(AN: I apologize for the probably-incorrect German. Anyone surprised about NeoNazis saying NeoNazi things ought to have known better.)
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Gestalt
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[X] You could sit your pretty ass down and think about what just happened. Holy shit, what was that?
You sit down.
Well, you step away from the bed you laid Taylor on, close the —ratty, filthy— privacy curtain, find a chair, and then sit down, but those are somewhat unnecessary details. Hands on your lap. Eyes forward.
The idea of what you just did slowly starts to sink in. You just threatened a Ward's friends. With outright murder.
"Ffffffffffffffffffffff-!," you hiss, leaning back. Do not tear out your hair. "Scheiße, scheiße, scheiße, scheiße!"
Do not hit yourself.
"Scheiße!" You put your hands on your temples and squeeze. "Du verdammter Idiot! Dummkopf! Besserwisser! Volltrottel! Mist! Warum zum Teufel hast du das getan?!"
Stop it.
You bend forward, muffling your voice between your knees. "RRRRRRRGH!"
Okay, you've had your tantrum. Deep breaths. Back straight. Straighten out your hair. Think.
Well… You just went so far over the line as far as bully bullshit is concerned that you're somewhere past the moon. You could've just threatened to expose The Trio to the administration; even Winslow would have to do something if you came with evidence.
Except Taylor tried that already. Multiple times. Didn't work, and even got her pegged as a "troublemaker" for wasting their time. When Taylor told you that, you entertained the plan to indulge in some vandalism next time you hunted here.
Still, there are
steps between "I'll tell on you" and "Murder"! You didn't go for the Nuclear Option; you whipped out the Big Red Button, put your hand on top, and dared Shadow Stalker to give you an excuse!
But isn't that the entire point of a "Nuclear Option"? Show everyone where your lines in the sand lie, and the consequences of crossing them. You didn't threaten anyone with anything; you gave Shadow Stalker fair warning of what the consequences would be if they kept upping the ante like they're doing. Or are you seriously gonna tell yourself that you wouldn't kill all three of them if they hurt Taylor?
Maybe that would make sense if Shadow Stalker were a Magical Girl, and this was Magical Girl business, not her fucking bullying habit!
She's a Ward. What's the difference? Superpowers are superpowers.
Actually, there is a difference there, but go on.
Regardless; how much of the school letting her get away with her bullshit is incompetence, and how much of it is because the school is unwilling to take action against a "Hero"? Either way, mundane consequences are out of the question. It's only fair that you let her know that you're willing to enforce magical ones.
Speaking of magic; what the hell was that little lightshow you gave her, huh? And, speaking of which, what if she decides to call for backup? Or out you to the PRT?
Do you want to disappear?!
She already knows you're something else. And as for the PRT…
… Sigh. Shadow Stalker believes helping is weakness, and asking for help is pathetic. Asking the PRT for help against you in any way would be personally humiliating to her. You've gone over this already. Twice.
You lean back, against the backrest, and the wall behind. The thumb of your right hands rubs the ring you wear —your Soul Gem.
… You really hate arguing with yourself. It makes your Gem hurt.
So… now what?
You-
-do not want to hear from the committee,
thank you very much. You'd rather forget it
exists.
Deep breaths. Think, Rachel. What are the positives here?
… Well, one would be that even Shadow Stalker, crazy bitch that she is, is gonna think twice before agreeing to any plan to escalate the bullying campaign, same as the other two, if and when they get told. On the other hand, if they decide to go to the school admin…
Your hands brush against the pockets of your jacket, feeling the outline of your smartphone.
… well, you're
hoping that Winslow High's indifference cuts both ways. But, just in case-
"… Hello?"
… hold that thought.
You stand, brushing yourself off and straightening a few stray strands of your hair. You walk over, and pull the —ratty, filthy— curtain aside.
Taylor is blinks owlishly. She feels around, finds her glasses where you'd put them. Slips them on, and stares around at her surroundings. Her eyes find yours and stay there
"… Rachel?"
"You dozed off," you tell her, stepping to the bedside, and then hopping up to sit next to where she's laid. "Brought you to the Nurse's office, but she's…"
You gesture vaguely. "Well, she's
somewhere, but it ain't here."
Taylor makes an
interesting face. "You
carried me here."
"Yeah, obviously."
Her face goes from pale to a rather fascinating shade of pink. "Oh. Yeah. Obviously. Yes." She coughs. "Did… Anything happen while I was out?"
… Oh boy.
"YOU DID WHAT!?"
