"Hey," someone said, tapping my shoulder. "You got a pencil?"
I did, and I fetched one from my backpack—but he was seated to my right, which was a pain, because it meant that I'd had to contort myself, crane my left arm around my front to get the pen to him.
"Thanks," he whispered, taking the pencil, frowning at my exertions. And then I saw it: the moment it clicked in his mind, those wide eyes, that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face that I always hated. It was the moment that he'd noticed that my right arm was artificial, that it was a milky-gray plastic instead of regular skin.
"Uh—sorry," he said.
They were always
sorry. It was like clockwork, the way these conversations went, like they were all reading off a script.
"Sorry for what?" I asked testily.
He averted his gaze, turning back to his notebook with a conspicuous amount of haste. "Nothing," he said.
Three years, and people were still feeling sorry for me. I was sick of it. I'd made huge strides since the end of the world, but it still sucked knowing that I wasn't at a hundred percent capacity, and that I might never be.
He scribbled something down onto the page, and then froze. "Shit," he muttered.
I glanced his way. "What?"
"Nothing," he said quickly. His fingers tightened around my pencil, a nervous little motion of skin against lacquered wood. And then he bit his lip. "Uh—do you happen to have an eraser?"
He thumbed the end of the pencil, where the eraser had been used all the way down and gone dry. I grabbed a white block eraser from my bag and repeated the whole annoying contorting-turning process over again.
"Thanks," he said. He scrubbed something from his page, paused, and looked at me. "I'm Sal," he said.
He was a lithe, thin guy, with short brown hair that somewhat resembled my current hairstyle—except his was uneven, like he'd cut it himself without access to a mirror.
I hope my hair doesn't look like that.
"Taylor," I replied curtly. And then we hushed down, because the professor had just arrived, and class was about to begin. The students quieted in their seats, the professor grabbed a piece of chalk, and soon enough the room was filled with the gentle scratches of pen to paper and a barely-audible speech about matrix multiplication.
It was impressive how
normal everything was here. I'd expected something like tents or trailers—temporary buildings, ramshackle construction—but this was just an ordinary lecture hall, the same as any other, complete with perpetually frosty air conditioning and big chalkboards that slid up and down. Everyone here wore normal looking clothes and had normal looking books. You could walk into this room and never realize that this was Earth Gimel, barely three years after the end of the world.
The professor was a younger man, somewhere in his late twenties—the kind of guy that had way too much energy and used it to talk at lightspeed. With my poor penmanship, it was hard to keep up. I found myself grinding my teeth more often than not.
At the end of the hour, class ended, and Sal handed me my pencil and eraser back. "Thanks," he said, with a sheepish smile.
"Yeah." I tucked them away in my bag in their appropriate compartments—eraser went in the front pocket, pencil went in the larger one. It helped, being organized, and not necessarily with the missing arm. Being organized made me feel prepared, drew on the confidence I'd had when I was a cape. I wasn't Weaver or Skitter anymore, but I was channeling them, in part.
The good parts, I hoped. The
safe parts.
"You're headed off to another class?" Sal asked.
I shrugged. "Cape studies."
"Oh, with that new professor? I heard she's pretty good."
"I wouldn't know. Transferred over just this week."
It looked like he wanted to say something else, and I was reminded, painfully, of those moments in high school, with boys who'd demanded my attention because they'd thought we'd had some sort of solidarity, sharing a spot at the bottom of the social pecking order. They'd felt entitled to me and my time, and turned hostile when I didn't agree.
Please don't be one of those, I thought.
As if he'd read my mind, Sal awkwardly flashed two thumbs up. "Well," he said. "Good luck with that."
"Thanks," I said, silently relieved, throwing my backpack over my shoulders.
"And, uh…"
I stopped. There was a strange look in his eyes that had me fearing the worst. "What?"
"Stay safe, alright?" He glanced toward the window, which overlooked the parking lot, and the people crowded around in it. "I know what the dean said, but the protests are freaking me out. A lot of those guys are students, you know, or staff members off-hours. If I were you, I wouldn't be telling people that you're taking cape studies. Might, uh, set some of them off."
