Memoirs of a Human Flashlight [Exalted/Worm]

[Golden Lark]

Scraped from here.

(ALL GLORY TO WILDBOW for Worm, characters, etc.)


Well, it seems Exalted and Worm crossovers are all the rage these days, and far be it from me to fail to jump on a bandwagon when I see one to give the people what they want . . .

Twilight Solar Taylor. Nope, no monstrous or unambiguously evil side effects to see here, no sir.

Please enjoy. All Worm characters and ideas and setting elements are Wildbow's. All Exalted stuff is White Wolf's.



Index:

Breath 1.1 (below)
Breath 1.2
Breath 1.3
Breath 1.4
Breath 1.5
Breath 1.6
Breath 1.7

Excellence 2.1.1
Excellence 2.1.2
Excellence 2.2.1
Excellence 2.2.2
Excellence 2.2.3
Excellence 2.2.4
Excellence 2.3.1
*******Begin thread 2*******
Excellence 2.3.2

***

Breath 1.1


One of the last conversations I had with my mother before she died was about bullying. We were sitting around after dinner one night watching TV while Dad was out late at work, and a special about bullying was on.

Mom chuckled at the saccharine advice from the talking heads to seek authority figures for help.

"That never works. The last thing on any teacher or administrator's mind is assisting students that actually need help. Don't listen to this crap if something like that ever happens to you."

I smiled slightly. My mom was pretty cynical sometimes.

"Listen to this guy. 'Figure out why they are bullying.' Screw that. No one cares why the rapist rapes, he's still scum. Same principle applies. Anyways, if you get this crap at some point, see if you can figure out how they do things. If you can't rely on the system that is supposed to protect you, see if you can't undermine the system that's screwing you. If that even makes any sense. Bullies follow social conventions like anyone else, and they can be countered, depending on how they operate."

There was a pause, and a commercial for the local Wards team played in the background. Mom looked at it for a second and laughed.

"Or, you could try that superhero help line thing. Somehow I think it will be worthless, but it couldn't very well make things worse, right?"

The idea was so dumb, but so amusing, I had to laugh. The Wards, busting in through the windows and doors of the classroom, coming down on some schoolyard quarrel as if they were actual super-criminals? It would be something.

***

About a month after she died, when Emma's campaign against me started in earnest, I remembered that conversation.

It cheered me up a bit. That night, I thought about it, and decided to bother with a e-mail to the line. What would be the harm?

A general description of a bullying campaign. Names withheld, even mine.

As expected, there was no response.

***

As the days passed, I kept my eyes open. I was not the only target Emma's group had; I was just the prime one. I kept my log of bullying events at home, not daring to keep it on my person at school.

On one hand I wanted to run, to avoid them, to hide- but I noticed a pattern since I was thinking about it. The longer it took them to find me, the harder their next action hit. If I was always available, then they tended to be less overtly cruel and creative, if not less frequent.

It still sucked ass, though.

Regardless, I was just one of many targets. On the rare occasions they were not after me and I was around, I could watch them work from the side.

I saw them go after another girl in the cafeteria once. Strangely, Emma wasn't in the lead. She was standing back with Sophia as Madison took the reins and laid misery down on their current target. Emma was looking . . . slightly uncomfortable? And hiding it. I knew her that well, at least. She was legitimately sneering when she was coming at me these days.

Sophia was giving the exact same cold glare and smile she always did. Her expression barely changed- but when it did, it was in response to the leader's actions, not the victim. Once, Emma almost raised a hand to intervene but a sharp glare and word from Sophia stopped her dead.

What?

Just when the session seemed finished, Sophia smiled a little wider and said something, and the leader flipped the victim's lunch tray onto her lap, lunch and all. Then they made a laughing exit from the cafeteria. The victim screamed; apparently the soup of the day was still hot.

Huh.

Why did this feel so weird?

Why was my stomach flipping in loops?

Sophia is the leader.

I was so traumatized by the idea of my former best friend attacking me that I completely failed to notice any other relevant details. Critical details.

***

Over the next couple days, my log began to account for Sophia's behavior in particular, and not just when the group targeted me. I strove to listen to them chattering in the same classes. I fought down my fear and listened, like my life depended on it. The new focus actually helped me ignore the actual bullying, to a degree.

Sophia wasn't just the leader. She was the bully. The other girls were just accessories. Interchangeable, even, depending on the situation. The same hollow cheerful social interaction, whoever her current friends were. The same subtly goading attitude.

Next came research. Common antisocial behavior patterns. Bullying studies. Mom said not to focus on the why, but I wasn't looking for sob stories. I was trying to confirm if the pattern I was seeing even required the aggressor to have one.

A few evenings of reading later, and I had my internet amateur diagnosis.

I might have gone crazy, but I was pretty sure Sophia Hess was a sociopath. Like, the dangerous kind. The slightest resistance, the merest flicker of self-defense got her pressing her cronies to double down on the violence.

And it was violence, even if it wasn't bruising physical battery most of the time.

I finally understood why I was so terrified when they were targeting me.

Somehow, I knew.

I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, if I fought back in any capacity . . . if I actually tried to challenge them on a fair playing field, I would lose. I would never go further than Sophia was willing to call and raise- or push Emma into calling and raising. I didn't have it in me. Emotionally, politically, or financially.

I studied the school rulebook. I studied the local law. The school rules were just blurry enough to be bent to mean anything to anyone, and no discrete penalties were applied to any specific offenses- so the richest lawyer would win, if it came to that.

Emma's dad was a very highly paid lawyer.

I laid out the nature of the situation in my head. I tried to figure out any action I could take within the rules and law. I considered actions I could take outside the rules and law.

It said something about society that all of the options that made the hurting stop also happened to classify as felonies.

***

When they stole my mom's flute from my locker, I didn't go back to school for the next few days.

***

After mulling over my earlier depressing realizations, I sent another letter to the Wards help line as a personal in-joke. Let it never be said Taylor Hebert didn't ask for help when she needed it. Ha.

This letter was more strongly worded, containing a new summary of the social dynamic, the box of laws and rules, and the complete lack of 'good' (as opposed to evil) options I had. It went on, extrapolating that the most concerning girl in question was a cancerous presence turning her own companions into hollowed out tumors on society as she groomed them each with their own personal reigns of terror. I didn't use quite so colorful language, but I did drop the terms sociopath and potentially extremely dangerous to students.

I also used some carefully worded sentences that indirectly implied I might be about to snap, myself- but nothing incriminating. Just enough to game whatever auto junk mail system they no doubt employed. Suicide watch, school shooter watch, whatever- anything to attract some attention without threatening or seeming okay enough to ignore.

Once again, there was no response the next day.

***

Somewhere, in the dozens of sub-processes indirectly under Dragon's control, a server at the Brockton Bay PRT building cross-referenced some trigger words and with names in a database. Taylor's two e-mails had been taken, filed, and deemed not worth the resources to follow up on for potential public relations gain; no human (or conscious AI) ever laid eyes on them personally. That changed after her mother's name was cross referenced by the system during a routine tagging pass, and everything about Annette Hebert's life and previous associations gave a slight boost in priority to her daughter's words. The e-mails (which had been traced and de-anonymized as a matter of course before archival) were brought up and re-analyzed. A particular combination of factors lined up appropriately; Taylor could be at risk of associating with sympathetic villainous forces. In addition, as she was at North High, there was already a Wards member on site. The resource expenditure could be minimized and points could be gained in the public eye if concrete evidence of the bullying behavior was found. Lawyers could only do so much against the PRT if they had Tinker-tech recordings of brutal behavior from their clients on public property, after all.

A new blip appeared on the Wards' team to-do list, with a preference note for Shadow Stalker. It stayed up on the board for a couple days until Clean-Up day, the day one member had to sit down and go over all the low priority stuff that had been ignored if nothing was currently on fire, screaming for help, or blowing up.

***

Clockblocker sat down at his personal terminal and sighed.

"I fucking hate Clean-Up Day."

He scrolled through a bunch of bulletin board items. The one saving grace of Clean-Up Day duty was that he got to parse out the assignments as he saw fit. That meant the week before you were on duty, your teammates might suck up a bit in the hopes you didn't shit on them with a day of litter clean-up or graffiti removal. As Clockblocker was cheerfully vindictive, he didn't hesitate in passing out crap duties with a smile. Sure, he'd get shit later, but . . . fuck it. This was one of his few opportunities to vent.

He got to the North High entry, glanced over the report. Minor suicide risk, bullied girl, loss of mother. Nothing too major, just some teen that probably wanted a shoulder to cry on.

Not that he wanted to play white knight.

He almost hit the 'assign' button to send it to the default Ward, and froze.

Shadow Stalker?

Providing emotional support?

Kid Win was walking by outside his room. He waved.

"Dude, check this out."

His teammate walked up and read the report, not particularly reacting until he got to the default assignee.

"Ah, haha, holy crap. I think her level of help would be to fire a bolt in this girl's shoulder and tell her to man up."

"Yeah, that's about what I was thinking. Who the hell decided it was a good idea to-"

Shadow Stalker tossed them a glare as she strode by his doorway.

"-sell these things for ten times their market value! It's highway robbery!" he recovered without missing a beat.

Once they were fairly certain Sophia was out of earshot, Kid Win replied.

"I'll give it a shot. Hell, I've been meaning to test out a new idea, and this girl would be perfect, if nothing else. If we catch the bullies in the act, we just drop Sophia on them like a rabid honey badger without telling her what's going on. She'll scare them so shitless they'll never look at a classmate sideways ever again." Kid Win wasn't the crudest speaker on the team by far, but like most of them, for Shadow Stalker he could make an exception.

"Heh. Sounds good, I'll leave it in your capable hands."

***

Three days into my self-imposed social exile, my e-mail app dinged.

After a few minutes of lethargic apathy, I pulled myself up and checked my inbox.

A politely worded response from the local Wards. I almost deleted it before realizing that while the first portion of the mail WAS mass-copy letterhead, it was only a bunch of disclaimers and crap disavowing the local PRT branch from the opinions and beliefs expressed by any individual cape, etc. After all that, the actual message started.

Hey Taylor,

First off, sorry we know your name. It's automatically traced. I'm Kid Win with the BB Wards.

Condolences about your mom. That popped up too.

Regarding your bully problem, I might be able to help with that. If you're seeing everything you mentioned in your second mail, then I could easily get that kind of thing on camera. If you wouldn't object, I could send you a box of cloaked floating camera drones that could keep tabs on you just about everywhere but the girls' bathroom for a week. I can even include a panic button that will send them after you in places like that, if you feel you are actually in danger. I'll get notified too, in that case.

Needless to say, if you hit that button and cry wolf, it all goes away.

Also, final detail; if you'd be willing to share the names of your tormentors I can have them monitored within the bounds of the law on public property as well. I'm particularly concerned about your sociopath suspect. You might be the least of her victims.

Hope to hear back (and sorry for cyber-snoopiness),

Kid Win,
Brockon Bay Wards

I almost laughed. Camera drones? Following me around? It was beyond perfect. All I had to do was accept.

Accept, and return to school. In the face of those bitches. And stand there are take whatever they dished out until someone decided it was enough to go on.

I replied in the positive, and I listed the three names, pointing out Sophia as the danger.

***

A while later, Kid Win responded.

Taylor,

I'm still in, but I am going to get a better set of drones made for this. Avoid school until Monday, please. They will be on your doorstep by Sunday night.

-KW

Not sure how to react, I just accepted it. Dad wasn't putting the pressure on, and it's not like I wanted to return to class anyway.