"Okay, so hear me ou-
Ow! Hey, let me-
Ow! Taylor if you could-
Ow! TAYLOR!"
"She said
what?"
Madison remembers when Emma and Sophia approached her. It had been after the first week of school, after Emma had had a bit of time to show that she meant business. It might've even been this hallway.
Madison prided herself in knowing all sorts of people —her mom always beamed whenever she told someone that her daughter could make friends with
anyone—, but, more secretly, Madison also prided herself in being someone who knew where the wind blew before anyone else did. So she understood that when Emma had smiled, and asked if she could be their friend, that she wasn't in a position to say "No, thank you". It was either join, or be the first one thrown under the bus when someone else came to take her place.
That was just the way things worked for people like her; you either got out of the way, you got run over, or you climbed aboard.
Plus, she'd thought,
Taylor looks like someone fun to tease.
Sophia's expression was unreadable. "She said she'd kill us, if we start saying that the scarecrow's doing drugs." A pause. "She also said we can do whatever we want to
her, but the moment we start doing anything
serious, she'll also kill us."
Well, things don't look so fun now, huh?
"She's bluffing," Emma shot back. She sounded like she wanted to believe it.
"She's not," Sophia told her. It was
almost gentle, the way she said it. Emma still looked as if she'd been slapped.
"I…" Madison swallowed. Her throat was dry as dust. "I asked around, you know, after Randall…"
Got his ass handed to him by someone who weighs 50 pounds soaking wet. And then he tried to shoot her…
"…well, after
that happened. The ABB guys don't know anything about her, but… But the moment you mention 'Zoranski' to the
Empire guys, they all clam up."
Madison wilted under the sudden glares from her "friends". "And you didn't tell us this because…?" Emma hissed.
"I
did," Madison shot back, "I told you, 'Hey, I think she might have something to do with the Nazis. Maybe we can dig up some dirt on her?'."
"Which went nowhere," Sophia growled, "Bitch won't even
look at the fucks. Goes straight home after school, too."
"And nobody's gonna believe anything we say after that show of hers," Emma concluded. Without anything other than their word, there wasn't much that Blackwell could really do.
Still, they'd held on to the possibility that this would get Rachel in trouble; she'd get pissed off, because if there was something that could piss Rachel off, it was making her do something she
didn't want to do. And then she'd say something that could be taken the wrong way —or, even better,
let something slip—, they'd spread it around, Blackwell would use it to kick her out, and Taylor would be tainted by association.
Except none of that had happened, and they'd had to suffer through fifteen minutes of Rachel
pontificating about all the ways the Nazis were both evil and stupid, with the sort of smile that spoke of how much she was enjoying every minute of it.
Emma seethed at the reminder.
…For a moment. A sort of focus entered her features.
"No," she decided. "No. I'm not gonna let her tell me what I can or can't do. Who does she think she is? I won't-"
Emma stopped abruptly. Breathed.
"I'm stronger." A pause. "
We're stronger. We're better than those two freaks. They don't get to dictate
terms." Her fists were clenched hard enough her fingernails dug into her palms. "That won't happen. That can't happen. It's not gonna happen."
Abruptly, her focus switched to Madison. "Find out what they're doing," she commanded, which was really code for "Me and Sophia are gonna talk about something, and we don't want you around".
Madison knew better than to call them out on this, as much as it rankled her to be excluded and kept away from things. So she said, "Okay, I'll give you a text if I find something.", and left. She didn't know where Taylor and Rachel were —the infirmary?— and she wasn't in a hurry to find out.
Zoranski.
Just like how Emma and Sophia kept things from her, Madison kept things from them. The Nazis had reacted to
Zoranski.
Who else had that surname?
"I thought we kept you around to provide security."
You smile.
"And,
as I've told you, it is against company policy to discuss the security of my clients on an unsecured line. Even with our presumed clients. If you have a personal project which requires our services, you can either inform your employer —assuming they
are our clients— that you require additional security measures."
The man on the phone thinks himself a wolf. That's the
least outlandish of his delusions.
"Company policy my ass; I think you're just scared."
For instance, he thinks he's clever. And he also thinks that you wouldn't know that he's been telling everyone who would listen that security would be better handled by him, thus making this "request" for additional protection a thinly-veiled attempt to get into a dick-measuring contest with your operators.
Although, even if you
didn't know, you'd turn him down on principle. For one, the last thing you'd want to do is to have your well-equipped, professionally-trained,
expensive operators waste their time providing security to
dog fights.
For another, you
like dogs.