Of course—he was just worried about me. He'd looked at me, gauged me by my disability, and he'd made
assumptions. To him, I was helpless, weak, a damsel in distress. I didn't care. As long as he wasn't planning on playing the hero, forcing his way into my life, it didn't matter to me.
"I'll be fine," I said. "But thanks." The protesters had been hanging out there for the last two weeks, and they hadn't done anything yet—and even if they did, I'd faced worse than them before. A few signs and angry faces weren't enough to faze me.
The classroom itself ended up being difficult to find—it was set in a newer wing of the building, so the signs weren't put up yet, and I had to go through an awkward series of obscure hallways to get to it. And on top of it all, despite everything… I was nervous.
Cape studies brought me back to a shittier time in my life, when I was less certain, less confident—and on top of that, I wasn't quite sure that my new look would hold up against scrutiny. It'd been enough time after Gold Morning that I probably wasn't the first thought on everyone's minds anymore, but if anyone recognized me…
It wouldn't be good.
I shook my head. There was nothing to worry about. I'd been assured that Khepri wasn't exactly a household name—it was mostly only capes who were aware of what I'd done in the final days of the fight against Scion, and the chances of capes showing up in my class were slim.
And I was trying to move past all that. My powers were gone, my career was over, and my work was done. I'd cut and dyed my hair, changed my name, and said goodbye to my dad. I'd gotten new papers, new documentation, and I'd been examined by more Wardens than I could count. I was
clean. I'd left my old life behind in every way I could. All I wanted to do was attend my classes, earn my degree, and rebuild my life. In every way that mattered, I wasn't a threat anymore.
There was nothing to worry about.
I stepped into the classroom—a smaller, more intimate setting, about a quarter the size of a regular lecture hall—and sat down in the first available seat. I was early, give or take a few minutes, and nobody else was here.
The first few students filed in a couple minutes later, filling in the seats as they went along. There was an easy casualness to it all, the way they grouped themselves into their little cliques, the practiced motion of slinging bags into familiar little nooks. They'd all done it a million times before, and it showed.
And then the door swung open, and something like a chill ran up my spine as I looked at the newest entrant.
Stepping behind the front desk was a blonde woman in dark clothes, jacket tied around her waist. Old, faded scars criss-crossed her arms. My first thought was that I recognized her from somewhere, but I couldn't quite put my finger on where.
My second thought came after the room hushed down, and the woman spoke: at that point, her identity was unmistakable.
"Good morning, everyone. I hope you've all read through the Garcia article, or at least skimmed it, because today we'll be going through it in detail."
The more I watched her, the more I knew for sure that I
did know that face. It had been plastered everywhere when I was younger, on posters, on TV interviews, on news broadcasts. It was unavoidable. I'd even fought her before.
Victoria Dallon. Glory Girl.
⊙
"—telling you, it's
still not a good idea. If she blabs, or if somebody spots her, realizes who she is, the risk—"
"Falls on her. Khepri's gone, and she's not coming back. No one's bringing her agent back. If she breaks cover, it would only hurt her. She's not a threat to anyone else."
"You can't guarantee that."
"Sure I can. She's been thoroughly vetted. Valkyrie's confirmed it, Ms. Alcott's confirmed it. The numbers are
good—"
"Come on, Gilpatrick, you know that's bullshit. I was there at the meeting right next to you. I heard the numbers. Ninety-nine percent isn't one-hundred. I'm not willing to risk everything we've built on a roll of the dice, just so Weaver can run off to her old team and go back to being a villain."
I bristled at that, tapping my feet. I'd proven myself a dozen times over during my career in the Wards, but to these people, it might as well have never happened. Two years of results, one dead Endbringer, a week of the Wardens' doctors poking and prodding at me, and they couldn't even give me the benefit of the doubt. When they looked at me, all they could see was my past. But the past was gone, as far as I was concerned, and I wasn't planning on going back.
