Remove ads

Cutting Ties [Worm Altpower, Complete]

Reader mode
Remove ads
2.X (Shadow Stalker)
  • Threadmarks
    • 2.X​

    "You're a fucking asswipe." Sophia said, staring at the idiot that was her teammate. "Why would you do that? Are you asking me out or something? Is this a joke? Because it's a really shitty one."

    "No, no, we were just going to have a barbeque. Dean was planning it for a while, and we thought you should come. A small, Wards-only thing. You're a teammate, Sophia." Dennis smiled awkwardly.

    Sophia blinked. "I'll—I'll think about it. Sorry. For overreacting."

    Dennis ducked his head, "S'fine, don't worry about it. I sprung it on you. It'll be this weekend, let us know, okay?"

    "Okay."

    She sat there, staring at the monitors, her mask off, as Dennis put his on. He walked off to go patrol, and she felt like there was an itch she couldn't quite scratch, heat in her face. Sophia kicked her feet up onto the console, watching for her teammates.

    --​

    There was such a good feeling about being strong. About being better than others, pushing limits. She was better than any of them, had taken down more criminals than any of them.

    It was easy, for her. They were pieces of shit, and she could separate herself from those pieces of shit. She hadn't ever been weak. No, that wasn't a thing. It wasn't about that. Or at least, that's what she said to herself, as she threw all that energy toward attacking, cleaning up those streets.

    She was a fucking hero, unlike so many of those fuckwits who just let them go, or didn't really show them that there was business meant.

    That's what she said to herself, her gloved fingers around the kitchen knife, sliding it into a pouch. Taylor was weak.

    She was a waste of space. A victim.

    It pissed Sophia off. It made her mad, that Taylor had fought back. It made her want to kick the shit out of her right there, because Taylor wasn't supposed to do that. She had her role, that she was supposed to be in.

    But—there was some measure of curiosity, as Sophia patted that pouch.

    --​

    "This is a joke. You're doing this as some kind of joke? Did one of your friends dare you to?" Sophia struggled to restrain herself from dripping venom all over her voice, as her fists clenched and unclenched. What was Hebert's plan? Was this some sort of stupid shit, meant to humiliate her, make her angry? Was she going to threaten her, get her tossed out of the Wards because she knew?

    "No. I just want an opportunity to know you, Shadow Stalker." Taylor's smirk was now a smile, and it was innocent. Sophia almost flinched. What the fuck was this? Was this the same Taylor Hebert? It wasn't—it didn't fit.

    Sophia barked out a laugh, uncomfortable, suddenly self-conscious. "The fuck? You want make a fan club or something? Get together with all your nerdy friends, and celebrate me taking down even bigger assholes?"

    Taylor's laughter was genuine. "That's more honest. Less censored, more you. Feels better."

    Sophia moved in front of Taylor, who gave her the same smile she had been.

    Sophia's face twisted under the mask, torn. She wanted to punch her, but couldn't. She wanted to find out what this little shit was doing. "Fine. You know what? Fuck it. Let's go. Gets me out from Console shit. I don't owe you anything, understand?"

    "Sure."

    --​

    Sophia shoved Taylor, and she hit the dirty linoleum in a mass of lanky limbs. The girl pushed herself up, silently. Her eyes downcast and her glasses adjusted; she stared at Sophia. Sophia sneered, but—Taylor wasn't slouching. She wasn't enfolded by her clothes nearly as much, no longer crushed and covered. Sophia had to look slightly upward. It pissed her off, and she strode at Taylor, shoulder checking her as she went by. Taylor took the hit, going with it, not responding.

    Did she know?

    She had to know. What the fuck was she doing, otherwise?

    Sophia didn't look back, but wanted to. She watched Taylor, as Emma and Madison drenched her in juice and soda.

    Taylor didn't look at them, or even look angry. She just looked—sad. No. It wasn't sorrow, though, it was—guilt? Sophia wasn't sure. She opted to throw her open drink at the trash can, where it splashed all over the floor. "Gotta head to track. Have fun," she said, as the others turned to her.

    Emma looked vaguely annoyed.

    Taylor wiped her face, moving the soaked hair out of the way. That look on her face annoyed Sophia, and she suddenly wished she could throw the still-full can at her.
    --​

    Taylor walked on the ledge, as Shadow Stalker sat there, idly running her hands over her crossbow. "Why are we doing this, Taylor?"

    "You're not having fun? I'm having fun. Sparring is great. So's just—talking. I like it. Finding those words, finding what fits. Everything has a place, and everything works just like that. What's that word?"

    Shadow Stalker thought, for a moment. "Synergy?"

    "Yeah, that works. Like, you work with your teammates and stuff. You don't like them, though, do you?" Taylor hopped down from the ledge, sitting across from her.

    "The hell is that supposed to mean?" Shadow Stalker bristled. Taylor wasn't wrong, but—to let her be right seemed wrong. "I'm on a team, and I work with them. You don't have to be friends to work together with people."

    "That's true. You don't." The unjudging nature of her words were even more infuriating than if she'd said it with the venom Sophia wanted her to.

    "Am I supposed to care about them? Be concerned? Why the fuck should I try?" Sophia said, surprised at herself, because of how much anger was in her voice. "I'm a good teammate. They'll have my back, they'll do what they need to. Do you have a team?"

    "No," Taylor said, "I don't. But you feel like you're always looking for targets. There's enough criminals in the world without hurting people you could—"

    "Up. Let's spar. Enough talk, no bitching."

    "Sure," said Taylor.

    --​

    "What the fuck do you mean you don't feel like it anymore?" Emma said, annoyed, that slightly high-pitched whine coming through. Sophia heard it from Madison, when she particularly wanted something.

    It pissed Sophia off, and she slammed a fist against her locker, shutting it. It made a very satisfying sound, that made Emma flinch. "It's boring. I've got shit to do. She stopped being interesting. She's barely even coming to school right now. What the fuck do you want from me? Get off my case, Emma."