***

Sunday, a box hit the doorstep as promised. I too it upstairs, opened it, and read the note. Basic instructions. Little control box with two buttons. The panic button, and a 'private area' button. Drones would not follow me into any clearly marked women's restroom or any door I entered while holding the privacy button. Click the privacy button twice to cancel a privacy designation. Click four times to decloak them for a moment to confirm they were still with me. Simple enough. They had power to last a week.

I took them out into the backyard, then activated each drone. They were golf-ball sized, and each one floated up and cloaked. After the last one was aloft, I held the privacy button and re-entered the house.

The next morning I walked a block away from home and quadruple-clicked. Eight little balls popped into existence in the air all around me, and vanished. Looked good.

***

A couple days into the week were relatively uneventful. A bit of token harassment, name calling and such, but nothing serious. Then we had gym, after class and Emma's locker surprise happened. I had hesitated to hit the locker room, hoping they would be gone before I went in. I was wrong.

Three of them dragged me into the appropriate row a lockers. As one let go to open the 'special' locker I mashed the privacy button twice through my jeans. As they shoved me towards it I realized what I was about to experience.

Before I was all the way in, I decided to get anything I could out of them while they felt like gloating. The cameras should be in here. I turned a bit while struggling

"Emma, what would your parents think - let go!- about being involved with this kind of filth?"

Not my best line, I admit. Still, she bit.

"Taylor, I think we both know that no one will take your word against mine. After all, if they would, you've have gone and reported on us a long time ago, right? Or maybe, ha, you already have!"

With this last word, she threw her weight into me and I stumbled forward. I was all the way inside. The door slammed shut. I felt the controller. I hit the panic button.

If this was crying wolf. I didn't care. If it got me out of this locker, I would consider the whole thing worth it.

Last chance.

"Actually, Emma, I meant Sophia, and how you exist now as nothing but her little bitch."

The giggling stopped for a second. Sophia's voice cut through, inflection calm.

"Oh? You seem to have a good eye for a weakling crybaby. Well, let's just say Emma improved her taste in friends."

Sociopath. Lies easily. Why would she befriend Emma? She's no 'stronger' than I am. No way. Oh. Right.

"Or," I interjected, "you're just being a smart aspiring criminal sociopath and got to know her to have a good lawyer on retainer."

There was some silence for a second, and then Sophia's voice cut through again.

"We're done here."

***

Kid Win had passed out a set of single-use limited teleport beacons to a set of volunteers on the Wards. He explained a bit about the situation, that it was a Clean-up Day duty Clock had slammed him with, and he might need a bunch of backup on very short notice. Paperwork was filed, and Arcadia High had a special series of 'split field trips' sending its students in small groups all over the city and local area for community service.

Most of the student body knew it was a Wards front for something, but no one could figure out what would be worth scrambling Arcadia's classes just to pull out a large number of them during the school day.

They were all out on various low-level tasks; the aforementioned litter cleanup and graffiti cleaning, etc. No one complained when their little wrist beacons blinked and beeped, warning them of an impending sudden teleport. Only Clockblocker cursed, as he was in the restroom and the timing was . . . utterly terrible. Fumbling with a zipper, he barely had time to assume a cocky pose before the world went scrambled and he appeared in . . . a dimly lit locker room?

He saw Sophia and two other girls snapping their heads around in surprise. Other Wards popped into being all around them. Sophia seemed to come to some realization, as she turned to a locker and yelled,

"That tattling little freak!"

Clockblocker dove forward, nailing the other two girls with his power, freezing them in time- cursing internally as his hand passed through Sophia as expected. He hit the ground hard, cursed externally, then rolled away as Kid Win tossed some kind of electrified net down over her. She jerked and staggered, then jumped up almost to the ceiling in her shadow form. Fortunately she didn't get high enough to escape, and she came back down.

Clockblocker moved forward, ready to tag her if she phased back in to avoid that electro-net. She obliged.

What he didn't expect was for her to fling something at the locker she had looked at earlier before she hit the ground.

"TAYLOR!" Kid Win yelled.

Clockblocker tapped and froze Sophia after she landed as she jerked from the net once again and phased back to solid; then he flinched in pain as the world went white.

***

I could barely see out the vent of the locker door. Motion, sound.

I didn't know why they showed up in such force. I didn't know how. All I knew is that I had won, utterly and completely. My effort, my research, my observations, my refusal to back down- my willingness to ask for help- was all rewarded.
I didn't expect the crashing or the cursing. I didn't expect the yelling. I could only see floor and feet through the downward-pointing vent. I didn't expect a knife to come flying down towards the middle of the locker door.

A translucent knife. Time seemed to slow as I slammed myself backwards in my tiny prison and tried to raise my arms. It passed through the door as if it wasn't there. I was wondering how I even had enough light to see it when everything went white.

A moment later, the locker door was torn off.

Groans and cries of pain greeted me along with the fresh air. Everyone was averting their gaze and/or squinting from some intense brightness increase.

"Oy, gimme a break, who called for the lightshow?" whined someone who I'd later realize was Clockblocker.

The Brockton Bay Wards, or a decent portion of them, were in the locker room, with Clockblocker apparently having frozen all three girls; Sophia on the ground, tangled in some sort of electrified net in addition to Clockblocker's time-freeze. A couple others, their names escaped me at the moment, were flanking the area and preventing anyone else from entering the locker room.

As everyone's vision came back, all eyes gravitated between my stomach and my forehead.

Just in front of my t-shirt, a glowing, golden force field seemed to be holding back the throwing knife. It faded, and the weapon clattered to the floor.

Throwing knife? What the hell?

Slightly dazed, I stumbled out of the locker, taking the hands of the two Wards to either side. Vista peered behind me, looking at what was with me in there.

"Were those . . . oh, ew!"

I turned and saw the old, dried out and sun bleached . . . used disposable feminine hygiene implements. They had been quite ripe and not exactly dry when I was fist pushed in there.

There was a crackling from the floor. We looked down and watched as the paint on the concrete faded and started peeling up in chips.

"Think fast!"

I started as a tarp someone grabbed from somewhere was thrown over my head from the side.

I stood there dumbly as the commentary started.

"OK, so she's glowing. But she's not glowing, the air all around her is glowing. So we can't actually cover her up to put it out."

"Hey, check out her forehead."

My forehead?

"Holy crap, it's shining through the tarp."

What? What?

The tarp came off. Vista knocked the boys upside the head once each.

"Be more considerate you jerks! Also, get the hell out, this is a girls' locker room!"

Mumbling and grumbling followed as I was taken and gently pulled towards the exit. The tarp was actually put back over me, more as a shroud/sheet, and I was guided out to a Protectorate vehicle.

I saw the unmistakable figure of Miss Militia pass by going the other way, followed by Armsmaster. Neither was smiling, though they did each give me a nod as they passed by. Still confused, I nodded back, and then I was in the van.

Wait. Glowing. Energy shield. That wasn't them.

It was me?

I triggered?

As the van started moving, I came out of my daze just enough to realize that this, perhaps, was turning out to be the best day of my life.

 

[Golden Lark]

Breath 1.2

A few things happened in rapid succession after that.

My father was called and brought in from his workplace. By the time he arrived, I had almost completely stopped glowing.

He was with me in one of the waiting rooms for a while. It was . . . very posh. The seats were soft leather, and I was sipping quite possibly the most divine coffee I had ever tasted. Something in the back of my mind was figuring what kinds of guests the PRT needed to butter up like this the most, and ranking them in order of importance. The rest of my mind was sort of on repeat: Oh my god I'm going to be a hero!

Dad noticed me zoning out.

"You okay, kiddo?"

"Sponsors, politicians, parents of recruits, recruits . . ." I muttered.

"Taylor?"

I blinked and returned to the moment.

"Ah, sorry Dad. I'm fine. I was just, ah-" I tried to find a diplomatic way to explain my line of thought.

Thankfully, I was saved by our hosts.

"She was making a very nice list of who tends to visit this room the most often. But she forgot the Wards and the Protectorate capes themselves- we do get to indulge in this sort of thing too. It's not just a front for the guests."

And with a grandiose bow, Clockblocker made his entrance, followed by a heavyset woman in a suit. A frowning woman, for a moment, after that remark, but then she put on a smile as she reached out to shake Dad's hand as we stood up.

"Director Emily Piggot, Brockton Bay PRT. Thank you for coming, Danny, Taylor." She nodded to both of us in turn and we all sat down. She set a folder on the small table and gestured to Clockblocker.

"You've met this one already, Taylor." The boy in question's face, or what was visible of it, gaped in an exaggerated expression of distress as he was dismissively introduced. "What you may not have known is that he was the one who first noticed your letter, and routed it to Kid Win. The system was ready to pass it to the closest Ward to your situation by default.

She looked at me, expectantly. I frowned and thought for a moment. Observations. The knife. Phasing. The locker door wasn't perforated, if my passing glance during my exit was correct. Sophia threw the knife. Sophia phased a knife through a solid surface. Wards that had the ability to phase matter.

"Shadow Stalker?" I mumbled, surprised at myself for remembering such trivial details.

"Hell yes! Kid Win owes me fi- urk," Clockblocker choked back his enthusiasm at Piggot's glare. She cleared her throat.

"Indeed. You are aware of Sophia Hess as Shadow Stalker, via no real fault of your own. I will admit that, while Kid Win did undertake certain liberties after hearing your accusation, at no point did you do anything improper. That much I can assure you. While we would have handled things differently if this situation had been properly escalated via the chain of command, the end result is Shadow Stalker's removal from the Wards roster, as a violation of her earlier probationary status as a vigilante that was too eager to use lethal force.

Dad and I both blinked at that. I spoke up:

"And if procedure had been followed?"

"There was a very real chance nothing would have happened. Ideally Sophia would have been moved or punished, but her tenacity to get to the bottom of things she considers personal may have very well allowed her to figure out the source of her woes.

My expression must have shown my feelings one that. Piggot's frown intensified.

"In your letter you more or less diagnosed her as dangerous. While I am not at liberty to reveal the private medical records of anyone without a warrant, I can say that due to the likely results of such a situation, we are being . . . uncharacteristically lenient on the Wards that were involved in taking this situation into their own hands. This time. We tend to be quite serious when it comes to parahumans in our employ following the rules." She glanced over at Clockblocker, and he gave a tiny nod. My brain whirled again, and tried to parse it.

"What the Director just said is the whitewashed version. Right now I will come out and say it: Shadow Stalker was a bitch, everyone hated her, and we love you for helping us get rid of her. The powers that be want every single cape of any combat value at all in their pocket, so they are willing to tolerate certain levels of . . . eccentricity. This includes sociopathic power tripping divas, so long as they don't break any laws and follow the rules. I'm sitting here saying this without having my tongue ripped out because you would have heard it eventually anyway, if you stick around, and blurting it out right here during an official meeting means you get the raw story up front before you make any decisions. In other words: we might find another Sophia, and she might be invited to the Wards. We're making sure you're cool with that idea up front before going over the rest of the shiny salespitch-"

"That's enough, thank you Clockblocker," Piggot interjected. "As he said, that's more or less the biggest reason we can think of off the top of our heads that you might not join. Beyond that, we can discuss the details and any other questions you or your father might have, Taylor."

I nodded, and flipped open the folder, and started reading stuff and passing it over to Dad. Eventually discussion began, and we were clearing ourselves up on the details, but from the moment he had first arrived in the waiting room and sat down, I had more or less told him how this visit was going to end.

