In which Cat posts one shots and snippets. Sometimes. No promises.
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Notes
So apparently you're legally obligated to make one of these if you start writing worm fic. I wish someone had told me sooner. Kidding aside, I wanted a space like so many others have to explore ideas that I don't intend to flesh out into a full work. So the iconic (and dreaded) snippet thread was born!
There are some ground rules I wanted to make clear. Most (if not all) of the things posted here are not meant to stand any further than what is posted. In the unlikely event that I decide to make a sequel to any of the ideas I post here, I'll allow for that to happen. But for the most part, these are stories that are intended as closer to snapshots. A moment that I thought worth showing or exploring, however long that ends up being. I wanted a space to explore some of the more unconventional ideas that I've had about characterization, world building, and anything else that crosses my mind. We'll see how that turns out.
Content warnings will be listed as needed at the top of every story. If you don't like that, this isn't your thread. If I feel a content warning may spoil some plot critical point in the story, I'll make a note of that at the top, and post the warning at the end in the author's note. Feel free to scroll down if that's the case. I'd rather you protect yourself as a reader over anything else.
Lastly, please don't expect any consistent updates on this. I don't have specific plans on snippets that I want to write (other than a few that I've been slowly work shopping over the past year and a half or so), and even if that wasn't the case, Silence is Not Consent is my baby. Everything else right now is secondary to that. Maybe I can revisit that after that story is complete, but we'll see.
If you made it through to the end of this ramble, I commend you. With that I have nothing else to say, other than happy reading!
There are some ground rules I wanted to make clear. Most (if not all) of the things posted here are not meant to stand any further than what is posted. In the unlikely event that I decide to make a sequel to any of the ideas I post here, I'll allow for that to happen. But for the most part, these are stories that are intended as closer to snapshots. A moment that I thought worth showing or exploring, however long that ends up being. I wanted a space to explore some of the more unconventional ideas that I've had about characterization, world building, and anything else that crosses my mind. We'll see how that turns out.
Content warnings will be listed as needed at the top of every story. If you don't like that, this isn't your thread. If I feel a content warning may spoil some plot critical point in the story, I'll make a note of that at the top, and post the warning at the end in the author's note. Feel free to scroll down if that's the case. I'd rather you protect yourself as a reader over anything else.
Lastly, please don't expect any consistent updates on this. I don't have specific plans on snippets that I want to write (other than a few that I've been slowly work shopping over the past year and a half or so), and even if that wasn't the case, Silence is Not Consent is my baby. Everything else right now is secondary to that. Maybe I can revisit that after that story is complete, but we'll see.
If you made it through to the end of this ramble, I commend you. With that I have nothing else to say, other than happy reading!
Peeling Paint
The house had seen better days. That was the first thing that Gallant noticed, as he looked at 334 Jennings Ave, Brockton Bay. The house had once been cared for, that much was clear at a glance. The painting on the wooden sides, once a bright white, was now faded and pockmarked. It wasn't quite to the point of needing new siding, but it was getting close.
Gallant frowned as he considered the home. House calls were never easy for Wards, even ones with prior experience. Most recent triggers came, by definition, from unstable backgrounds. Often that manifested in the family, or surrounding relationships. And given his power, he couldn't exactly look away.
His gaze fell to the girl by his side. Vista, aka Missy Biron. A twelve year old with the power to compress, stretch, and otherwise manipulate space like a toy. Her feelings radiated off of her in a confusing mix of purple green gray pink. Protectiveness, anxiety, boredom, and affection. Or at least, the nearest that he could name to what the colors represented. They filled the world with a kind of synesthetic haze–an artifact of the vial from Cauldron that had changed his world forever.
Gallant frowned behind his mask. The last emotion in particular bothered him. It was obvious by her emotions that Vista had some sort of a misplaced crush on him. It wouldn't affect him nearly as much if he weren't perpetually aware of it whenever the girl in question entered his field of view. He didn't want to directly reject her—that felt needlessly cruel—but he also didn't want to lead her on or encourage those feelings. Director Piggot must've sensed that distance, which is why she ordered her to come along as his partner for this check in.
"Gallant?" Vista asked. "Something wrong?"
He shook himself out of his thoughts and focused on the task at hand. His power had a limited ability to see through structures if the emotions were strong enough, or other factors he hadn't entirely nailed down yet. It gave him a kind of "sixth sense" about ambushes, as well as obvious advantages in social situations. It was a lot easier to avoid stepping on a landmine when you had x-ray vision. That was probably why Piggot allowed the two of them on this mission alone, usually there was some kind of a PRT minder assigned with them. That, or Piggot actually trusted him.
Gallant snorted and focused again on the house. Other than the obvious marks of wear and tear on the house, there was nothing else remarkable on the outside. His tinkertech visor–made and repaired by his teammate Kid Win–didn't flag anything he wasn't seeing. Even his emotional sense didn't ping any external antagonism, resentment, or other imminent conflict in the chilly February air. They should be good to go. So why was his stomach still turning over?
"No, nothing I can see," Gallant said, shaking his head. These calls were always delicate, and the nerves never really went away.
"Alright, just tell me if that changes," Vista said.
Gallant struggled to hide a fond smile and stepped towards the house. Vista was always self conscious about her age, being the youngest of the Wards despite having the most experience, and overcompensated for it. She ended up looking younger than her age for it, but he'd never tell her that. He didn't especially like the idea of being twisted into a pretzel.
He got to the door and hesitated. There was a doorbell, with a termite slowly crawling across the seam between it and the wood. He shuddered, and delicately brushed it away before pressing the button. Make that definitely in need of new residing.
The bell rang, and the two Heroes waited. Maybe this was all for nothing, Gallant mused. After all, the girl had gotten out of the hospital a few days ago. And it was a Tuesday. It was entirely possible that no one was home, and this visit would be just as futile as the first–
The door opened, and behind it was a tall, thin girl. A wide mouth frowned at them below suspicious brown eyes, hidden behind thick framed glasses. Her black curly hair hung off her shoulders and spilled down her back. She was wearing a baggy dark green hoodie, along with faded blue jeans.