I would've told the board as much, but I'd been told in no uncertain terms to keep my mouth shut, and let my advocate do the talking. It probably wouldn't have helped anyway. Two years of Wards experience had taught me that meetings like these were all about keeping appearances, following the rules,
behaving.
Spirit of the law, not the word.
"And that's not even mentioning what'll happen if the anti-parahuman faction catches wind of her. One single slip-up, and we'll find ourselves in the same spot we were three years ago, putting out fires left and right. Tensions are already high. So when they learn what she did, when they learn that it's possible to remove someone's powers—"
"If."
"When they figure it out, it'll be my ass on the line. Accountability's supposed to be our heart and soul—and it'll be
my name and
my rubber stamp on the forms."
"You and a dozen other people, Marilyn. The Patrol Block isn't the only group signing off on this. If anything,
Dragon would take the hit before you would."
"It's not about blame. It's about the fallout, if things go wrong. It's about me being able to sleep at night, knowing the choices I've made. God, the fact that this is even on the table…"
I watched Marilyn's reaction closely, trying to piece together what she was thinking from the minute tightening of her eyes. As the acting Captain of the local branch of the Patrol Block, she was my final obstacle in the approval process. She had my life in her hands. If she said no, then I'd be shipped right back to Earth Aleph.
Marilyn met my eyes for the first time since the meeting had begun. "Weaver," she said. "Why do you want to be here? Why not stay on Aleph?"
"She already answered that in the documentation," Gilpatrick interjected. "Thoroughly. I know you've seen it."
She shook her head. "I need to hear it from her. I need to see her say it."
I'd spent years thinking about it, figuring out my thoughts on the subject, but in the end, it was so very simple. "I want to help," I said. "I want to do good where I can, and I can provide a lot more here than I could back in Aleph."
"That seems to run contrary to what you've said before, about moving on, staying out of cape politics."
"I did say that, and I meant it. The big things—the world-ending threats, Endbringers, Titans—I'm done with those. I've done my part. I'm talking about helping in smaller ways, supporting people."
"In what way?"
I shrugged. "There's a few options. In the long term, I'm thinking maybe teaching, or playing a support role in organizations like yours. Clerical stuff, public relations, management. I have a lot of experience that others don't."
"You'd be putting a spotlight on yourself."
"Not if I'm careful."
"It's inviting trouble. You made a lot of waves, back in the day—waves that we're still weathering today. Fragmenting the PRT, killing Alexandria. Khepri."
"I did," I said. "But those were different circumstances. We had the end of the world to worry about. The way I figured it, anything I could do to prevent or mitigate that was worth it in the end."
"And if some new threat arises, and you find yourself in the same position?"
"I won't, because I'm not putting myself in any leadership positions. If something happens, I'll step down, let others handle things."
"You never did that before."
"I'd like to think I've changed," I said. "New world, new me. Besides—I'm not exactly a cape anymore. I don't have powers."
She took that in with a nod, and for a short while, she just stared.
"I think," Marilyn said, folding her hands together, "that everything you've just said to me is bullshit."
I scowled. "Seriously?"
"Maybe it's not entirely bullshit, but there's something else there. Something you're not saying. You say you want to help, but you've played things off in vague ways, speaking in long-term plans, shotgunning answers. You haven't committed."
"I'm committed to
helping."
"You're leaving something big out, and if you want me to sign off on this, you need to say it."
I sighed, because she was right. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I had a vague image of helping, contributing to the world I'd left behind—but without my powers, without the mask, I wasn't sure what form I wanted that contribution to take. Working to make things better was a strong motivation for me, but it wasn't the strongest. Not even close.
No, there was one that stood tall above the others—one that had cut deep, gnawing on my bones. The
me of three years ago never would've admitted it, but I wasn't her anymore. I'd grown, moved on.
"I've been homesick," I said.
I'd missed my old friends, my old world. Living in Aleph had felt like living in a foreign country. My dad had settled in fine, built a new life, moved on, but I hadn't. When the portals had opened back up, he couldn't understand why I needed to go back so badly.
