eaten, and leaving it unattended feels wasteful somehow.
I finish my plate of pasta before Hannah is halfway through her lasagna, leaving me with plenty of time to consider the upcoming meeting with the public.
"How many people are you anticipating?" I avoid imagining a number. No matter what estimate I come up with, the anchor point will skew my reaction. Better to just take things as they are.
"Five reporters and a hundred members of the public," Hannah answers. "We've kept it pretty small." I nod, like one hundred people is a reasonable number. Like I haven't left rooms because they had a crowd a fraction of that size.
"Introduction, a few questions, then what?" I sip at the water. I used to ask for a glass at the podium, but having the crutch on stage only made keeping the act up harder. Better to just keep going and try to get to the other cliff face without looking down, Wile E. Coyote style.
"Then you're done." I give her a look. She nods. "Active patrolling Brockton Bay is considered dangerous enough to qualify for hazard pay so our active hours are capped."
I raise an eyebrow. "Not that bad, you say?"
She snorts. "If you can't handle the heat, don't step into the kitchen." I don't dignify that with a response. "Anyway, there are enough of us relative to the local population that we can keep a twenty-four hour field presence in six-hour and change shifts. Given that we have a lot of mobile heroes, it makes more sense to just have one pair out in the field and everyone else on-call."
"So where do I fall on the shift?" I glance at the clock. Twelve fifty-seven. Three minutes until game time. I start drumming the table and think about my pulse. If I acknowledge a feeling, it doesn't exist.
I hope.
"Currently we have you from midnight to six in the morning." I make a face, and Hannah shrugs. "Armsmaster is the most dangerous one of us in a straight-up fight, so he's paired with Dauntless. Assault and Battery are paired for the afternoons, while Robin and I had been covering night shift on our own. One of the Wards will be graduating in a few months, but until then this is the best array we've been able to make work."
"Any chance I could get that early morning shift?" I ask, rubbing my temples. Waking up early is matter of setting my alarm a little louder, while sleeping through the day just feels bad.
"You'll have to fight Armsmaster for it," Hannah says, shrugging. "Once Dauntless can hold his own, we can see about shuffling up the roster."
I nod, adding 'train Dauntless' to my list of Things to Do. "What sort of-"
Someone knocks three times on the door. Hannah puts down her fork and dons the bandana, while I pull up the hood of my body suit, slip on the goggles, and flip up my cowl.
"Come in," Miss Militia says, pushing away from the table and standing up. I follow suit, trying very hard not to think too hard about what's coming next.
A girl peaks her head into the meeting room. "It's time for Black Cat's interview. Your interview. I mean, his interview." She flushes.
"We'll be out there in a moment," Miss Militia says. The girl nods once, pulling her head away. Once she's gone, Miss Militia turns her eyes to me. "Are you ready?"
I remind myself of the reasons. It won't get easier, it's my job, and I am the master of my emotions, not the other way around. One deep breath later and I'm as prepared as I'm able to get.
"Ready," I lie.
*****
I didn't people early in my life. Not because of anything horrible, I was just more happy being alone. Kids, on the other hand, are assholes, and assumed it was because I was a creepy incipient serial killer. This led to a vicious cycle where being alone generated negative social capital, trying to engage cashed in on that reputation in the worst way, and as a result I spent more time alone.
And then college.
I don't think too hard about those years. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. They did show me just how hopelessly out of my depth I was when it came to playing social games, and how you don't get to say 'nah, I'm not going to talk to people' when you have a power. Humans are social animals, and capes more than most. So I tackled the problem like I would any other: with lots of books and practice.
Open your body language, throw your shoulders back, keep your head up, and exaggerate it all to make up for the full-face mask. Use the words your character would use, not the ones that you would use. Keep moving, keep your audience's attention, give them something to look at. Good presentation is a skill, an action, and it's one anyone can learn if they put in the hours.
It also helps you keep the panic down.
Forty percent of my brain is screaming for me to teleport away, to keep chaining them until I've made it back to Colorado. Another forty percent of my brain is suppressing those urges, redirecting nervous jitters into intentional gestures, taking the static-y fear and channeling it into defiance. It's a war of instinct versus training, natural versus unnatural, and I can practically feel myself splitting apart under the two forces. The last twenty percent answers questions, too little cognitive power scraped over too much area, and I have to hope for soft-ball questions that don't tax me too much. It's draining, irrational, and if I wasn't such a terribly public person I could probably get away with never talking like this ever.
But I'm a cape.
When the usher says we're out of time, I almost fold at the knees. I keep the mask on until I get back stage, until Miss Militia is assured that I have everything under control, that she can go off and sign autographs, until she gets permission to answer questions that couldn't be asked when I was on-stage. People file out, I find a quiet room well away from the noise, from people, from all of the hustle and bustle of being human. I pull out a pair of headphones, put on some lyrical rap, and sit down in a chair.
Only then do I collapse.
I finish my plate of pasta before Hannah is halfway through her lasagna, leaving me with plenty of time to consider the upcoming meeting with the public.
"How many people are you anticipating?" I avoid imagining a number. No matter what estimate I come up with, the anchor point will skew my reaction. Better to just take things as they are.
"Five reporters and a hundred members of the public," Hannah answers. "We've kept it pretty small." I nod, like one hundred people is a reasonable number. Like I haven't left rooms because they had a crowd a fraction of that size.
"Introduction, a few questions, then what?" I sip at the water. I used to ask for a glass at the podium, but having the crutch on stage only made keeping the act up harder. Better to just keep going and try to get to the other cliff face without looking down, Wile E. Coyote style.
"Then you're done." I give her a look. She nods. "Active patrolling Brockton Bay is considered dangerous enough to qualify for hazard pay so our active hours are capped."
I raise an eyebrow. "Not that bad, you say?"
She snorts. "If you can't handle the heat, don't step into the kitchen." I don't dignify that with a response. "Anyway, there are enough of us relative to the local population that we can keep a twenty-four hour field presence in six-hour and change shifts. Given that we have a lot of mobile heroes, it makes more sense to just have one pair out in the field and everyone else on-call."
