Nobody's Hero - an Adult-aged Worm AU

[PurpLexed]

January 15th, 2023
114 68th Ave, Apartment 14, NYC

I was starting to think I had done a bit of a shit job picking an apartment. Sure, the size and cost had been key parts - a two-bedroom apartment with a balcony, in central New York city, and within my price range? Sign me the fuck up - but everything else about it was pretty miserable. Seven flights of stairs, noisy and nosey neighbors, and a crippling lack of elevator.

Well, it was a bit of a rush job, so I wasn't complaining too hard. Even if said lack of elevator had lead to my current situation - back screaming, fingers numb, and a steady river of curses flowing from my mouth as I lugged a box of books up the last fifteen or so stairs. I was not looking forward to moving the mattress.

"Should have hired a fucking moving company," I hissed, groaning as I set the box down by the door. A quick glance at the hallway - still empty, with nothing but a row of closed doors to observe - and I decided the box could sit in the open doorway for a while longer. If someone wanted to steal it, they could carry it the fuck back down.

A ragged groan escaped me as I stepped inside, stretching my back and sighing as I flopped onto the couch - the only bit of furniture in my otherwise empty apartment. I had the bed still in the U-Haul downstairs, but everything else was going to be bought and shipped; desks, book shelves, kitchen appliances, the whole nine yards. It was going to be a pain, but it would be a lot easier than getting it from -

Well. Didn't make sense to call it home anymore, did it.

Glancing out the window, I stared out across an unbroken expanse of rooftops and distant towers. New York had a few things over Brockton, but one of my new favorites was the skyline. Buildings of different sizes, each of them within jumping distance - I could look out across the city and see miles of pathways open up for me, a welcome sight to a chronic parkour junkie. Brockton hadn't had nearly this level of density - you could find some areas like this downtown, but the majority of the areas were too spaced out to chain together jumps without needing to climb up staircases for altitude, or end up walking down the sidewalk in full kit like a fucking idiot.

Ah, memories.

The couch complained under me as I lifted my legs up, swinging them over the arm and letting them dangle. I sighed deeply as I started to relax, shrugging slightly and wiggling to take off my heavy jacket, then tossing it - somewhere. The place was empty, it wasn't like it would be lost, and the brown leather had seen far worse than a poorly-cleaned hardwood floor.

Fuck, I was so happy that I had managed to get out with the couch. This had been the one in my office - my own little escape from the rest of house. Many a night I had spent on this couch - pouring over paperwork, reviewing video footage, studying legalese, crying myself to sleep.

Good times, good times.

Fuck, but I had gotten melancholy in my old age. Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I took out a battered smartphone with more than a few hairline cracks running through the screen, the largest of them separating 'two' and 'thirty-four' on the lock screen.

I nearly added another crack when I unlocked it to reveal seven missed phone calls.

My legs hit the floor at about the same time the phone hit the couch, a moment of relaxation quickly becoming a need to get up, move, pace. The empty apartment helped in this way - plenty of space to angrily walk back and forth, like a caged animal, my boots clattering on the floor below me. Sorry, downstairs neighbors, but this was going to be a habit. Walking helped soothe me, helped me get my restless energy out in any way possible. Kept me from bottling it up and exploding with it like I used to do.

Seven was a lot - way too many for this last, what, six hours or so I had been ferrying shit into my office and apartment. Too many to be just one person. Right? Seven had to be too many, even for her. At least one of those had to be work related.

Could I afford to just - not find out? Leave the voice messages untouched, let them pile up like petty grievances and just - find work solely from word-of-mouth? Fuck, maybe I should dig up a fax machine at this point, install a fucking telegraph in my office. 'Private Eye for hire, send up a smoke signal.'

"The fuck was the point of moving," I muttered, running a hand through my hair, fingers tangling in the knots left behind from the messy ponytail I had kept it up when lifting shit. The whole point of this was to escape. Get my room, have my own place. Somewhere where I could figure out who I was supposed to be, now that I had a chance to figure that out.

Somewhere I could fucking breathe.

Why did it feel like I was still suffocating, if that was the case?

Before I could second-guess myself, I marched to the couch and picked up the phone, tapping at the voicemail option. No. No, I couldn't live like this, running from - from voicemails and mailboxes, hiding in my apartment and praying that if I ignored the problem she would go away.

The tinny voice rung out, methodically counting out the bullets in the chamber, spinning up a game of russian roulette for me to play. 'You have seven new messages. Message one - today at eight fourteen.'

"Sophia, honey -"

My finger slammed down on the seven faster than I could even register, quick on the draw but not quick enough to cut away at the pounding in my chest, the steady thump-thump-thump as my heart went into overdrive. Fucking - fuck. All this, from two words? Of course. I knew some of them were from her, it was fine. Win some, lose some. The tinny voice called out again, a bland 'message deleted' signifying that I had managed to stop something at least.

"Come on, Sophia, you're better than this," I said through clenched teeth, boots pounding the edges of the room. Seventy three paces - so much space. So many steps, so much room to all my own.

Mine. No one else's.

Heh. Sure. Tell that to my anxiety. She's not here, stop being a bitch -

'Message two. Nine fifteen -'

Desperation. Pain. Worry. Emotions broadcasted loud and clear, unwanted and unavoidable. "Please pick up -"

'Message deleted.'

Two hands clenched at the sides of the phone, hard enough I worried I was going to snap it. It was just a fucking voice mail, it was fine, she was still back in Brockton, five hours away -

Uncaring, the phone continued onwards, the next bullet rattling into the chamber. 'Message three. Ten thirty-seven.'

A man's voice, quiet and mildly concerned. "Hello, Miss Hess? This is, uh, James Carpenter - I sent you an email last week. Just wanted to ask if you were still looking to work on my case -"

The breath left my lungs in an explosive gasp at the stranger's voice on my phone. I tapped my heel on the floor, muscles relaxing so fast I nearly dropped the phone as I flopped onto the couch, arms splayed out to the sides. I didn't listen to it, other than to make sure it was a client and some general specifics, too focused on sucking in deep breaths to listen to a poor sod ask for her help in ending a marriage.

C'mon, Sophia, deep breaths. In the nose, out the mouth. Easy, simple, just like your therapist told you. "I." In through the nose. "Can." Out through the mouth. "Handle." In the nose. "This." Out the mouth.

I can handle this.

I can handle this.

I can handle this.

The phone chirped again.

Message four -

No, I really couldn't handle this, not right now. Customer found, time to go, no need to see what the last four calls had to say - I had gotten the gist of it by now. I stood rapidly from the couch, the empty apartment suddenly feeling terribly small, despite seventy three footsteps of proof otherwise. Seventy three felt a lot like fourteen, if I let it. A quick roll of shoulders, a tight grimace, and I was ready. I made my way over to the balcony, staring down on the streets below. Scooping up my jacket was the work of a moment, tugging it on as easy as breathing. The glass of my balcony doors wasn't an obstacle to me as I passed through them, fogging to smoke by instinct and stepping out onto the tiny bit of space I now had the rights to loiter on.

