Orderly (Worm Semi-SI)

[Obscura]

The next thing I remember, outside of my own head that is, is a sense of warmth and the soft pressing of skin on skin that is human contact. There was a Taylor next to me, sitting in the back of a beaten-up old truck that I'd never seen before, her hand stroking my hair, trying to calm me down. Not just trying, actually. She was saying something, but I hadn't heard any of it. I sort of quirked, and she started again. We were heading to her house, she explained, and I'd be staying with them for a while, if I was okay with that. I didn't object.

As for how the last report ended, I'd just like to say that no one can be strong all the time. Stress wears at the mind, pain cuts deeper and subtler than you ever expect, and all the weight of the world is heavier and more constant than can be born by anyone, no matter how strong they think they are. Word to the wise, it's better to let yourself be weak sometimes.

If you don't, well, you can end up breaking a lot faster than you'd think. Everyone needs help, especially the ones who insist they don't. Not everyone can be helped, mostly the ones who don't want to be helped can't be, but that's a story for another time. Professionals are generally your best bet, but just about anyone can help, as long as they're actually trying. If all that stress and pain and weight hits you just wrong, at just the wrong time, the results can be unfortunate, to say the least. No one can be strong all the time. Trying doesn't end well. Don't ask how I know that.


Seriously, don't.


I certainly was no exception, and this was a time I could afford to not be strong. The only way to be even sort of indestructible is to deal with the damage before it consumes you utterly. Not that trying the healthy way is infallible, but it's safer than the alternative.

But the warmth and the stroking of the hand on my hair are pleasant, and the hum of the engine is reassuring, and I just let myself be lulled into a state of gentle calm.

Naturally, that's when some guy in Merchant colours started screaming obscenities and firing an assault rifle in the air wildly. Cheap thing, not well taken care of at all, the jerk probably hadn't even read the maintenance manual, but it was still putting bullets into the sky. He was about half a block away from us, and not looking at our vehicle in particular, so we weren't in any more danger than all the other people on the street, but it still was quite unfortunate and very loud.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: this world is broken.


In this case, fortunately, nothing went really wrong. I mean, any situation in which someone's firing a gun on a crowded street has gone really wrong by definition, but nobody got shot. The guy got stung by a wasp on his gun-supporting hand, took his finger off the trigger to swat it, and then got stung a couple dozen times by that wasp and a small swarm of others that roused to its defense. I couldn't see it myself, my glasses had come off, but Taylor told me what happened. That's where pretty much all of my information on the incident comes from, actually. Not like I could see anything. No glasses, just waking up, facing the wrong way and all that.

I hadn't known wasps were social animals, and it did seem awfully convenient, but it was clearly possible, since it happened. I trusted Taylor, she wouldn't lie to me about that. Unless it was just a joke, but it sure didn't seem like it. I wasn't about to complain. The guy was being arrested when we drove away. Hopefully he'd get his life together and eventually contribute something worthwhile to society, but I had my doubts. The American judicial system, Brockton Bay's general corruption, the guy being unwilling to change, any one of those things could easily stop any positive growth on his part dead.

Taylor was looking a little distracted, but I guess gunfire will do that. She was stroking a lot harder now too, and it wasn't nice. I managed to murmur in protest, and she let up.


The rest of the drive to Taylor's house was uneventful, and quite pleasant. At least in comparison to pretty much everything about the rest of my day so far. My really great chair was almost as nice as this, but furniture, even really good furniture, doesn't count as "good day" material if you were ripped away from it forever on that very day. I miss that chair a lot. Right colour, right softness, right everything, really. It was perfect and then it was stolen from me by an interdimensional kidnapper who seemed to think I should be grateful for it.

Yes, I realize that I sound like I'm hyperfocusing on that chair to avoid thinking about the other things I lost when I got grabbed. No, I'm not going to tell you what those other things are. No, that's not just me being petty.

I have no idea and no way of knowing whether this is being read on my homeworld, and there are so very many things that could go wrong if the wrong people find out who half (or thereabouts, I think by this point if you don't get that my identity situation is complicated you never will) of me was. So no, not sharing. It was a really good chair though, and I really do miss it.


The Hebert house looked exactly the same as when I'd last seen it, all of 4-5 hours ago, but it felt immensely different. Before, it was a place to grab the evidence before leaving, a quick smash and grab, except without the smash part. Now it was the closest thing to a home I had.

Weird.

There was an increased sense of familiarity, a feeling of security, and a tinge of comfort, all the things that make a homecoming. Which was the point, I suppose. Provide a feeling of safety and security and all that. Nice people, the Heberts. Unless they were just luring me in so they could murder me. That seemed even less likely than it did before though.

Not that I wouldn't get murdered, but my killer almost certainly wouldn't be Taylor or Danny. More likely, it'd be either the Empire Eighty-Eight, who as neo-nazis would not be happy with an African-Canadian superheroine, or Sophia Hess, who despite having sort of nazi-ish name was actually black, but who was also an exceptionally violent bully who I'd just reported to the cape cops. Being trans and a lesbian wouldn't help with either possibilty, the nazis being nazis and Sophia Hess just not seeming like a very tolerant person in general, but neither should be an issue yet. Old-Jacqueline was a late-bloomer, and hadn't started showing those feelings yet. I'm not actually sure which way that me would have ended up swinging, assuming she'd swing at all. 14 was pretty late, so maybe she'd been ace. Or just oblivious to her own feelings. Probably irrelevant now, anyway.