    "Fine, Hero."

    "Survivor," Sophia said, but she wasn't sure. "I'll figure something out."

    Sophia didn't figure something out, and didn't really try.

    --​

    "Hey. Sorry for yelling at you yesterday. I had—a lot on my mind." She felt stupid. She hated feeling stupid. Weak. Incompetent. "Fuck, whatever. I'm going on patrol."

    "Wait. Thank you. If you'd like to talk, let me know, okay?" Fucking Gallant. Stupid fucking empath nice guy.

    Sophia struggled with the word for a moment. She didn't want to say it, didn't want to admit that she was weak. "Alright."

    Fuck. Him.

    She slid her gear on, not paying attention to Missy, who was ready and waiting. "Ready, squirt?"

    "He really cares, you know?" Vista said quietly. "If you're having problems, he'll listen."

    "I suppose you'd know, wouldn't you," Sophia said, then felt angry at herself. "Fuck. I'm—let's go."

    Vista was glaring at her, her eyes wet. Just a kid. She'd learn in a few years.

    --​

    "Required? Why am I required to get inspected all the time, and have to stay within fifty meters of—"

    Piggot's meaty hand placed the broadhead bolt on the table. Sophia's mouth opened and shut. She hadn't even been using those—in recent memory, at least a few months. Who had done this? Who could have done this?

    Taylor.

    No. It wasn't her. She wouldn't have. It wasn't a matter of suspicion. Taylor just—wouldn't have.

    "Alright." Sophia said, subdued. Excuses and lies wouldn't help. "I haven't been using those for a while now. Do what you have to."

    --​

    A text from Emma.

    …

    She'd answer it later. She had stuff she needed to do.

    --​

    "I'm—I'd like to ask for a day off on Thursday. I want to watch my big brother's game. Ma'am." Sophia's back was ramrod straight, and she looked Piggot firmly in the eye.

    "Please don't use that term unless you mean it." Piggot clicked away at the computer for a few moments. "Have you found someone willing to take over your shift?"

    "Yes. I asked Gallant, he was willing."

    "Very well. Have fun at your brother's game."

    Sophia's posture relaxed, and she walked away.

    --​

    Emma texted.

    Sophia texted back, then threw the phone on the bed. She kind of wanted another shift. Something. She took out her work phone, and texted Gallant.

    She received a message back in minutes. The phone on the bed vibrated as well.

    Sophia glanced at it, then left the room, shutting the door behind her.

    --​

    Another patrol with Vista.

    Shadow Stalker stayed quiet.

    Vista stayed quiet. It was good.

    Then it ended, and they were back. And Vista opened her mouth. "Is something wrong, Sophia?"

    Sophia opened her mouth. Then she closed it. Then smirked. "Nah. Thanks for worrying about me."

    Vista was baffled by the response. It almost made it worth it.

    Sophia ruffled her hair, not roughly, just mussing it up affectionately. "See you next time, Missy. Was fun."

    --​

    "Here." Sophia tossed the ball. Terry caught it. "Nice catch."

    He threw it back. "Don't you have anything today?"

    "Nah. Not today. Taking a load off so I can watch my big bitch of a brother screw it up. Maybe he'll even hit a baseball once." She threw the ball back.

    "Ha. You're hilarious, Soph. I bet Mom'd love to hear that." The ball was tossed from hand to glove.

    "Yeah, well, Mom can—" Sophia sighed. "Whatever. Just do your best. I want to see you busting your butt out there, take them apart."

    "Sounds like a plan."

    A phone buzzed in her back pocket. "One sec."

    "Just calling to let you know that everything is fine, shift change went through, you're good to go." Gallant said. "Thanks for coming to me about this."

    "Thank you," Sophia said. "I'll switch you for next Tuesday."

    "You sure? That one is with Vista."

    "Yeah. I'll be fine."

    "Alright."

    --​

    "I lost my phone," Sophia lied. It was on the floor, next to the outlet, where it hadn't been charged for days. "Sorry."

    "You're not sorry, don't you lie to me, you're just—ghosting on me, I thought we were friends, I helped you—"

    Sophia shrugged. "Sorry, Emma."

    Emma looked close to tears. Sophia frowned.

    "Fine. Fine. Fuck you. I don't need you. You're shit. Always thought you were psychotic, you're just someone getting her rocks off by shooting people with a crossbow." Emma hissed.

    Sophia rubbed her face. "Whatever. I have shit to do, Emma. Get out of my way."

    Emma moved. Sophia took her gym bag and left.

    --​

    Sophia watched the screens. Her mask was leaned up against one of the chair legs.

    Missy sat next to her. "Hey."

    "Yeah?" Sophia said, not looking at her.

    "Want some hot chocolate? Was thinking of making some."

    There was an automatic response there. Something about how hot chocolate was for kids. How Missy was childish for wanting to drink it.

    "Sure," Sophia said.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • adc said:
    I doubt it; Faultline isn't an idiot, she'll definitely know that you can't change a Manton limitation by changing your mindset.

    Maybe Taylor could talk her into a second trigger, but I doubt it, and there's no way they could predict the result anyway (nor would it be worth it).
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Ahem:
    "What are you doing?"
    "We've talked about the Manton effect."
    "The rule that prevents some powers from affecting living things. You have been trying to remove such restrictions from yourself."
    "Without luck. It's a matter of time before we're on a job, things come down to the wire, and I'm too weak, because of this arbitrary limitation."
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Faultline tryng to break Manton limit --midway down

    Oh look a thing. Granted that was Canon not this AU but it is yet a thing. I'll just leave this here and agree to disagree to your disagreement.
     
    Harbin said:
    Piggot's meaty hand placed the broadhead bolt on the table. Sophia's mouth opened and shut. She hadn't even been using those—in recent memory, at least a few months. Who had done this? Who could have done this?
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Well, I can answer that with a single quote from the same chapter:

    A text from Emma.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    *coughs*
    *points*
    Right there. Emma sold her out. Probably because she thought it would bring Sophia back to her little circle. (Which it might have... if Sophia wasn't already moving out of the circle.) That text was probably some sort of "Hey, wanna hang out, I'm your enabler friend, remember?" message.
     