Red, orange and magenta folded out of her, coloring the space around them.
"Yes? What do you want?"
Gallant held a sigh. This was definitely Taylor Hebert, and this was going to be exactly as difficult as he was afraid it would be.
"Thank you for letting us in," Gallant said as he stepped into the living room of the Hebert residence.
"Yeah, thanks," Vista added belatedly as she took a seat in the nearest armchair. Gallant didn't have the heart to tell her it made her look smaller than she already was. By the blue embarrassment that was flooding out of her, she knew that already but was apparently unable to admit the mistake.
"...Sure," Taylor said, staring at them from the foyer. "Can I get you guys something?"
"Some soda would be nice," Vista volunteered from her seat, and Gallant nodded in agreement.
"No soda here. Sorry. We have tea though."
Gallant frowned. Tea? Really? He wasn't sure what to make of that. But judging by the prickly orange spilling out of the girl she wasn't about to explain herself.
"Tea would be fine," Gallant said, shooting a subtle look to Vista. Maybe this could be some kind of an olive branch. They'd definitely need one for this conversation.
"Just water for me then," Vista said.
Taylor hummed and moved to the kitchen to presumably prepare their drinks.
"Anything yet?" Vista whispered when she had left.
Gallant shook his head. "No," he muttered. "She's really cautious though. Worried about what we might want. Go slow."
Vista frowned. "We're Heroes though, right? Why would she have that response?"
Gallant held in a sigh. Vista might have had more experience on the team than he did, but she had only recently been allowed to operate in her capacity as a Ward in this area, and it showed.
"We're here to ask about what happened to her. You know as well as I do what remembering that is like." He struggled to hold back the instinctive flinch of guilt at the reminder. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't had a normal trigger event. The only thing that mattered now is what he did with his powers. He had to believe that.
Vista's aura shrank back into herself, a churning mess of blue and brown. "Right. Sorry."
"I have your drinks," Taylor said, coming back into the room. Gallant almost jumped. "We didn't have much selection in tea, so I just got you jasmine."
"That's more than fine, thank you," he said, taking the warm cup from her hand. He blew gently on the steaming tea before adjusting his helmet slightly to take a drink. Sickly sweet floral notes competed harshly with the bitter aftertaste of the tea. He struggled not to grimace. He had asked for this, he couldn't well be rude now.
Taylor's colors flashed and shrunk inwards again. Dammit.
"So what are you here for?" she said, glancing between the two of them. "We don't exactly see much Hero activity here."
"And where is here?" Vista asked, leaning forward.
The girl's frown grew more pronounced. "Are we really playing that game?"
"What game?" Gallant asked, carefully making sure not to point his open palms at her. He couldn't afford for her to be thinking that he was getting ready to overpower her with an emotional blast. That part of his powerset, at least, was publicly known.
"The one where you pretend that you don't know everything about me and exactly why you're here."
Gallant held back a sigh. This was off to a great start.
"Fine. Here is Winslow." She flashed a muddy orange. "Which the Wards have no presence in. Or at least, I've never seen one."
He frowned internally. He knew in passing that Shadow Stalker attended the school, but wasn't any more familiar with it than that. The public appearances of the Wards were mostly split between the surrounding schools–Immaculata and Arcadia. Supposedly Shadow Stalker was trying to keep the gang presence and violence at Winslow to a minimum, but it clearly wasn't entirely working.
It was also telling that she immediately associated a hero presence, or lack thereof, with her school life. Was that because of a perceived lack of support where there should be? Did she think the Heroes had an obligation to show up to her school in the same way they did others? Or was it more personal? It was hard to say, and her colors mixing really wasn't helping things.
"We try to divide our presence as much as we can," Gallant tried diplomatically, "but that inevitably means some areas are going to come up short. I'm sorry you feel like that's the case in your school. Would you mind telling us why that is?"
The girl frowned. "Have you even seen the state of the school? It's split right down the middle between the E88 and the ABB, with everyone else caught right in the middle. It's a shitshow."
Well. That confirmed his suspicion that Shadow Stalker wasn't exactly helping matters. But that couldn't really be addressed here. Something else to bring up at the briefing.
"That sounds awful," Vista said. "Have you been getting much trouble from them?"
The girl relaxed fractionally. "Not much, no. Most of them don't really notice me. Most of that has been–"
Suddenly, her demeanor changed. She tensed, looking between them quickly. Shit. This wasn't good. Her emotions were doing something… strange. Twisting over themselves, blending into a dark blueish gray that Gallant had never seen before.
"What do you guys want?"
Gallant blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what do you want from me?" Taylor asked, standing up and pacing. "I don't believe that the Heroes would suddenly come to me, after so long of not paying attention to Winslow or anything else in this district, without some reason. I can't. Because if that's true, then it means that you only care about me, and no one else in my shitty school. And I refuse to believe that."
Gallant relaxed internally. Okay, this was still salvageable. Maybe.
"Have you ever met any Heroes? Or capes in general?" he asked.
Taylor paused, looking back at him. "Only from a distance. Nothing up close."
Gallant nodded. "That makes sense. Especially if what you said about your school is true."
She flashed a bright red, and he hastily corrected. "Not that I'm saying it's not! Sorry. That was just… a bad turn of phrase. What happened to you and your school is wrong. I'm sorry we couldn't help. What I mean is that there's something about us you might not know."
Taylor frowned, but the red drained away from her, leaving magenta and white. "I'm listening."
"Have you heard of what a Trigger Event is?"
Vista froze beside him, but he didn't look at her. She had never told him her exact trigger, but he knew it had something to do with her parents judging from the colors spilling out of her whenever she came back from her home. Either way, she wasn't going to be the one to talk about this. Maybe, for once, his shame could let him do something other Heroes couldn't.
Taylor frowned, sitting back down. "No."
Gallant nodded. "That's only to be expected. It's not something we exactly like to advertise, for reasons that will become obvious."
Taylor tilted her head but nodded at him to continue. The bright blue wariness lowered a shade. Just a little bit further…
"A Trigger Event is what we call the moment a cape gets powers. Every cape has one."