It was a fun transition, between the stifling quiet of the apartment and the busy street below. Still air and panicked breathing was suddenly transformed into car horns and engine noise, the city alive in a way Brockton had never felt, people walking below me vehicles clogging the intersections. Brockton was seasonally busy - other than the shipping and medical industry, no one really worked in Brockton, instead commuting out of the city to Boston or other areas. But New York felt full, packed to the brim with people who lived and worked on the grimy little island and the wider city beyond it.

I liked it, honestly. My area was more residential than most; dozens of apartment buildings and small houses dotting the one-way street I was staring down at. I hadn't exactly been spoiled for choice when it came to locations, but shilling out the extra money to live here felt like it was going to be worth it.

From my tiny slice of the outside air, I could see the roof of the building across from my apartment; twenty feet down and forty or so over, the distance split by the road below me. The street wasn't empty, but it also wasn't packed. Six or seven pedestrians wandered down the sidewalks, enjoying the bright sun and wandering between piles of snow left behind by the plows. It had been a decently warm winter - thanks, climate change! - and it wasn't too chilly out at this point. A beat-up Honda trundled down the road, silver paint reflecting the sunlight as it passed between rows of parked cars.

Already, I felt excited, nervous energy turning into eager abandon. My hands rested on the wrought-iron railing, tracing the cold metal as I leaned back - then pulled myself forward quickly, hurling myself out of existence and into the air over the street.

The air fought me as I tunneled through it, compressing myself into a half-dozen thin streamers of black smoke, easily ignored in the night sky. Not that I really cared about being spotted - that particular cat was so far out of the bag it lived in another ZIP code - but general anonymity was a nice thing to have. I tucked myself in close, pulling myself across the street and touching down on the building across the way. When the smoke hit the ground, I pulled it back into me, gravel crunching underfoot as I landed in a dead sprint and kept running. Six quick strides and I hit the edge of the roof, sneakers curling as I pressed off of the lip, jumping further into the sky this time before I turned into mist.

By the time I had made it across six buildings, my heart had calmed down enough for me to feel like a person again. I came to a stop perched on a fire escape, ass uncomfortably planted on the railing as I dangled eight stories above the street below.

Hell of a view, though.

I hummed, pulling out my phone, and deleted the rest of the messages without bothering to hear them before calling up my client.

"Mr. Carpenter? This is Sophia Hess - would you happen to have time to chat today? In person, if you can. I'd be happy to help."

---

Carpenter had offered to meet in one of the six million parks scattered across the city, but I declined the offer. Not because I didn't want to meet in public - parks were probably going to be my go-to meeting place, honestly, great areas to chat in public without being overheard, and I could record conversions without needing to alert the person I was talking to - but because I was fucking starved, and lunch was going to be on his dollar.

He could absolutely afford it. As could I, I was far from hurting in the money department, but he could afford it more.

What I was trying to get across is that my client was loaded.

John Carpenter was a middle-aged man with a thinly trimmed beard and an even thinner layer of sweat on his brow. He was handsome enough - not that I cared, but there weren't any immediate reasons as to why his wife might be cheating on him. Small dick, probably, or maybe he was just generally an asshole, I didn't get paid to give a fuck. Judging by the fitted suit and the fact he had dragged me into some uppity restaurant rather than a sandwich shop or something, I was going to assume 'asshole' until proven otherwise.

An asshole paying four figures to take pictures of his wife in the sack with another man, though.

I fiddled with the menu as I sat down across from the good Mr. Carpenter, hanging my jacket off the side of the chair. "Before we do anything, do you mind if I record this conversation?"

The man blinked at her, eyebrows furrowing. "Sorry?"

Pulling my audio recorder from my jacket, I rattled it a bit to draw his attention. It was a simple item; a small rectangle of plastic, shaped to look vaguely like a wallet or weirdly squat phone if you didn't look too closely. "Just the opening bit - I need proof to confirm you hired me specifically. You can say no, in which case I'll need you to sign a written form before I can do anything. Basically I just need proof that I was operating on a hired basis rather than flying solo and contacting you after. Legal nonsense, I'm sure you understand," I rattled off, humming as one menu entrees caught my eye. Salmon sounded pretty fantastic, especially on someone else's dime.

Clearly he didn't understand all that, judging from the blank and vaguely lost look on his face, but he nodded anyway, and I set the recorder down in the middle of the table and clicked it on. It was all for show, of course - New York was a one-party consent state, something I was very happy to hear about, and my phone had been doing the real recording before I even walked into the building. Still, theatrics got me the big bucks - people usually didn't hire capes out of the yellow pages if they weren't looking for some drama with their legally-licensed stalking. They expected drama and gadgets, so I gave them drama and gadgets.

Joke's on him, the recorder was like thirty bucks on Amazon. The phone was expensive as hell, but I didn't show that off.

"Sophia Hess, January fifteenth, twenty-twenty-three," I began, speaking into the recorder and rattling off the words in a slow cadence. "Currently at the Caesora restaurant in New York city, five-seventeen PM. With me is John - Jonathan? - just John, Carpenter. Mr. Carpenter is a Marketing and Sales representative for Northern Sights Reality, and has hired me to investigate suspected adultery on the part of his wife, one Sarah Carpenter. Can you confirm this is all true for the record, Mr. Carpenter?"

"Uh - yes. That's all true. Hey, I gotta ask - you are really, ah," the man cut in, leaning across the table and looking around as if someone was going to start screaming when he said the word 'cape.'

I sighed, setting the tape recorder down. Well, that was good enough for a CYA case, I suppose. I clicked the recorder off and tucked it into my jacket pocket, before flicking my hand in his direction. As I did, I let the limb disperse into smoke, fluttering towards him. I let the smoke that was my hand circle him a lap before I pulled it back, letting it reform and waving with it. "Yep, I sure am."

John sat back, sufficiently wowed by a party trick which had taken me the better part of a decade to master. I would have rolled my eyes if I didn't need this job. Fuck, but I hated the public cases, but they would pay the bills until I could get the government on the hook. We remained quiet for a moment as the waiter approached; I ordered the salmon and pasta dish I had been eyeing, my client buying something with a French name I couldn't be bothered to remember and a glass of wine. Waving the offer of a drink off, I leaned forwards, settling my elbows on the table.

"You said you had been married to your wife for going on twelve years now, correct?" I began, nibbling on a breadstick that had been dropped off. It was good, but not worth the price tag attached to the meal. I got the feeling that was going to be a trend around here, though.

