Broken Mirrors, Black Cats, and Other Wonderful Things [Worm][OC][Brockton Bay]

[T0PH4T]

"You were Madcap?" I ask incredulously. Dinner was bearable, with good food and minimal conversation, and the five of us have moved to the living room for cake and after-dinner charring. Ethan and Sharon are sitting together on the couch, Hannah and I are in chairs, and Roger is sitting on a chair dragged in from the dining room.

"Yup." Ethan's good humor is a little subdued, but he's still smiling. Part of that is probably a positive disposition, part of it might be the wine. "Big bad villain, fighting against the Man's injustice, right up until I got caught."

"He joined the Protectorate of his own free will," Sharon interjects, meeting my gaze. "He suggested it, he's been off probation for years, and he's done good work."

I look away, lifting my hands defensively. "I'm not angry. Not trying to judge. Just surprised." I knew that the Protectorate quietly recruited less-egregious villains from time to time, but it's one thing to hear about it and quite another to see a former felon being paid by the government. Slowly, I lower my hands. "Is there anything else living in the past of the team I should be aware of? Something not to bring up, contentious subjects, old enemies that really shouldn't be talked about?"

Glances are exchanged between the four of them and I nearly shiver at the palpable feeling of out-groupness. You have to be in the out group before coming in though, and it's not going to get easier.

Roger is the first one to move, throwing back the rest of his glass and leaning forward, elbows on his knees and eyes on the hardwood floor. "I'm trying to get divorced. It's not going well, and I'd really, really appreciate it if you didn't talk about it." I process that, then nod. Not touching that with a ten-foot pole.

"I'm not going to talk about people who aren't in the room," Hannah says, placing her glass down on a coaster. "If you want to know about Colin or Robin, you're going to have to ask them."

"That's fair," I say quickly, kicking myself internally. "I'm not trying to fish for information." This is not going well.

"I mean, you kind of are," Ethan says, cocking an eyebrow. "You're literally asking questions about us."

"I didn't- ugh." I drop my head into my hands. "I'm not good with people. Like, really not good. So I try to get data so I don't screw up as much."

"You ever consider letting sleeping dogs lie?" Roger asks sarcastically, standing up and heading to the island.

I grit my teeth and glare at him. "I tried doing that. It worked for about two months, then ended with two people dead and me getting exiled to this little hellhole of a city." As soon as the words leave my mouth I want to travel back in time and stab myself in the throat, because there is no better way to prevent myself from making mistakes than destroying the vehicle for them.

"I'm sorry what?" Distantly, I recognize Hannah's voice. "Two dead?"

"I should go," I respond, the words bubbling up from what little good sense I have left. Fucked. It's all fucked. I throw on my jacket and nod politely to my hosts, clamping down on everything that isn't the bare minimum of social graces I need to quietly exit a social situation. "I would like to apologize for causing any of you distress, and while I am not currently in a state to properly discuss-"

"No, you don't get to drop that bomb and just run off." Sharon is standing now (when did that happen) and is reaching out for me. "Why weren't we told about this when you first came by? What's your-"

I teleport. A short one, maybe two feet total, and for a brief moment everyone is staring at the space I used to be with blank gazes, an Eli-shaped hole in their memory. In that gap I slip past Roger's chair, accelerate in the hallway, teleport through the door (sloppy, someone could've seen me), head for the elevator, press the up call button, then teleport to the stairs and start taking them three at a time.

This is wrong. I know that.

I can't bring myself to care.

My phone buzzes. I pull it out and glance at the screen, then switch the device into emergency-only mode. After a second texts start popping up. I switch it off, push through the ground floor access entrance, through the lobby doors, pull open the motor pool car door and drive off. After a second, I absentmindedly reattach a seat belt.

Fucked. I fucked it up.

Once I'm caught in a red light, far from the apartment, I turn my phone back on. Dozens of messages. Dozens of missed calls. I try to think up a way out of this. A way to go back to the status quo. A way to not address the elephant in the room.

I come up blank.

I groan as I pull into the PRT's parking lot. Four counts of assault with a parahuman ability, at least one of reckless endangerment of identity, dereliction of duty, and probably more than a few speeding tickets. Head down, the Director's good side? Shot straight to hell. I turn off the engine and just sort of stare out the windshield at nothing in particular for a while, experiencing.

Then I run through my logic again, pull the key out of the ignition, and start marching myself towards the locker room. I put on the Black Cat costume, then head for the incidence office. I wait patiently behind a pair of PRT troopers, studiously ignoring each gentle buzz of my phone.

When it's finally my turn, I stand at parade rest in front of a rather shocked-looking woman in a pant suit and horn-rimmed glasses. It takes her a minute to find the right form, longer to run through the unfamiliar terminology and get my verbal confirmations, and an eternity to fill things out properly. Through it all a calmness comes over me, the peace before a wave crashes down.

The situation is a disaster, but I'm dealing with it. That has to count for something.

 

[T0PH4T]

I manage to get through the entire patrol with Miss Militia without talking about the disaster of a dinner party. Presenting a united front and all that. Can't have people thinking that the Protectorate isn't cohesive.

And then we end up in the break room.

"Armsmaster has told me that while he recommends that you share the details of your transfer with the rest of us, he will not divulge the information without your consent or an emergency." Hannah's remarkably calm for a woman who only recently learned that she's working with a man who has a body count.

I nod and pour myself a cup of coffee. It was a statement, not a question.

"I assume that you've received some punishment detail?" she asks.

I snort. "I'm not getting off the graveyard shift for the foreseeable future and have to attend three Behavior in the Workplace seminars."

Hannah winces. "You know, we would've understood if you just said no. You could've saved yourself a lot of trouble."

I shake my head, sipping at the coffee. After this break, I'm going to see if there isn't some sort of volunteer work I can do that doesn't involve talking to people, a way to rebuild social capital. "Do the crime, do the time. If we don't obey the rules, what right do we have to enforce them?"

Hannah shrugs. "There should be wiggle room for forgiveness, though." I don't have a good response to that, so I just take another sip of coffee.

Eventually, Hannah sighs and stands up. "I'm not going to press, but Ethan and Sharon might. Roger will go after it like a dog at a bone. Not because he's nosy, but because he wants to solve problems." I bite my lip. "I wouldn't worry too much about it, though. We've all got skeletons."