"So where do I fall on the shift?" I glance at the clock. Twelve fifty-seven. Three minutes until game time. I start drumming the table and think about my pulse. If I acknowledge a feeling, it doesn't exist.
I hope.
"Currently we have you from midnight to six in the morning." I make a face, and Hannah shrugs. "Armsmaster is the most dangerous one of us in a straight-up fight, so he's paired with Dauntless. Assault and Battery are paired for the afternoons, while Robin and I had been covering night shift on our own. One of the Wards will be graduating in a few months, but until then this is the best array we've been able to make work."
"Any chance I could get that early morning shift?" I ask, rubbing my temples. Waking up early is matter of setting my alarm a little louder, while sleeping through the day just feels bad.
"You'll have to fight Armsmaster for it," Hannah says, shrugging. "Once Dauntless can hold his own, we can see about shuffling up the roster."
I nod, adding 'train Dauntless' to my list of Things to Do. "What sort of-"
Someone knocks three times on the door. Hannah puts down her fork and dons the bandana, while I pull up the hood of my body suit, slip on the goggles, and flip up my cowl.
"Come in," Miss Militia says, pushing away from the table and standing up. I follow suit, trying very hard not to think too hard about what's coming next.
A girl peaks her head into the meeting room. "It's time for Black Cat's interview. Your interview. I mean, his interview." She flushes.
"We'll be out there in a moment," Miss Militia says. The girl nods once, pulling her head away. Once she's gone, Miss Militia turns her eyes to me. "Are you ready?"
I remind myself of the reasons. It won't get easier, it's my job, and I am the master of my emotions, not the other way around. One deep breath later and I'm as prepared as I'm able to get.
"Ready," I lie.
*****
I didn't people early in my life. Not because of anything horrible, I was just more happy being alone. Kids, on the other hand, are assholes, and assumed it was because I was a creepy incipient serial killer. This led to a vicious cycle where being alone generated negative social capital, trying to engage cashed in on that reputation in the worst way, and as a result I spent more time alone.
And then college.
I don't think too hard about those years. Best to let sleeping dogs lie. They did show me just how hopelessly out of my depth I was when it came to playing social games, and how you don't get to say 'nah, I'm not going to talk to people' when you have a power. Humans are social animals, and capes more than most. So I tackled the problem like I would any other: with lots of books and practice.
Open your body language, throw your shoulders back, keep your head up, and exaggerate it all to make up for the full-face mask. Use the words your character would use, not the ones that you would use. Keep moving, keep your audience's attention, give them something to look at. Good presentation is a skill, an action, and it's one anyone can learn if they put in the hours.
It also helps you keep the panic down.
Forty percent of my brain is screaming for me to teleport away, to keep chaining them until I've made it back to Colorado. Another forty percent of my brain is suppressing those urges, redirecting nervous jitters into intentional gestures, taking the static-y fear and channeling it into defiance. It's a war of instinct versus training, natural versus unnatural, and I can practically feel myself splitting apart under the two forces. The last twenty percent answers questions, too little cognitive power scraped over too much area, and I have to hope for soft-ball questions that don't tax me too much. It's draining, irrational, and if I wasn't such a terribly public person I could probably get away with never talking like this ever.
But I'm a cape.
When the usher says we're out of time, I almost fold at the knees. I keep the mask on until I get back stage, until Miss Militia is assured that I have everything under control, that she can go off and sign autographs, until she gets permission to answer questions that couldn't be asked when I was on-stage. People file out, I find a quiet room well away from the noise, from people, from all of the hustle and bustle of being human. I pull out a pair of headphones, put on some lyrical rap, and sit down in a chair.
Only then do I collapse.
6: Unwind
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"It's that bad?" We're at the PRT HQ now, eating an early dinner. Well, trying to. I've been poor company and Hannah's been less than interested in her sandwich, and we've finally come around to the elephant in the room.
I nod. "Yeah. It is."
For a few minutes there's nothing but the sound of chewing and a fork on ceramic. Silence. I appreciate it.
"If you want to petition Piggot to get fewer PR shifts, she'd probably agree to it." Hannah pushes her plate away. It's empty. "She doesn't like making exceptions, but she also likes stable employees. Be professional, be polite, get us some wins, and she'll work to accommodate you."
"I'll think about it," I say, giving up the charade and putting down my fork. I know I should eat, but I just can't stomach a salad right now. I need something heavier, with carbs and cheese and red meat. Something that makes me think of Noni's house. "What time do you need me tomorrow? Or does my shift start tonight?"
Hannah shakes her head. "When you're done, you're done. We have your number in case of an emergency. Keep your phone on and take the rest of the day off. Regular shifts start this weekend."
I pick up my plate and walk away. Rude. I know that. On the other hand, if I spend another minute with a human I need to form strong social bonds with, I'm going to do something I regret. I leave the costume in a locker, ready for cleaning, dress from the communal store of civilian wear, and zip up a fleece. Brockton Bay is temperate enough, but no sense in taking risks. I add a scarf, wrapping it haphazardly around the lower half of my face, and stride towards the motor pool. I check out an inconspicuous sedan, then plug in directions to the nearest steak house.
Time to see what the local offerings are like.
*****
Pretty shitty, apparently. The first few places I check out are way too fancy to go to in anything less than a suit, and I'm not getting dressed up when I want to relax. The next one has a pair of Lugers mounted on the wall and a bunch of muscular-looking blond men drinking German beers, so I leave before I give my name. Another one looks promising, but I dismiss it after scanning the plates of some of the current customers. I'm hungry, but I'm not desperate.
I keep driving around, learning the ins and outs of Brockton Bay traffic as I scroll through the local options for a cut of dead cow. I'm really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, and at this point I think I'm going to have to make a compromise somewhere.