I was going to become a Ward, if they'd take me. The rest was just details.

***

After the Director left, Clockblocker took Dad and I on an impromptu tour of the Wards building. He cheerfully rambled on about this and that, and I was half listening and half suffering from information overload when he suddenly grabbed my full attention.

"-and I definitely wouldn't want to be Kid Win right now. Poor guy, no good deed goes unpunished."

I creased my brow in concern.

"Why?"

"Because those cute teleporters he made? Linked to the camera drones? They weren't tested."

He stopped mids-tep and spun around. Dad and I stopped walking too.

"Right, you don't know. In a nutshell: Tinkers make cool stuff. Most of the time it even works! However, sometimes it works with side effects. So, all new Tinker tech is supposed to pass a bunch of tests before field use on non-volunteers. Armsmaster did a scan of that locker room and detected, well, lots and lots of radiation. Not the cancer-in-three-days kind, but like, a crapton of X-rays and such. There's a reason we don't just do cool crap like teleporting everywhere. Fast, energy-efficient, and healthy: pick two. Kid Win apparently picked the first two this time; it was a weekend rush job."

I suddenly felt slightly nauseous. Guilt? Clockblocker must have noticed, because he went on,

"Oh, don't worry. He'll just have to do a bunch of paperwork and deal with the complaints of a bunch of angry parents. Like I said before: you got rid of Shadow Stalker, and that makes you awesome by default. I don't think any of us would have dared to, uh, stalk her like that of our own volition, given how she'd react if we got caught. You have no idea just how screwed you would have been if she had caught on."

I was beginning to get the idea. I moved a hand to my stomach were the knife would have hit. Clockblocker turned and started walking again.

"Anyways, don't worry about Kid Win. It was a worthy sacrifice, and I'm sure he'll get over his bureaucratic spanking soon enough. Hell, he scored double, ditched Sophia and recruited us a beautiful new addition to the team."

He spun as he walked for that line, giving me a leering grin. My dad's expression morphed into something between a frown and a death glare, but I could tell he wasn't nearly as mad as he might have been otherwise. I decided to intervene on his behalf.

"Flattery will get you nowhere. I am aware of my own lanky nerdiness, thank you very much. There is no need to rub it in with false compliments."

He turned back to me and opened his mouth to respond, but froze and frowned. Once again, we stopped as he flipped through the folder and found what he was looking for.

"Ah, damn, your photo doesn't do you justice. Actually, when was this taken? Mr. Hebert, call me crazy, or is this odd?" He passed a paper to my dad, who looked down at it, looked up at me, back and forth, and blinked.

"He, ah, might be on to something, kiddo. You sure you didn't have a TV crew work you over before I got here?"

What? What the hell?

I grabbed the paper and looked. School photo of me, as skin and bones as ever. I bee-lined for the nearest restroom and looked in the mirror.

That morning I had a particularly nasty pimple on one cheek waiting for its chance to strike. It was gone. As were some of my less flattering facial features. Flaws gone, symmetry enhanced. My hair was . . . shining, almost. Not greasy, but just, more lustrous than I or any salon had ever gotten it. I staggered back outside.

"I've been airbrushed. I feel violated."

Clockblocker busted out laughing.

"Not just a human flashlight, a human photoshop! You have the best power set!"

I was not amused by the sarcasm. I informed him.

"No no no no hear me out! First you're too bright to look at and attack, then you're too pretty to attack, and even after all that if someone does take a shot your light glowing shield thing no-sells it. You might actually be invincible. This is perfect! What's next, you tell a joke and people laugh too hard to attack? Oh, man, I wish I had that power instead of this one."

Dad ruffled my hair with a grin and the tour resumed. I felt the distress from my appearance change melting away. If this was the worst I had to go through for this, I'd take it without regret.

 

[Golden Lark]

Breath 1.3

Paperwork.

I didn't believe how many forms, contracts, and other minutia were necessary for this. I was back in the 'waiting room' and busy signing away what seemed like my soul and firstborn child. After finishing yet another non-disclosure agreement, this one about Protectorate members schedules, I threw down my pen and took a break.

I stood up, stretched, and went to the supercoffee machine. Picking another ever-less-likely coffee flavor, I refilled my cup and let my mind wander for a while. Dad had gone back to work with his own bundle of papers. He only left me with one piece of advice: 'Don't sign anything without reading it top to bottom.' Mom had said something similar a few years back, after an unfortunate incident regarding her pay for one year at the university. So, I had been taking it to heart, actually reading each form beginning to end, making my eyes hurt in the process. The temptation to just start signing to get it over with was great, but I refused to give in.

After all, if I couldn't handle this level of torture, how fast would I fold to some supervillian when strapped to a doomsday device or torture rack?

I blinked at the mental image and shuddered. Right. Back to forms. Steaming cup in hand, I went back to the table and sat down, inhaling deep. I liked smelling coffee more than drinking it, usually. I set it down and picked up the next paper in the pile. This one had more legalese than the previous ones by far. I felt my attention wavering as the words blurred together, then shook my head and kept going.

" . . . to not hold the Protectorate accountable for the words and actions of the offender and the consequences thereof . . . "

What?

I close my eyes and grunted in frustration. I needed to know what this meant, what they were actually getting out of it- not the code language! I opened my eyes and my gaze danced down the sheet.

Oh.

This one was to keep me from suing them for the shit Sophia pulled. No more, no less.

Signed.

Next. Skimmed it, focused on it, thought about it - this one was to keep me from signing up with any other groups or licensing my name and image to parties not approved by the PRT. It's not that they wanted to profit off me themselves, it's that they wanted to control how their image was reflected in mine. Understandable, as the public's goodwill towards them was so key to their funding and operations.

Signed.

***

The rest of the time passed relatively quickly, and I even went back over the first sheets I signed and gleaned some additional insight. Much more confident in where I stood legally, I headed out and to the receptionist desk and handed over the folder. She blinked and gave me a startled look, then thanked me and told me that if I'd head back to the waiting room someone would be back over to pick me up shortly. I noticed a couple odd looks from the guards in the hall, but I just smiled and waved and went back to wait; I was not going to lose my good mood today.

I was almost to the door when I saw my own reflection in one of the big corridor windows.

What.

What.

I dashed to the neared ladies' room for the second time that day and stared myself down in the mirror.

I was glowing again.

Like, not greenish glowing in the dark. A sphere of gentle light, purples and reds and pinks and oranges, like I was being followed by my own personal dramatic sunset backdrop. It was . . .

. . . pretty damned awesome looking, if I was any judge.

There was also the brand.

Or, well, that's the first word that popped into my head for it. A golden circle on my forehead, top half filled in solid, bottom half hollow. I covered it with my hand, and it just shined on my hand instead, like a giant oversized laser pointer projection. I batted at it a bit, feeling like a befuddled cat.

Ah, so that's what they were talking about with the tarp. I suddenly imagined myself standing here with this color display and forehead brand impertinently persisting, despite a tarp thrown over me, and confused Wards commenting all around.

Okay, that was actually pretty damned funny in hindsight. Score one for the Wards.

I walked out and back to the waiting room, now actually conscious of the display I was giving off. Yeah, no wonder about the odd looks.

I did note that nothing was bleaching or chipping around me this time. Small favors, I guess.

My coffee was now chuggably warm, so I obliged it. A little bit later Clockblocker reappeared, and I pretended not to notice the dimmer-yet-still-obvious show i was putting on as he stuttered out a greeting.

"Hey, Taylor, glad to hear you signed u- er whoa, uh, right, happy to have you join us. Uh, you're not damaging the furniture right?"

I blinked at him innocently and sipped my almost-empty coffee once before responding. Confidence meter: full. Mischief reserves: adequate.

"Why, whatever do you mean?" I said with a slight head tilt. He could take a joke.

"Ah, well-" he gave a passing glance to the room, ostensibly to verify I was not wrecking anything, then regained his composure. "-ahem. Right. If you would be so kind as to accompany me this way, my lady, I shall introduce you to the rest of the riffraff."

I smiled, took his proffered arm, and accompanied him deeper into the building.

***

Vista frowned at the paper in fornt of her, a doodled symbol and list of many crossed out names all around it.

"Sunset," someone called out.

"No, too cliche. Corona?" another countered.

"Too beery. Try again."

"Lux. Luminary."

"'Meeeh."

"Wait, was that the elevator? It was! Look innocent!"

The Wards break room (which had a strong resemblance to the waiting room upstairs) went quiet as all the occupants pretended that they weren't just brainstorming name ideas for their potential newest member. They had learned the hard way that some people just were bad about deciding on a name, and so being bombarded with 'helpful' ideas tended to speed the process along. That said, they weren't even sure if the glowing girl was going to sign up; it was pretty hard to get a read off her during the incident and the van ride.

Clockblocker glided into the room, with his smugness turned up to eleven, if his face was any indication.

"The riffraff, as promised," he said as he gestured into the room.

Taylor entered, that odd symbol glowing on her forehead clearly.

"Hey guys," she said, as she gave a little wave.

Noticing that whatever crazy confidence she had before was melting quickly in the face of the crowd, Clockblocker gestured to the empty seat on the far side of the room, by Vista. Also present were Aegis, Gallant, and Kid Win.

"I am delighted to announce that Taylor here has agreed to become the newest member of the Brockton Bay Wards, effective immediately," Clockblocker announced. "That said, who's thirsty?

Hands went up, including Taylor's, hesitantly. Clockblocker hit the fridge and started digging around.

Vista leaned over and stuck out her hand to shake.

"I'm Missy. Also Vista. Nice to meet you."

"Taylor. Not too sure on a-"

"Lightshow! Think fast!"

Taylor broke the handshake and grabbed the can of juice out of the air before she turned her head to look. When she did, she noticed the assembled glaring at Clockblocker or a paper on the table. The paper had a sketch of her sigil and a bunch of potential names, with most entries crossed out and humorous reasons why scribbled next to them in girly handwriting. She giggled a bit, then switched to full out laughing. Soon she wasn't alone doing so.

For better or worse, 'Lightshow' stuck.

 

[Golden Lark]

There is no hard character sheet just yet, and 'favored' abilities are only REALLY going to matter story wise as far as those moments where she goes from novice to master in seven seconds. Mind you, this only applies to favored/caste stuff she already has at least one dot in.

As it stands, I will go over the following points as things to keep in mind:

1. A single dot in a skill is basics. The absolute minimum needed to fumble through doing a thing.

2. Modern America and its public education system does cover a wide swath of various topics. Add on top of this popular media.

Taylor easily has at least one dot in Medicine, Socialize, Bureaucracy, Investigation, Linguistics, Athletics, Stealth, Larceny, Awareness, Dodge, Integrity, Melee, Throw, and [Firearms].

Yes, even without ever having touched a gun in her life, I am giving her a dot in firearms from watching TV and movies. My justification? My buddy invited me over to try out his new gun, first one he'd ever purchased. Without so much as a word of instruction he handed me the unloaded weapon and a box of ammunition. I ejected the empty magazine, filled it up with bullets, reloaded the magazine, donned some noise headgear, thumbed the safety and took a bunch of potshots at some crap in his backyard. I had never before touched a firearm. Crap I had seen reminded me of stance, proper holding of the weapon, and my accuracy increased as I went through the rounds. By no means was I a sharpshooter or anything, but it's hard to NOT pick up the basics in America.

I'm sure someone will note the crossbow-esque rules regarding their lack of a -2 penalty to untrained users. That can easily also apply. As I was definitely not merely using physical dexterity to hit, I maintain my justification of one dot via media training alone.