I blink as she leaves the room.

Then I finish my coffee and go to de-mask. I can figure out what I'm going to do about the secrets later.

*****

I look at the second gin and tonic at my table next to my steak. "I didn't order this."

"The lady at the bar did," the waitress says nervously, pointing to a blonde woman in a suit and a ponytail. Said woman smiles at me and gives me a small wave. I look back, then shake my head.

"Tell her thanks but no thanks." I push the glass tumbler away and pick up my fork and knife. After two bites I look up. The waitress is looking down at me with an open mouth and wide eyes. "Please?" I add.

She nods mutely, jaw snapping shut as she picks up the glass and walks away slowly. I go back to my meal. A few minutes late the glass comes back, empty save for ice cubes and the grapefruit wedge. I look up at the waitress, who's red-faced and avoiding eye contact.

"She, uh, says fuck you, but don't fuck you." I snort at that, a small smile coming on my face. "Also, she's gone now. Why'd you turn her down?"

I keep eating, and eventually the click-clack of heels tells me that I'm alone again. I leave the same tip, with the addendum that I'd like to not be disturbed by other patrons while I'm eating in the future.

As I sit in traffic and wait for lights to change and cars to move, I think back to the moment. I could've gone home with someone tonight. As a general rule I don't, but a little release from time to time is relaxing if nothing else. It's certainly been a few months, and I don't think she was looking for more than a one-night-stand, what with the ring on her finger.

On the other hand, I don't really want sex right now. I'd like to have an amicable relationship with someone outside of work, preferably someone not in the know, but I also have no idea how I'd go about building one. My hobbies are mostly individual activities, and the ones that aren't are hardly proper grounds for friendship.

I sigh and drop my head to the steering wheel.

I want friends.

I try to avoid getting too close to people. That's just good sense. Humans are social animals though, and I'm human. I need to talk to people, to have emotional exchanges with people. It's tiring, difficult, and as much a part of staying healthy as eating the right foods and working out. While I might be able to fix things with the rest of the Protectorate, what happened in Chicago is always going to be lurking in the background, a wrecking ball waiting to drop. No, I need to find someone outside my usual spheres. Someone foreign without being other, who I can confess to while keeping something back.

I snort as the light turns green, pressing back down on the gas. From the description I'm summoning up, I'm not sure if I want a friend or have fallen into a sudden attack of religion. Either way, I'm going to need to change something dramatically.

Before I get out of the car, I check my phone. One new text from Sharon, assuring me that she's there to talk if I need it. One from Ethan, offering a one-on-one drinking night. One from Roger, telling me that he's won't bring it up at the training sessions. One from Colin, telling me that he wants to talk.

I stare at the screen for a long time, long enough that the car starts to get cold. Eventually my fingers tap out an agreement. Tomorrow morning, after patrols, I'll face the music.

Once I'm in my room, I open up my laptop and answer the rest of the texts. I assure Roger that I'll go back to training him, thank Ethan and Sharon for their offers, and then I clear my schedule for the afternoon.

I'm going to need a rest after that meeting.

 

[T0PH4T]

I'm not sure what I expected out of Armsmaster's workshop. Alex was a wet tinker and he's not, so I knew that I wasn't going to have to worry about pools of blood on the floor or anything like that, but I was prepared for a spectacle. Whirring machines, slowly-spinning holograms, maybe a half-completed mech in the background, a tableau that screamed 'one of the top ten heroes in the Protectorate'.

Instead the doors quietly whooshed open onto a rather tidy room, with a single large table in the middle, some shop tools lining one wall, and a desk with a computer tower and seven monitors on the other. Colin is there, closing out windows with a domino mask already on, expression unreadable.

"Take a seat," he says, gesturing to a swivel chair. I settle into it as he hits a few keys and all the screens go black. Once that's done, he takes off his mask and looks me in the eye. "Can we talk face to face?"

Slowly, I pull off my glasses and flip down my hood, switching my gaze over his shoulder. Shields up.

"Sharon and Ethan tell me that you haven't talked with them since you teleported in their house." I nod once. "Roger doesn't intend to hold it against you, nor does Hannah." I don't respond to that. Colin sighs and leans forward a little. "Is this going to be a recurring problem."

I swallow. "Probably. I don't," I stop, then wave a hand ambiguously. "Social situations are hard. I over-prepare and overreact when things go not according to plan."

"Your file says that. What I want to know is if you think you're going to do more things like this in the long run." He leans forward, mouth set into a slight frown. "We need capes, but we also need for people to get along. If you're the odd man out, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

I shake my head. "This was unusually bad. Normally I'm pretty good at figuring out what I'm going to come up against and can prepare for it. I got blindsided hard, panicked, and took the shortest path out of the situation possible."

"They wanted to talk about your past." I nod silently, a lump in my throat. Colin sighs, one hand going to his face and scratching at his beard. "I'm not going to tell anyone if there's no emergency, and right now we can afford to have a little friction between people. I trust everyone else to let bygones be bygones."

That he doesn't trust me goes unspoken.

"I'm not dropping that bomb." Colin doesn't move. "What else can I do?"

He picks up a tablet and starts swiping through different screens. "I need to know that you are socially stable. To that end, I'm asking you to take your regular therapist's meeting a few weeks early." I suppress a groan. There goes an hour of my life. "Additionally, I'd like to you to run some training exercises with the Wards."

"Your solution to my social isolation is to throw me at kids?" I ask incredulously. I've met maybe six people under the age of twenty that I can stand to be in the same room as for for more than five minutes and none of them were capes.

"Yes," Colin responds, flipping the tablet over. A calendar has been pulled up, showing off a few dates. "I've found that people try to meet expectations and that adding a little pressure frequently leads to growth. More to the point, the Wards have had extremely little hands-on experience with strangers of any variety, and you are uniquely suited to giving them a refresher on why M/S protocols need to be hard-wired." His eyes harden. "Furthermore, your hit-and-run tactics are similar to Oni Lee. I would prefer for them to have some idea of what to do when facing a hostile teleporter."

"I thought the Wards weren't going to get extra field duties?" I specifically remember Robin saying that it was in a deadlock, but I literally can't imagine a world where teenagers are sent up against anyone with a bodycount when any other option is available.

"They aren't," Colin replies, eyes sinking a little. "Oni Lee, however, has made it very clear that he doesn't discriminate with his use of force."