    2.8
  • Threadmarks
    • 2.8
    ​
    Victoria was upset, understandably.

    When Victoria was upset, people around her tended to know.

    Heather was considerably less upset, her reaction more along the lines of 'Hey you got a job, hippie. Congrats. Even if it is for freaks or whatever. Good luck!'

    "What's next, are you going to go join Kaiser and try to get him to start accepting applications for other races, or get into a Socratic session with Lung?" Victoria's aura beat down on Taylor, whose response was rubbing her temples. "Taylor, come on. People don't look at you and think 'discreet'. Not as of recent. Me, they expect it, it's part of my image."

    "And you enjoy it."

    "Well, yeah. It's pretty nice." There was a little smirk on her face for a moment before she got back on topic. "Seriously. God. Why not ask Coil to cool it, or like—ugh, joining a supervillain group?"

    "I get it, Victoria, I'm not going on any jobs with them or anything."

    "Then what are you doing?" Victoria's aura ratcheted down, perhaps because she'd realized it, perhaps because Taylor was actively trying not to cringe and look away. "Sorry."

    "It's—okay," Taylor said, rotating her jaw. "Just some confidential stuff. Nothing illegal, I'm pretty sure. We'll see. It's like a mystery box. I could get anything, including an arrest warrant."

    Victoria stared at her. She got the joke. It wasn't funny.

    "Okay. Okay. Tough audience. I promise, Victoria. I found some stuff out. I want to help people. There's some people I can help." Taylor made vast, sweeping understatements, smiling the entire while. "It'll be okay. I'll find a lawyer or something with the money. Worst comes to worst, I'll just go with the White Ninja backup plan. I'm sure they could use the publicity. Mister Miyagi Lung? Eh?"

    "Taylor."

    "Fine. I'm worried. Of course I'm worried. I have goals, I have dreams. I want to help, and there's someone who I can help. I'm doing it partly for money, which feels odd, but good at the same time, I can help out around the house, make some decent cash. The American dream." Taylor shrugged. "It's okay. Really. I'm not going to do anything stupid."

    "The last time you 'didn't do something stupid' was a bullet through the sternum."

    "Well, thankfully for my sternum, Faultline has moral compunctions about killing. So if things go bad, she'll just let me go, right?"

    Victoria seemed to be suppressing an urge to reach out and shake Taylor. Preferably until the sarcasm and bad jokes came out. Taylor sighed.

    "Listen. I'm sorry. I can't tell you very much because there's confidentiality issues, but I think I'm doing something really good. Can you trust me on this?" Taylor smiled at her friend, and Victoria shrugged.

    "I'll trust you. Just try not to pick up any more strays or whatever it is you do."

    "No promises."

    --​

    Taylor looked at Labyrinth. Labyrinth stared at her.

    "Hi," Taylor said, smiling gently.

    It was the smell of those waters, the smell of salt and baking sand. The sound of the waves.

    "Let's go there, some time," Taylor said. Labyrinth nodded, slowly. "Want to go for a walk?"

    Labyrinth gradually moved off the bed. Taylor picked socks off the bed, handing them to Labyrinth; she blankly stared at them. Taylor guided the girl's hands down to her feet, helping her tug the socks on. Shoes were next.

    Taylor held Labyrinth's hand. There was a slight, dreamy smile on her face.

    They walked out of Palanquin together, to that nice park nearby. The bench was empty, so Taylor sat there, and Labyrinth sat next to her. "What do you want to work on today?"

    There was nothing, for a moment. Taylor waited.

    The smell of oil and steel, the creak of a water wheel.

    "Okay. The Temple." Taylor's voice was hushed but resonant; rich with that bit of added huskiness as she whispered dramatically. "The columns are solid, forming circular structures, piece by piece, with sweeping points to the temple, arches, half-dome tops."

    Labyrinth nodded, lethargic.

    "The tiles that go up the columns, to the roof in those sweeping arcs, they all have patterns, interconnecting, like the sky and sun, bright and beaming. Always there, and what isn't stars and sun is blue. A gorgeous blue, like—azure. A mosaic, that spans the entire thing, made from lapis lazuli, lined with silver, gold, and red. A ceiling that's different from the Sistine chapel, but one that also makes you look up and just go—'wow, that's incredible.'" Taylor gazed upward, looking at the sky. "Yeah. And then—I'm thinking stained windows. Red, blue, but mostly clear. So the sun can always come in."

    "There's two," Labyrinth murmured.

    "All the better. This can be the bright place, the brightest and most vivid, always dazzling. Somewhere to look at when it's been a long day, but not the kind of day when you feel like you just want to get into those sheets and rest. The place you can look at and say that it's there, it's something you can look at and feel that pride, because you made it. It's a part of you, something to always build and improve upon."

    "Okay."

    "Let's work on the Ruins next. I love that one. It's got so much potential, and those trees are gorgeous."

    A slow nod. Labyrinth liked it too.

    Taylor passed her the sandwich, to the smell of fresh rain, moss, and old, wet stone. Labyrinth took the sandwich, directing it to her mouth and chewing. A good sign.

    Glimpses gleaned from Labyrinth's behavior were easy as hunches, but it was harder to actualize, to direct them. Words came, they peered and peeked at pieces and parts, but Labyrinth was—

    Not complex. That wasn't the word. Obscured. Adrift. Again, that word.

    Sometimes she was just behind things, behind walls that Taylor could only knock on. Breaking them down would create more, shoving at them wouldn't be right. Taylor tapped on the wall with words. Or perhaps the sea was a better example, and Taylor was just skipping rocks into it, hoping that she'd see the ripples in the fog?

    Words came, but it was a struggle to force them into being. It was better to let them trickle in, and keep them in mind.

    Labyrinth responded with smells and sounds, sometimes pieces of those places.