The same applies for Melee. Get in a handful of pool-noodle fights as a kid, and you are suddenly very much aware of the opportunities and limitations of holding a long thing, hitting someone with it, and preventing them from hitting you with theirs. As John Snow said, "Stick 'em with the pointy end." That single dot can just be figuring out how to throw your weight behind a blow, or how to swing a baseball bat properly.

I will also say Taylor favors Conviction. This means her Limit Break will be related; I have not decided on it yet. It will most likely be custom, and of a 'see hated thing, deal with hated thing' variety. The scope is still to be determined.

Finally, a note, as Shyft mentioned to me:

I gave Taylor Sagacious Reading of Intent.

This does NOT mean she uses it every single time anyone says anything to her. She has to be confused by some communication, or suspicious she is being manipulated. Finally, there are plenty of obvious social attacks that SEEM like they are trying to get her to do one thing, but for hidden reasons. She will bow to peer pressure, etc, like she normally would if she has no reason to suspect anything more sinister.

Long story short: don't cry that she's not spamming her new toy every time someone manipulates her. First she has to realize the charm can DO that, then she has to actually consciously invoke it.

 

[Golden Lark]

Everyone is making good points.

The Entity interlude showed us that Tinkers are merely building things and tapping into branches of physics our fleshy three dimensional minds haven't reached yet. They might be 'cheating,' but they are definitely following rules and limits, just they have an extra processing unit on their brain that is keeping track of the math of the bullshit they are pulling if that math cannot be expressed in human terms.

Artifacts (and magitech) require the Magical Materials, which are simply Not Available at the moment. It is POSSIBLE to make Orichalcum or Moonsilver in Creation from their mundane sources; this becomes infinitely less likely on Earth Bet for Moonsilver because there is no Wyld Zone (or if there was no one would understand it as such). For Orichalcum, technically one could make the occult mirrors needed, maybe? But that would require amounts of raw knowledge and ambient essence around to make work, let alone the precise conditions (sun hitting lava) and time/focus (keep said mirrors aimed at the gold melted on the lava for dozens of hours per ounce, or whatever).

Yeah, not likely.

Artifacts can be made via ANY craft discipline; they simply require exotic components of symbolic value and a sliver of legitimate magical material. Some lesser artifacts can get away without legitimate MMs in them, but they are lesser for a reason.

Magitech is a craft discipline all its own, as in, you have to buy the skill Craft(Magitech) up from zero.

The five Big Craft Disciplines are Craft(Fire, Water, Wood, Air, and Earth) - which between the five of them, ostensibly cover every mundane non-engined, non-electrical thing you could possibly make- and their shiny magical equivalents. As soon as you start burning fuel or including circuits, you have technically bypassed the Creation-style limits of the five Crafts.

Note that on Earth Bet, the case could be made that Craft(Fire) could reliably be used to machine all the key parts of an automobile. The internal combustion engine is merely a bunch of very exactly shaped and oiled bits of metal, in the end. In Creation such ideas break down because advanced matter phase-change reactions that are repeated incessantly (the cycling of said engine) will offend gods somehow unless they are appropriately bribed to turn fuel into fire at a particular rate consistently. In other words, the more advanced you try to take mundane physics on a small scale, the more you have to waste energy and time appeasing all of the gods of all of the parts involved such that they keep following the same rules. This is accounted for by Magitech, where the fiat-indestructibility of magical materials means little wear and tear (usually) and the direct feed of energy from Hearthstones means no negotiating for consistent current or voltage.

This line of crazy logic is why building an Atelier-Manse (a factory that rapidly produced copies of a mundane object) in Creation required a four dot manse and ungodly amounts of spiritual infrastructure. Lord help you if you want a Factory-Cathedral that actually rapidly assembles artifacts.

So, yeah. Craft(Magitech) is (thankfully) out of reach. Gods are bastards.

Craft(Genesis), on the other hand, is still on the table. Maybe.

Also, on a more frightening note . . . what about Craft(Armsmaster) or Craft(Kid Win)? Note that Tinkers seem to have their own specialties (Armsmaster's is taking tech and minimizing it, which is how he has such a fancy halberd- it's not that there is anything particularly unique about any aspect of its tech, but it has LOTS of tech all in one blade).

No, I am not currently planning on making Taylor into a godlike uber-supertinker. Note that tinkers in-universe have both the ability to *manipulate* things on a level mundanes can't, and the mental boost to understand it. Craftsman Needs No Tools would only grant Taylor the ability to replicate most mundane tools and techniques; she'd have to progress to the next tier up, "I can craft a blade from the smell of freshly blossomed roses" level of magical tools bullshit to even have a chance of beginning to actually copy or create Tinker tech. Like, the dimension-cutting blade needs a screwdriver slipped between realities to tweak that 4th-dimensional screw. Kid Win can just do that with a screwdriver, but Taylor can't.

Comprehending tinker tech, however, is another story. Fewer things are more helpful that a Solar Crafter peering over your shoulder and giving advice.

As for the applicable power levels . . . well, highest end magitech in Wonders of the First Age gives us crazy powered armor suits with zillions of gadgets. I wonder where we see that kind of thing in Worm? Heh.

Warstriders are another thing altogether, although I wouldn't put it beyond Dragon if there was actually a tactical need for a Really Big Robot.

As I try to brainstorm what the first few waves of her fighting style's evolution will be, I keep mentally drifting back to FFVII: Advent Children. Heh. Only one specific part, though.

 

[Golden Lark]

Breath 1.4

That first week was full of tests. Most relevant was the day in the med lab.

A nurse pulled a blood sample; or tried to. I knew I could have blocked the needle with my power instinctively, but I held it at bay.

The needle refused to pierce my skin without an undue amount of pressure. The nurse clicked her tongue.

"Looks like you need the full Brute test, sweetie."

I looked on with wide eyes as she pulled out a pair of odd-looking spring loaded devices about the size of her forearm.

"This is the Bruiser and this is the Cutter," she said as she held up each device. "We need to know precisely how much force it takes to hurt you if you are tougher than a normal human. It helps when we need to do field first air or designing body armor or medical tinker gadgets."

It made an odd kind of sense, so I tentatively nodded. She approached and put the first device against my arm.

"Is it-"

"Yes. If it doesn't hurt, then I crank it up notch by notch and try another spot until it does. Once we have a bruise, I write down the setting. Then we do the other one."

I was feeling less and less comfortable with the whole situation by the second but decided not to whine. With a thunking sound, the piston driven thing bopped me on the arm.

"Ow."

Higher on arm. Thunk.

"Ow."

Other arm. Thunk.

"Ow."

"There we are. Looks like you are at least Brute 2 by the Bruiser's reckoning. Now for the Cutter."

She iodine swabbed a clear spot on my arm, pressed the device up, and pressed the button. There was a puff of air from the back of the device, and I felt nothing. She removed it, checked.

"Nope."

Once more. Nothing.

The third time, blood welled up from the small wound.

"Definitely Brute 2 when this is added on top of your ability. Perhaps you'd rank as three, but we don't test breaking ones for obvious reasons."

I shuddered a bit and thanked her, then left.

***

A bit later was endurance testing. I passed well beyond what was expected of my age weight and apparent fitness. They stopped me before I worked up a sweat; I was to exhaust myself exercising later, but for now they had what they needed.

***

Next was hand to hand combat testing. Perhaps I had super strength. I punched a target sensor.

"You hit like a girl."

"Shut up."

Aegis, AKA Carlos, was present for this phase. Once I punched, kicked, and even headbutted the sensor (to good natured jeers and laughs each strike) a few times I was told it was time for practical testing.

"What?"

The lab tech looked at Carlos. Carlos smiled.

"You get to kick the shit out of me. If you can, that is."

I blinked.

"Like, a spar?"

He shook his head.

"Nope. you come at me with intent to knock me out or disable me. I would say intent to kill, but unless you can magically decapitate me that isn't happening. I'll be trying to avoid your attacks but I won't hit back. Go all-out; trust me, you can't actually hurt me," he said with what could best be described as a shit-eating grin. I was familiar with his power. He maintained more or less full use of his body no matter how injured he got. He was asking for it.

I took a few steps until I was by him.

"Are you really sure? I mean, I wouldn't actually-" Without missing a beat, I kicked him in the balls and he went down. I felt a slight flush of energy along with the humor. Huh.

A few minutes later, I was actually catching my breath. Carlos had cried uncle when it was more or less apparent that I had taken the advantage, and was cheerfully kicking him in 'sensitive' areas while he was down each chance I got, with the occasional punch thrown in for good measure. I wasn't playing fair or nice at all; I was keeping him as disabled as possible while laying it on.

He got to his feet slowly.

"Well, aside from a heaping helping of pain, I don't think you broke anything but a nose. You need more training, grasshopper."

I was too busy trying to reconcile his perfectly normal tone of voice with the bruised and bumpy visage facing me to respond.

"That said, you definitely have your mind in the right place for this kind of thing- at least for no holds barred. Glenn will probably need to talk to you about . . . oh dear god." His gaze was directed behind me.

I spun around. What used to be a large mirrored panel turned out to be one way glass; specifically one way glass that was now deactivated, with Clockblocker pointing his smartphone at us and waving. I gestured to Carlos and myself as if to ask did you just get all that on tape? He nodded and gave a thumbs up.

Oh dear.

My own thoughts on the matter matched Carlos' long groan, which seemed more appropriate considering his condition.

***

Shortly thereafter Carlos was taken aside and given a talking down. Apparently the 'hands on' testing wasn't part of normal procedures. I did not know quite how to feel about this- I'd punch him for the manipulation, but . . . yeah.

While I was waiting for the next round of tests in my new room, I notice the Bruiser's mark on my arm was all but gone. Huh. Regeneration? Not exactly fast enough to keep me from dying if the wound was serious enough, but I'd take what I could get.

When my terminal beeped again, I looked and my heart skipped a beat. Next on the schedule?

Weapons affinity testing.

***

Two hours later I was in a large warehouse, or at least a simulation of one, complete with a maze of crates. In my hands was a Tippmann 98 Custom paintball marker with a full load of CO2 and paintballs.For protection I had on a pair of goggles, as opposed to the standard full face mask and visor. The environment was a hardlight sim, but the marker, I was assured, was not. My opponents had had their CO2 pressure amped up much higher than normal to account for my extra toughness; if I got hit, it would sting.

None of this mattered to me at the moment, however, as I was hiding behind a tall stack of crates and waiting, completely silent. While going against the spirit of the test, I figured if I was going to hunt someone, I wasn't going to be an idiot about it.

The general idea was, paintballs hurt. So, fresh Wards (capable of feeling pain) would be much less inclined to allow themselves to get shot. I didn't know how much it was going to sting, and I had zero inclination to find out.

Thankfully for me, the 'arena' was littered with appropriate debris. I had snatched up a crowbar and kept it handy while I found my hiding spot. Back to the tower of crates, I waited for who knows how long until I heard footsteps. I had taken the time to get a read for the layout of the area around my spot, so I knew when the footfalls moved to my left it was time to act.

I popped around to my right and threw the crowbar backwards over my shoulder in a high arc, then jumped back to the left of the tower while spinning around. Sure enough, the crowbar crashing to the ground had my opponent spinning to face it, and completely unaware as I opened fire.

What I had failed to account for was the fact that while bullets were faster than sound, paintballs were not. Clockblocker, or Dennis as he had begun insisting, yelped like a girl and dashed the instant he heard the shot. My first projectile sailed harmlessly behind him as he fled, perpendicular to me.