As for the trans issue, there weren't actually any records of pre-transition me. Either me, actually. One me only had records in a world that wasn't this one, while the other had had the benefit of getting an appointment with NewU before the sinking of Newfoundland. NewU was a tinker, a pretty experienced one, who focused primarily on assisting transitions and on fighting for trans rights. He was officially classified as a Rogue, but since he did all his work for free I considered him a hero. Rogues, actual ones, were parahumans who stepped aside from the constant violence that was most of parahuman society without doing other types of do-goodery. If you did a lot of other types of do-goodery, like Panacea did, or I was planning to, you counted as a Hero without most of the usual downsides, like the constant violence. I felt NewU fit under that category, but Trans people were far from universally accepted, so he was officially a Rogue.

NewU couldn't do anything mundane treatments couldn't, at least that the mundane treatments of the other world the other me had come from couldn't, but the changes he made didn't need maintenance, and they'd been done very quickly after old-Jacqueline had realised who she was, at a very young age. They were also way faster, but that wasn't particularly relevant right now. He could even set things up in advance so puberty would go one way and not the other. Mostly. He couldn't do anything that couldn't be done via mundane means during puberty, he could just arrange it in advance. Any records of the Tinkersurgery or of old-Jacqueline's deadname (and mine, sort of?) drowned with Newfoundland. NewU was out of province at the time, fortunately, but he was also famously discreet. The only patient of his that he'd ever revealed to the public was himself, though a few others had followed his example. I'd do it myself, once I was on firmer ground. I hoped he was doing well. Last I heard he was setting up a secondary clinic in the States, but he was mostly based out of Regina these days. Not for any particular reason, that's just where he was when he got the news and he couldn't hold off the tinker urge long enough to make a careful decision about where he wanted to base himself.

---

Oh, hey, they're heading in. I should probably follow them!

I'm a genius, I know.

 

[Obscura]

"Come into my parlor" spaketh the Taylor, and it was obvious what my answer would have to be. "Said the spider to the fly? Would you perhaps be planning on drinking me dry? Tis not wise to let a parahuman know that before you strike, dearie." I teased, stepping inside. Probably didn't expect me to catch that little literary allusion. The old Jacqueline certainly wouldn't have. She hadn't been one for poetry. An academic near-genius, at least for her age, but not terribly poetic. English had been her second weakest subject. After World Issues, which was so poorly defined and subjective that the only way to fail was to not turn things in and the only way to do really well was if the teacher liked you. Or decided that anybody who turned things in got an A. Gladly was really just the worst teacher when it came to discipline or standards, as even a ninth grader like myself could tell. Or a 3rd grader, if any 3rd grader had ever had the misfortune to encounter him.

The deeply surprised expression on Taylor's face was all the confirmation I needed. The hurried looking around for Danny told me she hadn't told him about my power. Not too surprising, in retrospect, since there was a lot of emphasis on secret identities in parahuman culture, at least on Bet. What little I remembered about Aleph, the only other universe Bet had contact with, indicated their parahumans were more open. And a lot fewer in number and a lot less socially powerful. Her not telling him made sense, and I appreciated Taylor keeping my secrets, but it wasn't something I could accept. I'd have to tell him.


I marshaled my will, gathered my strength, stoked my inner fire and once again assumed the mantle of confidence. I spoke gently, but with the iron gleam of determination underneath:

"Taylor, I appreciate you trying to keep my secrets secret, but I have to tell him. He's taking an awful risk, and he has a right to know about it. Having a parahuman living with you isn't exactly safe, you know?

"I mean, Sophia aside, there are all sorts of nasty people who'll want my abilities, and the odds of me being able to hide everything from all of them are pretty bad. There's a non-zero chance that someone will break in here or hurt you to try to get to me, and you both should be told that before you take that risk.

"I won't say no to your hospitality, but it is a risk for the two of you, and if either of you wants to turn me away because of that, I will certainly understand."


Guilt was written all over her face. It wasn't hard to recognize. Somehow, I didn't think it was about not telling Danny about me. She was keeping a secret, maybe more than one, or had been. That mournful "Why didn't you tell me" back in the PRT lobby certainly hinted at that. She probably hadn't told him about the bullying. Secrecy was habit forming, like sugar or coffee or methamphetamine.

If you keep a secret from someone, it becomes easier to justify keeping more secrets from them, and sooner or later you don't have any real communication at all. Unless you've got a compulsion on you that drives nails into your brain if you don't send them regular (honest) reports, but I'm pretty sure Taylor didn't. Lucky her. Keeping secrets from her one real connection in the world wouldn't be good for her, and while spilling her secrets wouldn't help at all, subtly encouraging her to talk with her father wouldn't hurt.

The subtle arts of conversation and manipulation didn't exactly come naturally to either past me, but the new me had the advantage of over a decade's worth of research, study, and practical experience between Old-Colere and the Other, plus a big shot of determination to fix the world born from seeing just how broken this world was compared to the other. And I was a lot better when I acted with a little less subtlety. Thus, I had a fairly decent idea of where to go next.

"Besides, I'm not really comfortable with keeping secrets, especially from someone who's trying to take care of me. They gnaw away at your insides, guilt feeding upon guilt and lies building more lies, until you've broken something that can't be fixed. That kind of secret makes for alienation, and that sort of distance isn't good for relationships. You can try and try and try to be okay with it, and you tell yourself you'll tell them later, but later can turn to "too late" so very, very quickly. Please don't ask how I know that. I don't want to hide something this important from one of the only adults who's so much as tried to help me since the fire."