He paused, ostensibly to find the right words. He didn't like lying, but this was too important. Especially if this was what he thought it was. "It's described as the worst day of your life. When everything around you goes to hell, and no one else is there. When you reach out for help, and nothing reaches back. When your face is pressed down against the dirt and you realize just how pointless it all is."
The bright shades, previous spilling out of her, were now retracting inwards, resting over her stomach in a tight ball.
"Is any of this sounding familiar?"
Taylor clenched her teeth but said nothing. Fuck. He was too deep now. He had to keep going. Vista was here if they needed an exfiltration. If nothing else, she was damn good at what she did. And he knew she was picking up on at least some of the tension he was, if her hands tensed in her lap said anything.
"A month and a half ago, there was a call made to the police by one of the janitors in Winslow," Gallant said, trying to force the words out. The air felt almost thicker than it should've been in his lungs.
"A girl was found in a locker. She was stuffed in there, with… shit. The door was locked. They had no idea how long it had been."
The girl's hands were shaking in her lap. The color in her chest was starting to hurt Gallant's eyes, black specks appearing in the edges of his vision. Just a little bit more. He had to help her.
He paused. "The girl's name was Taylor Hebert."
Her head shot up, and he had never seen a look of such pure rage.
"What. The fuck. Do you want?"
Gallant swallowed, slowly signaling Vista to stand down. She had almost risen out of her chair, the yellow alarm in her tipping him off.
"We want to know if you're okay."
Taylor's mouth opened… and she laughed. A sharp, bitter thing that bounced off the walls. Her emotions spread out of her again, a harsh redblackgreenmagentayellowangry that almost physically drove into Gallant's eyes.
"So that's what this was about?"
She stood up, and slowly walked towards them. "Is that what you wanted to know? Whether I woke up with powers, if I could join the Wards and be best friends?"
She almost spat the last words. "Well, you told me a story. It seems only fair that I tell another."
The look in her eyes…
"One day, a girl woke up and found out that her life had become a nightmare. No one told her what she did wrong or how to fix it. But it spiraled down, and down, and down. For years. She asked the people in charge what was wrong, but no one gave a shit."
She paused and glared at Vista. "The 'Heroes' were off doing something else. So the girl ended up in the locker. And when she woke up…"
Taylor laughed. "A hospital bill, weeks in bed, and the knowledge that she'd have to face the same people who did this to her in school, smiling when she got back. But you don't care about that, do you?" She shook her head. "You just want to know if the girl has powers, if she's useful to you."
She turned back to him. "So tell me, Hero, what do you think of my story? What should the girl say to someone who wants to know what her special secret is? Was it worth it? Do the Heroes even care? Answer me, Gallant."
He opened his mouth.
She cut him off before he could start. "Go ahead. Tell me you care. Tell me that you want to help an ordinary, damaged fifteen year old girl in this shithole of a city, without wanting something back. Lie to my face and tell me you care about her. I dare you."
The door slammed behind them. Gallant sighed, and slowly clenched his hands. Fuck. That had gone about as badly as it could've.
"Was that really it?" Vista asked, beside him.
He turned back to her. "Yeah. That was… probably among the worst of these that I've been on."
"Was she right though?" she asked, glancing back at the house as they made their way to the street. "Were we really just dragging that out of her to see if she could go to the Wards?"
How to even answer that question. Gallant was wondering the same thing himself. "It's not just about the Wards," he tried, "We do these visits to gauge general sentiment towards the Protectorate and Heroes in this city. It's hard to see this kind of stuff on patrols."
"I know I signed up for this," Vista muttered, "but I don't know if I want to go on another one."
Privately, he couldn't help but agree. He gave the house one last glance. There was a light on in the upper left bedroom window.
Gallant sighed and turned back to the street.
The light went out.
A/N: I'm curious to know what everyone thinks about this. I have more than a few thoughts myself, but I don't want to influence discussion too much so I'll just leave it there.
Gallant frowned as he considered the home. House calls were never easy for Wards, even ones with prior experience. Most recent triggers came, by definition, from unstable backgrounds. Often that manifested in the family, or surrounding relationships. And given his power, he couldn't exactly look away.
His gaze fell to the girl by his side. Vista, aka Missy Biron. A twelve year old with the power to compress, stretch, and otherwise manipulate space like a toy. Her feelings radiated off of her in a confusing mix of purple green gray pink. Protectiveness, anxiety, boredom, and affection. Or at least, the nearest that he could name to what the colors represented. They filled the world with a kind of synesthetic haze–an artifact of the vial from Cauldron that had changed his world forever.
Gallant frowned behind his mask. The last emotion in particular bothered him. It was obvious by her emotions that Vista had some sort of a misplaced crush on him. It wouldn't affect him nearly as much if he weren't perpetually aware of it whenever the girl in question entered his field of view. He didn't want to directly reject her—that felt needlessly cruel—but he also didn't want to lead her on or encourage those feelings. Director Piggot must've sensed that distance, which is why she ordered her to come along as his partner for this check in.
"Gallant?" Vista asked. "Something wrong?"
He shook himself out of his thoughts and focused on the task at hand. His power had a limited ability to see through structures if the emotions were strong enough, or other factors he hadn't entirely nailed down yet. It gave him a kind of "sixth sense" about ambushes, as well as obvious advantages in social situations. It was a lot easier to avoid stepping on a landmine when you had x-ray vision. That was probably why Piggot allowed the two of them on this mission alone, usually there was some kind of a PRT minder assigned with them. That, or Piggot actually trusted him.
Gallant snorted and focused again on the house. Other than the obvious marks of wear and tear on the house, there was nothing else remarkable on the outside. His tinkertech visor–made and repaired by his teammate Kid Win–didn't flag anything he wasn't seeing. Even his emotional sense didn't ping any external antagonism, resentment, or other imminent conflict in the chilly February air. They should be good to go. So why was his stomach still turning over?
"No, nothing I can see," Gallant said, shaking his head. These calls were always delicate, and the nerves never really went away.
"Alright, just tell me if that changes," Vista said.