"Thirteen this May, yeah. It's - been a bit of a blindside, honestly," John said, voice faint. "I thought she was happy with me; didn't think I had been so bad for her that she would cheat. I wish I knew what I had done -"

"Any kids?" I cut him off, not really interested in the waterworks right now. Well, now I felt bad for assuming he was an asshole.

"What? No, no kids. We agreed we didn't want any. I work for the art museum, I have my own job - we're too busy for kids. We talked about adopting, at some point. Taking in some troubled teens when we retired, that sort of thing."

I hummed, tearing off another chunk of the bread and chewing, before jotting some things down on my notepad. "Good to know, good to know. It'll be easier for you in court that way - custody gets really messy, especially when the man initiates the divorce. Not that it won't already be messy, but you'll be able to ask for a lot more if kids don't need to be fought over."

Carpenter laughed, shaking his head. "Not sure why you care so much about the legal aspect - I just need proof, Ms. Hess. I appreciate the perspective, though; do you do a lot of reading about the divorce law? I wouldn't think it, looking at you."

I bit my tongue instead of his, and quietly nudged him back into the asshole category, doing my best to keep a cool expression. "I have my Masters in Parahuman Criminal Law with a focus in Civil Law, which includes a hefty portion of time spent researching divorce law, as well as my experience in the matter over the last seven years of my practice. You can consider me basically a cross between a lawyer and a detective - my job is to get you evidence that will be admissible in court, and as much of it as I possibly can without crossing any lines that would have your case invalidated. Now - how long have you suspected your wife has been cheating on you?"

Carpenter got significantly less nervous and more asshole-ish as time went on; I no longer had a reason to doubt why Sarah had cheated on him. I hadn't ruled out the small dick theory, though. After the second glass of wine, the meeting became less of an exchange of information and more him ragging on how ungrateful his wife was, and how lucky she had been to marry him.

I really hated these types of jobs - the ones with the rich assholes who paid too well to turn down. Still, I did my best to stay professional, laying out what I could and could not do, my plan of attack, and my operating costs. Thankfully, Carpenter was the sort of rich asshole who didn't mind being charged by the hour - clearly, he had no idea how long I was willing to spend staking a place out. Sore muscles and cramps were considerably easier to ignore when you were earning a hundred-fifty to two hundred an hour.

By the end of the dinner, I had all the details I needed, a twelve hundred dollar down payment in my pocket, and a burning need to never talk to Carpenter ever again. By glass three he had started ogling my neckline more openly, and I was starting to debate just giving his wife a heads up and wandering off with the check. If I didn't need the money for rent, I might have.

Once I was sure he was out of useful information and was just bitching, I stood up and tugged on my jacket, zipping it up to my neck. "I'll head out now, see about laying out some ground work -" by which I meant looking for an actually decent place to eat tonight - "and I'll be in touch with you once I have more details to go on."

"I just - want to be sure this is going to go my way in the end, Ms. Hess," Carpenter pleaded as he stood alongside me, reaching out to shake my hand. "I don't want her to walk away with a single damn cent of my money."

"Trust me, Mr. Carpenter," I reassured him, doing my best to make sure my disgust didn't cross my face as I shook his hand as quickly as possible. "You're paying for the best."

And right now 'the best' wanted to eat something other than ant food, to wash the taste of greasy jerkwad from my mouth. There had to be a hole in the wall sandwich shop or stereotypical hotdog stand somewhere near my apartment, right?

I hummed to myself as I put away my gear, something in my chest loosening as I stepped out into the city. That had been - not a terrible day, all things considered. Fully moved in, progressed on my first job, put forward some feelers into the city to figure out where to move from here.

Cold air cut through my lungs as I breathed in, enjoying the crisp winter and the taste of saltwater on the breeze. "I can handle this," I reminded myself, starting my way back down the road.

Maybe if I said it enough times, it would finally start to sound true.

 

[PurpLexed]

January 17th, 2023
114 68th Ave, Apt. 14, New York City

"Baby, please -"

"I can't believe -"

"Come home, I need -"

"Why would you do this to me -"

"Mrs. Barnes? This is Assistant Director Jameson, of the PRT-East; calling in response to your request to schedule a meeting. I have a 12 o'clock opening today, if you're free to come in; please call me when you get the chance."

My eyes went wide as I quickly sat up from the bed, covers falling away. Shit, that was from yesterday, wasn't it? I had lost it in the deluge of - other voicemails. Checking the time stamps quickly, I winced - this call was from two days ago, right as I arrived in the city.

God fucking damn it.

Quickly standing up and walking to the door of my bedroom, I kicked away a pile of the last few days' dirty clothes and takeout boxes. Hasty fingers tapped away on my phone, redailing the number as I mumbled angrily under my breath. I flicked the light switch on, wincing as the artificial night created by my blackout curtains hit me dead in the face.

Fucking - ow. I hated mornings. Or whatever fucking time it was, who cares.

The phone rang once, twice, three times. I bit my lip, wondering briefly if I had missed my chance, but thankfully someone picked up on the fifth ring.

"Parahuman Response Team North-East, how can I help you?" a professional-sounding woman asked, her words clipped and curt.

"Ah - hi, I'm calling in response to an earlier call I - missed. Uhm, Sophia Hess - I was going to meet with Mr. Jameson to file some paperwork and receive ATO in the city? Hash out some, uh, ground rules. And stuff," I trailed off, wincing at my own inept attempt at conversation.

Fuck, why couldn't this have been an email?

"It looks like you had a meeting planned at twelve on Monday that fell through." I tried - and failed - to withhold a wince at the mild judgment in her tone, running a hand through my messy hair. Mentally I set a note to finally get a fucking haircut - it wasn't even my idea to let it grow this long.

"Yes, sorry, I was - occupied at the time, and only just now managed to check through my voicemails," I replied, chewing my lip as I stared at the piles of clothes on my floor. I had just dumped out the boxes, not having a dresser to put them in, and combined with the half-eaten pizza sitting in an open box next to my mattress, it didn't form a pretty picture about my ability to adult properly. Shit, the mattress was still on the floor - I had a bedframe, but I had been too lazy to set it up yet. "Cape stuff, I'm sure you understand," I finished into the phone.

Luckily the secretary bought my bullshit. "Of course. Well, Mr. Jameson has an opening today, if you have the time. Does one-thirty sound good?"

Grimacing, I quickly pulled the phone away from my face, checking the time. An hour from now wasn't... great. "Any chance you have something later in the day?"

"No." Annnnd the judgment was back, neat. I sighed, taking stock of my situation: standing in my bedroom: unshowered, hair a mess, wearing nothing but an over-large shirt and panties, wading through tomorrow's clothes and yesterday's dinner.

Yip-fucking-ee. I started toeing through the pile of clean clothes, hunting for things to wear. Fuck it. Private Investigators were supposed to be slobs anyways, right? Just ask Hollywood. "Okay, well. I'll be there. Thank you for your time. Buh-bye."