    Taylor wanted those places to blossom, to be guiding lights. So did Labyrinth, in that halting way. To make not only a fortress against the bad, but a place she could think, without having to stare at herself; feeling helpless in those fugues that sometimes took her, even on the best of days. Sometimes, Labyrinth responded.

    "Thanks," she mumbled, as Taylor took her hand and they walked in the sunlight. Away from dark corners and things that brought those memories out.

    Taylor nodded, looking at the sky.

    They walked for a while, in circles, in places that Labyrinth recognized and knew from other walks. Taylor followed Labyrinth's lead, and sometimes they'd stop and stare. Today, an archway. A tree. A shop window.

    She'd slowly pull from Taylor's hand, walking to the archway and sitting next to it, running her fingers over it, and Taylor would sit next to her as she did so. Labyrinth nodded at Taylor, and went back to what she was doing, feeling the stone.

    She would smell the tree, digging her fingernails into the bark. She would pick up the leaves, both new and old, feeling them bend and crinkle between her fingers. Taylor supplied a flower that had fallen a while back. It was wilted, petals curling inward. Labyrinth held it in her hands before putting it down at the base of the tree.

    Labyrinth stared through the window of the ice cream shop. The employees waved. Taylor waved back. They went inside and got ice cream at the shop. Labyrinth ate a little, and then watched it melt, pouring it down on the ground. Ants came, harvesting the sugary mess. They watched the ants, sitting there.

    They went back to Palanquin, up to Labyrinth and Spitfire's room. Labyrinth squeezed Taylor's hand.

    Taylor smiled. Labyrinth smiled back.

    --​

    "Up."

    Taylor groaned, picking herself to her feet.

    "Again."

    Taylor pushed herself back up, taking her stance.

    "Your instincts are fantastic. You're lacking stamina, which takes time. You need more speed." Faultline brushed her hands off. "There's very little wasted movement against me, which is intriguing."

    Taylor had run for as long as she could before fighting Faultline.

    Her movements were sluggish, her breath came hard. 'Your opponents aren't going to let you get your breath back,' Faultline had said.

    Taylor had retaliated by almost throwing up. It seemed like the appropriate response.

    Faultline patted her on the back, then gave her thirty seconds before the next spar.

    Taylor gave her a very weak smile.

    It was easy to dip into that flow, to see the sharp, efficient movements of Faultline. Her feet shifted constantly, tapping between Taylor's, her hands slapping onto Taylor's shoulder, then her side. It took a moment for Taylor to realize what was happening, as she gamely tried to keep up, panting. As much as her body hurt, it was fascinating to watch.

    "One—one minute," Taylor said, as she hit the ground. Again. "Your ability—you worked it into how you fight—how can I do that better—"

    "Good question. Your ability is innately deadly, something that you don't have to worry about as much, because you can almost always be armed. You have a good amount of range. If we were fighting in an open space, you could probably take me out from fifty meters away. I'd need to get the drop on you. You have a decent grasp of anatomy and where to hit, and you're trying to work knife strikes into your fighting style. For now though, focus on unarmed combat. We can work that in after you can defend yourself in the worst situations. Sixty seconds. Again." Faultline offered a hand. Taylor took it, then got back into her stance.

    After a few more beatdowns, they sat on a bench; Gregor handed them each a bottle of cold water. Taylor ducked her head in thanks. Faultline toasted him, then sipped at it.

    Gregor sat on a chair, which complained in creaks, but held his weight. His smile was translucent, lips bluish-white, blood vessels more visible there than on his cheeks. "You did well."

    "Thank you," Taylor said, then drank from the water bottle. She placed it against her forehead, then her cheek.

    "Take a shower. I put your money into an account. Here." Faultline handed Taylor a card with two sets of numbers. "Number Man. He's basically a parahuman accountant. It'll keep the money from being associated with us. Just use Neith as an identifier, and he'll get you set up with that account number."

    "Thank you," Taylor said, earnest and smiling, although it was weary with exhaustion.

    "You're welcome, and thank you. I have to talk with Gregor about some things." A dismissal. Not a stern one, but just a polite indication that Taylor needed to go now, that her services were finished.

    Taylor nodded, then went off to take a shower in the back room, before changing clothes and heading home.

    A text from Heather.

    How many people you kill on the job today, you dirty merc? : P
    Also how mad is Glory Girl on a scale of 1-10 I have to know.

    Taylor laughed. She texted back.

    Lost track after like eighty. I had plenty of fingers to count with, but I lost some of them. Working hard.
    Idk like a 5-6 I guess. She actually wasn't too upset, considering.

    The phone buzzed.

    lol. Damn. Was hoping it was at least an 8.

    Taylor smirked.

    We still on for tomorrow?

    The response took only seconds.

    Absolutely.

    Taylor thought of the first time she met Rune, in that alleyway, as she opened the door and walked inside. The wood creaked pleasantly, and she entered the kitchen. It was a mess. A wonderful mess, flour coating the countertop, chopped onions, garlic, bits of sun-dried tomato; her father staring at the oven with an unconscionably worried expression.

    "Bread," he said, in way of explanation. "I thought I'd make it from scratch. Then I thought I'd chance it and make focaccia, try something new. Help me, please. I'm not sure if I should take it out yet."

    Taylor peered in the oven. "Okay," she said. She hadn't made focaccia before either, and made haste to look it up.

    It came out fine, (five minutes later,) and Danny sighed with relief before they ate. Soup, salad, and bread. Wonderful bread, still-warm and delicious. Maybe not meant for the soup they dipped it in, but—Mm.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • Harbin said:
    "What's next, are you going to go join Kaiser and try to get him to start accepting applications for other races, or get into a Socratic session with Lung?" Victoria's aura beat down on Taylor, whose response was rubbing her temples. "Taylor, come on. People don't look at you and think 'discreet'. Not as of recent. Me, they expect it, it's part of my image."

    "And you enjoy it."