Gallant struggled to hide a fond smile and stepped towards the house. Vista was always self conscious about her age, being the youngest of the Wards despite having the most experience, and overcompensated for it. She ended up looking younger than her age for it, but he'd never tell her that. He didn't especially like the idea of being twisted into a pretzel.
He got to the door and hesitated. There was a doorbell, with a termite slowly crawling across the seam between it and the wood. He shuddered, and delicately brushed it away before pressing the button. Make that definitely in need of new residing.
The bell rang, and the two Heroes waited. Maybe this was all for nothing, Gallant mused. After all, the girl had gotten out of the hospital a few days ago. And it was a Tuesday. It was entirely possible that no one was home, and this visit would be just as futile as the first–
The door opened, and behind it was a tall, thin girl. A wide mouth frowned at them below suspicious brown eyes, hidden behind thick framed glasses. Her black curly hair hung off her shoulders and spilled down her back. She was wearing a baggy dark green hoodie, along with faded blue jeans.
Red, orange and magenta folded out of her, coloring the space around them.
"Yes? What do you want?"
Gallant held a sigh. This was definitely Taylor Hebert, and this was going to be exactly as difficult as he was afraid it would be.
"Thank you for letting us in," Gallant said as he stepped into the living room of the Hebert residence.
"Yeah, thanks," Vista added belatedly as she took a seat in the nearest armchair. Gallant didn't have the heart to tell her it made her look smaller than she already was. By the blue embarrassment that was flooding out of her, she knew that already but was apparently unable to admit the mistake.
"...Sure," Taylor said, staring at them from the foyer. "Can I get you guys something?"
"Some soda would be nice," Vista volunteered from her seat, and Gallant nodded in agreement.
"No soda here. Sorry. We have tea though."
Gallant frowned. Tea? Really? He wasn't sure what to make of that. But judging by the prickly orange spilling out of the girl she wasn't about to explain herself.
"Tea would be fine," Gallant said, shooting a subtle look to Vista. Maybe this could be some kind of an olive branch. They'd definitely need one for this conversation.
"Just water for me then," Vista said.
Taylor hummed and moved to the kitchen to presumably prepare their drinks.
"Anything yet?" Vista whispered when she had left.
Gallant shook his head. "No," he muttered. "She's really cautious though. Worried about what we might want. Go slow."
Vista frowned. "We're Heroes though, right? Why would she have that response?"
Gallant held in a sigh. Vista might have had more experience on the team than he did, but she had only recently been allowed to operate in her capacity as a Ward in this area, and it showed.
"We're here to ask about what happened to her. You know as well as I do what remembering that is like." He struggled to hold back the instinctive flinch of guilt at the reminder. It wasn't his fault that he hadn't had a normal trigger event. The only thing that mattered now is what he did with his powers. He had to believe that.
Vista's aura shrank back into herself, a churning mess of blue and brown. "Right. Sorry."
"I have your drinks," Taylor said, coming back into the room. Gallant almost jumped. "We didn't have much selection in tea, so I just got you jasmine."
"That's more than fine, thank you," he said, taking the warm cup from her hand. He blew gently on the steaming tea before adjusting his helmet slightly to take a drink. Sickly sweet floral notes competed harshly with the bitter aftertaste of the tea. He struggled not to grimace. He had asked for this, he couldn't well be rude now.
Taylor's colors flashed and shrunk inwards again. Dammit.
"So what are you here for?" she said, glancing between the two of them. "We don't exactly see much Hero activity here."
"And where is here?" Vista asked, leaning forward.
The girl's frown grew more pronounced. "Are we really playing that game?"
"What game?" Gallant asked, carefully making sure not to point his open palms at her. He couldn't afford for her to be thinking that he was getting ready to overpower her with an emotional blast. That part of his powerset, at least, was publicly known.
"The one where you pretend that you don't know everything about me and exactly why you're here."
Gallant held back a sigh. This was off to a great start.
"Fine. Here is Winslow." She flashed a muddy orange. "Which the Wards have no presence in. Or at least, I've never seen one."
He frowned internally. He knew in passing that Shadow Stalker attended the school, but wasn't any more familiar with it than that. The public appearances of the Wards were mostly split between the surrounding schools–Immaculata and Arcadia. Supposedly Shadow Stalker was trying to keep the gang presence and violence at Winslow to a minimum, but it clearly wasn't entirely working.
It was also telling that she immediately associated a hero presence, or lack thereof, with her school life. Was that because of a perceived lack of support where there should be? Did she think the Heroes had an obligation to show up to her school in the same way they did others? Or was it more personal? It was hard to say, and her colors mixing really wasn't helping things.
"We try to divide our presence as much as we can," Gallant tried diplomatically, "but that inevitably means some areas are going to come up short. I'm sorry you feel like that's the case in your school. Would you mind telling us why that is?"
The girl frowned. "Have you even seen the state of the school? It's split right down the middle between the E88 and the ABB, with everyone else caught right in the middle. It's a shitshow."
Well. That confirmed his suspicion that Shadow Stalker wasn't exactly helping matters. But that couldn't really be addressed here. Something else to bring up at the briefing.
"That sounds awful," Vista said. "Have you been getting much trouble from them?"
The girl relaxed fractionally. "Not much, no. Most of them don't really notice me. Most of that has been–"
Suddenly, her demeanor changed. She tensed, looking between them quickly. Shit. This wasn't good. Her emotions were doing something… strange. Twisting over themselves, blending into a dark blueish gray that Gallant had never seen before.
"What do you guys want?"
Gallant blinked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean what do you want from me?" Taylor asked, standing up and pacing. "I don't believe that the Heroes would suddenly come to me, after so long of not paying attention to Winslow or anything else in this district, without some reason. I can't. Because if that's true, then it means that you only care about me, and no one else in my shitty school. And I refuse to believe that."
Gallant relaxed internally. Okay, this was still salvageable. Maybe.
"Have you ever met any Heroes? Or capes in general?" he asked.
Taylor paused, looking back at him. "Only from a distance. Nothing up close."
Gallant nodded. "That makes sense. Especially if what you said about your school is true."