So I'd left him behind. It was fine; I was fine. He was happier where he was, and it wasn't like we wouldn't be able to contact each other. But I'd been so alone on Aleph, so
isolated that it had felt like drowning.
And Marilyn's lips tightened into an uneasy line. "Alright."
I frowned. "Yeah?"
"Gilpatrick—I need to talk to you. Alone."
"Right now?" he asked.
She nodded, standing. There was something
odd in the way she flashed a glance at me, and then set her phone down on the table. "It won't take long. Two minutes."
They left me alone in the conference room, with only the gentle whir of an air conditioning unit for company. This was a place designed for meetings of ten or more people, so I felt dwarfed by my surroundings. Not for the first time, I felt uneasy, like I was intruding here. They'd denied my application for entry to Gimel almost a dozen times already, and finally being here—it didn't feel like the success it should've been. I wasn't sure why.
And then Marilyn's phone rang—a cheery little jingle that grated on the ears. The display lit up, with the contact ID reading three ominous words: PICK ME UP.
I glanced toward the closed door. Marilyn and Gilpatrick were
gone, out of earshot, nowhere to be seen or heard. The way Marilyn had looked at me before—that had to have been some kind of signal, and my pulse quickened. What exactly had I gotten myself into?
I picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Grass, L. Hey, kiddo."
And my heart skipped a beat, because I knew that voice.
"Leaf, A," I said, and it was like time had frozen. It felt like there was suddenly a lump in my throat the size of a bowling ball, squeezing my lungs from the inside out. "Lisa," I breathed.
Lisa. When was the last time we'd spoken? My memories of Gold Morning were still fuzzy, after everything. It was hard to think back to those days, sending me back down dark paths I wasn't sure I wanted to follow.
"Don't strain yourself. We don't have a lot of time. Two minutes—let's make them count." She paused.
"It's good to hear your voice again, Taylor."
"It's good to hear yours," I said.
"Yeah. Let's get the pleasantries out of the way. You want to know about us? Rachel's doing well with her people. Brian had a rough time during Gold Morning, but he's healthy and happy now. Aisha's still with her Heartbroken. Foil and Parian are lovey-dovey, as usual."
"And you?" My voice felt oddly weak.
"I'm great. Really. How are you? How's your dad?"
"I'm fine. Coping. My dad's… he's dating again. Met someone new."
"That's great. Happy for him. Okay, now, listen to me, Taylor, because we don't have long. You can't see us. You can't come find us."
I had to admit: it stung, hearing that from her. I understood her point, but it still stung. "People wouldn't recognize me," I said, pulling the phone closer. "If that's what you're worried about. I've changed my appearance, my name—"
"I know. But we can't take the risk. Look, it's taken a lot of work to get you back to Gimel. I had to pull a lot of strings to set things up. What you have to understand is that it's an extremely delicate balance now—a house of cards. Breathe too hard and it all comes crumbling down—on top of you, me, and the rest of the Undersiders."
Of course. It all made sense now. "You're the reason my application was approved."
"Yeah, and it took a hell of a lot of work, and a hell of a lot of favors. I had to put myself into a really precarious spot for this. So I'm sorry, Taylor, honestly—but you can't see us. You can't come back to the cape scene—"
"I wasn't planning on it." I took a breath. "It's been three years. I've figured that I have to move on."
"That's good. Great, even. Keep that in mind, because I need you to do me a favor: you have to stay away from capes. If anyone sees you, recognizes you, figures you out? We're all fucked. Right now, things are heating up on Gimel. It's a powder keg, and you're the hottest match I can think of."
I swallowed. "If it's that bad, why bring me back?"
"Come on. You really gotta ask? Because you're one of us, Taylor, no matter what."
It was like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. It was a stupid thought to have, but I wasn't sure that I'd be forgiven—not after what I'd done at Gold Morning. Not after I'd hurt my friends.
"Welcome back, Taylor."
"It's good to be back," I said, clinging to the phone like it was a lifeline.