    "Well, yeah. It's pretty nice." There was a little smirk on her face for a moment before she got back on topic. "Seriously. God. Why not ask Coil to cool it, or like—ugh, joining a supervillain group?"
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    That irritatiing black-and-white morality was going to come up eventually.
    Harbin said:
    Labyrinth stared through the window of the ice cream shop. The employees waved. Taylor waved back. They went inside and got ice cream at the shop. Labyrinth ate a little, and then watched it melt, pouring it down on the ground. Ants came, harvesting the sugary mess. They watched the ants, sitting there.

    They went back to Palanquin, up to Labyrinth and Spitfire's room. Labyrinth squeezed Taylor's hand.

    Taylor smiled. Labyrinth smiled back.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    D'aaaawww~ :)
     
    You've taken Taylor Hebert, given her Jack Slash's power and not only has no one died, things are getting better? In a reasonable manner? I'm impressed. I can't wait to see where this goes.
     
    She needs to team up with Yammada. One's a parahumans thinker with a knife fetish and knows just what to say, the other is the Only Sand Woman. Together, they fight crime the clawing grip of madness!
     
    2.9
  • Threadmarks
    • 2.9
    ​
    "You have one hundred fifty thousand dollars in your account." The clipped, yet not unpleasant tones were precise. Plain. Professional. "This is a lump sum payment, with another one hundred fifty thousand dollars after Faultline's approval."
    ​
    "Uh." Taylor said, trying to keep her voice level, trying not to squeak. "Um, okay."
    ​
    She knew what to say, but she was too busy trying to get up and tell her father, trying to find her feet, because everything was slightly sideways and slanted, ready to slip.
    ​
    "Do you have any questions, Neith?"
    ​
    "How, uh, would I access this money?" Taylor managed to say, "If I wanted to withdraw it?"
    ​
    "A drop point would be arranged. It is a relatively simple transaction."
    ​
    "O-okay. And all I have to do is call this number?"
    ​
    "Or text. For transactions larger than ten percent of your holdings, I will require verbal confirmation. If you would like to set up code words to indicate distress as well, that is also possible."
    ​
    "Uhm—" Taylor was still processing the first part. Ten percent of her holdings. That was fifteen thousand dollars. She could withdraw fifteen thousand dollars, no questions asked. "Uh. Okay. Can I withdraw three thousand? Uh, better make it five."
    ​
    "Yes. Where would you like to pick it up?" He listed some locations, some of which Taylor recognized.
    ​
    "Uh, that one is by the Market, right? Can I do that one?"
    ​
    "Yes. Is one hour sufficient time?"
    ​
    "Yes. I think so."
    ​
    "Very well. Your money will be by the bench." Taylor knew the one, because it stood out and wasn't a great place to sleep because it was very often damp, and held that dampness in.
    ​
    "Okay. Thank you."
    ​
    "You are welcome. Thank you for your patronage."

    --
    ​
    It was there. Ten hundreds, twenty fifties, fifty twenties, a hundred tens, two neat bundles of a hundred fives each. All in a small, very precisely creased paper bag. Taylor was absolutely tempted to start throwing them up in the air, but it was—surprisingly small bundles, for what seemed like so much money.
    ​
    Five thousand dollars.
    ​
    She'd have to talk it over with Dad, there—there was so much she could do. So much that could be done, just the house alone—they wouldn't have so much worries about money.
    ​
    Taylor slid the money into a jacket pocket. Then she took out a bundle of fives, and smacked it against her hand. Once. Just to hear the sound. She peeled off three, then put it back into the bag.
    ​
    Then she went to go get a stupidly expensive caffeinated drink because gosh-darn-it she really needed something that was absurdly overpriced. If only to shock her back into not wanting to burn through all of it. Somehow.
    ​
    ...Probably buying knives. And a really nice whetstone.
    ​
    ...And a new strop.
    ​
    Taylor sighed. Her mindset was not good with money. She resolved to make a budget once she got back home, separating the money in her thoughts; the usable money for now, maximum of five hundred. Ten percent. That seemed reasonable, but also absurd that she was carrying five thousand dollars around, and was willing to spend five hundred on—whatever. The rest was to show her father, as proof and a means of helping out around the house. Or something. She was giddy. Blissful. Slightly panicked.
    ​
    She sucked on the straw to her twelve dollar drink. The sugary-cinnamon-coconut-hazelnut-with-some-coffee-somewhere mix was good, the ingredients listed in their amounts, from greatest to least. Coffee was a secondary concern, to be fair. It was also forty ounces.
    ​
    There was probably enough sugar to kill someone.
    ​
    Taylor texted Heather, walking to their meetup location, holding the drink awkwardly. She sent her a picture.
    ​
    wtf is that, was Heather's response. Taylor smirked, but didn't send a reply, sitting down and waiting.
    ​
    She sipped at the drink slowly.
    ​
    Heather showed, and sat next to her on the grass.
    ​
    Taylor gave her the drink.
    ​
    Heather looked at Taylor. Her incredulous expression was worth at least half the price she'd paid for the drink. Maybe a little more.
    ​
    She tried it. "Not bad, but—jesus. Why?"
    ​
    "I ask myself that question a lot. This time, I don't know the answer." Taylor shrugged. "Let's go find a bathroom. Then we can go wherever."
    ​
    "You drank like half."
    ​
    "Yes."
    ​
    Heather looked at Taylor, and her expression was amused-but-still-incredulous. Definitely worth the rest of the price. "There's one over there."