I let out a long breath, before rolling my shoulders and pulling together something resembling an outfit for the day. Professional? I was meeting someone important, so, probably.

On the other hand, I was self employed, so I could dress however I fucking wanted. I pondered that logic for a moment, before nodding to myself and deciding it checked out.

Sophia: one, adulthood... probably somewhere in the high thousands, honestly.

Quickly snatching a pair of jeans and a likely-clean plain black tee from the pile, I tugged them on and found and threaded on my belt quickly. I didn't bother matching my socks. Nobody had time for that.

In a few minutes I almost felt like a functioning adult, somehow. I tried to hold onto that feeling as I chose a slice of room-temperature pizza from the box on the floor, holding it in my mouth as I tugged on my brown jacket and hurriedly pulled on my boots, tying them with curses muffled by the makeshift muzzle.

Scarfing down the pizza quickly, I slapped at my pockets, checking to make sure I had everything. Phone, wallet, audio recorder - did I really need my keys, when I could just phase through her door if needed? I briefly debated finding them, but decided against digging through the room for them. A few seconds later, I was up on the roofs again, boots tapping away on the gravel, wind in my hair.

It still felt a bit like breaking the rules, just running from place to place. Despite years as an open cape, using my powers this casually had been - well, a bit taboo, back in Brockton, at least from my experience. I couldn't speak to the experiences of others, like Parian and New Wave, but I got the feeling my life as an outed parahuman was probably a fair bit different from everyone else's.

Shadow Stalker had a record, after all. Dropping the title didn't erase what I had done.

But here, in a new city, with a new life?

There was a chance for me to be anyone I wanted to be, instead of what everyone thought I should be.

Fuck, but that was a terrifying thing to think about.

It wasn't as bright out today as it had been yesterday, and I found myself appreciating the cloud cover as I made my way across the city. Sunglasses were one of the many things that hadn't survived in the move South; alongside things like toothbrushes, shampoo and other soaps, the majority of my socks, and my pride.

Morbid. I shook my head as I crested the next rooftop, shifting into my shadow state for long enough to catch the edge of the next building, boots crashing into the gravel below, skidding and sliding until I flexed my core and shifted my center of gravity forwards. I relished the shock to my legs, the way landing forced me to shift my weight to the side to avoid sliding or falling on the unsteady ground. Every movement was a matter of skill and practice; every motion planned and practiced.

I had really missed this. Heart pounding, legs aching, arms pumping, moving on my own volition. There were many things I would miss about Brockton, but surprisingly the car I had been gifted - more like burdened with - wasn't one of them. Why would I spend my time on the roads, when I could be here instead?

The journey to the center of the city didn't take too long, all things considered; a little over an hour, which was faster than driving would have been. I was going to have to figure out the subway system at some point, try to understand where the fuck I was supposed to hop on and off. Brockton didn't have much in the way of a public transport system; the buses were a joke and the ferry had only recently been renewed, despite being about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. The subway seemed promising, which was good. Roof-running everywhere wouldn't be feasible forever.

Great way to fuck up my knees. Wasn't getting any younger, here.

Once I got within a block of the PRT headquarters, I came to a stop on a nearby apartment building and caught my breath, folding my arms behind my neck to cool down. Three months of High School track hadn't taught me much, but I did remember how to get my heart rate down and stretch out after a run.

Settling down at the edge of the roof, I hung my legs over the edge and sighed, propping myself up on one arm as I leaned back. Gray skies and black streets, as far as the eye could see; cars filling the roads and people dotting the sidewalks. It was a riot of color, which was something I hadn't expected - for some reason, I had thought the city would be shades of pale and gray, with skyscrapers as far as the eye could see. But now I could see the varied palette of it; brick buildings in hues of red, yellow and brown. Blue paint and red signs on storefronts, glass catching the few hints of sunlight and painting buildings in a myriad of reflections. The people too, were a riot of color - green jackets and blue suits, white pants and red shoes.

It was different. A good type of different, I hoped. My choice to come here had mostly been on a tip from a friend; something close enough to what I was used to, but too far away for the remnants of my life to hold me back.

Fuck, I hoped it was far enough away. Next stop after this was California, and I wasn't looking forward to that.

"God, I hope I like it here," I spoke out into the empty air, hunching forwards. I really, really wanted this to work. Needed this to work. Because what was the other option? Pick up and move somewhere else, pray that it worked out there? Spend the rest of my life on the run, moving from place to place, slowly destroying any sense of self I had left?

Going back? A quiet voice asked in my head, shamefully comforting. I shoved that voice back down where it belonged, locking it away and ignoring it as best as I could.

Abso-fucking-lutely not.

Of course, then I went and had to distract myself in the worst way possible: checking my phone.

It was one-fifteen, and I had nine missed calls. Six texts, from the same number - a number I didn't recognise. My phone didn't display what the texts were or who they were from, but - well.

Really wasn't a huge leap of logic, was it.

Just stop, please.

I tucked the phone away, once again banishing the little voice in the back of my head, the one that asked 'maybe we should answer her, would it be so bad?' The part of her that fed into the gnawing, anxious guilt, the hurt voice that wanted things to be good again. Seven years of marriage built up, habits and trends and happy memories, cluttering the way forward like landmines.

How can you be so scared of someone and still miss them so much it hurts?

Obviously, the best solution to the problem was to jump off the roof.
I relaxed into the wind as it started to tug at me, gravel jabbing into my palms as I stood from the rooftop and tucked the phone away. My jacket flared out behind me as I stepped up to the granite ledge, then tilted myself forwards, letting gravity take me. Someone shouted as I started falling, but I didn't bother looking to see who it was, too focused on my landing spot: a section of the sidewalk between this apartment building and the corner store next to it.

Falling was the next best thing to flying, honestly. I didn't have enough control over my shadow state to really fly, just mess with my momentum a bit, but moments like these made me forget that lack. My hair fluttered behind me, stomach whirling, heart racing as the street below approached.

I really fucking missed this.

A few feet away from the ground, I let the smoke burst free, the transformation running from my feet to my head in the time it took to blink. Thankfully an amorphous cloud of gas handled the six-story drop better than I would have otherwise; I pulled myself forward, tugging on the downward momentum to push me into a forward sprint. Air and shadow became aching legs and sore muscles in short order, and I took a few running steps to bleed off the rest of the momentum before coming to a stop.

I took a moment to look around me, and spotted a younger man further down the road, clad in jeans and a NYU hoodie. He had one hand outstretched towards me and a shocked look on his face, his mouth open wide as he stared at me. He was probably the one who had shouted when I jumped, given how close he was to where I landed.

It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize what he had been doing, and I grimaced. Right. New York was a bit low on the cape-to-civvie ratio, wasn't it? Also watching someone jump off a roof probably hadn't been great for his heart, shit. I gave him a sheepish smile, shrugging my shoulders. "Sorry- gotta look where I leap. All good here, no need to worry."