It was solid work, made vastly more effective by the fact that I meant every word. Everything about it was ostensibly about me, the old-Jacqueline me, but the message was so broad, so universal, that it would almost certainly apply to her bullying secret.

And that oh-so-subtle hint that I'd kept something from a parent before I lost them would be a powerful motive for her to be honest with her own parent. Not that I was consciously plotting all that out beforehand, but training in that sort of rhetoric pays off. Since I had her best interests in mind and I was being honest about my feelings on the subject, I didn't even feel particularly manipulative.


Which didn't necessarily mean I wasn't being manipulative, I was well aware, but it didn't feel that way. Either way, it certainly made an impression. Taylor's face was practically skeletal, and I was worried I had gone a bit too far. That's the trouble with working with incomplete information, even if you know which direction you need to push someone, it's hard to tell when you're going too far, or when you aren't going far enough. The feeble, stuttered "I see" she responded with seemed to indicate the former. Drat. Time to apply a little gentle reassurance.

I waited a few seconds, then put a hand on her shoulder and looked soulfully into her eyes. I'd have to do this very carefully.

"I don't know what's wrong Taylor, but I know you can handle it. Do not doubt that. I certainly don't. Most people would've broken under what you've endured, myself among them, but you've held strong.

"You've done the right thing time and time again, Taylor Anne Hebert. You went to help me in that bathroom when you could have just hidden and spared yourself. I saw you pushing against that door. You took in a poor orphan girl out of the goodness of your heart. You sought justice, not revenge, against the girls who made your life a waking nightmare. You are a good person, a strong person, and whatever the problem is, I don't have the slightest doubt that you can handle it."


Word to the wise, speaking from the heart makes an impact. So did what Taylor did next. It certainly took me by surprise.

Taylor Anne Hebert, a good, strong person, squared her shoulders and marched inside with determination. That part was only to be expected. As I followed her, I was expecting her to tell her father all about the bullying. Maybe, if I'd been really convincing, she'd tell him about Emma's betrayal.

Instead I got, well, read for yourself:

"Dad, I'm a cape."

 

[Obscura]

Danny:

Danny Hebert liked to think he was a good father. Days like this made sure he knew otherwise.

So many things he should have seen, should have known. So many things he'd had to be told. So many things hurting his little girl that he hadn't stopped, hadn't helped with.

Danny knew Annette wouldn't have let things get this bad, would have seen it and intervened months ago, at the very latest. Probably wouldn't have let the situation emerge in the first place. She'd be disappointed in him, and he'd deserve it. Not angry, and she wouldn't say anything to him, she'd just get to work helping Taylor out, like she deserved, but she'd be quietly disappointed in him for not seeing, for not intervening as their little girl's life was torn apart.

Instead, he'd been totally oblivious. He'd been busy with work, the Association needed everything he could give just to stay afloat, and he knew Annette's death had cut him deep, but that was no excuse. He was a bad father, and he'd try his hardest to make up for it, but it wouldn't change the past.


The day hadn't seemed like anything special when it started. He'd gotten up, eaten the breakfast that Taylor made (and hadn't she taken up an awful lot of the work around the home lately?), driven to work, struggled and strived to find or make work for the countless association members who depended on him to get them the chance to put food on their tables. An ordinary day, though not a good one. Good would be if he'd actually accomplished anything.

Danny hadn't found out anything was wrong until well past two in the afternoon. The PRT called, which never meant anything good. They hadn't given him any details, but could he come into PRT headquarters to answer a few questions about an ongoing investigation? It was worrying, but he could hardly say no. The PRT could make a lot of trouble for the association if he didn't cooperate, and they were at least nominally the good guys.

Much to his surprise, it was about Taylor. They were asking about the locker, which was good in and of itself, but the fact that it was the PRT asking meant a parahuman was involved somehow. Taylor was there too, although she should have been in school, answering questions and trying to put her attackers away. Danny didn't know all that much, but he'd shared everything he did know. He'd do anything to get whoever had shoved his little girl into that filth into prison where they belonged. The agent interviewing him seemed to agree, though he was hiding his anger a lot better than Danny.

Then there were the other questions. Nothing was quite explicitly stated, but Danny Hebert wasn't a fool. The questioning made it quite obvious that the locker wasn't an isolated incident. That it had been just a part, albeit a particularly vicious one, of a protracted and hateful campaign of torment directed against Taylor. He'd never noticed, and she'd never told him. Never felt like she could tell him.

Eventually the interview was over, and he was released into the lobby to wait for his daughter. It had taken longer than he'd have liked, but he understood. Investigation was a protracted and messy business.

The conversation with his daughter was… awkward. Neither of them really knew what to say, and they were both blaming themselves, though Danny knew it wasn't really Taylor's fault. He was the adult, he was the one who should have been taking care of her. It was his responsibility, and he'd failed. He'd have to do better.


Eventually they'd decided they could be equally inarticulate at home. Which is when his plans went off the rails again.

Danny hadn't noticed or recognized the girl sleeping on one of the PRT's couches, but Taylor apparently did. When he'd asked, her answer cut him to the deep. This was the person who'd succeeded where he'd failed. Noticed those girls bullying Taylor, stood up for her, calmed her down, been the voice of reason and laid out a sensible plan, took her to the proper authorities, stood by her side. All the things he should have done.