"Thirty seconds. Marilyn will be back soon, and she'll sign off on this. No doubt about it. So—this is goodbye. Unless we're in some really dire circumstances, you probably won't hear from me again anytime soon."
"Okay." It came out like a whisper.
"Enjoy your stay, alright? Live your life, go to school. Get that happy ending that you deserve. Just stay away from capes. No heroics."
"No capes," I promised her. It was the least I could do, after everything. "Goodbye, Lisa."
"See ya, Skitter."
⊙
"If you'd all flip to the article right now, we'll begin," Glory Girl said. "I'll provide some background, and then we'll open things up for discussion."
Shit. I can't be here.
I glanced toward the door, which was firmly shut. This was a smaller space, with about twenty people in it at most, so there was no way I could slip out without making myself conspicuous. Had Glory Girl seen me yet? She'd looked my way once or twice, but hadn't shown any signs that she'd recognized me.
But it was only a matter of time.
Papers rustled; laptops clicked to life. "So," Glory GIrl said, turning on the projector. How she did it, I wasn't sure—she seemed to wave a hand, and the remote pressed itself all on its own. A new power? "Starting off. Peter Garcia. I'm sure most of you know this already, but to cover all the bases, we'll begin with the obvious. He's the current rising star in the mayoral race, with all the polls projecting a solid chance for him to win next year's election. Already, he's neck-and-neck with Braun."
A slide appeared on the screen: an average-looking man in a suit, with longer hair tied back in a bun. The suit was ill-fitting, a little too big and and a little too formal, contrasting with his easy smile. He looked more like a high school teacher or a tech start-up flunkie than a politician.
"And he's also known for his connections to the anti-parahuman movement," she said. "It's no secret that he's a controversial topic right now."
"That hasn't been proven, has it?" a guy in the front row asked. "I thought those were just rumors."
"There are enough substantiated claims that it's more or less confirmed. He worked directly for Gary Nieves, and he's been playing up the image of being his successor. Plus—"
The slide changed to an image of Garcia at a protest, a sign with an anti-parahuman slogan clutched in his hands.
"—he doesn't exactly hide it. He's something of an open book."
The guy in the front row shut up.
"I realize that, as a cape myself, I'm pretty biased here, but I'll try to do my best to get the objective facts down before I start giving my judgments on things."
I started packing my things into my backpack, slipping my notebook into the main pocket as casually and quietly as I could. It was difficult, not being able to hold my bag open with my other hand. The fabric sank into itself, and I found myself carefully digging at the small space with bated breath.
And I found myself annoyed by the inanity of it all: it was a fucking backpack. It shouldn't have been difficult to quietly stow a book into a backpack, and yet it was.
"—argues that parahuman powers shift the power dynamic between government and civilians, and that there's no recourse in the current structure of things if that imbalance grows too large. So he's proposing limits. It's something that's been talked about before—evening the playing field between parahumans and non-parahumans. In the old world, there were plenty of laws in this vein—NEPEA-5, the Walther Act, things along those lines."
I zipped my backpack, wincing at every little sound, and slung it over my shoulders. As quickly as I could, I moved for the door.
And it was then that Glory Girl frowned, looking my way. It was a casual thing—a minute twisting of her lips, a barely-perceptible turning of her head. The rest of the class probably didn't notice or care, but I did. She was looking at me. She
saw me.
I hurried out the door. I heard a muffled 'Give me a second' behind me, and a moment later, Glory Girl had stepped out into the hall, following me. The door swung shut on its own, and she caught me halfway down the hall. We were alone, save for the barely-audible chanting of protests out the window and distant lectures echoing through closed doors, surrounded by dusty walls and faded posters advertising long-passed events.
And Glory Girl was just standing there, blocking off half the pathway, staring at me like she'd seen a ghost. Fuck. I had to get her off my back, and fast.
"I'm sorry," I said, forcing an awkward, strained smile. "I think I was in the wrong room. This is 206, right? I'm supposed to be in—"
"Weaver," she said, and I shut up.