Indignant that my perfect ambush was ruined, I almost started to follow, then stopped, pointed my gun at him, swung the barrel to lead my aim and walked four shots at about hip level. His reflexive dive to ground put his full body into the line of fire and he hit concrete more colorful for his trouble.

Smiling at my victory, I considered how best to gloat (because friendly ribbing was a big thing around here) but before I could come up with a snappy line Vista's voice boomed above me.

"Don't think you've won yet, Lightbulb!"

I turned to see her up on a catwalk, brandishing two comically oversized (for her frame) markers sideways in either hand at me.

"Eat sixty-four brilliant colors!" She opened fire, fully automatic.

I was behind a crate before she finished, but then I remembered her power. Sure enough, space above me bent and an entire spectrum of pain started to rain down around me. Before she could refine her shots I sprinted for another bit of cover, closer to the stairs.

Or at least that was the idea, until I heard

"HA!"

and saw her open fire with her second gun aimed at my destination, pulling the two lines of fire together, me trapped between.

As the sound of splattering paint closed in on me from both sides, my mind whited out for a second in anticipation of pain- then insanity overtook me and I dashed back towards the wall of crates behind me, right before I got pinched in.

Jumping, I ran up the crate wall, then at the peak of it vaulted back towards the direction Vista was in, above the incoming fire. Flipping in mid-air, I popped off another five shots and landed on one of the stacks I hid behind earlier. Ironically the bent space left that spot safe for the moment.

"Hey! Ow-ow-ow!"

I smiled on hearing her defeat, blew the vapor from the barrel of my gun with a flourish and taunted.

"XP was better anyway."

I felt the impacts before I registered the sound, as two paintballs nailed me almost on the middle of my spine and one struck right on the back on my head. I spun as a fell, seeing Miss Militia on the opposite catwalk as Vista, slowly shaking her head, expression unreadable behind her scarf. A marker like mine was in her hand, and her signature phantom weapon was currently in combat knife form on her belt.

"Flashy, but too cocky. Still, that was an impressive move at the end. You ever pull anything off like that before?"

I blinked, then crawled over to the edge of the crate I was on and look down.

Whoa.

I looked back up and shook my head weakly, holding in vertigo. My glow was illuminating the whole 'room,' the spherical sunset light aura interacting in weird ways with the hardlight projection below me when viewed from certain angles.

"Mover 1 then, at least. Congratulations, you're on your way to being the most diverse Ward yet."

I laughed weakly, then looked over to Vista, who was groaning as she got back up.

"Ah, a little help getting down?"

***

A little later, after changing out of the painted shirt, I was a few feet across from Miss Militia in the same warehouse projection. Instead of paintball guns, we each had blunted stun knives. She explained in a curt tone.

"I swung by just in time to catch you about to do weapons affinity testing, so I figured I'd pop in. If you can jump like that, I want to see how you move in close combat-"

She slid a quick glance to Aegis (who was now up on the catwalk with the rest of the peanut gallery),

"-when you actually have some incentive to move!" she said as she dashed forward, stun knife going for my throat."

Before I could protest at the sudden start, I had already noted her telegraphed strike and waved my blade in a lazy arc to bump hers up as I crouched and matched her rush forward. I rolled to my left, flinging out my blade to hit her ankle, only for that ankle and the foot it was attached to to rise up and stomp down on my wrist.

Hissing in pain, I swung my legs forward and kicked up at the descending blade, clapping it between the sides of my feet and twisting it out of her hands. It flipped into the air, and she lunged for it, her full weight coming down on my pinned wrist for a second.

Then she was off and I was somersaulting back to my feet, only semi aware of the building light. I scooped up my knife with my un-stomped hand, and charged her. She spun to face me, and a rather conventional series of feints and lunges happened at ludicrous speed, as I'd comment later while watching the video.

Miss Militia suddenly grabbed my bad hand, yanked me off balance, and her hand shot forward to give me a textbook gut shot- then there was a flash of orange light.

For about a second, intercepting the blow, my glow reached a peak and the 'energy shield' manifested once again.

Much to everyone's surprise, however, it wasn't a localized point defense as we had assumed from earlier (later, the freeze frames of this spar's footage displayed within my eponymous lightshow a literal cape of red light, sweeping back from my shoulders and curling up to fend off the blow. It was the color of the dying sun, the perfect stylistic capstone to my already admittedly over the top personal color scheme).

Needless to say in the end I lost the spar, as Miss Militia was unfazed by my display and just slid her blade up to my neck instead, while I froze like an idiot at the newly updated entry to my mental list of unconventional parahuman gimmicks.

I hoped that after some actual training I'd put on a better show, as opposed to all this dangerously-close-to-hazing 'testing.' That said, I don't think my showing exactly counted against me. Far from it if the form Miss Militia filled out after the spar was anything to go by.

I found myself signing a consent form for specialized hand to hand, firearms, and melee weapons training. I was, as Miss Militia explained, on that very fine line of capes that lacked overriding super-strength, but I had enough supernatural dexterity and reflex to decisively magnify the advantage of any weapons I wielded.

As the vast majority of cape on villain combat was traditionally nonlethal, this put me squarely in the zone of heroes that could go absolutely all out while equipped with stunning and disabling weaponry, to maximum effect. Tinkers tended to not be as effective at fighting themselves, and more conventional Brutes and Blasters tended to have a very poor showing of nonlethal offensive ability that actually harnesses their full potential.

I hit the sack that night with my head spinning- my final act before sleeping was to check my mail, where I was informed that I was to have my costume made after an initial 'interview' tomorrow with someone named Glenn.

As a footnote at the bottom, it was said I'd be deployed in the field as soon as my costume was prepared. It's a wonder that I was able to sleep at all for the excitement, after that.

 

[Golden Lark]

Breath 1.5

The next morning I got up and went to hit the shower. The Wards 'dorm' had a fair set of amenities for a government facility, all things considered. I was in PRT-issued pajamas and had a few generic sets of PRT clothes. My own clothes had been voluntarily surrendered for quarantine/analysis in the wake of my triggering; the light's corrosive effect was to be studied as much as possible. The preliminary hypothesis was a time-dilated sunlight exposure effect.

That said, they had to make a hasty study of the locker room. Kid Win mentioned that the PRT had completely renovated it, mostly to erase any evidence of my power. Various paint chips and such were sampled and seemed to support the theory.

That my clothes or the skin/costumes of the present Wards weren't affected was a detail they would probably focus on more in the future. For now they wanted to make sure I wasn't a walking indirect carcinogen. Fair enough.

As I hopped in the stall (wearing traditional dorm over-sized flip-flops) I glanced over all the various bruises and scratches I supposedly got in the previous day. They were all mostly faded or gone. Regeneration indeed.

During my scrubbing I noticed I seemed to have a bit more muscle tone than before. I knew a proper workout would do that, but not after only one day. While I wasn't exactly flabby by any means, I had my fair share of soft spots besides the obvious. Thighs, stomach, even my bicep areas seemed to have less give when poked.

The airbrushing was spreading. If I wasn't careful I'd start appearing on magazines.

The thought of stealing Emma's modeling jobs throughout the city crossed my mind, and I giggled. Then I giggled at the fact that I giggled, because that wasn't exactly a common occurrence for me these days. Soon enough I was ramped up into full blown laughter at the absurdity of the situation. My crapsack life these past few months was completely turning around.

In the middle of my fit, the bathroom door slid open with a pneumatic hiss and Missy stepped in, carrying her own shower kit. Before I could rein in my mirth and greet her she spun around, walked back outside, and bellowed:

"THE NEW GIRL'S SNAPPED! SHE'S LAUGHING LIKE A CRAZY PERSON ALONE IN THE SHOWER!"

Or at least, she started to. by the time she got to 'SNAPPED' I was bolting out of the stall towards her, free hand extended to clamp over her mouth. By 'PERSON' she had turned her head and seen my approach, eyes widening and power activating reflexively to warp the space ahead of her to let her escape. I threw my soap bar at her, still charging. She grinned and switched her efforts, hopping to the side and warping the soap bar into a flat area on the floor, completely eliminating my traction.

She finished her yelling and waved cutely as I slid outside into the hall, buck naked, having tried to stop and failed. I thought fast and started to cartwheel back in the direction of the bathroom.

This idea had two problems:

1. I have never actually successfully done a cartwheel in my life

2. The lack of traction applied equally to my hands as well as my flip flops.

By the time I was upside down, it was too late to question the wisdom of my new instincts. I was careening towards the entrance to the boys' bathroom, off balance, hands slipping out from under me as fast as my feet did, causing me to sort of laterally rotate in place without affecting my velocity. Right before I reached the door itself, I had a moment of panic and then reached inside and pulled.

I wrenched myself back upright and stomped a heel down, pulling the energy of my slide into a pivot, spinning around to face Vista. Keeping with the momentum, I planted my other foot and pulled myself into a improvised pirouette, coming to a stop with my hands on my hips, glaring down at Missy, trying not to look amused and probably failing.

Her jaw had dropped, and the flattened soap bar snapped back into its normal dimensions, minus a couple odd little dents. I gave a short bow, but before I could make a snappy remark another door further down the hall hissed open and Dennis walked out.

"Did I hear something about Girls Gone Wild? I fully support this cultural exchange opportunity!"

By the time he had turned his head I had tackled Missy back into the bathroom and we were both laughing.

***

A while later I was clean and dry. Missy remarked that after my stunt my forehead thingy was lit up again. It was becoming apparent that when I pulled on power I started glowing, starting with the brand, then an outline around me, then the full fledged field of light, capping off with the phantom cape.

Or at least, that's what I had understood at the time.

At eight o'clock I was waiting in a crowded cube farm area, outside an office. A lone administrative assistant manned a desk by the door. All I had with me were the clothes on my back and the words from Gallant and Kid Win.

"Good luck with Glenn. He likes to meet us with no forewarning, so we're not allowed to tell you what to expect."

"I'd tell you to just be yourself, but that's . . . nope, can't say anymore."

I was filled to the brim with confidence. Totally.

A phone rang on the admin's desk once. She looked at me and nodded towards the door.

I entered and shut it behind me.

Behind an over-sized desk sat an over-sized man. As he stood up to greet me I felt myself repressing a flinch at his outfit. Plaid and bright colors clashed in my vision. Pudginess of body clashed with the absolute smoothness with which he grasped my hand and shook it strongly.

"Lightshow, right? Glenn Chambers. Nice to meet you." He looked me dead in the eye with a small grin.

I felt a little off balance. Is this guy serious? Can anyone dressed like that be serious? He gestured to either side of the room.

"Before we start, choose some accessories from the tables on either side, then have a seat."

On the left table there were various items. What looked to be a makeup compact, a full facemask, a upper face/eyemask, a cowl, and various printed pictures of different styles gloves and boots.Also there were bits of jewelry.

On the right table were weapons. All were in a white or gold color scheme. On a closer look they were all toys- but the pistol and bowie knife were faithfully cast, at least. Also present were batons, knuckle dusters, stun guns, what I thought was pepper spray, and some kind of dart gun.

I turned to look at Glenn. His expression was neutral. On his desk were . . . knickknacks. Toys. Wait. Action figures. A PRT-logoed coffee cup. Fliers for some meet-the-heroes events in various cities. Various heroes casted or depicted. Larger than life portrayals. Shining, gleaming little models.

On the walls were a few posters. Also loud. Some framed photographs. The Triumvirate shaking hands with some men in suits. Was that the President?