It definitely wasn't like she didn't have her own problems. Her hugging him when he'd woken her up had been a bit embarrassing, but people did strange things when they were coming out of sleep. Her mumbled "Daddy, I missed you" was more worrying, but it wasn't until he'd automatically offered her a ride home that things went to h-e-double-hockey-sticks.


Her panicked rambling had almost broken his heart, after everything else, but it was what she was actually saying that was really worrying. Danny hadn't caught everything, but what he'd caught was more than bad enough. She'd lost both her parents, was sleeping in Winslow, which today had taught him was even worse than he'd thought it was, and she wasn't dealing with any of it well.

Taylor'd been the one to take the initiative and hug the poor girl, but Danny had followed his daughter in doing so almost immediately. Jacqueline Colere had kept rambling for a bit, then degenerated into quiet sobbing. It hadn't taken long for the Heberts to decide to take the girl home with them. The girl clearly needed help, and it sure beat the time Taylor had practically dragged some poor cat into the house and announced "He followed me home, can I keep him?"


The drive home had been far more exciting than it should have been, but they had all made it to the Hebert house safely. Danny had gone in ahead, to set up somewhere for the new addition to sleep. Jacqueline and Taylor were talking in the doorway. Danny couldn't make out what they were saying, but at least the girl was speaking again.

Taylor marching up to him full of determination took Danny by surprise, but not nearly as much as what she actually said:

"Dad, I'm a cape."

 

[Obscura]

Taylor's announcement had definitely caught me off guard, but it wasn't quite the all-consuming revelation it probably should have been. I hadn't had the slightest idea that Taylor was a parahuman, to be clear, but it was far from the biggest surprise of the day. An arrow from nowhere, that thrice-accursed letter, inter-world travel, parahumans existing, being a parahuman myself, and the ever-complicated situation of being two previously different people were all, to be frank, much worse. My sense of shock was more than a touch drained. So while I looked and was flabbergasted, my response wasn't even in the same ballpark as Danny's. I'll certainly remember it though. Danny himself appeared to shut down entirely for a period of time. I'd heard of shutdowns like that lasting days, so it wasn't as long as it could have been, but it was still pretty worrying. Then he started yelling quietly.

It's not as oxymoronic as it might seem. Like with a stage whisper, there were all the hallmarks of yelling/whispering except it was done at just slightly louder than his normal speaking voice. Presumably he didn't want the neighbours overhearing. I had no evidence of the existence of neighbours, but there probably were some. Or maybe he just didn't want to traumatize me and Taylor further. I could hardly blame him.


I decided, right then and there, to stay out of what was clearly a matter for the two of them. I made my way towards the nearest inside door as quietly as I could manage, though I did mouth to Taylor that she could tell him about my power. I wasn't sure if she noticed, but I'd already made it clear he was allowed to know, so I wasn't going to touch it further.

The door turned out to open onto a downwards stairway, so I took the chance to put a little more distance between me and what was going on upstairs. I did not want to get between those two. Taylor struck me as someone who'd insist on using her powers to help people, and Danny struck me as someone who'd insist on his daughter being safe. I didn't want to argue with either, especially since they were both right. Hopefully they'd work it out. In the meantime, I had a basement to explore.

In retrospect, I probably should have realised the basement would be dark before I went down. I, naturally, had no idea where the light switch was. I started to stumble around blindly, searching for the lightswitch, then remembered I had a phone now. The light from it wasn't really enough to see by, but it sure made finding the actual lightswitch a lot easier. Problem solving is a valuable skill, folks. It still took way longer than it should have, but most of that was spent figuring out how to turn on the phone in the dark.

And the basement was, wonder of wonders, a basement. Oddly clean, considering the state of the lawn and exterior, but maybe somebody was actually using it. There was an awful lot of stuff down here, but it'd be rude to go through it or anything. They were just taking me in, after all. I decided to look through the door to what was probably the only other room down here.


Wow. There were a lot of spiders in that coal cellar. All neatly jarred and everything. I briefly reconsidered the possibility of "luring me into the house so they can murder me", before realising that almost all of the spiders were alive.

Pains were clearly being taken to keep them that way, so they were probably some sort of pets. After all, it takes a lot of effort to gather that many spiders and keep them from starving to death. I assume, anyway. Spider-ranching was not one of my fields of study. I knew a lot about fictional giant spiders, but most of it probably didn't apply to their smaller, less fictional kin. They ate lesser bugs, like those filthy disease carrying mosquitoes, and wove webs to catch them, and that was about the extent of what I was sure of.

I had studied mosquitoes, if only briefly, and I didn't like them. Rotten little plague-bearers kill more humans than just about any other animal. Except humans. Humans were awfully good at killing each other, purposefully or otherwise. Automobile accidents, war, cancer, industrial pollution, etc., etc., etc.. Unlike with humans though, eliminating the threat that mosquitoes posed to humanity was possible. Well, it would be possible to eliminate the threat humans posed to humanity too, it would just be the very definition of the word "counterproductive".

My point is, spiders ate mosquitoes (and other bugs, I think), so they were alright in my book. And these ones were clearly domesticated. Nobody would bother jarring so many living spiders without a reason, after all. Maybe my hosts would let me feed them. Nobody would miss a few mosquitoes. The little flying plague-rats deserved it anyway.

I started looking around for spider-care supplies. I didn't find any, unless the rather large number of loose insects around counted, but I did find something a bit more interesting eventually. It probably didn't help that I had no idea what spider-care supplies might actually consist of. That was really quite a hindrance when one is looking for supplies for the caring of spiders. What I did find was some sort of outfit.