There was something in the way she looked at me that made everything click together—a too-familiar, too-neutral expression. It was clear as day. "You're not surprised to see me."
She shook her head. "Gilpatrick told me ahead of time."
Of course.
"You know Gilpatrick?"
"He's an old friend. He wouldn't have let me walk into this blind."
Damn it. Damn
him. "He let
me walk into this blind."
"He's a good guy," she said. "If he didn't tell you, I'd say it slipped his mind rather than think he did it intentionally." She looked me up and down. "I'd say you've done a pretty good job with your appearance. It's different enough that I wouldn't have immediately placed you—but for anyone in the know, the missing arm is a dead giveaway."
I scratched my arm, just above where the plastic met skin. "Believe me, I realize that. But there's not much I can do about it."
"Well," she said slowly, "I'm in contact with some capes that can make prosthetics—realistic ones. I wouldn't be able to promise anything, but—"
"No capes," I said quickly. "I shouldn't even be talking to you, Glory Girl."
"Call me Victoria," she corrected. "And—is that just a precaution you're taking, or is it because you're obligated to avoid them?"
"Part of my conditions for coming back here. With some exceptions, I can't reach out to any parahumans."
"Some exceptions," Victoria said. "Your old team?
Teams?"
"Team," I said. "I've had a chance to catch up with the Undersiders, but it was a one-time thing. I've said my goodbyes, left things on good terms, and that's it."
Lisa could reach out to me anytime she wanted, of course. Knowing her, there were a million different ways she could do it.
"I'm in contact with Golem and Cuff," I said. "Plus my handler in the Wardens. As far as cape contacts go, that's it."
"Your handler. Defiant?"
I nodded. Old connections from my Wards days; heroes. I wasn't sure if I was allowed contact with them because they were supposed to be positive influences on me, or if it was because they were supposed to be reporting on me to their bosses. I supposed it didn't really matter either way. I was
encouraged to meet them, with the implication that it would be a strike against me if I didn't.
"I meet Defiant once a week," I said. It harkened back to the early days after leaving the Undersiders—those short visits we'd had when I was in juvie. It wasn't exactly the most pleasant comparison, but it fit: brief, impersonal, painless. "Golem and Cuff, I meet more often."
"Regular check-ins?"
"Something like that."
They'd invited me to lunch to catch up, and I'd reluctantly accepted. It wasn't a regular thing, and I didn't think it would ever be. We weren't friends, in the end, even after all we'd gone through—and really, it was my own fault. If I'd made the effort when I was a Ward, maybe we'd have more of a connection now.
"I'm not sure if that's a good idea for you," Victoria said.
I frowned. "Why not?"
"Well—full disclosure, I've done my research on you. I've looked through old files, watched all your interviews. I was piecing things together, after the end of the world, you know?"
I shrugged. "Sure."
"Forgive me if I'm wrong or overstepping here, but the picture I get of you is that you tend to get
involved in things. If a door is open to you, you'll take it." She paused. "Golem and Cuff are active heroes."
Come on. Didn't she think I knew that?
"I realize that. That's why we meet outside of that context," I said. "Look, I'm not in a hurry to get back into fighting." I lifted my right arm, stiffly raising the prosthetic. "I'm not in any shape to fight, anyway, remember?"
Victoria nodded, but didn't do or say much else. I got the feeling that she was conceding the point, but not really agreeing with me, which was
annoying. She was tabling my point without refuting it, leaving it hanging to be used against me later. She was judging me. Maybe I was being too judgmental back, but I'd spoken to enough bad therapists to know the type.
"Gilpatrick told me about you, so I'm sure the Wardens know about you being in my class. I'm probably on your list of exceptions." Then she bit her lip. "I do have to say," she began, "I'm not sure I'm entirely comfortable with this. Sensitive information comes up a lot in this class. War stories, personal anecdotes, that kind of thing. I try to avoid touchy subjects, but I'm not infallible. Things get out, and, well…"
"This is a public setting," I pointed out. "Everything you say here is going to be out in the open, whether or not I'm actually sitting in the room."