He stared for a moment longer, before shaking his head and scowling. "Nice move, fuckwad."

I matched his glare with one of my own. The hell was his problem? "Didn't ask for a rescue, shitbag," I replied. His answer was to shove his hands in his pocket and turn away, flipping me the bird over his shoulder as he continued down the sidewalk. There were a fair few other people on the sidewalk as well, and when I glanced over at them, most of them gave me looks ranging from confused to vaguely disgruntled.

Y'know, I'm not sure if I liked the fabled New York hospitality or not. Grumbling, I turned the opposite direction, trying to push the encounter out of my head. The Protectorate/PRT-NE Headquarters weren't that far, tucked near the Hudson and staring out over the Statue of Liberty. Somehow, the section of the government that sold the most action figures managed to secure the quality real estate, who could have guessed?

As I got closer to the headquarters, traffic got to be a bit closer to what I expected - packed. The sidewalks were clogged with people, and this close up, the riot of color I had been admiring from the rooftop wasn't nearly as fun. More than once, someone brushed into my shoulder or sprinted in front of me, forcing me to course correct or end up on my ass. My usual tactic of 'glare at them until they flinch' didn't work, for some reason.

I was leaning more towards the 'liking it here' side of things, honestly.

Approaching a crosswalk, I came to a stop on the edge of the street and watched the cars go by, mind running at a mile a minute. My hopes for this meeting were pretty high, I'd admit; my arrangement with the PRT-ENE had been hard fought, but well worth all the effort. The jobs and requests they had asked of me had been so much better than the usual shit I got from customers, and the government didn't bat an eye when I upcharged them for my services.

Also, hunting for evidence of drug labs or gang storehouses was greatly preferable to stalking a possibly cheating spouse or lying business partner. More fun, and less mentally draining for me.

The goal here was to make friends - the sort of friends who could bend rules and ignore certain legalities for me, if needed. There was a vast difference between being a government-sanctioned Hero and a state-certified Private Detective - one of them got to toss around terms like 'reasonable suspicion' and 'Vikare Act Protected Rights,' and the other got to be arrested six times in one month for 'suspected trespassing.'

Not that I was bitter, or anything. Fucking BBPD.

So I really needed some leeway to make my job possible. Being a registered Rogue wasn't fantastic, when it came down to legal protections and my ability to operate within cities, but it was the only way I could do my job and still get paid. Sure, I could bend the knee at any point and register as a Hero. Get myself a fancy costume, be allowed to do a lot more than I currently was, investigation wise. But I wouldn't be able to earn money from it, be hired for specific tasks, or run my own business without government oversight.

Besides, I was nobody's hero.

The lights flicked from green to red, and the crowd around me surged before the walk sign even turned on. I had to jog a few steps to avoid being run over by the oblivious mass, cursing under my breath as I moved. A car honked as we cut him off from an aggressive right turn, and I found myself flipping him off alongside three other people.

Definitely liking it here.

After a few more minutes of walking, I turned a street corner and spotted the PRT building in the distance. It was a bit of an odd sight to see in the middle of a mostly residential area; the abrupt difference between three and four level buildings being broken up by a sprawling complex of squat glass buildings and high walls, blocking the majority of the complex from view. Street traffic grew a little less thick, and the majority of the pedestrians walking with me split off to go their own ways as I approached the headquarters.

I still wasn't sure if the New York-based PRT was going to be any better than their New-Hampshire based counterparts, but I knew one thing for sure:

They had gotten a shitload more funding. Piggot must have been seething in envy.

Two thick walls of black-painted concrete rose from the ground, each of them topped with a thin line of barbed wire. A guard station out front, where cars were screened as they entered; distant hints of rounded garages and a complex of buildings, hidden behind the walls. I heard the sound of rotors behind the walls; from what I had heard, the New York City branch used helicopters instead of the armored trucks Brockton PRT did. Made sense - I couldn't imagine the stress of being caught in traffic while some jackoff in spandex was busy burning down a children's hospital, or some shit.

My steps took me down the walking path towards the gate, the sidewalk cutting off and turning into the road. The guards gave me an odd look - at least I assumed they did, couldn't see shit behind those faceless visors some military-movie fetishist had chosen for a uniform - as my steps quickly took me across the road, walking up towards the gatehouse.

"Hey. Sophia Hess, I've got a meeting with the A.D.? One thirty?" I had to crane my neck upwards as I came to a stop in front of the black-and-yellow rail, peering into the building.

The agent behind the window had her visor up, revealing a pretty hispanic woman with an amused look on her face. "Forget the car at home?" she said slyly, tapping at her computer. "Lemme call you in real quick."

"I'm not using a car in this friggin' city if I can help it," I grumbled, tucking my hands in the pockets of my jacket. She shrugged her shoulders, my eyes catching on her uniform where it clung tightly to her torso. "The walk wasn't fun, though. Hoping I don't need to come out here often."

The guard hummed, glancing at her computer screen, before muttering something into the walkie on her shoulder. "Where you coming from?"

"Uh - Ridgewood? Over on 68th. I think that's what the neighborhood is called, at least; still confused by how angry people can get if you call one mile of city by another's name."

The guard laughed at that, smirking at me as I tapped at her keyboard again. "Hell of a walk, and yeah. Consider the city to be ten or eleven little districts and you'll be better off."

I rolled my shoulders, hands tense in my pockets. My foot bounced a bit, nervous energy carrying the motion as I waited. I tried to convince myself it was just worry about the upcoming meeting, and not about the nerves roiling in my gut.

Fuck it. New city, New York, new me, right?

"Hell of a glide, actually. Roof running's a ton quicker than walking the whole distance," I boasted, doing my best to sound casual. But also smug? How the fuck does one straddle the line of confidence and being a dick? Her eyes flicked to me, and she quickly scanned me up and down, as if looking for a hint of costume. I bit my lip and continued, ignoring the roiling in my gut. "But hey - if you want to show me around the city a bit, I wouldn't say no to a tour. Bet you could show me some great little hidden spots, being a local and all."

She flicked her eyes back to me, this time scanning me from head to toe slowly. She met my eyes, then shook her head with a soft laugh before turning back to the computer.

"I appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid I'm a bit too busy to play tour guide for now. For reference, there's a subway station four north and two east of you - one of the stops pops out right down the road. Should save you some time roof running, if you ever need to come back," I finished, tapping a button on her control panel. I let out an exaggerated sigh, scratching the back of my head as the rail raised up, letting me by. "See you 'round, Mrs. Hess."

Ah well. Something something, hundred percent of shots you don't take. I gave her a friendly nod as I stepped by, trying to soothe away the embarrassment left behind by my swing-and-miss.

God, I was out of practice.