I blinked. I'm missing something. I looked around the room again. What was Glenn's job? No one had told me. Another quick glance at the tables. Most new Wards miss whatever it is.

I went to the accessory table. The makeup compact seemed out of place. I snatched it up. I hesitated, then picked up the eyemask.

On the weapons table, I grabbed a stun gun and stun baton, and then after hesitating for a moment, the spray. Maybe it was containment foam. I ignored the dart guns.

Glenn gestured at the chair in front of his desk and sat down himself.

"Go ahead and put the stuff on my desk, we'll go through them one by one."

I sat and lined the items up. He nodded.

"First, the stun gun. Why?"

I didn't hesitate.

"The Wards use nonlethal force. The stun gun was the most effective of the options inside that limit."

"And that particular stun gun?"

I looked down at it.

"It fit my hand."

He nodded, and didn't comment.

"The baton?"

Once again, no hesitation.

"I seem to have an affinity for melee combat, without being overly strong or overpowering. This particular one is heavy enough for knockouts on bigger league foes in addition to a shock."

"Okay. The pepper spray?"

"If I can't zap it or bash it, then maybe make it wish it was dead."

He nodded once again.

"Fine. The compact?"

This time, I caught myself. Why that one? I considered it. The fact that it was the odd choice out wasn't the right answer, I was sure, but that was the truth as to why I had grabbed it.

"I grabbed it because it didn't fit in with the rest, but I think there's more to it than that."

His eyebrows raised slightly, expecting me to go on.

"The eyemask seemed to make sense after the compact, because why bother with makeup if you're covering your whole face? But that's also not the right answer. The other options were full facemask, and cowl. Less and less of the face visible."

I was looking down, brow creased in thought at this point. The puzzle was here, and I just needed to figure out what I could make from the pieces.

"I don't need makeup. Not after . . . whatever you call what happened to my face. But the principle is still there. It's as important as the mask."

I was aware that my 'headlight' was shining. I didn't care. I was onto something. The insight had been trickling in. I opened the faucet.

Light poured out of me. Glenn didn't so much as blink as his pupils shrank. I looked him dead on. I knew what he was, now.

"The lethal weapons could have helped me defeat more threats permanently, directly, myself. The fuller masks would have decreased the chances of people discovering my identity. The lethal weapons were false flags because everyone knows, walking into the room, that non lethal force is required."
I stood, and walked over to the accessory table again.

"Lethal force and the full facemasks push me further from normality. From relatability. While normal people can use guns, most don't. Very few normal people run around with their face covered. The more of my face I show, the more human I look. It reminds them I am like them, that I am not a monster or a god trying to place myself above them."

I turned and waved a hand towards the other table.

"The lethal weapons inspire fear. While tactically that could be valuable, this is about more than tactics. It's about strategy. Reducing fear of capes. Because negative emotions are far faster to propagate than positive ones."

I turned back to Glenn. The connections were clicking. A small part of the back of my mind was insisting I was making a fool of myself, but I kept going.

"We must put our best faces forward at all times. Not to look artificially better than we could be otherwise, but to look as unflappable as possible. To present the illusion of perfection even if we are bruised and battered. Standard Sun Tsu. That is the compact. It is war. A war for image.

"The stun weapons are to reduce fear. By reducing fear it makes it easier to win the hearts of the people. We need to win the hearts of the people because . . . "

Profit? No. The PRT gets money from merchandise, and grants from votes, but this is bigger. If needed they could get a black budget.

Publicity. Fame. Image. None of it actually helped save people. Did it?

I looked at the entire room again. A typical kid would squeal with glee to see all this cool stuff, to touch a piece of their heroes.

There. That was the key. I could leap off of this to the answer. One more push. I inhaled, pulling the power in, then breathed out, feeling it wash over me.

I spun back to Glenn.

"The children. By capturing the hearts of children, by encouraging parents to let us capture the hearts of children, we increase the odds of those children joining us if they trigger."

Almost. Almost.

Why? Why prioritize recruitment over all else? At the cost of effectiveness, at the cost of potentially losing a hero here and there because their hands were tied? What do we gain? What do we lose?

Lose.

"Because for every villain a fully masked hero kills, we might lose ten potential recruits out of fear. But if we focus completely on the ideal, the perfect image of heroes, we can prevent that many children from potentially becoming villains in the first place, and bolster our own numbers. because in the end . . .

"Because in the end, the only number that matters is how many capes are fighting the Endbringers. Everything else is secondary. Everything else is as dust on the wind. Martyrdom, community service, sex appeal, any and every angle to recruit is paramount, and all other factors must be balanced with recruitment in mind for the long game. It's the only game that matters."

With this last epiphany, my anima flared to its greatest, and I saw the flickers of my 'cape' in my peripheral vision. Glenn stood up, the exposed portions of his clothing bleached almost to white. The action figures faded, and slumped a little. The posters were almost blank. He ignored it all and reached out to shake my hand again. I took it, slightly confused.

"It took me six years of schooling and countless hours of interning to reach those conclusions. It took me even longer to see how they stretch from the top down into every aspect of how the Protectorate operates. You just inferred that entire theory from what you saw in this room. You are the first Ward to give me those answers on our first meeting. The second parahuman, even. The first cape to say it to me was Alexandria herself, when I got this job."

He broke the handshake, and smiled.

"Now I'll be putting in the paperwork for registering you as Thinker 3. Well, after this meeting, at least. I'm not sure how your power works exactly, but it seems to enhance most of what you put your heart into." He sat back down and opened a drawer on his (now technically ruined) desk. He checked to make sure my corrosion had stopped progressing, then pulled out some photos.

"These are satellite shots of your school and the PRT buildings taken this week. You might recognize the timestamps."

I looked. A tower of orange and purple light, or at least I guessed it was a tower, from the angle of the shot and the intensity of the light. Each image was timestamped . . . at precisely when I would have maxed out my power and shined brightest.

"Lightshow is no exaggeration. You can be seen from space, even when inside a building in a sub basement. The media has been going wild about the phenomenon from Headquarters. You're lucky no one caught the one at your school on tape or camera. You attract attention. You will be memorable. Most importantly of all, you understand. Now, understanding and practice are two completely different things. You're all focused and serious. Your brainstorm was brilliant. You fueled it with your power, that's obvious. Last piece of the puzzle: Can you follow through?"

I blinked, and ran a hand over my mouth, suddenly conscious of my default neutral/frowning expression. Follow through. Capture hearts and minds.

Glenn grabbed one of the action figures, walked over to the weapons table, and picked up the toy gun. He pointed the gun at the action figure's head.

"I am criminal scum that has just taken a small child hostage. You are Lightshow, who just rapidly arrived on scene. You are glowing like a one woman rave party. I have zero doubt you can save the child without a scratch on her, one way or another. My challenge to you- my challenge to all the Wards, and the Protectorate, is as follows:

"Can you save the child without making her recoil in fear? Without making the audience recoil in fear? I do not actually ask this of Wards. I rarely say it in those terms to the Protectorate. You guys are risking your lives, after all. I promote image and public relations, but I don't come out and say the true end goal, because I am not actively trying to get you guys killed. But if you saw through my little game here, then I can lay it to you straight. Can you save this kid and make not just her, but everyone watching you, feel perfectly safe?"

I thought about it. The most harmless way to resolve the situation was with words. The right words would be effective, and they wouldn't antagonize the victim or an audience. But not just words. The ability to back them up. No- not even that. The ability is secondary. The image. The idea, the ideal. 'You can't beat me,' becomes 'You can't even begin to imagine resisting me.' The sort of thing Alexandria does without batting an eye.

I stood up straighter and closed my eyes. I built the scene in my mind. Glenn as a thug, the hostage in hand. The world is watching. I must demonstrate to the world, everyone, that I am unstoppable. A wild fantasy, sure. But keeping in that spirit, I self aggrandized mentally. This criminal, this fly, this tiny speck, is not worth the effort. He would get one chance. One single chance to stay my hand, or I would right his wrong in a totally different fashion. But I mustn't scare the world. I crossed my arms and opened my eyes. He looked small. I felt my power surge a bit more.

"You have one chance to redeem yourself. One chance to surrender. There are greater problems out there, and you are wasting our time."

I swung a finger forward in accusation, looking down at him.

"Let. Her. Go."

Wait. Looking down?

I blinked.

Glenn blinked.

He was on his knees, and the gun was on the ground.

The Alexandria figure was also free of his grasp, a little ways away.

Neither us noticed him move. We were quiet for a moment, then he stood up and nodded.

"Right. You have what it takes. If you have the fighting power to back it up, then you'll reach the stars. Regardless of that, I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship. Now that that's out of the way, it's time to talk costumes. I'm thinking: white. I have some prototypes stitched up in the other room, come with me."

And just like that, I was pulled back into his pace.

 

[Golden Lark]

Breath 1.6

Glenn monopolized the rest of the day, and I ate dinner with Missy while still spinning, mentally. Apparently, my experience with Glenn was as unconventional as such things get.

"Normally he gets you to show how you'd handle an encounter, then he eviscerates you on your presentation. Like, I could be awesome if I always used some kind of rapid-fire projectile like we did for paintball? But that would make me seem too 'remote' and 'untouchable.' Never mind collateral damage and stuff, yeah? He basically twists your entire perception of being a hero up in a knot and kicks it down the stairs. And yet, he seems to have a crapton of clout and such. I still can't understand how anyone takes him seriously. I mean, just look at him!"

I nodded along and didn't comment much. To be honest, my analysis of Glenn and his responsibilities back in that room had been terrifying. There really wasn't any constructive reason to try to explain it to Missy; I didn't know her well enough yet to be sure she could handle the whole chain of cause and effect that accounted for factors such as her futile death in battle (while being held back from her maximum potential) contributing fuel to the cause of the Protectorate. It was not an easy pill to swallow.

Now, I had my suspicions that if I pushed, if I used my power, I could know Missy well enough to tell if she'd accept the story. Likewise, I might be able to just draw on that ability differently and phrase it such that she'd understand and accept it, regardless of her initial mindset.

I found myself being thankful that my powers had such a showy side-effect. It eliminated one of the temptations for casual abuse. Not that I particularly felt tempted to do so at all, in the end. One thing you learn, as a smart kid, is that the more you show off your intuition and intelligence, the more other kids resent you for it. Even if you're not trying to be a jerk about it, that casual grasp of ideas and understanding that eludes most students can be quite grating to witness.

Never mind that I was in the opposite situation socially, back then. I had no idea how any of my words or actions would be taken, and the fear of making mistakes manifested as near-crippling shyness. Emma was a godsend when she was my friend, but . . . well, that backfired.

Now I was casually thinking in terms of the possibility of using my ability to steal a glance at how my new teammate's mind ticks. It seems horrific on the surface, but it's more or less just an idea that pops into one's mind the same way that one acknowledges that they could go to the kitchen, grab a knife, and stab someone giving them a hard time. Not a realistic or likely action to take, nor one with very positive consequences for anyone involved. This is the other, more subtle side effect to being an isolated introvert. You can brainstorm, imagine, plan, and have contingencies stored away mentally that might horrifically offend or disturb other people if they knew you even began to contemplate them. If, one day, you find yourself in some delusionally extreme situation where running to the kitchen, grabbing that knife, and stabbing someone is the best solution to a situation, and you do it without hesitation . . . then any witnesses will wonder exactly what inside your head provided that answer and let you follow through without hesitation.

Bleh. Missy was now talking about boys on the other Wards teams around the country, and I was providing minimal nods and 'uh huhs' to convey interest, while still stuck here inside my own head.