I have no idea what the outfit was made of, but it felt really nice. It couldn't possibly be real silk, but it was a really good imitation. The bodysuit's tailoring was pretty good, but the colouring wasn't. And I felt the mask was overdoing it more than a little bit. Mandibles, big bright yellow bug eye lenses, with a horribly spottled "camouflage" body? That went way past "edgy" and straight into the territory of "hilariously bad horror-comedy" at highway speeds. I couldn't help it, I started giggling. Apparently they heard it upstairs, somehow, because after a bit I heard Taylor and Danny coming down the steps. Unless it was somebody else clomping around like they owned the place. Probably not that. So it was just my new hosts, about to find me giggling uncontrollably in their basement, surrounded by at least a thousand spiders in little glass jars.

Typical.

 

[Obscura]

Danny:

No parent is ever really ready to hear that their child has super-powers, but Danny Hebert was especially unready. A downward spiral of depression (Not that he recognized it as such) after his wife's death had left him blind to a number of problems, which had built up and up without his intervention, and now all the chickens were coming home to roost. A wild and unruly bunch of chickens into a coop that was meant to hold, at the very most, a tenth their number. Naturally, things exploded into a mess of feathers and talons.

Danny Hebert was, fortunately, able to shut down most of his feelings until he had time to process things. Otherwise he might have gone over to Winslow and strangled the entire faculty with his bare hands. Or at least tried to. He was very, very, angry.

As his daughter told him more and more about the nightmare she'd been put through, he only got angrier. And Emma. Danny Hebert was utterly furious.

Not at Taylor, no, never at Taylor, but at just about everyone else involved with the situation.

And then, as Taylor kept talking, Danny Hebert was afraid. Terrified, really, though not for himself. For Taylor. She'd been hurt so much already, and she thought the only way to keep going was to keep risking getting hurt more. Being a superhero.

Superheroes got killed. Not as often as supervillains, admittedly, but they did. Especially superheroes who acted alone.

Like Taylor was planning to.

Danny couldn't let that happen.

But he didn't want to fight.

He didn't know what to do.

Danny felt like a horrible parent.


Taylor:

Taylor probably could have broken the news more gently, she supposed. Just blurting it out on top of everything else wasn't exactly the most considerate thing she'd ever done to him.

It wasn't the least considerate thing she'd ever done to him, that would be keeping so many secrets in the first place, but it wasn't exactly good.

She'd started keeping secrets to protect him, but she could see now that it hadn't helped either of them in the slightest. Hiding the bullying had just let it get worse and worse, until she had almost broken. The difference between this morning, when everything was awful and being a superhero was the only slim window to escape through, and now, when people believed, believed in and actually supported her and everything seemed like it would work out for the best was stark. Jacqueline was due a lot of the credit for that, but it wouldn't have been an issue in the first place if Taylor had just been honest. Or at least it wouldn't be anywhere near as bad.

Emma's betrayal would still have hurt. A lot. It certainly hurt now.

And while not telling him about her powers hadn't gone really wrong, it could have. Taylor had been planning on going out as a parahuman soon, and all the awful things Jacqueline mentioned could have happened (could still happen) to dad, and he wouldn't have even known about it until it was too late.

All the secrets she'd been keeping had been crushing her, ruining her relationship with the person who cared about her most, and she hadn't even noticed until Jacqueline had told her that she didn't want to risk that exact same danger.

Dad was asking (shouting) a lot of questions. Who, what, when, why?


Taylor gave him answers.

Emma (and a few others, but Emma was the really painful one for both of them)

Insect control

The locker (They had both shuddered at that, and swiftly moved on)

Because she couldn't keep carrying those secrets when she'd realized how much they were hurting them both.

She told him about the bullying, in great detail. She told him about the tripping, and the spitballs, and the insults. She told him about the stolen work, about her plummeting grades. She told him about Mom's flute. About the suspicious lessening in her torment before winter break, and the despair and desperation she'd felt in the locker, though she couldn't bear to talk about that for long.

Taylor could tell he was very, very, angry, but he held his tongue.

At least none of it was aimed at her. Taylor wasn't sure she didn't deserve it.

She told him about discovering her powers, about the thrill of realization and the desperate need to fix things, to make things right, about her need to escape, to be a superhero.

And there was fear, mixed with his anger. He was scared for her. That warmed her heart more than a little, but she needed to keep talking.

She told him about her plans, about the costume she'd been making in the basement, and at last he spoke, asked to see it.

So they went downstairs to the basement. Where they found Jacqueline holding Taylor's costume and giggling uncontrollably.

Taylor had completely forgotten that the younger girl was in the house. Once again, she'd screwed up. She'd left a horribly traumatized child alone. And then let said horribly traumatized child stumble across her collection of insanely dangerous spiders.

Taylor felt like a horrible person.

 

[Obscura]

"Sorry, sorry. Nothing's wrong, I just found this really funny looking outfit and couldn't help laughing." I said. Given the way my day had gone, it was only natural that this was precisely the wrong thing to say.

How was I supposed to know it was her cape costume and she'd put months of careful and exacting work into it? It just looked like really bad drow cosplay. Like if somebody hadn't been reading carefully enough and had somehow mixed up Callistra and Lolth.