    Taylor went to the bathroom, and took out the bag of bills. She peeled twenty more fives off, putting them into her well-worn wallet. It was very nice. Velcro, pink, with lots of zippers. Perfect. She went back out, "Sorry. Needed to do my makeup and stuff."
    ​
    "You didn't do your makeup."
    ​
    "Okay. I was arranging my money in my wallet while taking care of business. Faultline paid me. It feels odd, getting paid."
    ​
    "Howww much?"
    ​
    "Why, do you want to work for Faultline too?"
    ​
    "Maybe? No. Kind of."
    ​
    "Hundred fifty thousand." Taylor pronounced the words with the seriousness they deserved, tracing them over her lips.
    ​
    "Jesus. Okay, then. Are you sure you aren't killing people?" Heather said, as they walked down the street.
    ​
    "Pretty sure." Taylor said, and Heather's expression grew concerned. "No, I'm sure. I'm not directly or indirectly aiding in killing anyone. I'm making things safer for them."
    ​
    "With knives."
    ​
    Taylor opened her mouth, then closed it. "No. Confidential, but not hurting anyone. Just helping. I'm good at talking. I'm using that talking to help someone. Someone who needs the help, and I'd do it without the money, but—the money is definitely nice."
    ​
    Heather looked like she wanted to ask more questions about it, but stopped, taking a long draw from the sugar-drink. Probably pretending it was alcohol. "Okay."

    She let the topic go, and Taylor was relieved enough that she also ignored the odd expression on Heather's face. "I'll pay for the meal today. Steaks? Sushi? Surf'n'turf? Italian?"
    ​
    "Italian doesn't sound too bad. I'm getting veal." Heather said, a smirk in place on her face.
    ​
    Taylor shrugged. "Fine. I'm just getting some minestrone."
    ​
    "Now I feel all guilty," Heather said, obviously not.

    "No you don't," Taylor said, grinning at her.
    ​
    "No, I don't."
    ​
    Taylor ended up getting bruschetta, mostly because she'd wanted to try it, but thought it was too expensive for how much she'd be getting. She was right, but it wasn't terrible. The bread was good, the olive oil was good, the mozzarella was delicious. Creamy and moist. But all in all, it just was decent. Oh well. She shared it with Heather, who tried it and agreed.
    ​
    The veal parmesan looked delicious. Heather did share some, to her credit.
    ​
    They browsed the market afterward, walking down it and looking for deals. Taylor found some knives on sale.
    ​
    They weren't terrible ones.
    ​
    There was a fruit knife, that looked somewhat like her old one. It was different, of course. Different handle, and it smelled slightly. Musky, slightly sweet.
    ​
    It felt good in her hand. The weight was right. Taylor bought it. Ten fives went into the man's hand.
    ​
    Heather smirked. "Big spender."
    ​
    "Yeah, well, I was missing a fruit knife."
    ​
    "Oh yeah 'cause you're carving all those apples."
    ​
    "Well, if there's a fruit rebellion, you'll be regretting that." Stupid jokes. Heather laughed anyway.
    ​
    "It's a nice knife."
    ​
    "You're just saying that."
    ​
    "Nah."
    ​
    The banter went on, as did the wandering, until they parted.
    ​
    Heather had—an odd look in her eye. They hugged, she pulled back, gave Taylor a smile, then flew off.
    ​
    Taylor frowned, as she processed things. She started on the path home, first heading to the store, and picking up some steaks. An essential part of 'going home,' obviously. The look on Heather's face, the slight frown, forced into a smile. Something didn't fit.
    ​
    She texted Heather.
    ​
    You okay?
    ​
    Yes, came the response.
    ​
    Taylor frowned. Let me know if you need anything, okay?
    ​
    OK.
    ​
    Taylor went home, steaks in tow, worried about her friend.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Panic: Please don't start killing people off.
    Reluctance: Passive-aggressive hug. Don't kill Heather. We're receiving bad feelings about this.
     
    Maybe a 'grass is greener' thing, maybe concern about Taylor being paid so much by another criminal (what's she up to?).

    I really doubt she's considering telling her fellows about Taylor, since their relationship is such a windfall for Heather.
     
    Harbin said:
    The banter went on, as did the wandering, until they parted.
    ​
    Heather had—an odd look in her eye. They hugged, she pulled back, gave Taylor a smile, then flew off.
    ​
    Taylor frowned, as she processed things. She started on the path home, first heading to the store, and picking up some steaks. An essential part of 'going home,' obviously. The look on Heather's face, the slight frown, forced into a smile. Something didn't fit.
    ​
    She texted Heather.
    ​
    You okay?
    ​
    Yes, came the response.
    ​
    Taylor frowned. Let me know if you need anything, okay?
    ​
    OK.
    ​
    Taylor went home, steaks in tow, worried about her friend.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...
    Rune, she's very charming, so I understand if you have some confusion, but it's probably okay somehow to be a gay Nazi. Mind, it's better by half to be a gay not-Nazi, but I know we have to take baby steps here...
     
    2.Y (Rune)
  • Threadmarks
    • 2.Y​

    Heather James Herren didn't hate herself. She wasn't sure enough about herself to hate herself. She hated the things she did, the things she didn't want to do. She hated the hate, most of all.

    It was all about power.

    There was power in pushing others down. In taking away what they had, in gaining those benefits. A lot of history was about that. It was very easy to take away the property of those that, by law, couldn't fight for it. Taken by people around them, sold.

    Whether it was japs, jews, niggers, so on and so forth, there was an order to it.

    Different skin color, different beliefs, anything, suspicion, distrust, dislike, hate.

    Then things tended to fall apart, those unfortunates rounded up or lynched.

    People got shoved into camps. People got killed. They were different, they were inferior. People took their things. A vicious little victory of hurt. A million excuses as to why they weren't worthy of life. They weren't the same ethnicity, although they shared the same color. They were thieving scum who stole money. They were potential traitors, so they had to be herded up. They lost, so they had to leave. They were trying to control everyone, so they needed to be killed. They were too educated, so they were to be silenced.

    It justified it. They were cockroaches. They were rabid dogs. They weren't worthy of being human. At best, second class. So they should be kept in their places. There were statistics that showed that some races were much worse about violence toward others. Those made more sense. It was hilarious, in that absurdist way. These people didn't matter, so it didn't count as a slaughter. Just removing pests.

    Others didn't.

    It happened to every ethnicity, every race. At some point or another, hatred. Arbitrary. Against the same color, against other colors. Different beliefs, differing thoughts.