My power is, in a lot of ways, just another knife in the kitchen. It's there now. It's always going to be an option. It has constructive and destructive uses. Still, I wasn't nearly as bothered as I might have been if I was a different person.

After all, if we kept following that metaphor, I have always had many knives in that kitchen. This one is just bigger and flashier and infinitely more versatile. But that doesn't change the fact that the other less palatable options have always been there, filed away and ready for use in an emergency.

We finished eating and went to our rooms. I checked my mail, and Glenn had copied me in on the note he sent up recommending I get pegged for Thinker and Shaker, and potentially Master depending on further testing/observation.

I was beginning to think I was about to or had already broken some kind of record with regards to the classifications. Meh. First tier parahuman problems.

I hit the sack trying not to think too hard about all the ways I could accidentally alienate this new group of peers my own age. Even better, ways to not do so that didn't leave me feeling like an empty cheater by 'powering' through social situations. Eventually I faded out to sleep.

***

The next morning did not start well. I got my shower and went to head to my next appointment, but as soon as I passed into the foyer area for the Wards block the door slammed shut behind me and the lights went red. I froze.

When two nozzles emerged from previously hidden wall panels, I decided to play along and act confused.

When the first glob of containment foam sprayed out, that ended.

"What the FUCK?"

I was darting to and fro in the small space, beginning to consider my options. Hacking? Enemy action? My mind went into overdrive and I saw the light balance in the room shift toward my power's side of the spectrum. I was quickly running out of non-foamed spots on the floor to hop to.

"Guys? Chris? Dennis? Very funny! Now open the FUCKING door!" My light flared up a bit more. I was apparently more concerned about getting trapped by foam than I wanted to let myself believe. If someone was watching that camera in the corner, they should have scrambled to let me out.

I'm not sure how I knew that.

Nothing. I was out of space.

"This had better not come out of my pay." I leaped up and chopped at the first nozzle.

Ouch. Also, OUCH.

It was electrified. That stung.

Also, I just fell on my ass into quickly drying containment foam, and was getting covered in more. Would it stop while I could still breathe? No. I'm not waiting to find out.

I tried to stand. No go, it was hardening too fast.

Shit. Shit.

There was probably a reasonable explanation for this. If I held still, waited for help, I'd be fine.

But part of me scoffed at that. I waited for help when I was normal. When I was helpless.

I'm not helpless anymore. Never again.

I relaxed for a moment, and stepped backwards, mentally. My body. Muscles, bones, joints. Connections, levers. Mechanical forces. I shook head, or tried to at least, and tried to internalize this new mental framework for my physical frame.

Then I just poured power into the appropriate bits and pulled.

My arms and legs protested. I was outputting more force from my muscles than I thought I was capable of. My body writhed just so to maximize the little torque I had. I could feel the foam give way, the slightest bit, then suddenly it became rock hard. I put every drop of my power into how I moved to resist. I might have wiggled a little. Then the confidence and grace (or well, the feeling of such) in my body vanished. I still had some extra brute strength in my limbs, but it was futile.

After all, this containment foam was designed precisely to stop capes. Who was I to be the exception?

The foam covered my face, but then I was startled to feel a hot sting as a path for me to breathe was burned out of it by a laser or something. Phew. I relaxed and waited for help, trying not to flip out again. I was blind and immobile. I tried to concentrate and estimate how soon help would arrive, but I got nothing.

Huh.

A short time later, I heard some voices.

"Lightshow, we're going to take a blood sample. Don't struggle."

A quick sting in my leg later, I heard some quiet discussion.

"Well, it seems like you're actually Lightshow. Hold your breath, we'll dissolve the foam."

I did so and heard a hiss of what I guessed was the release of the enzyme to do just that. Moments later I was sitting on the floor, covered in goop and chemicals. I wiped across my eyes but couldn't get them clean enough to risk opening. I got to my feet slowly.

"Anyone feel like telling me what the hell just happened?"

An older male voice responded.

"The security system tripped. It flagged you as an impostor after a routine scan."

What?

"What?" I voiced, uncreative.

"Apparently you grew four millimeters taller while you slept last night. The system noticed and pegged you for a possible imperfect shapeshifter. It contained you until a Protectorate member could come investigate."

I switched gears, mentally. OK, one of my mentors/bosses, then. I asked something much more important for the moment:

"Will this crap come out of my hair easily?"

He chuckled.

"We have a special shampoo and soap just for these occasions. You'd be surprised how often we wind up tackling a villain and getting mutually foamed if we're going for a traditional nonlethal takedown and they aren't particularly dangerous physically."

The tension melted from my bearing after that. Hair will be fine. Of all the things to worry about . . . wait.

"So, I just got taller?"

***

After getting cleaned up my appointments for the morning were cancelled and I found myself repeating a battery of tests and scans from my first day after signing on. As it turned out, I really was getting taller. I was also at an extremely low body-fat percentage compared to my first day.

The cape that got me out of the security trap was Armsmaster himself. The big boss of the local Protectorate heroes. I had seen him in passing the day that I had triggered but hadn't run into him again this happened. After the scans came out he said he'd recalibrate the scanners to make an exception to me for height and weight changes for the time being. As long as I didn't suddenly get shorter I shouldn't trigger the alarm again.

The doctors running the scans went over all the changes with me, and said that my metabolism was more or less going into overdrive. I needed to eat. That is, eat a lot more food than I had been. My body was trying to do something and it was actually entering first stage starvation stages to accomplish it, with my cooperation or without. I didn't even feel particularly hungrier than usual, but the doctors pointed out that the cannibalization of my fat reserves had happened with almost frightening efficiency. If I didn't start chowing down I might lose a cup size next.

I couldn't afford that. No, no I could not.

So, lunch was a big deal. I had no trouble putting down three times the food I usually ate. That should have disturbed me more than it did, I think. Missy sort of maintained this death glare on me past the second sandwich until I was done. I can't say I blamed her.

That afternoon was Tinker testing. I got stuck in a room with all sorts of gadgets. I wanted to go wild and do something amazing. In a couple hours of screwing around I put together an electric motor and a couple of little wheels and some two inch pipes and wound up with a tiny motorcycle. I was sure that I wouldn't have been able to put even that much together before my Trigger without help, and I was equally sure I hadn't spent any power just then to do so.

That said, even though it did zoom across the table perfectly well, there was nothing Tinkertech about it. Totally mundane. I sighed as the supervisor wrote down his notes and ended the test.

I did cheer up when I was told I'd have free access to a workshop; as long as the real Tinkers didn't need equipment for something vital there was no reason I couldn't play around with all the mundane tools. It would be a nice way to kill time alone. I was even allowed to keep my new toy as a consolation prize as well.

***

Later that night, on my way back to my room, I checked to make sure the corridor was free of witnesses and tried another cartwheel. I pulled it off, without drawing on power.

I took a deep breath, got a running start and tried to do a triple cartwheel- and landed on my ass halfway through the second one. That time I had been pulling. I got nothing. A cold wave of dread bounced from my head to my toes as my suspicions were confirmed.

I was out of juice.

 

[Golden Lark]

Breath 1.7

The Wards were having a weekly meeting. Aside from the obligatory razzing me about my foaming, and my newly inferred metabolism, I brought up the thing that had been bothering me most since the incident.

"So, uh, what happens to you guys when you overuse your powers?"

Glances bounced across the table between the other Wards.

Missy responded first.

"Headaches."

Next was Dennis.

"I haven't really reached a limit. Guess there's only so much stuff to time freeze before a fight is over, and I never get worn out."

Aegis continued.

"I never really get much in the way of headaches, but my body is basically cheating so I don't count."

Gallant, who was actually present for this event, finished.

"I get tired like anyone else, but yeah, on the longest days after using my voice too much I wind up with not quite a migraine."

It didn't need to be said that Chris, Kid Win, didn't suffer side effects of overuse as a Tinker. Whatever power they actually used, it was miniscule and/or so spread out over the time that he was building things that his own stamina and concentration would go long before his powers failed.

As Vista had a massive area of effect power that scaled distinctly in strain as she touched on the Manton Effect, it was understandable that she'd taste her limits the most often.

I nodded, taking all this in. Chris followed up.

"Why do you ask?"

I scratched my head and shrugged.

"So, when I got foamed, I reached my limits."

I got a few sympathetic winces. I kept going.

"But I didn't get a headache."

Sympathy turned to incredulousness. I scrambled to recover.

"Well, let me confirm; you get headaches, but your power still works, right? I just hurts like hell to keep pushing."

Vista nodded. I continued.

"So yeah, I may not get headaches, but my power cut off, full stop."

Dennis glared.

"You wiggled. In containment foam. That's, like, strong."

I held up a hand.

"Ok, wait. One thing I have gotten the hang of: Think of my power like a battery. It came with a full charge. I then used bits of charge to do 'tricks.' The cape-shield thing, crazy acrobatics, and most recently boosted strength. Depending on the trick, it lasts for an instant or for a while. When I say I ran out, I mean the battery went dead. Tricks in progress stayed on, but I wasn't able to pull anything else off."

Gallant nodded, following along.

"And whenever you use a trick, you glow a bit more?"

"Yeah. I guess the appropriate metaphor would be heat. I have a filament that lights up the more power that runs through it, as a side effect. This has got to be, like, the Rube Goldberg Machine of powers. I think if we tried to get a physicist to map out the violations of thermodymanics they'd have a conniption. Normally parahumans only break one or two laws along easy-to-understand lines, or break a a myriad of laws but get a single concrete final effect."

What followed was a quick brainstorming session of everyone's accounts of when I lit up and what I was doing at the time. I was surprised to hear of at least four or five moments I had been unaware I was pulling on power. It was apparently quite instinctive to use in some ways.

Vista looked at the list.

"So, anyone see anything worth noting?"

Carlos raised his hand.

"She didn't use her power to kick me in the balls. I'm offended."

He got some chuckles, then Chris pointed down the list.

"You lit up really bright for some of these, and others just your forehead."

I looked back over. Generic spans of concentration or focus, versus quicker, more delicate taps of power.

"Two main flavors of tricks. One is like Uber's power: I put in energy and just get really good at something for a single task. More power, more results. Second flavor is like . . . cheating."

Dennis raised an eyebrow, but kept his silence.

"Like, the second event. I was doing all that paperwork? I cheated, I tapped into some power and suddenly knew exactly what I was signing away with each one after a glance. I got to instantly comprehend the fine print."

Missy's eyes went wide as saucers.

"Don't let Piggy hear that. Like, ever. If she ever even suspects she has a 'speedy paperwork cape' she might have a heart attack on the spot."

"And then she'll lock you in her office, never to be seen again," added Carlos.

I shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

After a moment, Gallant said,

"So, this is great and all, but you recharged after resting for a bit, right? You still cheerfully keep your crown as bullshit overpowered newbie that makes our respective debuts look bad."

Ten eyes focused on me. His tone had been in jest, but there was that uncomfortable subtext of seriousness in the words. I chuckled nervously.

"Ah, well, therein lies the rub?"

***

Later, we were giving the summary of our report to Armsmaster and Director Piggot in a conference room. We went over the chart and Dennis stood up to summarize.

"So basically, our adorable newbie is a quick shot."

Missy covered her face with a hand and Chris shook his head slowly. Unperturbed, Dennis continued.

"She has the power when it counts, but once she blows her big golden load, she's done until she can get it back up. We've been trying to find her appropriate inspirational material, but-"

"Thank you, Clockblocker," interrupted the Director. She turned to me.