Then a storefront gets lit up by the last ray of sunlight and I laugh. It's not the healthiest laugh I've had, too hard-edged and brittle, but it loosens the knot in my shoulders a little. I circle the block twice, inexpertly parallel park into a space that's large enough to keep me from worrying about getting dinged by someone, and walk over to The Carrion Pit. Red neon outlines flicker on as I approach, and a rugged-looking man in a black shirt, jeans, and a waiter's apron nods at me as I pass before going back to his cigarette.
The interior's as minimalist as the exterior. Wooden tables, metal chairs, and a bar with worn-looking stools and a lot of different bottles. A variety of metal implements hang on the walls, from old butchers' tools to a tree saw that looks almost impractically long. The room is maybe a third full, but the volume is low and everyone is focused on their food, not the new customer.
"Seat yourself." I look over to the bartender, who jerks her chin at the far wall, where a bench runs the length of the building. "Someone'll be over to get your order in a few minutes."
I nod silently, relaxing more as the rules make themselves apparent. She's the boss, the customers get waited upon, and you're seated by the house. I take a seat next to the window. It's started raining, and as the street lights come on it. The menu is readable, laminated, and set in a simple sans-serif font. I smile a little as I unwind my scarf.
This might be good.
The girl who takes my order is more nervous than I am. A smile helps her relax, and after that I only have to tell her my order once. Once she leaves, I settle into people-watching mode.
I don't like talking to people as a rule. If there's a structure, if I know what's going to happen, I can get along alright. If it's freeform, if it's small talk, I can stand it for maybe ten minutes, provided I'm not expected to contribute meaningfully. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy observing other humans, that I don't find how a person interacts with the world around them fascinating, and there's almost no other public venue more interesting than a restaurant.
I count three couples, two families, and no fewer than six single diners. Two of the pairs are in steady relationships, exchanging words over nothing topics, with plenty of smiles shared between them. The last one looks like a first date, some high-school couple led by a guy who doesn't understand how to pace a relationship. One family is chaos, two teenagers and a girl who couldn't be older than ten, all five of them going through a familiar argument that involves anticipated interruptions, bad jokes, and amiable compromise. The other is silent, eyes fixed on their food and arms tucked in tight, closing themselves off from their eating companions.
Then my food arrives and I drown out the lingering exhaustion in beef, potatoes, and vegetables. The flank is lean without being shoe leather, the potatoes fluffy without being empty, and the vegetables haven't been cooked to death. It's so close to perfect, so close to taking me back, that once it's gone I almost consider ordering a second serving.
I squash the thought, pay my bill, and leave a generous tip.
Head down, polite but distant, and don't overstay your welcome. That's what works, that's what minimizes risk, and fucking that up usually isn't worth it. Don't throw away a good thing without thinking about it.
The ride back to the PRT building is dark.
I nod. "Yeah. It is."
For a few minutes there's nothing but the sound of chewing and a fork on ceramic. Silence. I appreciate it.
"If you want to petition Piggot to get fewer PR shifts, she'd probably agree to it." Hannah pushes her plate away. It's empty. "She doesn't like making exceptions, but she also likes stable employees. Be professional, be polite, get us some wins, and she'll work to accommodate you."
"I'll think about it," I say, giving up the charade and putting down my fork. I know I should eat, but I just can't stomach a salad right now. I need something heavier, with carbs and cheese and red meat. Something that makes me think of Noni's house. "What time do you need me tomorrow? Or does my shift start tonight?"
Hannah shakes her head. "When you're done, you're done. We have your number in case of an emergency. Keep your phone on and take the rest of the day off. Regular shifts start this weekend."
I pick up my plate and walk away. Rude. I know that. On the other hand, if I spend another minute with a human I need to form strong social bonds with, I'm going to do something I regret. I leave the costume in a locker, ready for cleaning, dress from the communal store of civilian wear, and zip up a fleece. Brockton Bay is temperate enough, but no sense in taking risks. I add a scarf, wrapping it haphazardly around the lower half of my face, and stride towards the motor pool. I check out an inconspicuous sedan, then plug in directions to the nearest steak house.
Time to see what the local offerings are like.
*****
Pretty shitty, apparently. The first few places I check out are way too fancy to go to in anything less than a suit, and I'm not getting dressed up when I want to relax. The next one has a pair of Lugers mounted on the wall and a bunch of muscular-looking blond men drinking German beers, so I leave before I give my name. Another one looks promising, but I dismiss it after scanning the plates of some of the current customers. I'm hungry, but I'm not desperate.
I keep driving around, learning the ins and outs of Brockton Bay traffic as I scroll through the local options for a cut of dead cow. I'm really scraping the bottom of the barrel now, and at this point I think I'm going to have to make a compromise somewhere.
Then a storefront gets lit up by the last ray of sunlight and I laugh. It's not the healthiest laugh I've had, too hard-edged and brittle, but it loosens the knot in my shoulders a little. I circle the block twice, inexpertly parallel park into a space that's large enough to keep me from worrying about getting dinged by someone, and walk over to The Carrion Pit. Red neon outlines flicker on as I approach, and a rugged-looking man in a black shirt, jeans, and a waiter's apron nods at me as I pass before going back to his cigarette.
The interior's as minimalist as the exterior. Wooden tables, metal chairs, and a bar with worn-looking stools and a lot of different bottles. A variety of metal implements hang on the walls, from old butchers' tools to a tree saw that looks almost impractically long. The room is maybe a third full, but the volume is low and everyone is focused on their food, not the new customer.
"Seat yourself." I look over to the bartender, who jerks her chin at the far wall, where a bench runs the length of the building. "Someone'll be over to get your order in a few minutes."
I nod silently, relaxing more as the rules make themselves apparent. She's the boss, the customers get waited upon, and you're seated by the house. I take a seat next to the window. It's started raining, and as the street lights come on it. The menu is readable, laminated, and set in a simple sans-serif font. I smile a little as I unwind my scarf.
This might be good.
The girl who takes my order is more nervous than I am. A smile helps her relax, and after that I only have to tell her my order once. Once she leaves, I settle into people-watching mode.