She flashed a bright red, and he hastily corrected. "Not that I'm saying it's not! Sorry. That was just… a bad turn of phrase. What happened to you and your school is wrong. I'm sorry we couldn't help. What I mean is that there's something about us you might not know."
Taylor frowned, but the red drained away from her, leaving magenta and white. "I'm listening."
"Have you heard of what a Trigger Event is?"
Vista froze beside him, but he didn't look at her. She had never told him her exact trigger, but he knew it had something to do with her parents judging from the colors spilling out of her whenever she came back from her home. Either way, she wasn't going to be the one to talk about this. Maybe, for once, his shame could let him do something other Heroes couldn't.
Taylor frowned, sitting back down. "No."
Gallant nodded. "That's only to be expected. It's not something we exactly like to advertise, for reasons that will become obvious."
Taylor tilted her head but nodded at him to continue. The bright blue wariness lowered a shade. Just a little bit further…
"A Trigger Event is what we call the moment a cape gets powers. Every cape has one."
He paused, ostensibly to find the right words. He didn't like lying, but this was too important. Especially if this was what he thought it was. "It's described as the worst day of your life. When everything around you goes to hell, and no one else is there. When you reach out for help, and nothing reaches back. When your face is pressed down against the dirt and you realize just how pointless it all is."
The bright shades, previous spilling out of her, were now retracting inwards, resting over her stomach in a tight ball.
"Is any of this sounding familiar?"
Taylor clenched her teeth but said nothing. Fuck. He was too deep now. He had to keep going. Vista was here if they needed an exfiltration. If nothing else, she was damn good at what she did. And he knew she was picking up on at least some of the tension he was, if her hands tensed in her lap said anything.
"A month and a half ago, there was a call made to the police by one of the janitors in Winslow," Gallant said, trying to force the words out. The air felt almost thicker than it should've been in his lungs.
"A girl was found in a locker. She was stuffed in there, with… shit. The door was locked. They had no idea how long it had been."
The girl's hands were shaking in her lap. The color in her chest was starting to hurt Gallant's eyes, black specks appearing in the edges of his vision. Just a little bit more. He had to help her.
He paused. "The girl's name was Taylor Hebert."
Her head shot up, and he had never seen a look of such pure rage.
"What. The fuck. Do you want?"
Gallant swallowed, slowly signaling Vista to stand down. She had almost risen out of her chair, the yellow alarm in her tipping him off.
"We want to know if you're okay."
Taylor's mouth opened… and she laughed. A sharp, bitter thing that bounced off the walls. Her emotions spread out of her again, a harsh redblackgreenmagentayellowangry that almost physically drove into Gallant's eyes.
"So that's what this was about?"
She stood up, and slowly walked towards them. "Is that what you wanted to know? Whether I woke up with powers, if I could join the Wards and be best friends?"
She almost spat the last words. "Well, you told me a story. It seems only fair that I tell another."
The look in her eyes…
"One day, a girl woke up and found out that her life had become a nightmare. No one told her what she did wrong or how to fix it. But it spiraled down, and down, and down. For years. She asked the people in charge what was wrong, but no one gave a shit."
She paused and glared at Vista. "The 'Heroes' were off doing something else. So the girl ended up in the locker. And when she woke up…"
Taylor laughed. "A hospital bill, weeks in bed, and the knowledge that she'd have to face the same people who did this to her in school, smiling when she got back. But you don't care about that, do you?" She shook her head. "You just want to know if the girl has powers, if she's useful to you."
She turned back to him. "So tell me, Hero, what do you think of my story? What should the girl say to someone who wants to know what her special secret is? Was it worth it? Do the Heroes even care? Answer me, Gallant."
He opened his mouth.
She cut him off before he could start. "Go ahead. Tell me you care. Tell me that you want to help an ordinary, damaged fifteen year old girl in this shithole of a city, without wanting something back. Lie to my face and tell me you care about her. I dare you."
The door slammed behind them. Gallant sighed, and slowly clenched his hands. Fuck. That had gone about as badly as it could've.
"Was that really it?" Vista asked, beside him.
He turned back to her. "Yeah. That was… probably among the worst of these that I've been on."
"Was she right though?" she asked, glancing back at the house as they made their way to the street. "Were we really just dragging that out of her to see if she could go to the Wards?"
How to even answer that question. Gallant was wondering the same thing himself. "It's not just about the Wards," he tried, "We do these visits to gauge general sentiment towards the Protectorate and Heroes in this city. It's hard to see this kind of stuff on patrols."
"I know I signed up for this," Vista muttered, "but I don't know if I want to go on another one."
Privately, he couldn't help but agree. He gave the house one last glance. There was a light on in the upper left bedroom window.
Gallant sighed and turned back to the street.
The light went out.
A/N: I'm curious to know what everyone thinks about this. I have more than a few thoughts myself, but I don't want to influence discussion too much so I'll just leave it there.
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- Location
- That place over there.
Wow that's good, really sums up the characters.
Even from a cauldron vial you don't get emotion reading powers if you're good with reading emotions. But yeah even without his powers it's another case of Dean being out-right told what's wrong and not doing anything.
Even from a cauldron vial you don't get emotion reading powers if you're good with reading emotions. But yeah even without his powers it's another case of Dean being out-right told what's wrong and not doing anything.
Zedman7054
Eternally 3rd
- Location
- United States
That's actually a fandom misconception. Taylor isn't able to shunt her emotions into the swarm, she shunts her emotional cues and tells into the swarm. Basically it's the same thing as tensing your toes when getting a vaccine shot in your arm or tapping your fingers against something when angry. You still feel whatever it is, but you consciously an alternative way to respond.
That's reason Skitter's swarm would rattle and act up when she was angry, instead of shaking her fists or yelling, Taylor forced her emotional responses into the swarm.
And Gallant was absolutely reading Taylor's emotions, he just sees them as colors. Red is obviously anger and blue is sadness or depression, but that's always been one of his weaknesses, a person is complicated and emotions are as well. It's hard to tell exactly what someone is feeling, because we can feel many things at the same time. And even seeing what spectrum of emotions a person feels isn't enough to know why someone feels a certain way nor does it make it talk to them.