Apparently it was real spider silk though, which was actually really neat. Taylor, apparently, had the power to control spiders (at least the smaller, less fictional variety), along with the lesser bugs, like those wretched little mosquitoes. And presumably wasps as well. That thing with the crazed gunman was a little too convenient and I had since remembered that wasps weren't social animals. Not to anywhere near that degree, anyway. Now that I knew that powers that could do that sort of thing existed, and that someone with one was right there beside me, it wasn't hard to connect the dots. I was totally going to call her some sort of ridiculously edgy wasp-based name later.

Taylor wasn't angry, strangely enough. She just hugged me. She did try to defend her costume though. Our discussion of the matter didn't get far before Dungeons and Dragons and Danny both cut into it.

I'd accidentally let slip a crack about Taylor not being a Priestess of Lolth, and he'd caught the reference. We both were very firmly against Taylor emulating that bunch, for a very large number of very good reasons, so, however things shook out, Taylor wouldn't be going out in that monstrosity.

Danny and I both felt it was way too far on the darkside of costuming. Danny was afraid she'd get mistaken for a villain. I was afraid she'd look ridiculous. Between the two of us we managed to convince Taylor not to use it. It was pretty impressive in terms of raw combat utility, but appearances matter.

Now that I'm done tearing down a bullied teenage girl's fashion sense, I should probably tell you how I was totally going to get dragged into the disagreement I had come down into the basement to avoid in the first place. You see, after Taylor agreed to not go out in that costume, the natural question was whether she'd go out at all.

Danny was of the opinion that she shouldn't, or at a minimum, that she should join the Wards, and be a superhero (heroine? They didn't seem to use that suffix that way here, but I was pretty sure they were supposed to. Maybe it just sounded too much like Heroin) in the safest possible way. Taylor was firmly of the "with great power comes great responsibility" school of thought and she didn't want to join the Wards because she was worried that it would be a whole lot of "teenage drama" like high school.

Given what I knew of her high school experience, calling it "teenage drama" was like saying spending a winter at the south pole was "uncomfortably chilly". Technically accurate, but it really fails to convey the gravity of the situation. I thought it was rather unlikely that the Wards would be anywhere near that bad, but I did understand her hesitation.

Being unable to avoid getting involved, since I was right there and couldn't leave without going right between them or asking them to move, I resolved to try and take a compromise position. Hopefully, they'd take it as a starting point for something they could both live with, or even accept it outright. Or they'd unite against the outsider and find unity that way. I could live with either, though the former did seem preferable.

Once again, I mustered all my strength and drew upon all that I knew of oratory. I'd done that more today than either past me had ever needed to in any timeframe less than a solid month, and I was really getting tired of it, but I was getting a lot better at it. Practice does pay off. I also noted that I was a lot more confident and effective when I had a plan already sort of drawn out and the people involved already at least sort of liked me.

Okay, me. When one of them calls on you, strike a balance between safety and actual effectiveness, emphasize that you sympathize with them both, and bring up the possibility of postponing any decision making until you're all less tired and agitated. Especially that last thing.

By the Ways, I was tired.

It took longer than I expected for my turn to come. Apparently neither of them was inclined to bring me into their argument. Instead of being called in and not being able to back out, like I was expecting, I ended up inserting myself into things deliberately. You see, they weren't all that practiced at arguments, and it showed. One of them, I won't say which, ended up pushing a step too far, and, knowing things could go really badly from there, I felt obliged to step in:

"Okay, okay, okay. Let's all take a step back and catch our breaths. (I took a literal step back here, because while that was mostly a figure of speech, a little non-figurative distance couldn't hurt with putting in a little figurative distance). You both love each other, and you both have good reasons for why you've taken your positions.

"Danny, Taylor wants to help fix this broken world, and that's quite admirable. Taylor, Danny cares about you and wants you to be safe, and that's also quite admirable. Not doing anything with Taylor's powers isn't really an option, but neither is going out and picking fights without any backup or solid planning and preparation. Parahumans need to use their powers, and Taylor is quite right that the world in general and Brockton Bay in particular needs serious help. But going it alone is both unsafe and ineffective.

"The Wards are a solid option. I'm considering approaching New Wave because I'm not suited to the role of enforcing the law, but if that's what Taylor wants to do, the Wards are a pretty good choice for that. Alternatively, you could try and join New Wave as a combatant. New Wave is a seasoned and powerful team so it would be a safe choice, and, as families with adults, teenage drama would be either a lot less or a lot easier to avoid. Just don't try and go it alone. It won't work very well and it's insanely risky.

"I'm going to propose we table this discussion for the moment. All our emotions are running hot, we're all tired, and none of us are really in a good state to be making a decision this big. Let's get through tomorrow, do a little research, and then take the weekend to calmly and reasonably discuss and debate Taylor's options."

Huh. Apparently, I am really good at just blabbing on and on until people have no choice but to agree with me. It's a little bit distasteful, but since I'm like 97% sure it'll come in handy a lot I'm not about to complain. For the record, I wasn't nearly as sure about things as I made myself seem. They had both agreed to calm down and decide later, so I'm going to count that as a victory. Though it did turn out that Taylor hadn't told her father about my power, so that was awkward. At least he appreciated my honesty about it after I'd explained everything.

With that, our thoughts, or at least our words, turned to dinner.

 

[Obscura]

Perhaps unsurprisingly, nobody had actually done anything about dinner. Taylor normally did it, since Danny tended to work late, but somebody had dragged her off on some hare-brained scheme and she hadn't had time. Or so she told me. I, of course, plead the fifth.