    People hated each other, and they did terrible things to each other. For money, for property, for things.

    Rune wasn't supposed to care about that sort of thing. Reducing people to insects, to things, that was easy. She could fly, and her ability let her squash things or pin them down, create barriers, wall them in. Same thing, right?

    Stupid Taylor.

    Now Rune was always thinking. Looking at things. Now she doubted. Taylor would have been courageous. Taylor would have had the words to tell them to stop. Rune was tired of hate. The way people looked at her, as she went overhead. The way someone spat out slurs at people, causing them to cringe.

    Did she think some ethnicities or races were inferior?

    Maybe. There were things that challenged that belief, but—but she was tired of the hate. The casual hate, the overt hate. Hate that kept going, both ways.

    If she saw Skidmark, she would have pulverized him. Was that because of his skin color? Maybe a bit. Was it more because he was drug-dealing scum who shoveled out hate of a different kind?

    Rune wanted it to be, but she wasn't sure.

    Stupid Taylor. She was making money doing—whatever. Talking. She was very good at talking.

    Rune wasn't as good at that. She went 'home,' to a place with more hate. They were nice. They knew that she was important. They weren't real parents.

    They were nice. They were substitutes. Better than the real things had been.

    She hadn't been abused. It wasn't like that. They just—hadn't cared. So Heather had tried. It wasn't easy not to care. To try and then receive no reward, which meant there wouldn't be a second time. To do things and try get their attention.

    There had been casual hate there, too. The coon from down the street, the chink at the shop, the sand nigger at the school.

    Easy.

    Her uncle had been someone who did care. Kind of. Except now he didn't care about her, the person. Just the influence she had.

    Politics and power. That's what it came down to, in the end. Did she hate her parents? No. Did she love them? Kind of. In that familial way, more affectionate obligation than anything else.

    Rune was supposed to be heading to the job tonight. A hit on the ABB.

    Instead, she was in her room. Instead, she was thinking. She checked her phone again; her breathing was steady, because she was forcing it to be steady.

    Let me know if you need anything, okay?
    OK.

    Stupid Taylor.

    Rune had tried to write a letter. It had gone about as well as could be expected.

    Dear Jane and William,

    Thank you for taking care of me.

    Yeah. That was about as far as she had gotten. Even if she left, where would she go? Force Taylor to take care of her? Anything that she had really wanted, the couple had been able to give her. She had a monthly allowance that was high enough that she never really wanted for anything.

    Rune made her bed, smoothing out the sheets. Fluffing the pillows. It was over too soon. The room was clean. There was nothing left to clean, because she'd done it.

    Two missed calls on her phone. She'd muted it. One from Victor, one from Kaiser. Woo.

    Rune sat at the desk, picking up the pen.

    I had fun while I was here. You were much more than I could have hoped for, and I appreciated your efforts. Thank you. I was not the best daughter. I am sorry.

    Dear Victor and Othala,

    Thank you, for teaching me. Thank you for providing me with knowledge and training. You were always helpful, and I enjoyed our time together. I am thankful for the affection and time you spent with me, which was probably better spent with other people and things. You gave me laughter, even if I wasn't the best pupil.

    Thank you.

    Just a few lines. That was all she could really think of.

    Rune picked up the phone. She typed in the letters. Hey, can I ask for help?

    She was crying. She didn't want to leave. She wanted to leave.

    Rune's stomach did little flips as she waited.

    She was afraid. Afraid that Taylor would say no. Afraid that she wouldn't leave, afraid that she would leave. Afraid of the consequences. There was so much fear, and she was wiping tears from her eyes; they wouldn't stop.

    Sure, came Taylor's response. What do you need?

    In spite of herself, Heather smiled. A hiccuping laugh was the first thing that came to her; a text back was the second.
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Splendid as usual.

    I wonder what we ca expect for next, will Taylor be ask her father for help here (and potentially out herself in the process)?
    Will she ask Amy to give Heather a face-lift to keep her safe? (I vote for a Latino Rune myself)

    So many possibilities.
     
    2.10
  • Threadmarks
    • 2.10​

    Taylor sat there, hands open, splayed, a knife resting in each; straight razor in one hand, the fruit knife with the sandalwood handle in the other. There was the slight murmur of people in the background, passersby and slightly rowdy drunks. She listened to the voices, her stomach full, her heart content. She listened, picking out one conversation, and another, then another. Taylor knew words. She loved words. Words were the light of her life, the salve to her soul.

    That's why she was on this rooftop, after a talk with her father, with her employer, searching the sky as she spoke; why she had come here with a plan in mind, thoughts arraigned, courted, sentenced with love, and peace in her heart. The words beat there, witty, dagger-sharp, and precise.

    Because what were words without someone to speak them to?

    Without a friend to converse, without someone who had given her help, and deserved nothing less in turn. Always more, because that's what friends deserved. That burbling brook of words, a spring of communication that was best supped on together, sipped from and made a meal of.

    So Taylor waited there, on that rooftop.

    For her friend.

    Eventually, Heather arrived, with a beat up luggage bag floating behind her. "Hey."

    "Hey," Taylor said, the knives slipping away into her jacket.

    "So I'm really sorry I just didn't know maybe I could have asked Purity but she's an adult and like Kaiser's ex or something I don't know but like I just my head was blank and I—" Heather's shoulders slumped, and she looked at Taylor, hope and fear in her eyes. "You were the first person I thought of."

    "Don't be sorry. What do you need, Heather?" Taylor knew, it was obvious, it had been obvious, when the pieces were all there. Heather needed to say it herself, though. To affirm that, to set it; to make the words real, by saying them to someone else.

    "I—" she gulped, "I want to leave the Empire 88. I don't—I don't uh, jesus."

    The floating bag next to her wobbled, then thumped down next to her; the plastic of it clattering against the gravel. Taylor hugged Heather. She melted into the hug, staying like that for a long moment. Taylor didn't let go until Heather began to untense. "Why do you want to leave?"