But I guess I'm just unsure what you mean by "Gallant is bad at emotion reading" when he was reading her emotions through the chapter.
EDIT: Oh! It's in regard to the whole... can't see the forest through the trees thing. He can see what someone is feeling but doesn't have the capacity or capability to use what he knows to fix things.
I mean...one could argue that a 16-17 year old really shouldn't be a master of using emotion reading and integrating it with his social skills in order to be a perfect therapist capable of understanding everyone and their problems and helping them.
That's one of the key things about Worm. The powers themselves are rarely the problem, it's the people who use them that are imperfect.
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I liked it. That's pretty much what I would expect. Taylor being very vague and not giving names will lead to further problems but it's very in character. Great snip and springboard.
Yes, but since you posted this within 90 days of beginning SinC, you've actually fulfilled your obligation. No additional action will be taken at this time
Glad I have mod approval then.
I mean... She's not wrong. There wasn't really anything Gallant could say to that. The only counter argument I can think of here would be "Yes, we're only here is because you're potentially useful to us, but it's a choice. The gangs aren't going to give you that."
But that's not really a good thing to say to a traumatized teenager. Home visits are kind of fucked up now that I think of it. Can you imagine IRL if like, you had a car crash and the cops showed up the day after like "hey, we think this car crash may have qualified you to also be a cop!" A bit of an absurd example, but still...
Unrelated, but I like the way this was specifically cauldron-cape!Gallant giving the talk. Vista would understand Taylor a lot better, but Gallant is calling the shots.
But that's not really a good thing to say to a traumatized teenager. Home visits are kind of fucked up now that I think of it. Can you imagine IRL if like, you had a car crash and the cops showed up the day after like "hey, we think this car crash may have qualified you to also be a cop!" A bit of an absurd example, but still...
Unrelated, but I like the way this was specifically cauldron-cape!Gallant giving the talk. Vista would understand Taylor a lot better, but Gallant is calling the shots.
This was excellent, you got the characters down perfectly. Taylor being hurt and lashing out, Dean trying to help but not thinking things through until it's too late, Missy having her naive view of the world crushed by reality... I liked this confrontation a lot. I think it was clever of Taylor not to shunt her emotional responses into her swarm. Or perhaps she hasn't figured that out yet?
She's completely correct in calling out the heroes for only caring about her because she might be useful. They wouldn't have bothered checking up on her if she was just an ordinary girl. Good on her for not revealing anything and kicking them out.
Teeny tiny minor things: Vista isn't the one who's been in the Wards the longest, her power doesn't affect living beings and Gallant's power armor has a full helmet, so he wouldn't need to hide his expression nor could he drink tea. (Accepting a drink from a stranger might be against protocol anyway.)
She's completely correct in calling out the heroes for only caring about her because she might be useful. They wouldn't have bothered checking up on her if she was just an ordinary girl. Good on her for not revealing anything and kicking them out.
Teeny tiny minor things: Vista isn't the one who's been in the Wards the longest, her power doesn't affect living beings and Gallant's power armor has a full helmet, so he wouldn't need to hide his expression nor could he drink tea. (Accepting a drink from a stranger might be against protocol anyway.)
Stained Glass
Content Warnings: homophobia, religious trauma, parental abuse, physical violence, death, blood.
The sajjāda is soft and gentle under your feet as you make your way into the prayer hall. You try not to catch the eye of the groundskeeper as you enter – mother would not want you associating with the help.
The smell of the bakhoor is thick and tacky on your tongue even as it hangs in the open air. It is heady, earthy, and ever so slightly bitter. You see a pot near the entrance, smoke softly dissipating into the air. You try not to cough. You fail.
"Quiet," your mother whispers sternly. "We are in the Jumeirah, you must be still."
Your teeth dig into your lip even as you smile and nod. It would not do to be angry. You barely remember to murmur "Bismillah" under your breath before the touch of the cold water. The water clings to your skin as you pass your hands over each other to wash them once, twice, thrice.
By the time you get to the chamber, the imam is already speaking over the loudspeakers in the ceiling.
"We are late," your mother hisses.
You hurry to the rest of the congregation, facing the quipla before beginning your prayers. You don't understand why it's important that you face the birthplace of the prophet Muhammed, but you know it's very important to mother so you do.
"Allahu Akbar," you murmur under your breath as you place your palms on your chest and begin reciting the du'a. The words are still clumsy and strange on your tongue, vowels bleeding into and over each other. You need not look to the side to feel your mother's sharp eyes and sharper tongue held between clenched teeth.
It is as you catch up to the imam's verse that you see the girl in front of you. Her abaya is beautiful – black with floral patterns in delicate gauze. It covers her properly, as it should, but only serves to draw your eyes further. A single strand of her hair has come free of her hijab and hangs by her right ear. Perhaps she was only a little less late than you.
Your attention tickles the nape of her neck, and she turns shyly to stare. You shudder at the sight of the kohl rimming her eyes, the smudge of lipstick not quite washed away from the wudu, the gentle quirk of her mouth as she meets your eyes.
She gives you a smile and then turns to begin the ruku', bending down with her hands over her knees. The clothing shifts over her back, the bottom of her abaya dipping to curve over the swell of–
"God is great," you murmur under your breath as you close your eyes. If you repeat it enough, surely you will not look.
The girl is laughing as she pulls you into the corner of a bathroom. "Shush, no one is here!" she giggles as she leans against the door.
The back of your neck crawls as you give a glance toward the door.
"Hey," she says softly, pulling you closer. "It will be okay. How can it be wrong if we both live in Allah's light?"
"It's more complicated than that," you think as she takes your hand in hers.
"This will end in tragedy," you think as she presses it against the lovely curve of her cheek, and presses her lips to the divot in your palm.
"I wish I didn't want this," you think as she pulls you closer closer closer.
"Stop," you don't say as she kisses you.
She is smiling again as she pulls you into a nook in the courtyard. Your heart beats in your chest.
You've never let yourself, think, feel, act on this. Not when she is not with you. You know it is wrong. Filthy. Haram.