I mull that over, then shake my head. "Done. I'll start throwing something together immediately."

"Take your time. You have a few weeks." The tablet spins in his hands and he goes to tapping at it. "I think we're about done here."

I get up, nod once, then head towards the door, lifting my mask up and securing the goggles in place.

"Eli." I pause, cocking my head. "I saw your request. I'll have a prototype of your goggles inside of a month."

I smile behind the cloth. "Thank you."

*****

I look at the shop, take a breath, then press through the door.

I'm greeted with a riot of noise, of rattling plastic, of shuffling paper, and cries of both joy and dismay. Children, almost entirely boys, sit around tables with prismatic shapes scattered in front of them, while old men sit behind screens and use silly voices to arouse squeals of delight. There are a few older groups too, teenagers red with acne or hiding behind too-long hair who are trying to act like they're not interested and young men and women speaking quietly around the table, serious as gravestones.

"A newcomer!" The woman behind the desk is large, both vertically and horizontally, and she's smiling wide. "So, what's your poison of choice tonight? Your skill level? We have Pathfinder, Arc and Aim, D&D, and some custom systems that still need players." She bumps her head with one hand. "And your name. Always forget about that. I'm Mary, by the way."

"Eli Shane. Looking for something a little more casual." I duck my head a little as I catch people looking at me. "I can be pretty consistent, and I'd prefer to meet around lunch time."

"Night shift worker," Mary says, crossing her arms as her eyes unfocus a little. "Tonight's perhaps not the best time for you to come by, but on Wednesday there's a Deadlands campaign that meets as soon as the store opens." She looks back at me, curiosity in her eyes. "Can you make eight?"

I nod. "That's perfect, actually. What do I need to bring?"

She shrugs. "Dice, a deck of cards with the jokers, and maybe some poker chips." A gleam enters her eyes. "Don't suppose you need a new set of bones?"

I leave with a bag of dice and a slip of paper with the Marshal's email address. It's been a long, long time since I last played an RPG of any sort, but I still remember the freedom of being someone else, of setting up a lie and going with it. Finding a party though, that was the hard part, required a down-payment that I could never quite muster up the courage to scrape together. Even when people approached me though, there was always a slight mismatch of what people wanted out of the game, one which inevitably lead to the group fracturing.

Maybe this time will be different.

 

[T0PH4T]

I hold up a red sharpie. "Who can tell me what this is?"

There's a quick exchange of glances before Triumph steps forward. "It's a marker, sir."

I teleport behind him, draw a line across the back of his neck while the Wards blink at the sudden lack of me in front of them, then I teleport back, waiting for the unsense to wear off. Once I have their eyes again I continue.

"It's anything I want it to be. It's a knife, a gun, a data drive with all your civilian identities on it, it's a camera, it's a tinker's bioplague, it's plastic explosive, you don't know. Aegis, look at Triumph's neck and tell me what you see."

To his credit, Triumph turns around unquestioningly to give his teammate a better view. Aegis looks at for a moment, then shrugs.

"It's a red line?" he tries.

"It means he's dead." A chill runs through the room. "It's a cut, a gunshot wound, it's an injection site, it's where a parasite-style master/stranger just infected your team leader and overwrote his personality with their own. Who takes charge next?" I wait a few seconds. "And just like that you fail. You've received false orders, the infiltrator has succeeded, and your entire branch is compromised."

"That's bullshit," Clockblocker says. "We didn't know the exercise was starting. If we did, I would frozen you-"

"Striker versus mover is not a fight you win," I state bluntly, meeting his faceless gaze with my own. "The person here best equipped to deal with me is Kid Win after a few months of building a specific counter to my power. After that it's Aegis who can take a beating, and everyone else is way out of their league. Win, what would you build to counter me?"

Kid Win shrinks a little as people turn their eyes to him. "Umm... auto turrets? Program them to shoot anything that appears spontaneously since we don't have any teleporters?"

I give him a thumbs-up. "Perfect. That would work. Full marks."

I turn back to the rest of the group. "Relatively few masters have the sort of subtle control to make good infiltrators, and strangers as a rule are uncommon. Or at least, we think they are." I start pacing, looking at each Ward in turn. "M/S protocols are extreme because we can afford to make them extreme. Of the course of the past five years, I've had twice as many false alarms as genuine incidents, and of those genuine incidents two were because a new Protectorate member forgot about me and called down containment foam out of panic." Dean laughs politely, and when I don't bite off his head there's a round of polite chuckles.

"The three times it was an actual hostile master or stranger, it universally ended with permanent mutilation." The laughs stop. "The first time was when a breaker/stranger hid inside of people's shadows and started slaughtering PRT personnel wholesale. The second time was when a fresh trigger had accidentally started a cult and a charmed half the local Protectorate. The third time a master/stranger masqueraded as the Director of a PRT department for a full twenty-four hours before an intern caught on and shot the infiltrator six times."

I stop in place, arms behind my back in parade rest. "Situations where M/S protocols deserve to be used are rare. We over-prepare, over-engineer everything so that if the worst happens, we are ready. There's secondary and tertiary command, and after that a huge number of categories for appropriate leaders to be appointed. We do all this and we still get hoodwinked by the raw power of some parahumans."

I gesture at the empty training room behind me, filled with random pillars of various heights to break line of sight and with ropes hanging from the ceiling. "In order to get used to how M/S protocols work, we're going to play some tag. The objective will vary from asset protection to anti-espionage to pursuit to first contact to active combat." I dig a tiny legal pad out of my pocket, draw a tee chart, and write 'BC' at the top of one column and 'Wards' at the other. "We will be keeping score."

"What do we get if we win?" Vista asks, taking a step forward.

"A meal at any restaurant in the city, paid for out of my pocket," I reply instantly, chalking up one point under the Wards column. "Kid Win already got you guys a point, I'm going to limit my teleports to only after my unsense has been off for a full second, and this marker is going to be the only tool I use." I put the pad in my pocket and take a step back, twirling the Sharpie around my fingers. "First exercise is pursuit."

"Go."

*****

I come out of the locker room out of costume and whistling. They're smart kids, and teaching them wasn't nearly as painful as I expected it to be. Still not something that I'd want to do regularly, but certainly more fun than drilling basic Protectorate procedure into teenagers had any right to be.