"That's your opinion. If, however, you want to contract our services separately, I'm certainly open to negotiate, although I must warn you that our fees can be quite… expensive."
"Fucking kike…"
You squeeze the handset hard enough for it to creak.
"I remind you that, as a private security company, we monitor all incoming unsecured calls. Language like that can have very real consequences in this climate,
Mister Meadows."
The silence from the headset is audible. You
smile.
"… Fuck you."
You pull the phone away from your ear, and you can still hear the sound of the other end being thrown into a wall. Carefully, you set the handset back into its cradle on your desk, and let yourself hold onto the sensation of victory for a moment.
… Before the unfortunate reality asserts itself again. Lean back on the high-backed, pleather-skinned office chair.
Sigh.
"Sheiße."
As loathsome as Hookwolf is, the unfortunate fact is that he is a cape and you're… not. Oh, the un-powered members of the Empire Eighty Eight know better than to disrespect your name where you can hear it —which is
everywhere— but as far as the so-called parahumans are concerned, you're just the Chief Henchwoman, and so they can get away with things that would've resulted in a bullet through their skulls otherwise.
So, nevermind that you do more to keep the Empire running on a
Sunday than Hookwolf has done all his life. Nevermind that he's a stupid, anglo-descended
brute who wouldn't know racial theory or National Socialism if it hit him in the face, or that he's the sort of deplorable who thinks forcing dogs to fight to the death is
amusing. And nevermind that you
know where they all live.
Close your eyes. Breathe. In. Out. Just like you taught your Sunflower. Your Rachel.
(She might be born from your soft-headed brother and his simpering wife, but she's all
you.)
You have to head this off. Kaiser, for all his faults —which are
many—, is a pragmatic man. The Empire as it stands needs Hookwolf, but it also needs your operatives securing their safe-houses, your agents gathering information… and your money, every so often. And that gives you enough leverage to, every so often, get a few words in.
You pick up the other phone, and dial the number. You wait, and think of fire. Of gunsmoke and poison gas. Of steel and blood. Of the day you'll no longer need to suffer the indignity of treating subhuman filth like Hookwolf as your equals.
And you smile.
"Hello? Mr. Anders? It's me, Evangeline. There's something quite urgent that I'd like to discuss with you…"
You are Taylor Hebert, and you've befriended a lunatic.
You took a…
Okay. You
fell asleep for what felt like a second, and the next thing you know, Rachel got into
another confrontation with Sophia (you know, the Cape?).
Except this time, it ended with her
threatening to murder the trio if they didn't back off. You know. To Sophia. THE CAPE.
(Rachel tried to explain why she did that. Or justify it. You weren't in the mood to listen.)
What was left of lunch was spent yelling at each other, until the nurse emerged from wherever she'd gone and kicked the two of you out. Then you yelled at each other over telepathy until Sarah complained about it.
And after that… nothing. Silence. It's not until you're out the doors, backpack slung from your shoulders, trudging down the sidewalk, that the thought enters your head.
Did you just lose Rachel?
There's an impulse to turn around. Find Rachel. Say you're sorry. Say whatever it takes for her to not leave. You can't lose her. You
can't.
You shove the impulse away. What Rachel did was so absurdly,
comically wrong that you doubt you could force yourself to say otherwise. And she wouldn't abandon you. It's not something she'd
do.
What makes you so sure? You never thought Emma betray you, and look where you are now.
(What did you do wrong?
What did you do wrong?)
"'Sup!"
The voice jolts you from your introspection. You're standing at a street corner, as if waiting for the walk signal to turn green. Except you've been standing there for long enough that the few people out are giving you
looks.
Ignore them. Turn. Leaning against a building wall is the last… well,
second-last person you want to see right now. An inch or two shorter than you, brunette hair brushing her shoulders. Fair skinned, with green eyes, and a smile that seemed to be permanent.
"Sarah," you say, in a tone of voice meant to tell someone that
you are not in the mood for shenanigans.
Sarah gleefully ignores it.
"So," she says, pushing off the wall and moseying over, "since your girlfriend and you are having a fight, how about you and me have a chat, hm?"
«The Clinic?» she offers over telepathy. «My treat!»
[-] "Sarah."
[-] "Sarah…"
[-] "Sarah!"
[-] "Sarah!"
Sarah hasn't done anything in particular to endear herself to you —to the point that you suspect that she's making a point of it. In fact, she hasn't sought you out at all. Until now. What does she want?
[-] You are not in the mood to deal with whatever game she wants to play with you. Fuck this. 
.