But that does not stop it from feeling right as her lips slide across yours, her smile hot and warm against your mouth. They wouldn't call it dhanb if it didn't feel good.
She'll be the death of you.
You kiss her back.
"How dare you?" your father spits as he pulls you up by your hair. You have been crying for an hour. It does not matter.
"I'm s-sorry," you moan as you clutch at your head with one hand. The other lays slack beside you. "I didn't mean to–"
"Silence!"
You have never heard him this angry. It feels good. You knew you were doing something wrong, something that would only ever end in pain. You have no idea how he found out but it does not matter. You were hurting your family. You deserve to feel this way now.
This is what love feels like.
Your father lets you drop to the ground.
You do not get up.
The world goes dark and dim for a time. You hear things. Whispers. Arguments. Feet stepping back and forth. At some points you think you see people. A dark skinned woman in a white coat. A light skinned man with glasses. A reedy older man with spots on his hand.
"Maybe you do have some use after all," your father says. It is the first time he has spoken to you since he spilled your blood across the carpet.
You can barely turn your head up to look at him. He sees your eyes, and says a word.
"Fādā." To be redeemed. To snatch something away. Or to pay off. You wonder which meaning he is referring to. You do not ask as he puts the vial to your lips and commands you to drink.
The pain is sudden as it is overwhelming. You had thought you were hurting already. What a wonderful trick, to think that your body had been hiding so much. It begins in your chest, like you'd swallowed the heart of a star. It lances across your arms and into your legs, taking root in your bones and searing through your veins. It climbs up your neck and into your head and eyes and–
You grasp the constellations written across the backs of your eyes, and push.
The world is warm and small when it finds you. Your lungs are thick with dust, and you push it out. That helps with some of it, and you cough out the rest. Ragged wet sounds that leave you rasping and gagging on the sick in your throat.
You slowly roll over and vomit onto the marble. Father would not like that, but he must not be here because he says nothing. A metallic bitter taste coats the back of your tongue.
She tasted like jasmine.
You try to get to your feet, but lack the strength. Stars litter the floor, you tug on them until they form a stick of crystal. It shatters into pieces when you lean on it to get to your feet. The shards stick into your hands, but you do not bleed.
The second time goes better.
You slowly walk to the window, and look out. The city is a gaping wound. Glass has been torn from every window and scattered to the winds. Windows hang open and bloody. The streets are as red as the rug in your room. The wind roars through empty buildings, heralding a storm the likes of which you've never seen.
You can feel every grain in the wind. Every sliver of glass in skin, in muscle, in stomach, in liver, in desperate gasping lungs–
You glance back at your father. His sides move once. Twice. You move the glass, and he stills.
You slowly let out a breath. The city is quiet. No one is here. But you. You smile and slowly begin gathering the glass in the room to you, wreathing you in a shining bouquet of mirror and metal. The city is so beautiful like this. As quiet as your mother had told you the mosque should be. The whole world might look like this one day, if you try hard enough.
Surely the girl wouldn't mind.
You walk away. The ground is wet and sticky.
A/N:
So I was totally going to write SiNC today. And then I thought "what if I wrote Shatterbird nasty?" So this happened instead. I'm not the first to write queer shatterbird, but I'd like to think I'm the first to do it like this. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Mostly I just wanted a break from the same pov's and writing style that I'd been in for a while. I'd like to think it worked.
I did as much research as I could, but it should be noted that arabic was sourced from a combination of google translate and islamqa.org All transitions are to the best of my ability drawn from direct prayers an islamic woman would say in a mosque. If I've messed one or any of these things up due to my inexperience, I apologize.
A small note: Islam specifically forbids the use of stained glass on account of its link to christ like imagery. The name of the snip was very much chosen with that in mind.
.
لا إله غيرك.
There is no other deity besides You.
.
لا إله غيرك.
There is no other deity besides You.
.
The sajjāda is soft and gentle under your feet as you make your way into the prayer hall. You try not to catch the eye of the groundskeeper as you enter – mother would not want you associating with the help.
The smell of the bakhoor is thick and tacky on your tongue even as it hangs in the open air. It is heady, earthy, and ever so slightly bitter. You see a pot near the entrance, smoke softly dissipating into the air. You try not to cough. You fail.
"Quiet," your mother whispers sternly. "We are in the Jumeirah, you must be still."
Your teeth dig into your lip even as you smile and nod. It would not do to be angry. You barely remember to murmur "Bismillah" under your breath before the touch of the cold water. The water clings to your skin as you pass your hands over each other to wash them once, twice, thrice.
By the time you get to the chamber, the imam is already speaking over the loudspeakers in the ceiling.
"We are late," your mother hisses.
You hurry to the rest of the congregation, facing the quipla before beginning your prayers. You don't understand why it's important that you face the birthplace of the prophet Muhammed, but you know it's very important to mother so you do.
"Allahu Akbar," you murmur under your breath as you place your palms on your chest and begin reciting the du'a. The words are still clumsy and strange on your tongue, vowels bleeding into and over each other. You need not look to the side to feel your mother's sharp eyes and sharper tongue held between clenched teeth.
It is as you catch up to the imam's verse that you see the girl in front of you. Her abaya is beautiful – black with floral patterns in delicate gauze. It covers her properly, as it should, but only serves to draw your eyes further. A single strand of her hair has come free of her hijab and hangs by her right ear. Perhaps she was only a little less late than you.
Your attention tickles the nape of her neck, and she turns shyly to stare. You shudder at the sight of the kohl rimming her eyes, the smudge of lipstick not quite washed away from the wudu, the gentle quirk of her mouth as she meets your eyes.
She gives you a smile and then turns to begin the ruku', bending down with her hands over her knees. The clothing shifts over her back, the bottom of her abaya dipping to curve over the swell of–
"God is great," you murmur under your breath as you close your eyes. If you repeat it enough, surely you will not look.
.
أَعُوذُ بِاللهِ مِن الشَّيْطَانِ الرَّجِيْم
I seek refuge in Allah from the accursed devil.
.
.
The girl is laughing as she pulls you into the corner of a bathroom. "Shush, no one is here!" she giggles as she leans against the door.