I check the clock. Lunchtime, or close enough to justify eating. I head over to the cafeteria, throw together a pasta with plenty of meat and veggies, and settle down for a quiet meal.

"How'd the M/S training go?" Hannah sits down across from me, a burger and mashed potatoes heaped on her plate.

I sigh internally and shrug. "Not as bad as I expected. Why?"

"Triumph and Vista have a red tinge to their jaws that's still not going away, Clockblocker was groaning about being hit in the face, and Kid Win hasn't left his workshop since they've come back from the training room. When I asked Gallant about what happened, he said that everyone else got too competitive and that you egged them on." She raises an eyebrow and takes a massive bite of her burger. "I think the exact words were 'he needled us until there was nothing left to needle, then let us taste victory so he could go further'."

I think back to the past few hours.

"Sounds about right."

 

[T0PH4T]

I arrive at the store half an hour early, dressed down as far as I feel comfortable, a satchel with books, dice, and fresh pencils over my shoulder. I spend the buffer psyching myself up in a coffee shop, getting ready for an extended time with other people. One that's planned though, with clear expectations, that is going to be fun.

I'm still forcing my face to remain neutral when I push through the door, only after somebody else has already entered the store.

It's easier not to be the first person who arrives.

"Welcome." The Marshal's name is Davis Weatherclear, and reading his emails did not prepare me for his presence. Tall, absurdly so, at least seven feet and change, with a generous belly and a shaved palette. He extends a hand, big enough to hold both of mine, and smiles broadly. "You're the new player, right? Eli?"

"Right. You're Davis?" I take the proffered grip. His hands are remarkably soft, and he doesn't shake for long before letting go.

"Yup, that's me." He goes back behind a fold out table and settles down into a fold-out chair, which creaks alarmingly under his weight. "I know we went over the basics online, but now's a good time to hit me with any questions you don't want the other players to hear. I'm not going to talk about them," he clarifies, a little hardness seeping into his voice. "But if you need accommodations, want to clarify pronouns, anything like that, I'm all ears."

I sit down on his right, scanning the set-up. Two chairs on the other side of the table, a screen with some faux-cowboys and girls fighting zombies, and a minimalist grid with a few rough outlines of buildings. "I'm not great with people." Rip the band-aid. "I don't do well with unknown situations, where I don't know what's expected of me. I don't like a lot of attention, and my social batteries drain fast." I take a short breath, let it out, then shake my head. "I'm getting better at it, and I do want to have fun."

Davis nods. "We already have a face, so you don't have to be worried about being shoehorned into a role you don't want. If you need some space or time, feel free to take a break from the table. Do you want me to tell the other players?" he adds, clasping his hands together. "They're good people, but if you want to keep it quiet that's one hundred percent understandable."

I shake my head. "I'll tell them. Better to have everything out in the open." Having fun will be more difficult if I have to keep up a mask. I have enough of that on my night job.

Davis flips a pack of cards in one hand, another smile coming across his face. I can see a gold tooth in the back of his mouth, and I can't help but smile with him. "Now that that's out of the way, let's game. Let's see what sort of abilities you're playing with."

Davis and I run through character creation, and that is where the trouble begins.

"Both jokers," Davis says slowly, eying my pulls. "Fresh into the campaign and you pulled not one but two mysterious backstory cards."

"I can reshuffle," I say, moving to pick up the cards.

Davis lifts his hand, smiling. "No, this will be interesting. You have some luck, you know."

I shake my head. "Don't I know it."

*****

I meet a lot of people that session, but seven stand out.

Clyde Fairhands is a blond-haired, blue-eyed dandy from New York, who left his father's mansion to go west and look for a little adventure before he settled down into an arranged marriage. That plan was complicated when he visited a team laying new tracks and saw the labor conditions, receiving a brutal wake-up call to the cost of his opulence. He's now trying to redeem the Fairhand name by freeing slaves and renegotiating deals, and when his plans fall through he tends to default to asking Mr. Colt for help.

Eric DeLuna is an unbelievably optimistic human, gregarious and kind in a way that feels powerful without being oppressive. He can't quite stay still during action scenes, and frequently rolls back and forth in his chair at each extreme result, fair or foul. He's also built enough that his friendly punch to the shoulder actually pushed me out of my seat, which was worth a laugh from the rest of the table.

Sam FitzLager is a Spanish fellow with a sketchy grasp of English and an excellent understanding of science, two things which conspired together to get him kicked out of a number of universities. The relative scarcity of lawmen and more liberal attitudes towards his inventions sent him on the first carriage out of the city, and after a fiasco involving a runaway steam-mech and more dynamite than anyone should be allowed to own became the group's resident mad scientist.

Sam Strasberg came in a little late, got my name and my character's name, then told me his name and pronouns with barely-restrained challenge in his eyes. When I went with it unquestioningly, he started giving me tips on min-maxing. Sam's the one who gets deepest into the role-playing, and regularly engaged Eric over the differences between Spanish from Spain and Spanish from Venezuela, sometimes even with a smile.

Arine Malarky, or Lady-From-Spiders, is a half-blood, part Sioux and part Southern Belle, who lucked out. Rather than try to fight over the right to raise her, Arine's parents split her time between the two worlds, a dangerous balancing act between summers spent riding horses and living on the plains and winters spent reading from The Book of Games and learning huckstery from her father. It was not to last though, and she had to flee when a war started between her two homes, one which cost the lives of both her parents.

Jenny McGinnis is a sprightly red-headed woman, full of energy and compassion. Almost before my name was out of my mouth she had pressed a muffin into my hand, and after that she did a quick check-in with every member of the group, including Davis. She was also noticeably pregnant, and when we broke for the meal went off to the corner for a hushed conversation.

Then there was Marshie "Slim" Freedman. A born mute who skipped out of a southern plantation and taught himself the ways of half a dozen different types of transport, the two jokers manifested as extra thumbs on each hand and a touch of extra-quick Mantious blood in him, which particularly skilled hucksters might pick up on. The Straddlers (a name that Clyde decided on unilaterally to many groans) needed transport from one town to the next, I was transporting mail, and that was how I joined the group.

The system was interesting, remarkably resistant to breaking, and Davis knew enough about pacing to keep people engaged throughout the story. By the time we wrapped up I was tapped out, but in a good way. I had set an objective and completed it, and done so without hitting failure conditions. I put my name down on the general contacts list, along with my non-work number and email address, and left tired but content.