"So, Lightshow, have you had any progress in recharging?"

"We're planning on trying some things to figure out what does it. Food and sleep are off the list so far, though. I have a few more ideas, though."

"And do you lose your other passive properties when drained?"

I thought for a moment.

"No. It feels like whatever the power is, it permanently enhances my body and mind. Or at least, I'm not actually expending any power for some things. The surge of strength while I was in the foam was definitely a conscious invocation, however."

Armsmaster poked at a PDA he had on him. After looking at for a bit, he nodded.

"If you and your father consent I can prepare a batch of nanotech medical scanners. They're nominally useless with the other types of high definition scanning we can do, but they can constantly examine you and give data readouts about various facets of your body over time. While we didn't consider your sudden growth spurt important enough to suggest the breach of privacy, your combat capability is much more critical."

I nodded without hesitating.

"Do it. Any edge I can get, I'll take. If I can have access to the data myself for parsing, I might be able to match feelings and intuition with actual changes."

After a bit more general administrative discussion, we were dismissed.

***

That night, I reviewed the release forms I got for trying various experiments to figure out how my power renewed itself. I was also scheduled to meet New Wave during a regular local hero get together tomorrow evening. While they weren't Protectorate and didn't follow the same rules, they still went out of their way to stay on very good terms with 'us.' Conversely, while the management wasn't against us associating, they were very strict about any public or semi-public encounters being planned in advance, and having approval from higher-ups. Letting them know our civilian identities was completely optional.

Glenn was supposedly going to have the first 'draft' of my costume delivered before the meetup. I was filled with dread, not because I distrusted his skills, but because when we had been arguing over the details of the sketches he leaned further towards the 'sexy' side more than I was exactly comfortable with. Not that I could fault his logic after my intuitions in his office; I just didn't have any conception of myself as the supermodel-class superheroine, mentally. That was Glory Girl. That was, to a degree, Alexandria. I could name more than a few 'utilitarian' female costumes too, but that might have had more to do with my mother's occasional mild feminist tirades on the subject. The capes in question were, as one of her grievances against the system, less popular probably in part because of the costumes they wore.

I just didn't think I could pull it off. Well, before I was airbrushed. And it's not like I had the wardrobe to particularly flaunt my newly attractive status.

Not that I had the skills to back up the look if I did. Still an awkward geek in here, no matter what I look like on the outside.

. . . Not that I had any problem with being a geek. There are self confidence issues, and there were perfectly objective and rational low self evaluations of ability. I might not be able to wine and dine the local socialites but I could probably find the dregs of their dirty laundry on the internet and piece together an idea of what they were hiding, given time.

Well, before I triggered, anyway. Now I have no idea what my limits are- only my strengths. And the strength I was using now was solving problems in whatever way I could.

***

"What. The fuck."

I was going to kill Glenn. Or at least kick him in the balls.

Then again I suspected that doing so wouldn't even interrupt whatever sentence he was in the middle of. The man was unstoppable.

I was in my room, with the various costume parts spread on the bed. The box was tossed to one corner of my room, out of the way of my pacing in the tiny space.

When Glenn and I had discussed costumes, there were a number of factors we did and didn't agree on. He had strong arguments for many of the contended points, and my responses could eloquently be summed up as "No, because - just no, okay?"

We had a handful of sketches by the time we were done- a his idea version, a my idea version, and a compromise version.

What I pulled out of the box was the 'his idea' version.

I knew it instantly because the boots had heels.

Not stilettos; I made it perfectly clear there was only one person that would get kicked if I put on stilettos for heroism. I'd be a hero to women everywhere.

I also didn't compromise on heels at all. That middle version of the outfit was more or less a collection of features neither Glenn or I would budge on. It did have some clashing aesthetics but at least I wouldn't be mortified to wear it.

On some level Emma's taunting about my lack of fashion sense came back to haunt me. Perhaps this was her revenge.

Calf-boots with tall yet thick heels. They were white with gold trim. A corset-type armored center piece over a skintight upper long-sleeved top. It was saved from being a leotard by the shorts.

Not short shorts, but still, skintight shorts. They went to mid thigh and were arrayed with straps and places to stick carabiners.

I was exposing more leg, rather, more skin with this thing that I had ever deigned to show in public in my life, save for at swimming pools. I dress conservatively, sue me.

The gloves were elbow length with armored plating along the forearms and backs of the hands. I could parry regular knives with them, easy.

The look was topped off by what seemed to be very subtle knuckle dusters on the gloves, a small gold hairtie to give myself a 45-degree up ponytail, and a gold utility belt to be filled with whatever doodads. There were also two thigh holsters (or sheathes) for weapons.

Finally, there was the golden eyemask. The notes say the lenses were polarized on the inside. How thoughtful.

The most insidious part of the whole situation is that the box was delivered not to me, but to the Wards. Carlos got the package, opened the box, which contained another box clearly labelled LIGHTSHOW'S NEW COSTUME, and the cat was less released from the bag than the bag was atomized, the cat within being blown directly to kingdom come. So, I was stuck in my dorm room with the Wards minus Gallant waiting for me in the break room to come out to show off my new look.

Damn you, Glenn Chambers. Damn you to Hell.

I stripped down and changed, and by the time I was done I couldn't decide between being angry and being terrified. I had never worn heels, and yet I was stepping around my room like I was born in them. Every woman I have ever spoken to has explicitly told me that that is not how it works. Well, all but Emma's mother, who buys very pricey shoes, but I didn't know whether to believe the pricey heels were actually better to walk in or if she was just justifying two thousand dollar shoes. Finally, I sighed and stepped outside to meet my fate.

***

The open jaws were expected. The exact faces doing the gaping were not.

Missy and Chris were completely speechless. Carlos nodded and smiled, and Dennis frowned and adopted the upper body posture of The Thinker.

"You dirty liar."

I blinked. Not what I expected from him.

"Excuse me?"

His glare intensified.

"You said you were out of juice, but here you are wasting precious awesomesauce on being hot."

By the time I recovered from my blush Carlos had almost pulled Missy off him.

 

[Golden Lark]

Excellence 2.1.1

After the initial shock wore off and Dennis' catcalls turned to cries of pain, I spun on my . . . heel, and marched to Glenn's office.

I allowed my irritation to build as I navigated the office hallways and cubical mazes. When I finally got to that back room, I noticed the absence of the assistant as I breezed past the empty desk and opened the door, without permission or announcing myself.

I found myself in an empty room, bare but for a slightly sun bleached wooden desk. On it was sheet of paper.

Hi Lightshow,

I did some blind polling and other studies while we were waiting. On each of the three designs.

You'd be surprised at how rare it is to have an extraordinarily pretty superheroine, or even one as tall as you already are. I know you don't have any self-confidence in your appearance; this can be remedied.

I clenched a fist and kept reading.

That said, the polls and surveys all came out more or less as I predicted. Never underestimate the hormonal power of teen boys. Vista would have gotten similar treatment had she been a bit older. We want photogenic heroes, not wallflowers.

Now, I know we already discussed this to death, and didn't so much agree to disagree as you stumbled and stuttered and didn't come up with any valid counterpoints to the design. I know you understand the underlying framework of the PR machine, so you are capable of analyzing the report I left in the drawer of this desk.

If you come up with any compelling arguments for your version, I'd be more than happy to discuss them in person. My office is in the NYC PRT building, and you are more than welcome to make an appointment. If you'd rather talk over the phone, we can arrange a call that was as well. Just keep in mind I'm quite busy so I might have to delay any such meetings until I am free.

Thanks,
Glenn Chambers

I crumpled up the note, dropped it behind my shoulder and kicked it behind me out of the room into a trash bin by the abandoned assistant's desk without looking. I reached into the bleached desk's drawer and pawed through the report.

Surveys taken among high school aged males and females. For the males, what they'd rather see a heroine wear.

Pigs.

For the females, what they'd rather wear to a photoshoot, what they'd wear as a Halloween costume, and what they'd be caught wearing while fighting crime.

I felt betrayed by my own kind, but then again, I never really fit in with the average teen girl in the first place.

Next were polls taken from elementary school kids. A generic superheroine in each of the three outfits was shown. Kids were asked which one was stronger, or more powerful. Another version asked who they'd rather be rescued by.

Glenn's version won again. By a handy margin.

Finally, a separate blind survey among random citizens of all ages in the US, shown one of the generic examples, and asked to write three descriptive words. There were a dozen sample polls, plus a page of the top 20 descriptive words for each version.

Words that rose higher on the list on my preferred design were 'scary' and, and the bottom of the top 20, 'dyke.' I was not amused. Pigs.

While one of the actual example polls of Glenn's version had 'whore' as one of the words, it didn't break the top twenty list. What surprised me was that 'powerful' made it onto Glenn's version's top 20 and not mine or the compromise.

I found myself feeling annoyed and jealous, and more than a bit disappointed in humanity as a whole- then I almost threw the stack of papers down when my power kicked in and I understood.

Leaving aside how my power activated just now despite the fact I was pretty sure I was empty, I knew what Glenn was getting at.

It was something I already knew, but was resisting for semi-selfish reasons: More people will pay attention to me in Glenn's design. Therefore, wearing it is an order. He was just appealing to my proven sense of reason as opposed to directly playing the superior card. I was still a junior, subordinate hero. My options were limited.

If I wanted to have more freedom in costume design, I needed to prove I could stay an asset to the Wards' portion of the PR engine without the 'touches' on this one.

I took the report back to the Wards building with me. Missy would get a kick out of it, at least.

And by that, I mean she'll get a kick in on Glenn the next time he showed himself around these parts in person- but she'd have to get in line. Apparently her boobplate was an issue back when she started, too.

***

By the time I returned, Dennis had already called Gallant and Gallant had already mentioned to Glory Girl that my new costume was something to see. Now I'd look bad if I didn't show it off.

Worse, if I allowed my general feeling on the situation to leak through.

So, as 'practice,' I decided to be all smiles and cheer until the New Wave members showed up. Fake smile, fake politeness, fake posture. About thirty seconds in Dennis started acting like I was a live and hungry tiger around that he couldn't escape from: He acted with respect and fear.

"I know you're not actually happy, and I know I will probably get kicked for this, but even when you are faking being a giggly ditz, you're totally smok-"

I took one step towards him and he jumped backwards. I then shrugged and tossed my drink to Vista, who poured it over Dennis' head remotely via a crazy-straw shaped tube of warped space.

Well, he acted with respect and fear until his dick came back online, at least.

"Right. Needed to costume up anyways. Now to tack a shower on to that list!"

He scurried off.

I belatedly realized my new boots left me as the tallest person in the room. Huh.

"Men," huffed Missy.

I shrugged.

"Not just men, as it turns out." I tossed her the reports I had been flipping through further since I got back.

Her expression got more and more severe as she went through. Finally she slammed the stack on the table. I tried not to smile at the image of her tiny frame trying to look imposing while she was angry.

"Glenn is at his most infuriating when he's right. He usually never bothers to justify himself like this. I don't have it as bad as you do, but darn it I can't WAIT to turn eighteen! Heck, I'm scared of how my costume will be 'improved' as I 'mature.' Yuck!"

At that, I had to silently agree.

*****

Roughly two hours later I found myself staring down Glory Girl from across a gym mat, heart rate skyrocketing as her emotion-aura induced a heaping helping of terror and panic. She was smiling, and gestured with a boxing-gloved hand.

"This is a friendly spar, so I won't go all out. That said, I doubt you can do anything to hurt me so don't worry about holding back!"

What.

She winked at Dean, then charged me.

What.