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.