This had been a good day.

 

[T0PH4T]

"All in favor of expanding the Wards' responsibilities?" Piggot, Colin, Hannah, and Ethan raise their hands, the last carefully avoiding looking at his wife. I glance towards Sharon from behind my goggles without turning my head. She doesn't react in that very careful way which makes me think he's going to get an earful later. Piggot scratches a note onto a legal pad, then looks back up. "All against?"

Robin's hand shoots up immediately, followed by Sharon's and Roger's shortly thereafter. I try not to feel hurt as they gaze at me dispassionately, waiting for a hand that won't go up. After a few seconds Piggot scratches at the paper, sealing the deal.

"Four votes for, three against, one abstained. The motion carries." She starts packing up almost immediately, slipping papers into a plastic folder and ignoring the rest of us. "I will be discussing modified patrol courses and schedules with Armsmaster at a later date. You are all dismissed." She files out a moment later, leaving the eight of us alone.

Almost as soon as the door is closed on her the argument starts.

"You're fucking up, Colin." The curse hits me like a slap to the face, and when I turn towards its source Robin has his face set in a stony glare. "You're fucking up because you want to climb the ladder and these kids are going to pay for it."

"No one is suggesting that we throw them at capes," Colin replies, remarkably calm for a man who just got cussed out by a subordinate. "We're not going to be pitting them against killers. Youth Guard is going to be involved, double and triple checking everything. Anything you've thought of, every objection, is one they've considered and refined to a science. This is a calculated decision, one which is going to become even more conservative as their lawyers get their hands on it."

"You're missing the forest for the trees," Sharon snaps. "You just gave kids permission to go out and fight for their lives. You can pretty it up, add qualifiers, but unless you want to own up to taking another step towards child soldiers-"

Hannah coughs. Loudly.

I stand up and walk towards the door. I hear another chair scrap behind me, even as voices rise, and soon enough I'm alone in the hallway with Roger.

We stand there in silence for a minute, listening to the muffled shouting.

"I get why you decided not to vote," Roger says quietly.

I resist the urge to tell him that no, he really doesn't, and nod amicably.

"I get that the social stuff is hard, but I really wish you had stood up for this." I get a tight feeling in my chest. I cross my arms, trying to put pressure on it, relieve the choking sensation. "I mean, you fought with them. Do you think they could take on Oni Lee? Krieg? Slimsliver?" He pauses. "What about the real monsters? The ones we're allowed to take off the gloves for. Hookwolf. Lung. Do you think that they're prepared for those fights?"

"I think that I'm not qualified to make those decisions," I reply.

"If not you, who?" He still doesn't sound mad. That makes it burn more. "You have power. You have an understanding of both them and their potential opponents. If you subscribed to Hannah and Ethan's school of hard knocks maybe you could be silently supporting them, but I think Robin was expecting you to vote with him."

I turn down the corridor and start walking. "Let's train." After a second Roger follows, still silent.

He's more aggressive this time. It still doesn't feel like he actually wants to hurt me, though. Just cause pain, just enough hurt to understand what it feels like to be the one behind the blade. It's progress though, and when we switch to sparring with powers he actually manages to tag me with his Arclance. He's still far and away the weakest member of the local Protectorate, but he's learning to leverage what he does have.

I just wish I could look him in the eye.

*****

"How was work?" Jenny asks, slipping into the chair across from me, a broad smile on her face. "Any romantic developments among the Protectorate that I should know about?" Telling her I worked for the PRT was a mistake, the depth of which became apparent only when she revealed that she wrote capefiction. I haven't browsed her archive yet, and frankly I'm a little scared to.

I force a grin to match as I play with the dice in my hand, shrugging. "I had a disagreement with two groups of coworkers. Things seem to be basically amiable, but things are going to be touchy for the foreseeable future." Specifically, Velocity won't be patrolling with Miss Militia for a while and Assault and Battery will be limiting their public appearances while they figure things out.

"Sucks, man," Eric says, brown eyes solemn. He always arrives just after I do, about ten minutes before Jenny and twenty minutes before Sam. "You have any way to smooth it over?"

"Try a cake," Jenny interjects, nodding. "Baked goods are like morphine for relationships. You have to follow them up with something real, but sometimes what you really need is a painkiller while things heal over."

Davis claps his hands quietly, drawing our attention near-instantly. Conditioning, of the extremely useful variety. "Sam's not going to be able to make it today," he says. "So I'm going to say that Professor FitzLager is lost in his laboratory again, working on the next great breakthrough in transportation. For now, there's still a necromancer on the loose, one who's none too careful with keepin' his zombies locked up."

As the story progresses and games of chance are played, I marvel at the skill of Davis. His voices run the gamut from silly to terrifying, a consummate actor with range that puts most capes I know to shame. He ties themes from history into his fantastical stories to ground them, then elevates the real ones with ideological weight, all while making up for the poorly-aged source material that would make a production of The Merchant of Venice proud. It gets me into the game beyond just an optimization exercise, and when we discover a dragon made out of corpses an unexpected thrill of surprise runs through me. We end not long after that, but the impact stays with me as I head back to the PRT base for sleep, pondering.

 

[T0PH4T]

The bad blood lasts until the Empire grows again.

"Three new capes. Victor, Othala, and Rune, brought in from out of town." Colin has their headshots up behind him, blurry pictures refined and enhanced as much as possible. The end result isn't nearly enough to start running facial-recognition software for when they inevitably step over the line, but there's enough there to make out the basics. A tall, blond, handsome man, with a cheery grin on his face as he unloads an assault rifle. A distant shot of a girl in a red bodysuit, a generic gangster in front of her flipping a car onto its side. A younger girl, surrounded by massive clumps of concrete, identity concealed by a domino mask and a thick cloak. Three more Nazis. Dangerous ones. Colin nods to Robin, who nods once and tosses packets of paper across the table to each person.

"The good news is that they're known quantities. Rune is a telekinetic with a massive upper limit. She doesn't do anything too fancy though, just raw strength. Miss Militia, Black Cat, you two have the best chance of tagging her. She's underage, so try to keep the lethality as low as possible." Hannah and I nod. Kids are dumb, and the Wards are always recruiting.