    "There's—things that I have to do that I don't like doing. I'm—I-I'm tired of it. I know that sounds really childish and I should put up with it because I have a lot of power and that means responsibility—but I-I see you, and you're finding your way, you're working through things," Heather fell silent for a moment, but she wasn't finished. "I'm jealous. I'm really jealous of you. I'm just the nazi girl, no matter if I tried to become a hero, or if I joined the wards, I'd always be heil-hitler-herren or something or I don't know—I'm a fucking joke. I'm so, so scared of that. I don't want to see people hating me all the time, because I'm Rune, and always will be. And-and I'm tired of seeing hate thrown at them. To throw it at them."

    Heather was crying, and rubbing angrily at her tears. She still wasn't done. Taylor listened.

    "And—they're great people. Victor and Othala were always nice, the people who I lived with, they were always nice—Victor helped me with my homework, he called me liebling or wunderkind, and it was a joke, and Othala made snacks like cookies and fruit tarts when I would come over—" Heather was trying not to sob. Taylor handed her a packet of tissues. Heather wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and continued. "Thank you. I just—I'm Heather. Maybe I'm not a great person, but I'm feeling more and more like a really shitty Rune. I don't want to be what they want me to be and—you're always you, Taylor. You don't pretend, you just—are."

    "I pretend too, Heather. Don't put me on a pedestal, here. Please. I'm getting better about being myself, but—"

    "No, I'm saying it wrong, it's all straight in my head but I'm not you and I can't just say it and have it come out right. I'm—you don't stare at people and hate them, and you're willing to try, and make jokes with them like me even though all you knew about me was that I'm some villain."

    "You know what I think?"

    "What?"

    "I think you're really, really heroic. I think you're brave. You're doing this. You're choosing to change. I know that's fucking hard. It's so hard to change, when it's so easy not to. And you know all of the stuff you know, you know what you're losing. And you did this!" Taylor grinned at Heather, her eyes tearing up as well, "Come on."

    "Where?" Asked Heather, fear creeping back in, fear of the unknown, fear of potential retribution.

    "A safe place, hideout," Taylor said, "Got it cheap. Well, not really. Faultline charges a lot. Got an employee discount, though."

    "Really?"

    "Kind of. I had a suspicion, and was worried."

    "You got a hideout on a hunch?"

    "Yeah. Throw your phone away, break the sim card, hurl it as far as you can, whatever. They could track it and such or something I'm going off the internet here—" Taylor took out a fresh phone, screen uncracked, and handed it to Heather. "—so use this."

    "Okay," Heather said, looking a bit dazed. She took her phone out, handing it to Taylor, who stared at it for a moment, then handed it back.

    "I have no idea where the battery or sim card is on this thing."

    "Oh. Right. Uh—" She fiddled with it for a moment, snapping the back open, pulling out the small block and tiny piece of tech. The battery and phone parted, flying off in separate directions, and the sim card was snapped in half and ground underfoot. Heather stared at it ruefully.

    "Yeah. Well, if they catch you, just say that I kidnapped you, okay?"

    "What? No way," Heather said, snapping out of the brief fugue. "I'm not doing that to you."

    "Aw. Thanks," Taylor smiled, Heather wiped her eyes, then did the same. "Alright. Let's go."

    They went. Together.

    --​

    It wasn't squalid. The outside was ramshackle, that sounded like a much kinder way of putting it. The inside was good, though. There had been clear effort put into the place. Soundproofed walls, clean, a bed, a bathroom, a shower.

    Better than some motel rooms.

    Heather sat down heavily on the bed, pensive and preoccupied.

    Taylor sat next to her. "So."

    "So," Heather echoed.

    "How good are you at makeup?"

    "Okay, I guess. God. It's—this just doesn't feel real, y'know? It feels like it's a dream and a nightmare, and I'm not sure which, but I'm not waking up."

    "Yeah. I'm good to stay overnight, if you'd like."

    "No. I—I think I'll be okay."

    "I'll bring food in the morning, okay? And some of my clothes, some sunglasses or something."

    "Okay," Heather said. There was a pause, before she spoke again. "Taylor? Thank you."

    Taylor hugged her. Heather hugged back. "We'll figure it out."

    "Okay."

    Taylor left, leaving Heather in the stark, sanitary room. The room that wasn't home, and didn't pretend to be; she went home, while her friend sat there alone, and that didn't seem right. But she did it, because she had to prepare.

    --​

    There was a girl sitting on the porch when Taylor arrived home. Taylor blinked. She looked around, but didn't really see anywhere else to go, worry swelling. Not for herself, but for her father.

    "Hey, Taylor," the girl said, waving. "Boy, have I got a deal for you. I'm alone. No worries."

    "What do you want, Lisa?" Taylor said. It was odd, to hear that, and know that it was the truth. She moved while speaking, making her way into the relative cover of the house.

    "Just to talk. And make sure you aren't going to get blamed for what's probably going to happen. Call it an apology."

    Taylor stopped, looking back at Lisa. "I got shot."

    "And look at you, good as new. Bright as a button." Lisa sighed, then rubbed the bridge of her nose, managing to fit contrition into her voice. "I'm sorry about that. That's partially why I'm here. It wasn't supposed to happen. Or, well—it's complicated."

    "Okay," said Taylor, shrugging. "Want some tea?"

    "Uh," Lisa said. "Sure, I guess."

    "Come inside."

    Lisa shrugged and followed her.

    Taylor went inside, setting a pot on the heat, setting the mugs up. Lisa sat at the table. "Six minutes until the water starts boiling."

    "That sounds like enough time."

    "Mm." Taylor sat across from Lisa, waiting for her to begin.
     
    Last edited:
  • Threadmarks
    • This is the best Rune I've ever read. You've done a fantastic job writing her.

    Talking to Lisa should be interesting. I feel like the fact this is happening post Faultline is very good for Taylor.
     
    Reader mode
    You must login or register to reply here.
    Remove ads
    Back
    Top