I don't like talking to people as a rule. If there's a structure, if I know what's going to happen, I can get along alright. If it's freeform, if it's small talk, I can stand it for maybe ten minutes, provided I'm not expected to contribute meaningfully. That doesn't mean I don't enjoy observing other humans, that I don't find how a person interacts with the world around them fascinating, and there's almost no other public venue more interesting than a restaurant.
I count three couples, two families, and no fewer than six single diners. Two of the pairs are in steady relationships, exchanging words over nothing topics, with plenty of smiles shared between them. The last one looks like a first date, some high-school couple led by a guy who doesn't understand how to pace a relationship. One family is chaos, two teenagers and a girl who couldn't be older than ten, all five of them going through a familiar argument that involves anticipated interruptions, bad jokes, and amiable compromise. The other is silent, eyes fixed on their food and arms tucked in tight, closing themselves off from their eating companions.
Then my food arrives and I drown out the lingering exhaustion in beef, potatoes, and vegetables. The flank is lean without being shoe leather, the potatoes fluffy without being empty, and the vegetables haven't been cooked to death. It's so close to perfect, so close to taking me back, that once it's gone I almost consider ordering a second serving.
I squash the thought, pay my bill, and leave a generous tip.
Head down, polite but distant, and don't overstay your welcome. That's what works, that's what minimizes risk, and fucking that up usually isn't worth it. Don't throw away a good thing without thinking about it.
The ride back to the PRT building is dark.
7: Discomfort
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
"So what do you think of the Wards?" Robin is reclining in his chair, mug empty and mask down. He's cut his hair close to his head, and there's the shadow of a heavy tan in his skin.
"They're kids." I take an experimental sip of coffee. Still too hot. "I really don't know what you're looking for here."
"Piggot wants to give them more field duties." I remain silent. "They want to play in the big leagues, we're outnumbered, and Vista and Clockblocker are powerful. Intellectually, it makes sense. Youth Guard would be brought in to supervise, set sane boundaries, and the Wards would receive better pay."
"I don't like it." Another sip. Armsmaster makes a damn fine coffee machine.
"Neither do I." Robin shifts, putting both arms on the table. "Hannah, Colin, and Ethan are for it. Sharon, Roger, and I are not."
"I don't want to be the tie-breaker," I say.
"That sucks." Robin sets his mouth in a flat line. "That really sucks. Because right now Piggot holds the deciding vote."
"I've been here for a week." I take a proper drink of the caffeinated beverage. "I don't know the situation well enough to judge."
"We have a Nazi infestation, a murderous dragon, and more petty crime in one month than most Wards see in a year." Robin leans forward over the table. "Do you think that's a good place to introduce kids to violence?"
"Nice talk," I say, pushing away from the table. "I'd really love to chat more, but I agreed to train Roger in thirty minutes and I really don't want to be late."
"I'm not asking you to stand in a spotlight and decry the Director," Robin says, watching me down the rest of the caffeine, heedless of the heat. "I'm just asking for your support. A silent face."
"I'll think about it." I step out of the break room, punctuating the statement with the door.
One week. One week and it's back to politics.
*****
"Thanks for this. Really." Roger is covered in padded armor, holding a staff of wood and a round shield, standing across from me on top of a layer of mats.
"Thank me when we're done," I say, suppressing irritation at the fiftieth affirmation he's given me. "Let's begin."
Roger has no talent for hurting people. That's probably a good thing for his personal life, but it makes teaching him more frustrating than it should be. Every time he does something right, every time a blow lands, he stops to make sure I'm not seriously injured, which is exactly wrong. He needs to learn to keep moving, to capitalize on openings he creates. That starts here, and if he's trained to stop when he lands the first blow that's going to show up in the field.
The next time he moves in to check if I'm alright, I punch him in the stomach. Hard.
He stumbles back, gasping for air. I kick his feet out from under him, pull his staff away, and spin it around to point at his neck.
"I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to get angry if you press an advantage. This is training, where we learn to do things right." I drop the staff, letting it fall and clatter against his prone form. "Pick it up, and if you ask about whether or not I'm in pain one more time, I'm gone."
An odd expression comes across his face. Slowly, he stands up. He handles the staff with almost unseemly gentleness.
Then he whips it at my head without so much as a word.
I teleport one foot backwards, far enough away from him that I don't have to worry about the unawareness. When he stumbles, unprepared for the lack of contact, I dash forward and shoulder check him into the ground, bringing my knife up to his neck. Instead of ceding the match, he writhes under me. I have years of wrestling on my side though, and eventually I have him on his front.
"You can't escape from here," I state. "Give."
For a second, I think he won't.
Then he growls. "I give."
I stand back up and extend a hand to him. He doesn't take it. I mentally berate myself. Too far. I need to fix this. "Roger, why did I win there?"
"Because you're better." He falls back into a fighting stance. I don't.
"That's part of it. It's not the main reason though." I tap my chest twice. "I'm willing to take the risk of damaging you. I expected you to take the same risk. I knew that coming into this. That's the assumption I was operating under."
"I'm not exactly pulling my punches," he shoots back.
"Yes, you are." I shake my head and walk over to the weapons rack. "You hit hard. Once. Then you goose the breaks. You don't trust me to take the hit, and you don't trust yourself to deliver a second blow." I replace the knife, then start unbuckling the padding. "I'll give you six more sessions to prove me wrong. After that you can ask one of the PRT agents for help."
"You cheated." I look over my shoulder. He's gripping his staff too tightly, and his jaw muscles are bunched up. "You used your power."
"I did cheat. So?" I shed the last of the padding, left in athletic pants and a sweat-stained tank top. "You could've given me a concussion, maybe worse. I took the steps necessary to ensure my own well-being." I don a domino mask and look him in the eye from across the room. "I'm a teleporter. If I know an attack is coming, I can almost always avoid it. I do. Remember that the next time you worry about damaging me."
I leave him alone, heading for my own room. I don't feel like trying to make shower talk with someone I've recently pissed off. We're both too heated to make rational points, he's probably going to be mad about the personal attacks for days, and my batteries are not up to the challenge of dealing with that.