Well, technically, I plead the eighteenth, but I meant the fifth. I was informed by Danny that the prohibition of the sale of alcohol was something he very much hoped was not relevant, and that that amendment had been repealed anyway. American constitutional law is not my forte.

If you're wondering how I could possibly get those two very different amendments confused, I blame Speakeasy. That little incident had left young Jacqueline Colere with a broad array of concepts stuck in her brain without a whole lot of context. Both amendments came up a lot in conversations involving him, for entirely different reasons.

At least conversation that wasn't arguing was happening, even if a poor innocent orphan child was being mercilessly teased by her cruel and uncaring hosts.

Earth Bet is truly a place of unremitting torment and suffering.

Dinner had to be handled somehow, and ordering something was the obvious answer. All three of us knew how to cook, but we'd also had a long and emotionally exhausting day and there really wasn't enough time to make anything good. Also, Danny was way out of practice, I had no idea where anything was, and Taylor's taste was clearly questionable, since she'd thought that wasp-drow monster was a good look for fighting crime in.

There are many different and wonderful kinds of food in the world, and quite a few of them are available for delivery. The selection in Brockton Bay, though, wasn't as good as it could have been. Between being a relatively small city, large racist gangs, and an economy that could generously be described as "faltering", not a whole lot of people started restaurants to share their unique cultural heritage. That being said, there were still well over a dozen different options.

So, of course, we ended up ordering pizza. There are a lot of different and wonderful kinds of food, but pizza was a safe choice for a family that had just taken in someone new. They had, after all, had exactly zero time to learn what I liked.

The discussion went something like this:

"Pizza?"

"Sure"

"That sounds very nice, thank you"

Politeness cost me nothing, and they had, joking aside, been very nice to me. Even the teasing was clearly designed to put me at ease.

Taylor did denounce me as a heretic when I asked for Hawaiian, but Danny and I ganged up on her, again, and so my need for pineapple and ham was conveyed to whoever it was he was ordering from. Danny and I would share a larger Hawaiian, which would be wonderful, and Taylor would have to content herself with the awfulness that was a "supreme". Such was justice.

We knew we'd have to do something to fill the time before the pizza arrived. Someone suggested Monopoly, but I pointed out that we wanted to actually like each other. I mean, it wasn't Diplomacy, but it wasn't a great option for establishing a friendship/pseudo-familial bond either. As an alternative, Taylor suggested Jenga. That was fun.

I did lose four times in a row because I had no idea how to play Jenga properly, but it was fun anyway. We were in the middle of a fifth game, Danny slowly sliding a block out from the middle of a row, when the doorbell rang, startling him and sending the whole elaborate pile of wood crashing down like the walls of Jericho.

It was, of course, the pizza guy. I mean, they were actually a woman, one with long pink hair at that, but they were the person delivering the pizza. Danny went and paid, leaving us girls to clean up the mess he'd made, and then we all sat around their kitchen table. Plates and glasses were distributed with grave solemnity as we prepared to begin the most essential of rituals: breaking bread together.

In an instant, I was struck with a grand revelation. The pizzaiolo who'd crafted this wonder was clearly a true master of their craft, marked and chosen by the high lords of pizzakind. They had walked all the slopes of Olympus itself searching for the finest of ingredients, slain the seven and twenty demons that guarded the vault of the lord of the underworld, and claimed from the very pantry of the gods that most precious of essences: ambrosia, in its very purest form, all that they might craft the greatest pizza this mortal world had ever seen, a glimmer of raw perfection in an imperfect world. Truly, they were the greatest pizzaiolo to ever walk the earth.

Either that or I was safe and comfortable for the first time in what felt like forever, hadn't had the chance to eat lunch, and breakfast had been half a chocolate bar, since Winslow wasn't exactly a cornucopia. But we all know which was more likely.

The first one. Obviously.

Taylor seemed entirely content with her supreme, never having tasted the true glory that was a hawaiian pizza. We will have to open her eyes eventually, but all things in due time.


Yes, yes, all things in due time.


There was laughing and joking and talking and all of that wonderful nonsense.

Contentedness is where you find it.

Not that I'm not upset with Patron, but allowing irritation, or worse, hatred, to rule you really isn't a good idea. For all sorts of reasons, really.

Besides, if I'm honest with myself, and I do try to be, this whole mess reeks of earnest good intentions leading into a grave mistake, rather than actual malice. If you're reading this, Patron, I sincerely hope you learned from this. If you have, we might actually get along one day. I remain sceptical, but I am hopeful that one day the clearly great power you possess will be used wisely for the side of good. Given this world in particular, it seems a wiser you is something that reality could use.

I am still mad though. Just to be clear. Not enough to strike at you unless you keep making this kind of mistake, and not enough to not do my best for this world, but I am.

Dinner was, in a word, nice, but all things must come to an end. Yes, I'm aware the usual saying only has good things, but in my experience it does also apply to bad ones. Both are usually replaced with more things, often of similar nature though. Things happen and things end, and new things come into their place. It's our responsibility to make the right new things happen. It's not the most elaborate philosophy, but it does work decently well.

I was honestly half expecting to be attacked sometime during that evening, but nothing of the sort happened. Unless tripping on my own feet counts.

It probably doesn't.