That was assuming I had ever had any practice. Wasn't really much time for that sort of shit when I was a teen, and by the time I got out -

Well. My options were pretty well cemented for me at that point, weren't they?

Oh good, there went the lingering shame. Hello, depressing thoughts, I sure did fucking miss you.

Behind the walls, I could see the headquarters in their entirety, and my first impression of 'military base' seemed a lot more correct than I had thought. Six buildings stood in front of me, dominating the view; two of them looking like massive domed garages, one of them tipped with what was probably radar diIs, and the other three forming squat, towering buildings linked by skywalks and pathways at ground level. Everything was painted in shades of black, blue and yellow; from the lines on the parking lot to the trim on the garages, every inch of it neat and crisp.

God. I could taste the funding, honestly. To my left a massive concrete landing zone sat, dozens of helicopters branded with the PRT logo either parked or being maintained. Dozens of people dotted the landscape; a squad of troopers jogging in lockstep around the grounds, orange-suited mechanics working on the helicopters, business-suit clad mooks entering and exiting the office buildings.

Yeah, they absolutely could afford my rates, holy shit. I felt a fair bit underdressed as I made my way towards the main building. A few people passed me by on my way, none of them giving me a second glance; two men talking urgently as they speed-walked around me, and a sharp-dressed blonde woman speaking in an even sharper tone into her phone as I exited the building.

A few security guards gave me scrutinizing glances as I entered, but I figured they were mostly for show. If Brockton had been able to afford an automatic threat-detecting system in their lobby, there was no way this place was still relying on the Mark I eyeball for that sort of shit. A woman a few years older than me sat behind a black granite counter, typing away at mach speeds as I approached. I glanced up over her glasses at me, her eyebrows narrowing slightly, hair pulled back into a severe bun.

"Can I help you?" said the voice from the phone earlier. I winced internally, rolling my shoulders.

"Ah - yeah, Sophia Hess. I have a -"

The narrowed eyes turned in a disdainful glare. "One thirty meeting with the Assistant Director, which you are, if our clocks are correct -" she cut in with a tone that brooked no doubt that the clocks were, in fact, correct "- sixteen minutes late for. Elevator two, floor five, second door on the left. Mr. Jameson has been waiting for you."

I debated apologizing, but figured this was the sort of situation where my best course of action was to tuck my tail between my legs and bitch out. Definitely wasn't asking for a tour of the city from this woman, that was for sure.

Shame. Instead, I raised a half-hearted hand, turning to find the named elevator, and hoping I didn't manage to forget the directions if I had been given. I did not want to imagine the look she would give me if I got lost. Disdainful glare, legs crossed in her chair, looking down at me over her glasses...

Well. Maybe I did want to imagine it.

Thankfully, the elevators were helpfully numbered, and in a few moments I was hidden from that piercing glare by a few inches of metal as I made my way up, safe and sound in my tightly enclosed metal box. I did my best not to think about how close the walls were, instead staring intently on the numbers as they rose upwards.

I fucking hated elevators. They were fantastic for throwing off people on your tail, or misdirecting people who knew you were tailing them - just gotta ignore the whole 'stops' part and hop out when they were moving - but not fantastic when you were claustrophobic and already under seventeen tons of stress and emotional baggage.

By the time it let out an annoying cheerful 'ding' I was already moving, squeezing my way through the doors as they opened far too slowly and doing my best to pretend that the sweat on my forehead was from my run here. Quickly looking down the hallway, I found my destination and noted that the door was already was open for me.

Right, I was late. Good job with that first impression, Sophia.

Poking my head into the conference room, I spotted an older man seated behind a small table, paperwork arrayed around him and his head bowed down towards it. He glanced up at my knock, frowning as I filled the doorway. The Assistant Director looked much like Brockton's AD always had; overworked, prematurely aged, and perpetually stressed. His frown softened mildly as he motioned for me to come in, setting down whatever he was looking at and standing.

I shook his hand as I got close, hoping he wouldn't notice how clammy my palms were. "Mr. Jameson?"

"Mrs. Barnes! Pleasure to meet you," he said affably, motioning to the chair on the other side of the table.

My wince must have been visible, because he gave me an apologetic smile as I sat. "Just - Ms. Hess will be fine. Or Sophia, honestly, still not - doing well with last names at this point. I'm, uh, in the midst of a messy divorce. Sorry about the delay, by the way; still not entirely used to getting around the city, underestimated how long it would take me to get here."

That was a good excuse, right? Surely better than 'sorry I'm late, I had to brush my teeth and find where my pants were' would have been. "No worries, no worries. I've always got something to do with my time," he joked, waving a negligent hand at the papers in front of him. He shuffled them back into place as he sat, pulling out a thick folder and slapping it on the table with a heavy thump.

I did my best to smile politely, waiting for the inevitable small-talk; 'how are you enjoying the city, nice weather, sorry to hear that your life is an absolute mess and it's all your fault,' the usual.

Which is probably why I nearly choked when he instead opened with "I will say, this is the first time anyone has ever tried to rob me with paperwork," still smiling cheerfully and entirely polite.

It took me a moment to clear my throat, during which he continued on, still as happy and pleasant as can be. "Three hundred dollars an hour, a two-grand monthly retainer, and hazard pay - you expect me to believe Piggot paid that? Willingly? Having met the woman, I struggle to buy that went over well."

Well fuck, he didn't start soft, did he. "I think she realized my services were well worth the cost I was asking. I hear she left me a glowing review, after all," I shot back, settling into my seat.

Jameson one hand to form air quotes, the other one holding a sheet of paper up to read from. "'Mrs. - Ms. Hess performed adequately, despite initial misgivings, and contributed to a noticeable amount of convictions over her time in the city,' end quote," he said dryly, raising an eyebrow at me. The cheerful, affable smile was still on his face, like it had been painted on over a mask of indifference. Now that I knew he wasn't just some laid-back and overworked paper pusher, I could see the smile for the insult it actually was. "You consider that to be a 'glowing review?'"

Fuck, but I think I liked him.

"You did say you had met the woman," I replied with a smirk, settling into the swing of things. "And all you need to do is check the records for convictions; I know Renick kept a tally of the cases my evidence was crucial in closing out. He brought it up often enough. One hundred and fourteen, over eight years? You can't call that a fluke."

He hummed, flipping the pages. "I did notice that, yes. One hundred and fourteen cases he deemed your participation to be successful in; two hundred and six warrants assigned due to your actions in finding a cause for arrest; a total of five hundred and nineteen pieces of evidence delivered, including photos, tips, and circumstantial evidence. It's a very impressive record, Ms. Hess, I'll admit. Definitely worth three hundred an hour, at least."

I hummed softly, moving to lean forward, but his eyes flicked up at me and pinned me back to my seat. "What I find a bit more troubling are records a bit further back."

Actually, fuck this guy.