I meet Miss Militia in the elevator. She doesn't comment on my state of dress, and we both stand side by side, watching the floor numbers slowly go up.
"How'd the training go?"
"It went."
"They're kids." I take an experimental sip of coffee. Still too hot. "I really don't know what you're looking for here."
"Piggot wants to give them more field duties." I remain silent. "They want to play in the big leagues, we're outnumbered, and Vista and Clockblocker are powerful. Intellectually, it makes sense. Youth Guard would be brought in to supervise, set sane boundaries, and the Wards would receive better pay."
"I don't like it." Another sip. Armsmaster makes a damn fine coffee machine.
"Neither do I." Robin shifts, putting both arms on the table. "Hannah, Colin, and Ethan are for it. Sharon, Roger, and I are not."
"I don't want to be the tie-breaker," I say.
"That sucks." Robin sets his mouth in a flat line. "That really sucks. Because right now Piggot holds the deciding vote."
"I've been here for a week." I take a proper drink of the caffeinated beverage. "I don't know the situation well enough to judge."
"We have a Nazi infestation, a murderous dragon, and more petty crime in one month than most Wards see in a year." Robin leans forward over the table. "Do you think that's a good place to introduce kids to violence?"
"Nice talk," I say, pushing away from the table. "I'd really love to chat more, but I agreed to train Roger in thirty minutes and I really don't want to be late."
"I'm not asking you to stand in a spotlight and decry the Director," Robin says, watching me down the rest of the caffeine, heedless of the heat. "I'm just asking for your support. A silent face."
"I'll think about it." I step out of the break room, punctuating the statement with the door.
One week. One week and it's back to politics.
*****
"Thanks for this. Really." Roger is covered in padded armor, holding a staff of wood and a round shield, standing across from me on top of a layer of mats.
"Thank me when we're done," I say, suppressing irritation at the fiftieth affirmation he's given me. "Let's begin."
Roger has no talent for hurting people. That's probably a good thing for his personal life, but it makes teaching him more frustrating than it should be. Every time he does something right, every time a blow lands, he stops to make sure I'm not seriously injured, which is exactly wrong. He needs to learn to keep moving, to capitalize on openings he creates. That starts here, and if he's trained to stop when he lands the first blow that's going to show up in the field.
The next time he moves in to check if I'm alright, I punch him in the stomach. Hard.
He stumbles back, gasping for air. I kick his feet out from under him, pull his staff away, and spin it around to point at his neck.
"I'm not made of glass. I'm not going to get angry if you press an advantage. This is training, where we learn to do things right." I drop the staff, letting it fall and clatter against his prone form. "Pick it up, and if you ask about whether or not I'm in pain one more time, I'm gone."
An odd expression comes across his face. Slowly, he stands up. He handles the staff with almost unseemly gentleness.
Then he whips it at my head without so much as a word.
I teleport one foot backwards, far enough away from him that I don't have to worry about the unawareness. When he stumbles, unprepared for the lack of contact, I dash forward and shoulder check him into the ground, bringing my knife up to his neck. Instead of ceding the match, he writhes under me. I have years of wrestling on my side though, and eventually I have him on his front.
"You can't escape from here," I state. "Give."
For a second, I think he won't.
Then he growls. "I give."
I stand back up and extend a hand to him. He doesn't take it. I mentally berate myself. Too far. I need to fix this. "Roger, why did I win there?"
"Because you're better." He falls back into a fighting stance. I don't.
"That's part of it. It's not the main reason though." I tap my chest twice. "I'm willing to take the risk of damaging you. I expected you to take the same risk. I knew that coming into this. That's the assumption I was operating under."
"I'm not exactly pulling my punches," he shoots back.
"Yes, you are." I shake my head and walk over to the weapons rack. "You hit hard. Once. Then you goose the breaks. You don't trust me to take the hit, and you don't trust yourself to deliver a second blow." I replace the knife, then start unbuckling the padding. "I'll give you six more sessions to prove me wrong. After that you can ask one of the PRT agents for help."
"You cheated." I look over my shoulder. He's gripping his staff too tightly, and his jaw muscles are bunched up. "You used your power."
"I did cheat. So?" I shed the last of the padding, left in athletic pants and a sweat-stained tank top. "You could've given me a concussion, maybe worse. I took the steps necessary to ensure my own well-being." I don a domino mask and look him in the eye from across the room. "I'm a teleporter. If I know an attack is coming, I can almost always avoid it. I do. Remember that the next time you worry about damaging me."
I leave him alone, heading for my own room. I don't feel like trying to make shower talk with someone I've recently pissed off. We're both too heated to make rational points, he's probably going to be mad about the personal attacks for days, and my batteries are not up to the challenge of dealing with that.
I meet Miss Militia in the elevator. She doesn't comment on my state of dress, and we both stand side by side, watching the floor numbers slowly go up.
"How'd the training go?"
"It went."
8: Precipice
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
On PHO, everyone can use your power better than you can. Everyone has a degree in physics, in psychology, in chemistry, in biology, in whatever field that lets them turn yogurt control into universe-shattering reality manipulation. The thing they like to talk about the most, of course, is about how the Protectorate is useless. Oh, look, they have a dozen teleporters! Why are villains still a problem? Just load them up with some plastic explosives, drop down on a kill-order target, and suddenly everything is solved. Never mind that laws about the application of lethal force exist, never mind that mass slaughter of villains would start a war the Protectorate would not win, just kill 'em all and let God sort it out.
"Hookwolf on Jackson and 17th, fighting an unknown parahuman." Teleport. "They're heading north, and heading north fast." As I speak, there's a flash of golden light, and the tangle of metal Nazi crashes into the glass storefront of a fashion boutique. The golden flames around the other parahuman burn brighter as she stomps forward, pavement bubbling violently around her feet.
"Come on, Bitchwolf! Is that all you've got?" she shouts, slamming one fist into the other, prompting another flare of light as more of her body dissolves into golden flames. "Not so tough now, are you?"