Robin moves on, flipping through his packet. "Othala is a gifting Trump. While she's displayed upwards of a dozen unique powers, the most common abilities she grants are super strength, super speed, some sort of momentum-canceling brute effect, and healing." He looks up, face serious. "This is true healing. No downsides, no devil's bargain, just a few minutes of regeneration and a man bleeding out is hearty and hale again."

Ethan whistles slowly. "Shame she's a Nazi."

"People can change," Sharon comments, making a pointed glance at him. It's half-hearted though, and the look he gives her back is soft and thankful. I smile behind my mask. In a weird way the fascist reinforcements couldn't've come at a better time.

"Under no circumstances is she to be permanently maimed," Robin continues, drawing us out of the moment. "She's done enough PR work that so much as a broken bone would stir up protests, counter-protests, and more trouble than it's worth. Defend yourself if you need too, though."

He flips through the packet again. "The last one, Victor, is a skill vampire, draining anything and everything based on a whole host of factors. The big ones are his focus, skin contact, sight, hearing, etcetera. Known abilities include martial arts, vehicles, languages, and marksmanship." He makes eye contact with me. "He carries a pistol at all times, is a known sniper, and has a history of killing movers. Double digit body count, something of a specialist when countering teleporters."

"They're targeting me." It's a statement, not a question.

"They're targeting you, but they're also trying to change the Empire's image," Colin interjects. Robin sits down and Colin stands up, the slides changing to a now-complete version of the Empire's roster. "Pre-reinforcement, the Empire appeared to be in three main groups: Kaiser's nationalists, Hookwolf's menagerie, and Krieg's Third Reich remnants. While Kaiser is a fairly popular public figure, Hookwolf is generally despised and Krieg isn't much more popular."

"Do you think it has anything to do with wearing an SS officer's uniform?" Roger drawls, to a chorus of chuckles. I snort behind my mask, and even Colin gives a tight grin before going back to his professional demeanor.

"Perhaps. At any rate, the Thinktank believes that this might be an attempt to add sympathetic characters to their line up. Victor can become a master public speaker in a few minutes, Othala provides measurable and immediate quality of life improvements, and Rune can attract younger generations to their cause." He clicks to the next slide, which has a calendar covered with addresses and times. "Until we can strike a blow back, everyone needs to double-down on PR duties. School visits, hospital work, all of it. If you have personal charities that you engage with, please bring them up."

"Amnesty International," Ethan says, face devoid of humor. "Prisons."

"The VA." Robin cracks his neck. "I've already got a few ideas."

I listen as the suggestions pile up, a sinking feeling slowly spreading inside of me. A month of PR work. Even if I sign up for extra patrols, work more with the Wards, spend what little credit I do have to mitigate the damage, this is going to be rough.

"Black Cat." I come back and look across the table. Colin's eyes are unreadable behind his visor, but his mouth is set in a carefully neutral line. "Do you have anything in particular that you'd like us to go over?"

"Autism and associated social disabilities," I snap off, barely hearing the words.

Colin nods as the line of text appears on the screen, looking around. "Does anyone have any pressing questions?" When no one does, the screen shuts off. "Meeting adjourned. Black Cat, could you stay for a minute afterwards?"

"Sure." I trust myself enough for one word. Roger gives me a friendly pat on the shoulder as he leaves, and soon it's just Colin and I.

"If you can't do this, tell me now." He delivers the words dispassionately. "If I'm not going to blame Velocity for not fighting against Lung, I'm not going to castigate you for avoiding a situation you fundamentally cannot deal with."

I think about it, then shake my head. "I can do it. It just takes a lot out of me." I hesitate. "But if it could come on the weekends, at the beginning of my shift..." I trail off, looking away from him.

"That I can do." He packs up his work and heads out the door, pausing before he crosses the threshold. "You know, my door is open if you need it."

I stand up, stretching. "I know." I look back at him. "It's just that if your problem is people, going to a person isn't usually the best solution." I smile, then remember the mask and give him a thumbs up. "I'll manage. I promise to tell you if it gets to be too much."

We part without much more than that, him to tinker and me to plan. I'm going to need a lot of steaks to endure the weeks ahead.

 

[T0PH4T]

In terms of PR game, the Protectorate ENE is on-point. Everyone knows how to walk the fine line between appearing too scripted and being unprepared, how to smile for the cameras, and it's all tied together with a nice little bow of sincere charity. I've been to cities where getting through a day without having the local team leader cuss out a journalist is considered a triumph, and having everyone basically capable of playing nice with the public is a refreshing change of pace.

It also means that I can fade into the background more easily. Most capes have big personalities, larger-than-life personas that are part act and part genuine egomania, and this team is no exception. Colin thrives in the spotlight, Ethan has a wit that makes him a crowd favorite, and Dauntless is a well-known local darling. I try to get paired with those three as much as possible, to hide in the shadow of their characters. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it really, really doesn't.

*****

It's on a Boardwalk presswalk meet-and-greet that I finally trip up.

"You've hardly said a word so far, Black Cat. What do you think about steady climb in crime?"

I stutter in my walk, then consciously relax my muscles as I twist my head to face the reporter. "The source of criminal activity is pretty far above my pay grade." A delaying tactic, now to dodge. "Generally speaking, I try to do my job, then move on. I leave judgement to the courts." I turn away, physically indicating an end to the conversation.

The reporter apparently doesn't get that though, and casually elbows another camera man out of the way. "What about the rape of a young asian woman by the Docks from last week? Surely you feel something about that? What could inspire such an act?"

I grit my teeth behind my mask, resisting the urge to turn around. A headline-chaser, probably one from an inconsequential rag that gets handed out for free. On the other hand I see a few mikes that do matter subtly angling towards me. Hard mode.

"I may have personal feelings about what I witness, but I am not obligated to share them. I can say that the PRT and BBPD are doing their best to apprehend any and all perpetrators, but-"

"Those perpetrators were found outside a police station this morning with wounds inflicted by a crossbow bolt and signed confessions pinned to their chests. A cape has claimed credit for their capture, choosing the name 'Shadow Stalker'. How do you feel about them passing judgement?"