My hands clenched nervously, as he looked back down at the reports in front of him, but I couldn't think of a good enough reason to stop him from continuing - not without seeming desperate.

"Four years in the Concord Maximum-Security Women's Prison, preceded by four years in Brockton's Juvenile Detention Center, where you racked up a truly impressive amount of demerits; thirteen fights ending in hospitalizations of the other party, four assaults on facility guards, two escape attempts, five times searches found contraband in your cell," he rattled off, punctuating each fact with a quick glance up at me.

I looked to the side, rolling my shoulders. "I was a black girl in a city full of neo-Nazi's. I'll admit some of those were on me, but most of them were self defense. And I got out early on good behavior. Just - needed some time to get my shit together."

"Self defense, right. Like you defended yourself against one Samuel Morrison, aged 19, or Micheal Richmond, aged 32, father of two -"

"Those were fucking accidents and you know it," I hissed at him, grimacing as I rose up in my seat. He gave me a cool glare, and I clenched my fists, fighting down the indignant anger. I took a deep breath, then continued. "They wouldn't have given me twelve years if they thought it had been deliberate."

Jameson hummed again, setting the file down and lacing his fingers together, visibly giving me his full attention. "How does one accidentally pin someone to a wall by their wrists? You used crossbows back then, I'm given to understand; must have been a very good shot. I'm surprised there aren't more murders on your record, Ms. Hess, given that you spent your childhood hunting men with broadheads designed to cause fatal bleeding."

I wanted to jump out of the chair and shout at him, to scream and wipe that passive look off his face. My leg bounced again under the table, anger venting itself in the only way I could right now.

There was no world in which I could afford to blow this. I needed his support, and the support of the PRT; jeopardizing my Rogue status would set me back years, force me to spend my days hunting down ex-husbands and cheating partners, a glorified reporter with just as much authority to back me up.

And -

Well. He wasn't saying anything I hadn't said to myself, was he?

I took a deep breath, doing my best not to care as he stared at me, waiting for my response. The fact that he was waiting at all meant he wanted my opinion; that he hadn't made up his mind on me yet, that this was just another test, just another chance to see if I was as violent and angry as my record said I was. I did my best to tell myself that, as I steadied my breathing, calmed my anger, choked down insults and rage.

That wasn't who I was, anymore. That wasn't someone I could afford to be.

"It - Yes, I went out looking to hurt people. I'll admit that. I have admitted that, under oath in fact. Living in Brockton, especially back in those days, wasn't good for me. I got to grow up knowing half the city hated me, that there were sections of my own home that would always be off limits; got to grow up hearing about neighbors and relatives who were cornered and got beaten into the hospital, or in far too many cases, into the morgue. So when I got my powers - I wanted to hit back.

"I told myself it was about being a hero, about making a difference. Really - really I just wanted a chance to hit someone, and be right."

Jameson gave no reaction, merely folding his hands together and watching me as I tried to keep a lid on my anger. My palms hurt; nails pressing down into the skin so hard I wouldn't be surprised if I saw blood when I opened my fists. Still, I continued.

"Part of it was just - well. They were Nazis, I didn't feel much guilt at first. If I'm going to be honest - I still struggle to find that guilt. I feel bad that I was the one to kill them; that the blood is on my hands, and so are the - the consequences. Some of the things Micheal did... you can find the details if you look, but they aren't pretty. He was a blooded member, and there's only one way you can get that title, with the Empire. But - I never set out to kill."

Jameson leaned forwards, his calm voice oddly soothing, for an asshole who was forcing me to relive this. "But you did."

"But - but I did. Sam - I don't know. I feel guilty for that one. Looking back on it now, he was just a kid - barely older than I was. I've read the records. Fuck, but I've read those records, so many times I can't even count. Fresh out of highschool and clueless, suckered in by his older brother. I was convinced that he had to know more, that he - was more than a glorified asshole. I figured I could intimidate him into talking, telling me something - and well. When you're fourteen and new to your powers, you just assume you're strong, that you're just like the movies. I pulled a Hollywood move - dangled him over the edge of the roof, held him by his shirt. Tried to make him talk."

I chuckled hallowly, one of my hands unclenching, grabbing at my knee as I stared down at the table, tracing the white spots with my eyes. "Turns out adults are a bit too heavy for teenaged girls to lift. I tilted him towards the ledge, and he - didn't stop. I still hear the sound he made on the pavement some days. The way he looked at me - it haunts me. Back then, I convinced myself he had it coming; that it was even something I meant to do. Now? I know better. He had a chance to change - might have even snapped out of it, if he survived an encounter with an angry cape. I took that from him, and there isn't a day that goes by I don't regret it. He was a racist prick, but - I have to believe that everyone deserves a second chance, otherwise I wouldn't be here."

The AD leaned back in his chair, fingers rolling on the table, tapping rhythmically. I risked a look up at him, spotting the pensive look on his face, the curious tilt of his mouth. I wonder what he saw now, looking at me?

"And Micheal Richmond?" he asked, voice low, words calm. "Do you regret him?"

"Richmond was a serial rapist and murderer. Wanted for six different deaths over his tenure; he was blooded, and you don't get that title without committing some fucking horrible act against a minority, against someone like me. He was unrepentant, and far beyond saving, beyond second chances. Fuck knows how many people who he had killed without even a second glance. Half an inch, you know? Half an inch higher, and he would have lived. Bolt would have blocked the bleeding long enough for the EMTs I called in to stabilize him. Instead he bled out, alone and cold, pinned to that alleyway wall."

I looked up, staring Jameson directly in the eyes. "I killed him. I didn't choose to do it, and I wouldn't do it again if offered the chance. But do I regret that he died? No. I don't think that I ever will."

Let him fucking judge me for it. I'd already judged myself plenty; been judged by others; explained that exact same story to a jury and a Judge proper.

I didn't give a damn what he had to say about it. I know what I am.

My eyes locked with his, my tightly-wound anger meeting his cold assessment. Eventually he nodded once, looking back down at his reports.

"What assurance do I have that you won't decide to mete out that level of justice here, Ms. Hess?" he said after a few moments. "We don't have space for Vigilantes in our city."

"That record you know so much about? Look at it again. How many of those arrests were mine? How many times have I captured a criminal, brought in a crook, or performed a takedown since my release?" I replied, jutting my chin towards him.

We both knew what the answer would be - a big, fat, zero.

My 'Hero' days were long behind me.

"I don't own anything more aggressive than pepper spray," I said quietly, urging him to believe me. "My parole officer stops by once a month at random times and has permission to check my domicile for weapons; I've never impeded a search or been found in violation. The worst I've done is mace the occasional mugger, and that's only if they don't run the moment they see a Cape. When I see a crime in progress, I call in support, and sometimes I'll grab a victim and get them out. But I don't - I don't do fights. Can't trust myself anymore, not when lives are on the line."

He flicked down to the record again, and my entire body clenched, muscles taunt as he picked out a report.