My radio crackles on. "Miss Militia and Armsmaster en route, how many ambulances do we need to be calling and what are you seeing now?"
"Breaker of some sort, she seems to turn damage into golden fire, which she can throw around. More kinetic than heat, but there's a lot of of it, and it's not going out." Hookwolf ducks under another bolt of fire, and I wince as a food truck gets a hole the size of a trash can torn through it. "She either doesn't know how to avoid property damage or doesn't care. At all."
"Stay and observe, only interfere if you can make a difference." I nod, a painfully-familiar feeling of impotence settling inside of me. "Keep us updated on the status of the fight."
The building under me shudders as Hookwolf swipes the golden girl into an upscale-coffee shop, and I teleport across the street to another rooftop. Easy to say 'drop a bomb' on this cape, or 'tinkertech solves everything'. Much, much more difficult to pull off. Sure, I can get within inches of people without them noticing me, now how does that let me knock out a sentient mass of blades? Power versus speed, the eternal battle, each the envy of the other. It's best to have both, but not everyone can be a member of the Triumvirate.
I follow the brawl, drumming the tools on my belt. Containment foam, tranquilizer, an emergency knife, zip ties, and a stun gun. Dramatically less useful than they sound against any villain who knows anything about fighting the Protectorate, and downright useless against Brutes this tough.
People suggest tried and true strategies, then treat them like innovation. We don't respond because we don't want to give any fresh triggers access to even more dangerous tools, and as a result PHO thinks the Protectorate are bad at their job.
A tongue of fire the length of a street lamp licks out from the golden girl, crushing a car and throwing Hookwolf the length of a city block. I teleport forward, trying to keep up.
Fast enough to always be on-scene, fast enough to escape nearly anything, but completely unable to affect the important outcomes.
The tragedy of the mover.
*****
I look down at the unconscious teenager laying on the ground next to me, the blue sleeping patch attached to be back of her neck standing out like a brand, then at Armsmaster and Miss Militia. "I did not expect that to work."
"Nor did I," Armsmaster says, stepping away from the ruined street and flipping the sedated girl onto her front. "Good job." Her arms are crossed at the wrist behind her back, and he foams them together. "You said her power seemed to respond to physical damage?"
"Yeah. There's probably more to it, but that's what I saw." Armsmaster slings the girl in a fireman carry over his shoulder and heads for a PRT van. His Armscycle (and I cannot believe that it is actually called that) rolls over silently behind it.
He looks at me again, a smile on his face. "Cat. I mean it. You've done well today."
I shrug. "It's my job."
For a second I think he wants to press the issue. Then the doors close and the van drives off. I let out a small sigh of relief. Socializing done.
"You need to learn to take compliments." I turn around. Miss Militia is sitting on her own motorcycle, looking at me non judgmentally.
"If I go above and beyond the call of duty, then I'll take it," I reply, shaking my head. "Wrangling angsty high schoolers with superpowers is a part of my job description. Applauding that makes the times I do actually do something extra less special."
"Or they provide a reward for work well done," she counters. "Do you want to celebrate a successful capture tonight?"
I prepare to say no, then pause.
I've been here for two weeks. I know everybody's names, a few long-term problems that they like to complain about, and generally what people think of each other. We're fairweather friends and little more. The next step to having a good working relationship is necessarily going to require more than small talk. My batteries are charged enough, this isn't the most ridiculous thing to celebrate, and putting it off isn't going to make the transition any easier.
"Sure," I say, nodding slowly. "Any place in mind?"
Miss Militia blinks twice, then smiles behind her bandana. "Actually, yes. There's an Asian/Italian fusion that opened up a few days ago I've been meaning to check out. I think I can wrangle some more people to join us, if that's not going to be too much of a problem?"
I give her a thumbs up. "Just keep it below half a dozen total and I should be good." No need to go crazy. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get started on the after-action reports." I teleport to the top of a building, then head towards the PRT HQ, mentally preparing myself for the night ahead while also examining the unusual lightness inside my chest.
Maybe this time will be different.
"Hookwolf on Jackson and 17th, fighting an unknown parahuman." Teleport. "They're heading north, and heading north fast." As I speak, there's a flash of golden light, and the tangle of metal Nazi crashes into the glass storefront of a fashion boutique. The golden flames around the other parahuman burn brighter as she stomps forward, pavement bubbling violently around her feet.
"Come on, Bitchwolf! Is that all you've got?" she shouts, slamming one fist into the other, prompting another flare of light as more of her body dissolves into golden flames. "Not so tough now, are you?"
My radio crackles on. "Miss Militia and Armsmaster en route, how many ambulances do we need to be calling and what are you seeing now?"
"Breaker of some sort, she seems to turn damage into golden fire, which she can throw around. More kinetic than heat, but there's a lot of of it, and it's not going out." Hookwolf ducks under another bolt of fire, and I wince as a food truck gets a hole the size of a trash can torn through it. "She either doesn't know how to avoid property damage or doesn't care. At all."
"Stay and observe, only interfere if you can make a difference." I nod, a painfully-familiar feeling of impotence settling inside of me. "Keep us updated on the status of the fight."
The building under me shudders as Hookwolf swipes the golden girl into an upscale-coffee shop, and I teleport across the street to another rooftop. Easy to say 'drop a bomb' on this cape, or 'tinkertech solves everything'. Much, much more difficult to pull off. Sure, I can get within inches of people without them noticing me, now how does that let me knock out a sentient mass of blades? Power versus speed, the eternal battle, each the envy of the other. It's best to have both, but not everyone can be a member of the Triumvirate.
I follow the brawl, drumming the tools on my belt. Containment foam, tranquilizer, an emergency knife, zip ties, and a stun gun. Dramatically less useful than they sound against any villain who knows anything about fighting the Protectorate, and downright useless against Brutes this tough.