"I think that the question of the Protectorate's stance on independent parahumans has been stated time and time again, and that if you require a refresher on that answer you can search the internet for five seconds and find the answer," I snap, spinning around. The reporter is smiling, his nicotine-stained teeth wide in a vicious smile. I look him dead in the eye, once more thankful for that my mask is full face. "Now then, if a reporter who's bothered to do more research than a high schooler browsing Wikipedia for a current events paper would like to ask a question of substance, I'd be more than happy to answer that."

"Keisha Ellison from the Brockton Times," a woman in a purple button up and jeans says, severe and commanding. "You transferred here from Detroit, and after going over the publicly available records all I was able to find for a reason was 'personal differences'. Would you care to elaborate on that?"

"No comment," I respond, scanning for Dauntless. He's currently engaged with a different reporter, making grand gestures and eating up camera time. "Other questions?" We only need to be here for another few minutes, tops.

I can hold on.

"In that case would you care to talk about the sudden sabbatical of Desperado?" she asks. "Your transfer and his withdrawal from the public eye are remarkably close together, and it seemed that the two of you got along well before that."

I blink at the sudden rush of emotions, hot and cold and pleasant and horrible and bring to mind the good times where we were laughing in the rain and for a moment I thought this must be how normal people must feel all the time and the bad times when my knives went against Jackie's guns and Alex had to shunt us both to a different world so we didn't accidentally a national incident and too much for right now.

Reflex kicks in and I go still, emotion shunting away to a box I can open at a later date. "The internal affairs of Protectorate personnel are private. I politely request that you cease your inquiries and move to subjects that I can freely discuss." The words sound distant, like they're coming from the distant side of a great chasm.

"Nah, lady raises a good point." This time it's an older man, grizzled whiskers and leathery skin at odds with his fine suit. "John Sminster, Channel Nine. You don't have to give us the nitty-gritty, but if someone's coming in with baggage we'd like to know. Mind giving us a hint?"

"No comment." A thousand phrases spring to mind, excuses, confessions, judgements, something to release the pressure, something to absolve me. Nothing I can share, nothing I should share, not without talking to Jackie. "Next question."

"Actually, we're out of time." I feel a firm grip on my shoulder, metal and unyielding. Dauntless gauntlet. "I know that we haven't filled in all the gaps, but I'm afraid that we've got other duties. Cat, if you'd lead the way."

I teleport to a building corner almost before the last word is out of his mouth, then chain them, one every four seconds, never more than a block at a time. Dauntless stays behind me, well out of my range and far above, practically a sun of glowing energy. If anyone's going to be paying attention to anything, it's going to be to him, a big ol' target. He's got the power to tank it though, and if someone does try to snipe him I can converge on their position fast.

I blink.

I just defaulted to fighting.

That was a lot worse than I thought it was going to be.

For a while the two of us just move, covering ground silently.

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

 

[T0PH4T]

I look at the dice on the table, which stubbornly refuse to the numbers I need to keep my grip on the train. "Damn. Bust."

"There's still hope. Does anyone have Fate to burn?" Sam asks, scanning the table, then locking eyes with Jenny.

The older woman holds up her hands, leaning back slightly in her chair. "I've got a Legend chip, but I'd have to burn a blue chip as well to give it to him. That's a lot of control we'd be forfeiting, and with due respect he's not in good shape right now." She gives me an apologetic look. "Sorry, Eli."

"Nah, it makes sense. No hard feelings." I've been rolling low this session, picking up wounds left and right, and I haven't exactly been dishing it out in return either.

Eric holds up his hands in a T. "First, I think I've got to call us all out on metagaming here. Second, having an extra player is going to be worth more on average than a reroll or bonus. Third, let's take a step back: is a Legend fate chip more important than a PC? I think not."

"No," Sam says.

Jenny sighs, picking up a black chip and a blue one. "Probably not."

"Maybe?" Three sets of eyes lock onto me. I shove my apprehension down and shrug. "I'm just the driver with a gun. What use is a coachman going to be against a mystic?"

Sam sighs, flaring his nostrils. "You're Marshie Slim, the courier who's crossed the border more times than you have fingers, a statement that means something special with you. You've got an in with every branch of the mail service in the West, and the only one of us who could possibly wrangle this mech."

Davis coughs politely and Sam deflates a little. "Sorry about RP'ing for you," he mutters, avoiding my eyes.

"More to the point, we're a team," Eric says, motioning to each player in turn. "Succeed, fail, something in between, we do it together. Maybe not everyone is equally invested in their characters, but out of respect for the code we've got to do our best to keep them alive, even if it's hard."

There's a pause as we turn to look at Jenny. She starts, twitching a little in her seat. "Oh, it's my turn to speak? Sure, take the chip." She tosses the blue plastic circle into the middle of the table, then the black on to me, which I catch on reflex. When we all keep staring at her she raises an eyebrow. "I was sold once Sam brought up the driving skill. Arine sure as hell isn't going to be crashing this train safely."

"Tick tock tick tock," Davis says, the cue that we're falling behind.

I hold out the Legend chip to him. "Marshal, I'd like to reroll my strength check to hang onto the train as I fall from the top."

Davis takes the chip and waves his hand at my motley collection of two and threes. "Reroll accepted. Lets see how you do the second time around."

I pick up three eight-sided dice, juggle them in my hand, then roll my eyes as I hold them out for Sam to blow on. Then I take a deep breath and toss the bones, watching the black and silver dance across the table. One, seven, eight. I reroll the ace. Eight. I roll again. Two, eighteen total. I turn to Davis, hopeful.

He rolls some dice behind the screen, makes a show of thinking about the result, drawing out the tension for all it's worth.

Then he smiles.

"As you all hang onto the roof of the train for dear life as it climbs the side of the near-vertical chasm, Marshie slips off, the winds whipping at his limbs and the ground coming up fast," he says, looking each of us in turn. "Faster than thought, his arms shoots out and snags the railing of the caboose, abruptly changing his arc, right back into the car. He's sore, battered, and bruised, but still alive."

A cheer goes up at the table and I slump in my seat, letting out a quiet sigh. I still have to work my way back up through the train, and the main party is going to have a tougher time fighting their way through the passenger cabins without me.

The show is still going though, and as we move onto the next round of climbing checks I can't help the smile creeping across my cheeks.

*****

"Sorry about earlier," Sam says as we pack up. Davis and Jenny are always the first out, and Eric tends to have gym sessions, so the two of us usually get a few minutes alone afterwards to just talk.