I'd seen it plenty of times. Four paragraphs - barely a single page, a summary of a crime that I hadn't committed but was still undoubtedly my fault.

There was a reason I didn't bother with masks these days, and it wasn't out of a sense of fairness.

Please. Please don't read that, I begged silently. Something of my struggle must have shown on his face, because he flipped the reports over, nodding towards me slowly.

"Why don't you explain to me how your agreement with Piggot worked, and we'll see what we can do," he said finally, tucking away the reports and closing my records. I felt something release its grip on me as he pushed the folder to the side, a breath I didn't realize I had been holding escaping my lungs in a burst of air.

I can handle this.

I can handle this.

I can handle this.

I almost believed it.

"Piggot granted me a modified Rogue designation; 'criminal justice pursuant,' I think is the official title," I began, bringing my hands out of my lap and setting them on the table, double-checking to make sure my nails hadn't cut into me again. "Basically, it allows me to run my own Private Investigator practice, without forcing me to sign up as a registered Hero; otherwise I would be unable to earn any money from my work. That's the big ticket item, because without it I'm out of a job."

"You can consider that to be a given, I can't see a reason to deny it," Jameson replied quickly, nodding his head. "I'm more concerned with the 'special powers' she granted you - they seem a bit, ah, extra-legal, shall we say."

I spread my hands to the side, shrugging. "There's only so much you can legally do without a registration as a Hero. Heroes are granted some measure of freedom from probable cause, so long as they're pursuing a Parahuman; specifically, they're allowed to detain or perform a citizen's arrest on any non-parahumans who they believe are assisting or affiliated with Villians. Seeing as I don't perform arrests, Piggot allowed me to instead gather evidence using that clause - basically, I allowed me to record and photograph members of Parahuman gangs while they were inside private buildings and let that evidence be admissible in court, so long as it could be proved the crime they were committing was connected to a Parahuman-based gang."

He raised an eyebrow at me, his affable smile returning. "Which is blatantly unconstitutional, and violates a lot of laws. You're asking for the benefit of Hero work, without any of the accountability?"

I hummed, tilting my hand back and forth in a so-so motion. "Doesn't it strike you as odd, that a Hero can break into a home and arrest people without a warrant, and have that arrest lead to convictions; but if I were to go into the same home and take a few photos of obvious crimes, it would still be illegal? And it's not like I don't face accountability; I still face trespassing and private property violations if I'm wrong, I can't perform arrests, and I don't have protection from local law enforcement under the Vikare act. Well, not here at least. New Hampshire state law -"

"Does not apply in New York, Ms. Hess, although I see your point," he cut in, humming to himself. "I suppose Piggot had a point as well. You make a solid case. I can see why she liked you."

Shrugging, I leaned back into my chair, far more relaxed now. "I always tell my clients I'm basically half-lawyer and half-investigative journalist. My job isn't to be flashy and beat some low-level gangsters into the hospital; my job is to get the evidence that will put their bosses under the prison. I'm the reason that the Empire Eighty-Eight no longer exists, Mr. Jameson. Three years of investigation, of evidence gathering; nights spent watching warehouses, days spent combing through audio transcripts, hours staring at a computer screen looking for a fragment of a gangster's face. Brockton's heroes spent decades fighting the Nazis in the streets, trying to dig them out; I pulled the whole damn organization out by the roots. Every single member, every drug dealer, gun runner, murderer, pencil-pusher, rally-attender, silent partner, and thug. Sure, I didn't put the Capes in jail, but there's a reason why the Empire's entire gang is currently locked up in Max-Sec prisons across the country, and you're looking at her. Brockton Bay is Nazi free. That's my record."

He nodded slowly, and I leaned forward, continuing my pitch. "I'm damn good at what I do, Mr. Jameson. Please - just give me a chance to prove it. All I'm asking for is a fresh start."

The man leaned back in his chair, sighing loudly, and I waited tensely as he thought. To my delight, he looked at me with a smile, shrugging wryly.

"If we're going to do this, you should start calling me Rob. I get the feeling we'll be seeing a lot more of each other."

I didn't bother hiding my grin, reaching out to shake his hand again, firmer this time, no longer worried about clammy palms and good impressions. "Sophia, then. I won't let you down Rob, I promise."

There were a few more things to hash out, of course. He was only the assistant Director; everything he did had to be run by his boss, and seeing as he was trying to push one damn hard pill to swallow through a very tiny loophole, I figured it might take a while before I was in the clear. Somehow, I didn't doubt that he would come through. He promised to talk to the Director, who was in turn going to need to talk to the Governor in order to get me my special permissions, but I had a good feeling about the outcome.

"I'll get back to you when I can, Sophia," he said as he showed me to the door. I nodded, before a thought struck me and I turned to him.

"If you do want to reach me, maybe - do it by email? Even if it is to set up a call. I'm currently, ah, dealing with some phone struggles," I rushed out, smiling nervously. Thankfully, he didn't seem to find an issue with that, promising to do so.

As I stepped into the hallway, he spoke up from behind me. "Welcome to New York City, Ms. Hess. I get the feeling you'll fit in just fine," he called.

I turned to him, eyeing his cheerful smile, the mountain of papers clutched under his arm. Thinking back to my day so far, I nodded before saying honestly:

"I'm happy to be here."

 

[disgruntledghost]

I find it interesting that the AD called her mrs. Barnes over the phone but when she signed in at the front desk she went by hess and it was only after reading Piggot's report that he called her Hess. There are some implications in there about paperwork and how long Sophia and Emma were a thing and it's falling out.

 

[RoboRenee]

A very interesting start! I can hardly wait to see where it goes.

 

[Night_stalker]

I find it interesting that the AD called her mrs. Barnes over the phone but when she signed in at the front desk she went by hess and it was only after reading Piggot's report that he called her Hess. There are some implications in there about paperwork and how long Sophia and Emma were a thing and it's falling out.

Click to shrink...

They haven't divorced yet, or at least enough she doesn't mind being called Mrs.

 

[hellgodsrus]

They haven't divorced yet, or at least enough she doesn't mind being called Mrs.

Click to shrink...

She literally told the AD not to call her Mrs. Barnes and to call her Ms instead.

 

[Bobismeisbob]

I'm really liking this take, some of it hits a bit close to home too in the adulting stuff.

"Cape stuff, I'm sure you understand,"

Click to shrink...

Ironically she'd probably get more leaway from an office setting by saying she was busy moving, still dick move scheduling the meeting without a confirmation.

Mrs. Barnes?

Click to shrink...

Oof, yeah Emma would be a toxic ex.

My usual tactic of 'glare at them until they flinch' didn't work, for some reason.

I was leaning more towards the 'liking it here' side of things, honestly.

Click to shrink...

This is a great line, really sets the tone/attitude of Sophia and the city.