People suggest tried and true strategies, then treat them like innovation. We don't respond because we don't want to give any fresh triggers access to even more dangerous tools, and as a result PHO thinks the Protectorate are bad at their job.
A tongue of fire the length of a street lamp licks out from the golden girl, crushing a car and throwing Hookwolf the length of a city block. I teleport forward, trying to keep up.
Fast enough to always be on-scene, fast enough to escape nearly anything, but completely unable to affect the important outcomes.
The tragedy of the mover.
*****
I look down at the unconscious teenager laying on the ground next to me, the blue sleeping patch attached to be back of her neck standing out like a brand, then at Armsmaster and Miss Militia. "I did not expect that to work."
"Nor did I," Armsmaster says, stepping away from the ruined street and flipping the sedated girl onto her front. "Good job." Her arms are crossed at the wrist behind her back, and he foams them together. "You said her power seemed to respond to physical damage?"
"Yeah. There's probably more to it, but that's what I saw." Armsmaster slings the girl in a fireman carry over his shoulder and heads for a PRT van. His Armscycle (and I cannot believe that it is actually called that) rolls over silently behind it.
He looks at me again, a smile on his face. "Cat. I mean it. You've done well today."
I shrug. "It's my job."
For a second I think he wants to press the issue. Then the doors close and the van drives off. I let out a small sigh of relief. Socializing done.
"You need to learn to take compliments." I turn around. Miss Militia is sitting on her own motorcycle, looking at me non judgmentally.
"If I go above and beyond the call of duty, then I'll take it," I reply, shaking my head. "Wrangling angsty high schoolers with superpowers is a part of my job description. Applauding that makes the times I do actually do something extra less special."
"Or they provide a reward for work well done," she counters. "Do you want to celebrate a successful capture tonight?"
I prepare to say no, then pause.
I've been here for two weeks. I know everybody's names, a few long-term problems that they like to complain about, and generally what people think of each other. We're fairweather friends and little more. The next step to having a good working relationship is necessarily going to require more than small talk. My batteries are charged enough, this isn't the most ridiculous thing to celebrate, and putting it off isn't going to make the transition any easier.
"Sure," I say, nodding slowly. "Any place in mind?"
Miss Militia blinks twice, then smiles behind her bandana. "Actually, yes. There's an Asian/Italian fusion that opened up a few days ago I've been meaning to check out. I think I can wrangle some more people to join us, if that's not going to be too much of a problem?"
I give her a thumbs up. "Just keep it below half a dozen total and I should be good." No need to go crazy. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to get started on the after-action reports." I teleport to the top of a building, then head towards the PRT HQ, mentally preparing myself for the night ahead while also examining the unusual lightness inside my chest.
Maybe this time will be different.
9: Entrance
T0PH4T
[Verified Accessory]
- Location
- United States of America
I take a deep breath, then knock twice on the front door of Sharon and Ethan's apartment. A muffled shout echoes through the door, and I wait for the door to unlock, suppressing the urge to bounce my leg, squeezing the neck of the wine bottle to keep my hands from shaking. It's just a dinner. I already know everyone here. This is a good thing. I repeat those three statements to myself and a little tension goes out of the back of my neck.
Then the door opens and I have to put on a smile.
"Come on in," Sharon says, stepping to the side and motioning down a short hallway. "Ethan's putting the finishing touches on dinner, but he'll be done soon enough. You're the first one here." She's in a short-sleeved blue button up and jeans and I immediately berate myself for putting on a sport coat, turtleneck, and slacks. Clearly wrong. I then berate myself for over-thinking a small, rational mistake that no one's going to care about. I can always take the jacket off, and even if I don't it's not outside the range of acceptable casual wear for a dinner party.
I realize I've been standing still for a bit too long and step over the threshold, proffering the bottle of wine. "Thank you for letting me into your house. I didn't know if you two were going to tackle all the food, so I went with the safe bet and brought a bottle of wine." I don't care for wine personally, nor do I know if Sharon or Ethan do, but it's What's Done.
"It's a pleasure to have you," she says, taking the bottle without so much as glancing at the label. "And don't worry too much about the gift. Ethan and I can barely tell the difference between a red and a white."
Their apartment is nice. More messy than you'd see in a real-estate catalogue, with books scattered about nearly every surface and a variety of mismatched coasters stacked on a coffee table in front of comfortable-looking furniture. The curtains are drawn, but they go low enough to tell me that the windows are probably floor-length. Another corridor leads off to a pair of doors, presumably a bathroom and and bedroom, and the kitchen is separated from the living room by an island, with another room visible past it.
Inside the kitchen is Ethan. He's dressed in a bright orange polo, with a stained Assault and Battery apron protecting his pants and chest from the hazards of cooking. He gives me a wave, then goes back to the pot in front of him, stirring it gently.
"How do you feel about shepherd's pie?" he asks.
I pause and flick through my memories. "I can honestly say I've never had it."
"Good. That means you'll have no context to see any mistakes I've made." He lifts a ladle out of the pot, sips it, the swallows the rest, throwing the implement into the sink and putting a lid on the pot. "Sides are potatoes, mashed and roasted, along with some cooked veggies and everything stoop."
I pause in place, trying to figure out what he could be referring to, then give up. "Do you mean everything soup?"
Sharon groans beside me. "No, he means stoop. It's a word he invented for the thing halfway between a stew and a soup, made with whatever's in the house and nearing its expiration date."
"Hey!" Ethan says, affecting mock hurt as we walk past him in the kitchen. "I would never feed guests expired produce. That's a privilege reserved for just us."
"Do you want a drink?" she asks, ignoring her husband. "We've got wine, vodka, a bottle of something we think is cavasa, and cooking liquor that Ethan refuses to use because he's pretentious."
"She's just jealous that I can boil water without burning it," Ethan stage whispers. "Don't tell her I said that."
"I'd like a glass of water," I say after a moment. This isn't an environment where I have to drink, and I feel like I'm going to need my wits about me.
Sharon nods and pulls a glass out from a cupboard. "Anyway, make yourself at home. Move whatever you need to in order to get a seat. We can mostly find whatever we need regardless of its location, except for little things like the keys to a borrowed PRT vehicle."