"It's cool," I reply. Today wasn't the first day he's taken someone else's business as his own, and after the first few times I've learned to live with it.

He lets out a small huff. "No, it's not. I've been trying to work on it and I'm not making progress."

I sling my bag over my shoulder and meet his eyes. Hazel, with little flecks of gold in the middle, and utterly determined.

I spread my hands. "What would you like to do to make it up to me?" Giving people a chance to 'redeem themselves' tends to be the fastest route to getting back on good terms, even if there's nothing to forgive.

"A meal. My treat," he says tightly.

I blink.

Oh.

Apparently my hesitation goes on just a little too long, because Sam tears his gaze away and brushes past me. "Forget it, wasn't that big a deal-"

"Wait." Sam pauses by the door, still not looking at me. "I know a place," I say, slowly, quietly. "A steakhouse. We split the cheque, go as friends. That's where we start. Is that okay with you?"

The silence stretches on for long enough that I think I've fucked it up, misjudged the situation, made a fool of myself, and goddammit this is why I can't have-

"Deal." Sam's straightened up. He's still staring out at the street, still not addressing me directly, but his shoulders are thrown back a little, and I think I hear something bright in his voice. "Email me some times that work for you."

Then he's gone, leaving me alone to contemplate just what I've gotten myself into.

 

[T0PH4T]

Sam and I agree to meet at a coffee shop by the Carrion Pit at six thirty, then walk our way over there. Neither of us put down any thoughts about what we'd do after that, but so long as I kept my thoughts locked onto the hour to hour and a half where I knew, roughly, what was going to happen, I could keep my worries compartmentalized. Dinner, drinks, and conversation. Simple.

Things went wrong immediately.

"Hi." Sam's looking up from his phone screen. Instead of responding I just stare back, standing ramrod straight. He's ditched the graphic tees and jeans for a button-up and dark slacks, barely-perceptible vertical stripes stretching out his form. Instead of contacts he's picked up a pair of black rimless glasses, which frame a pair of wide, surprised eyes, which are quickly covered up as he groans and begins to ball them in.

"I... really did not expect you here. Guess we both arrived early."

I glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter past five. Maybe a little more.

"That seems right," I say neutrally.

Sam sighs, slumping in his chair and putting away his phone. "I was planning on doing some stuff before we went out. I mostly work online, so anywhere with wifi is my office. I also don't like being late, so I figured that I could just set up shop and...

He trails off, looking up at me. Then he looks away, clearing his throat. "Anyway. I'm here, you're here. Let's go!" Sam pushes away from the table, shrugs on a raincoat, and stands up, a slightly-forced smile plastered across his face.

We walk in silence, just two men on a stroll in the same direction. The steakhouse is behind us and growing farther away with every step, but the quiet is tense enough that shattering it would feel wrong. Sam isn't making a move to speak either, so maybe this is what he's looking for.

Except he asked me to dinner. And dressed up. And is wearing rings for the first time since I've met him.

I take a breath, then let it out.

"If you're really not interested, just tell me now."

I stop walking and turn. Sam has one hand hidden behind his body but is otherwise open with me, a supremely tired look on his face.

"If you're only questioning, only want to experiment, or some other shit like that, let's just not. I didn't get that vibe from the sessions but I've been wrong before, and I really don't just want another one-night stand."

I process the words, try to fit them into the situation, then give up. "Did I do something wrong?"

"You haven't done anything," Sam replies, voice rising a little. In session, that's typically a warning sign for an incoming rant. I need to clarify things, and fast.

"I have no idea what to do. I've never gone out with a friend before, and I don't want to mess it up." A pause. When he doesn't bite my head off, I continue, "Would you like me to try something?"

Sam opens his mouth, stops, then tries again. "You've never been on a date?"

I shake my head. "I've never went out to a meal with someone I know personally for fun."

A complicated series of expressions flit over his face, things I only catch snatches of until it settles on something like regret. "Sorry about the heat then. It's just," he fumbles for words, then throws up his hands. "Just nothing. I escalate stuff, fast, assume the worst. Easier to deal with the bad stuff that way, even if it's stupid. I've gotten better at recognizing when it happens, but you shouldn't have to deal with the fallout."

Sam looks away from me, twisting a ring on his index finger. Awkwardly, I reach out and pat him on the shoulder. He jolts a little under the hand, then looks at me, caution on his face.

"I get that," I say quietly.

*****

After that things get a lot better.

Sam does most of the speaking, prompted by a few fairly standard get-to-know-you questions I memorized as a base for small talk.

He's a software engineer that does mostly freelance work, currently employed by Medhall to clean up their server farms. The work is 'easy' for him and pays well, even if he has to go in and apply some percussive maintenance in the meatspace from time to time. He came from Smalltown Nowheresville, got lucky enough to end up with a first-gen computer before it was clear that they were going to be the next big thing, and rode the wave of industry until he ended up in Brockton Bay.

Sam doesn't talk about his family and I don't ask.

We kill some time talking about the stupidest problems he's had to solve, which run the spectrum from telling someone to press the power button in order to turn on a desktop to taking apart a tower into its component parts and reassembling them in exactly the same way in order to somehow solve an issue with the stats program the entire office was trying to run, and then the conversation turns to me.

"Out of curiosity, what do you do for the PRT?" I tilt my head at the non-sequitur and Sam shrugs. "I've spent a lot of time talking about me, which is pretty boring. What about you?"

"Mostly hidden behind NDA's. I can legally tell you that I work in the field and that it's a high-risk environment. Sorry," I add.

Sam nods. "I've signed a lot of those. Can't run the risk of tanking stock prices because the public learned about a massive fuck-up that got fixed. Yours secrets are probably a little more dangerous though."

I smile as we take another right and the Carrion Pit comes into sight. "With due respect, you have no idea."

The waitress recognizes me when we come in, and after a moment of deer-in-the-headlights eyes she quickly escorts us to my usual spot, then sets another place when Sam takes the seat by the wall. That leaves me with my back to the entrance, but it's a small thing, and I compensate for it by taking a deeper draft of my gin than usually. Sam, for his part, chooses a beer darker than the wood of the table, which he holds up for a toast.

"To friends," he says, with a slight tightness to his grin.

I smile back, warmly as I can, and clink my glass against his own. "To a pleasant evening."

It's only after the first round of drinks that we really loosen up.