The back of your neck crawls as you give a glance toward the door.
"Hey," she says softly, pulling you closer. "It will be okay. How can it be wrong if we both live in Allah's light?"
"It's more complicated than that," you think as she takes your hand in hers.
"This will end in tragedy," you think as she presses it against the lovely curve of her cheek, and presses her lips to the divot in your palm.
"I wish I didn't want this," you think as she pulls you closer closer closer.
"Stop," you don't say as she kisses you.
.
سبحان ربي الأعلى .
Glory be unto my Lord, the Most High.
.
سبحان ربي الأعلى .
Glory be unto my Lord, the Most High.
.
She is smiling again as she pulls you into a nook in the courtyard. Your heart beats in your chest.
You've never let yourself, think, feel, act on this. Not when she is not with you. You know it is wrong. Filthy. Haram.
But that does not stop it from feeling right as her lips slide across yours, her smile hot and warm against your mouth. They wouldn't call it dhanb if it didn't feel good.
She'll be the death of you.
You kiss her back.
.
ربي اغفر لي. ربي اغفر لي.
My Lord, forgive me. My Lord, forgive me.
.
ربي اغفر لي. ربي اغفر لي.
My Lord, forgive me. My Lord, forgive me.
.
"How dare you?" your father spits as he pulls you up by your hair. You have been crying for an hour. It does not matter.
"I'm s-sorry," you moan as you clutch at your head with one hand. The other lays slack beside you. "I didn't mean to–"
"Silence!"
You have never heard him this angry. It feels good. You knew you were doing something wrong, something that would only ever end in pain. You have no idea how he found out but it does not matter. You were hurting your family. You deserve to feel this way now.
This is what love feels like.
Your father lets you drop to the ground.
You do not get up.
The world goes dark and dim for a time. You hear things. Whispers. Arguments. Feet stepping back and forth. At some points you think you see people. A dark skinned woman in a white coat. A light skinned man with glasses. A reedy older man with spots on his hand.
"Maybe you do have some use after all," your father says. It is the first time he has spoken to you since he spilled your blood across the carpet.
You can barely turn your head up to look at him. He sees your eyes, and says a word.
"Fādā." To be redeemed. To snatch something away. Or to pay off. You wonder which meaning he is referring to. You do not ask as he puts the vial to your lips and commands you to drink.
The pain is sudden as it is overwhelming. You had thought you were hurting already. What a wonderful trick, to think that your body had been hiding so much. It begins in your chest, like you'd swallowed the heart of a star. It lances across your arms and into your legs, taking root in your bones and searing through your veins. It climbs up your neck and into your head and eyes and–
You are a rock.
You are a pebble.
You are a shell.
You are a sliver.
You are a pane.
You are a vase.
You are a window a pot a paperweight a lamp a chandelier a dune shifting in the wind a vast expanse of open air and all of these and none of these and they are all in your head falling into and over each other and it is too much and not enough and they call to one another in a singing chorus and the noise is too loud why is the noise loud you want it to stop make it stop why won't it stop–
You are a pebble.
You are a shell.
You are a sliver.
You are a pane.
You are a vase.
You are a window a pot a paperweight a lamp a chandelier a dune shifting in the wind a vast expanse of open air and all of these and none of these and they are all in your head falling into and over each other and it is too much and not enough and they call to one another in a singing chorus and the noise is too loud why is the noise loud you want it to stop make it stop why won't it stop–
You grasp the constellations written across the backs of your eyes, and push.
.
ربنا آتنا في الدنيا حسنة وفي الآخرة حسنة. نجنا من عذاب النار .
Our Lord, give us the good in this world and the good in the Next world. Save us from the punishment of the Fire.
.
ربنا آتنا في الدنيا حسنة وفي الآخرة حسنة. نجنا من عذاب النار .
Our Lord, give us the good in this world and the good in the Next world. Save us from the punishment of the Fire.
.
The world is warm and small when it finds you. Your lungs are thick with dust, and you push it out. That helps with some of it, and you cough out the rest. Ragged wet sounds that leave you rasping and gagging on the sick in your throat.
You slowly roll over and vomit onto the marble. Father would not like that, but he must not be here because he says nothing. A metallic bitter taste coats the back of your tongue.
She tasted like jasmine.
You try to get to your feet, but lack the strength. Stars litter the floor, you tug on them until they form a stick of crystal. It shatters into pieces when you lean on it to get to your feet. The shards stick into your hands, but you do not bleed.
The second time goes better.
You slowly walk to the window, and look out. The city is a gaping wound. Glass has been torn from every window and scattered to the winds. Windows hang open and bloody. The streets are as red as the rug in your room. The wind roars through empty buildings, heralding a storm the likes of which you've never seen.
You can feel every grain in the wind. Every sliver of glass in skin, in muscle, in stomach, in liver, in desperate gasping lungs–
You glance back at your father. His sides move once. Twice. You move the glass, and he stills.
You slowly let out a breath. The city is quiet. No one is here. But you. You smile and slowly begin gathering the glass in the room to you, wreathing you in a shining bouquet of mirror and metal. The city is so beautiful like this. As quiet as your mother had told you the mosque should be. The whole world might look like this one day, if you try hard enough.
Surely the girl wouldn't mind.
You walk away. The ground is wet and sticky.
السلام عليكم ورحمة الله.
Peace and mercy be upon you.
Peace and mercy be upon you.
A/N:
So I was totally going to write SiNC today. And then I thought "what if I wrote Shatterbird nasty?" So this happened instead. I'm not the first to write queer shatterbird, but I'd like to think I'm the first to do it like this. I'm pretty happy with how it turned out. Mostly I just wanted a break from the same pov's and writing style that I'd been in for a while. I'd like to think it worked.
I did as much research as I could, but it should be noted that arabic was sourced from a combination of google translate and islamqa.org All transitions are to the best of my ability drawn from direct prayers an islamic woman would say in a mosque. If I've messed one or any of these things up due to my inexperience, I apologize.
A small note: Islam specifically forbids the use of stained glass on account of its link to christ like imagery. The name of the snip was very much chosen with that in mind.
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