"You check out and forget to return a government-owned supercar once and suddenly you're known as Ethan 'Carjacker' Rebelski." I leave the two to what feels like a well-worn argument and step into the living room.
Now that I have more than a moment to take it in, I can see some of the personalities of the homeowners in the room. Small photos, perched on the edge of the mantle, depicting the growth of a young woman. One image of the two of them laughing.
I don't see any of Ethan's past, but he's just as firmly imprinted on the room. The couch and the chairs are all from different sets, each one uniquely comfortable. There's also a surprising number of academic texts on philosophy, some of it well outside an undergraduate's range, with specific pages bookmarked with color-coded sticky notes. I start reshelving them, occasionally paging through one and searching for a common through-line.
"You've found Ethan's hobby, then?" I start as an irrational surge of guilt shoots through me, then regain my composure. Sharon has a wine glass in one hand and a tall glass of water in the other. I put down the book and accept the fluid, taking a sip to clear my throat before responding.
"It's the problem of evil, right?" A copy of something called Confessions noticeably thickened by the raw number of post its between its pages was the big tip-off, but there are also a lot of more contemporary texts laying in stacks around the house. "Seems like a big topic."
"It's also salient and he can bill it to the PRT as 'training'," she comments dryly. "He claims it's part of his attempt to re-align his moral compass."
I blink at that.
Re-align?
Then a knock comes from the front and Sharon turns to head for the door, leaving me with a rather pressing question.
Then the door opens and I have to put on a smile.
"Come on in," Sharon says, stepping to the side and motioning down a short hallway. "Ethan's putting the finishing touches on dinner, but he'll be done soon enough. You're the first one here." She's in a short-sleeved blue button up and jeans and I immediately berate myself for putting on a sport coat, turtleneck, and slacks. Clearly wrong. I then berate myself for over-thinking a small, rational mistake that no one's going to care about. I can always take the jacket off, and even if I don't it's not outside the range of acceptable casual wear for a dinner party.
I realize I've been standing still for a bit too long and step over the threshold, proffering the bottle of wine. "Thank you for letting me into your house. I didn't know if you two were going to tackle all the food, so I went with the safe bet and brought a bottle of wine." I don't care for wine personally, nor do I know if Sharon or Ethan do, but it's What's Done.
"It's a pleasure to have you," she says, taking the bottle without so much as glancing at the label. "And don't worry too much about the gift. Ethan and I can barely tell the difference between a red and a white."
Their apartment is nice. More messy than you'd see in a real-estate catalogue, with books scattered about nearly every surface and a variety of mismatched coasters stacked on a coffee table in front of comfortable-looking furniture. The curtains are drawn, but they go low enough to tell me that the windows are probably floor-length. Another corridor leads off to a pair of doors, presumably a bathroom and and bedroom, and the kitchen is separated from the living room by an island, with another room visible past it.
Inside the kitchen is Ethan. He's dressed in a bright orange polo, with a stained Assault and Battery apron protecting his pants and chest from the hazards of cooking. He gives me a wave, then goes back to the pot in front of him, stirring it gently.
"How do you feel about shepherd's pie?" he asks.
I pause and flick through my memories. "I can honestly say I've never had it."
"Good. That means you'll have no context to see any mistakes I've made." He lifts a ladle out of the pot, sips it, the swallows the rest, throwing the implement into the sink and putting a lid on the pot. "Sides are potatoes, mashed and roasted, along with some cooked veggies and everything stoop."
I pause in place, trying to figure out what he could be referring to, then give up. "Do you mean everything soup?"
Sharon groans beside me. "No, he means stoop. It's a word he invented for the thing halfway between a stew and a soup, made with whatever's in the house and nearing its expiration date."
"Hey!" Ethan says, affecting mock hurt as we walk past him in the kitchen. "I would never feed guests expired produce. That's a privilege reserved for just us."
"Do you want a drink?" she asks, ignoring her husband. "We've got wine, vodka, a bottle of something we think is cavasa, and cooking liquor that Ethan refuses to use because he's pretentious."
"She's just jealous that I can boil water without burning it," Ethan stage whispers. "Don't tell her I said that."
"I'd like a glass of water," I say after a moment. This isn't an environment where I have to drink, and I feel like I'm going to need my wits about me.
Sharon nods and pulls a glass out from a cupboard. "Anyway, make yourself at home. Move whatever you need to in order to get a seat. We can mostly find whatever we need regardless of its location, except for little things like the keys to a borrowed PRT vehicle."
"You check out and forget to return a government-owned supercar once and suddenly you're known as Ethan 'Carjacker' Rebelski." I leave the two to what feels like a well-worn argument and step into the living room.
Now that I have more than a moment to take it in, I can see some of the personalities of the homeowners in the room. Small photos, perched on the edge of the mantle, depicting the growth of a young woman. One image of the two of them laughing.
I don't see any of Ethan's past, but he's just as firmly imprinted on the room. The couch and the chairs are all from different sets, each one uniquely comfortable. There's also a surprising number of academic texts on philosophy, some of it well outside an undergraduate's range, with specific pages bookmarked with color-coded sticky notes. I start reshelving them, occasionally paging through one and searching for a common through-line.
"You've found Ethan's hobby, then?" I start as an irrational surge of guilt shoots through me, then regain my composure. Sharon has a wine glass in one hand and a tall glass of water in the other. I put down the book and accept the fluid, taking a sip to clear my throat before responding.
"It's the problem of evil, right?" A copy of something called Confessions noticeably thickened by the raw number of post its between its pages was the big tip-off, but there are also a lot of more contemporary texts laying in stacks around the house. "Seems like a big topic."
"It's also salient and he can bill it to the PRT as 'training'," she comments dryly. "He claims it's part of his attempt to re-align his moral compass."
I blink at that.
Re-align?
Then a knock comes from the front and Sharon turns to head for the door, leaving me with a rather pressing question.