"But it'll affect things, knowing that you're listening, getting a live reaction of everything that comes out of my mouth. You get what I'm saying?"
I was reminded of Dragon's warning to me: that it would be harder than I thought to leave my past behind, even with a fresh identity. Here was the first hurdle, and I was already stumbling over it.
"...Yeah," I said. There was a bitter taste on my tongue. "Yeah. Sorry. I get it." I glanced toward my class schedule. "I've still got a few days to drop out of this class. I need to take an ethics course, but it doesn't have to be this one."
"No, that's not what I'm saying. You don't have to leave. Gilpatrick told me about you, and I could've vetoed your joining my class. But I didn't. I okayed you."
I frowned. "Even though you're uncomfortable with me."
"Mm. I let you sign up, because from what I've been told, you've been trying to put your best foot forward, and I don't want to get in the way of that. That's the idea behind all of this, isn't it? The general amnesty, the new world. It's all about moving on, taking second chances and running with them."
It was more like a third chance for me, considering.
"You're sure about this? Because it sounds like you're putting yourself in a shitty position for someone you don't really know."
She flashed a wry smile. "That's part of being a hero, I'd think. My point is—I'm putting a decent amount of trust in you. I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt. Please don't make me regret it. Be careful, don't advertise your past, and please, don't share anything I say with your old friends—especially Tattletale."
"I won't. I wouldn't. I'm not in contact with them, anyway. I'm just trying to move on with my life, leave my past behind me. That's all. I'm not Skitter or Weaver anymore. I'm just… Taylor. Taylor Moore", I added, remembering my new identity. I'd borrowed the last name from my old employee, Forrest. At Gold Morning, he'd asked if there was anything he could do for me—and at the time, there wasn't. I hoped he wouldn't mind too much.
"Glad to hear it," Victoria said. "I'll hold you to that." She turned toward the door. "I should get back to it before people start falling asleep. You coming?"
I straightened my backpack. "Yeah."
I followed her, taking it all in. Victoria was so different from what I'd remembered—the picture I'd built of her was more arrogant, more self-assured. I wasn't sure if she'd changed since then, or if my view of her was skewed, based on old TV interviews and the few conflict-laden times we'd encountered each other. It wasn't like we'd had many interactions, after all—the first time we'd met was on opposite sides of a bank robbery.
It was strange, seeing this other side of her. It had me wondering what she must've thought of me.
Her hand was halfway to the door handle when we were interrupted by screams. Immediately, we both tensed. More screams rang out, followed by crashing booms that echoed through the halls and thumped my chest. My first instinct was to reach out for my bugs, only to be reminded that I no longer had them.
Damn it. I was in the dark, powerless.
I looked to Victoria for answers. "What's happening? You think it's the protesters?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." She looked down the hall, toward the source of the disturbance, and then back at me. "Can I trust you?"
I hesitated. "That depends on what you're going to say next."
"If I go investigate, can you watch over my class?"
"No powers, missing arm, remember? I can't protect them if it comes to that."
"I'm not asking you to. Keep them calm, keep things from falling apart. I've seen the way you talk to people. You've got a sense of presence, authority."
"Okay," I said. This was exactly the kind of thing I should've been avoiding, but I didn't see many other options here. Lives were on the line. Besides—it was a simple task: keep people from panicking. I could do that.
"You have a phone?"
"Yeah." It was part of the accommodations I'd been given after my approval had gone through—a phone, new documents, an apartment.
"Give me your number. If it comes to it, I'll ring you. Don't pick up. That'll be the sign to evacuate."
I started reciting my number, when suddenly, Victoria's phone buzzed. She stared at her screen, and her expression dropped. With each moment, her frown deepened further.
"What? Who is it?"
She shook her head. "Damn it," she said, showing me her screen. It took me a moment to comprehend what I was seeing. Text messages.
That Asshole: glory hole. show this to taylor, then get her out of there ASAP. extremely urgent, not a joke
That Asshole: R, red. Dire circumstances: cat's out of the bag. villain incoming. looking 4 u