Unless someone else forces you to, anyway, and I didn't know of any capes who could do that. Not any who were still alive, anyway. There had been Stumblebum over in St. Johns, who could telekinetically affect people, but only people, and only in the form of a "push" on their limbs or torso, along with a few other minor grab-bag powers. He died with Newfoundland though. Probably anyway, like most of the victims they had never found a body. Kind of difficult to do so when the entire landmass suddenly isn't a landmass anymore. Maybe some other telekinetics could do it, but the only capes around were Taylor and I. As far as I knew.

Strangers are a rare but very real threat.

Soon enough it was time to sleep. Taylor's little bombshell had entirely derailed Danny's efforts to find me a place to do so, not that I could blame either of them. Especially since I'd also forgotten. Being too tired to actually fix the problem, we decided to slap a patch on it and deal with it tomorrow. I'd sleep in Taylor's room, and Taylor would sleep with her father.

I took my pajamas (which technically weren't pajamas, but would serve as such perfectly well), toothbrush, and other things from my pack and did all the necessary things to prepare for the night. Details omitted due to boringness.

Going over the day, I'd gotten a lot done. Outsider me going to me-me hadn't had a good day, but they'd at least adapted quickly. Colere-me had gone from a friendless homeless orphan with no real goals or resources to someone who was still homeless and an orphan, but not friendless, goal less or resource less, and the homelessness and the familylessnes had had a lot of the bite taken out of them. I'd forged two major goals: get the proper authorities on Taylor's case and fix a broken world. I'd even gotten one of them done! Something tells me that the second one is going to take at least a bit longer though. Well, that is a problem for tomorrow. Now is the time of sleep.

 

[Obscura]

Remember what I said a few reports back? About the better and worse ways to wake up? Well, the thing with the airhorn I mentioned way back then isn't actually the worst. Don't get me wrong, it's really bad, but it's not the absolute worst. No, the way I woke up the day after the merger was the worst.

Imagine opening your eyes, being a little confused, everything is foggy and unclear and something isn't right but you can't quite tell what it is and even though you sort of think this place should be familiar and then you open your eyes and it's a little different, but not much, and you are still foggy and unclear and you know you just woke up and the last thing was a dream, and then you realize you aren't really awake and you open your eyes and you think for a second that you're really awake and then it happens again and again and again and again and you think you can't get out and you're trapped and you get desperate and you you open your eyes and hope is crushed again and again, and you open your eyes and its not real you're still trapped in the dream and you try again and again and again and it doesn't work and you don't know how long its been in here or outside and you worry that you're never going to wake up and you try again and again and again and you keep getting different scenes and different rooms but they're all dreams and you have to wake up, wake UP, WAKE UP.

And then you're awake, really awake, but a tiny part of you worries that it's not real, that it's still a dream, and you still haven't really woken up and maybe you never will.

It is not the most pleasant experience in the world.

Frankly, I would have welcomed the airhorn thing by the time it was all over.


I suspect I'd have been a lot more likely to have gotten outside assistance if the whole thing hadn't happened around 5:15 or so. Or if both my hosts hadn't had a really emotionally draining day yesterday, resulting in a dire need for sleep. Or if I had living parents in this reality. Or a lot of things, really.


Anyway, it was really early in the morning and my hosts were probably really tired and I didn't want to disturb them. Fortunately, my PRT issue phone came with Wi-Fi. It was a really nice model, actually, with a lot of extras and all the bells and whistles. Most likely including a tracking device and PRT monitoring, but I didn't actually have anything to hide from them on that score.

There are benefits to doing everything legitimately and openly. Like not worrying about who's going to find the skeletons in your closet, cause there aren't any. And some other benefits, probably. I had mostly just decided to do it that way out of morality.

I guess being able to look at yourself in the mirror without crushing amounts of guilt is a pretty decent benefit.


The first thing I decided to do on the internet was research. Not classwork, I really didn't need or trust the internet for that. No, I was going to research capes, in particular the villainous ones in Brockton Bay. Even if I didn't intend to go hunt down supervillains, there was a chance they'd try something to get their hands on a healer. Plus, Taylor was probably going to try hunting down supervillains at some point. Hopefully she'd be smart about it, but I really couldn't picture her standing idly by.

There were quite a few capes we'd have to watch out for, not all of them being obvious at first glance. If this was a story, the obvious threats were not going to be the most dangerous ones. No, in a superhero story it would be far more dramatic if the real danger is unknown until it is unveiled in a startling reveal.


But first I had to consider the obvious threats. The Asian Bad Boys' capes were dangerous, and everybody knew it. Nobody wants to fight a constantly regenerating dragon or a serial-suicide bomber, and they were both stone cold killers. If you fought them, you were probably dead unless you were seriously powerful, had serious skill, or had serious backup.

Even so, there were only two of them, and neither had shown much interest in press-ganging more. If I avoided them, and did nothing to draw their ire, they almost certainly wouldn't come after me. Especially since Jacqueline Colere wasn't at all asian, and was thus ineligible for membership.


The Empire Eighty-Eight parahumans would be more problematic. None of them had quite the level of "do not fight this person, you will definitely die" rep that Lung or Oni Lee had, but a few of them came close, especially the one they called Hookwolf. Someone who turned into a psychotic mass of whirling hooks and blades in a vaguely wolf-like shape was not someone you wanted going after you. Worse, they had a lot of capes, were really good at working together, and hated all other races. Being neo-nazis and all that. They would not be happy with my existence. Especially since they also hated the LGBTQ+ community with a violent passion. Being neo-nazis and all that. Superpowered Nazis being the largest parahuman organization around was, to put it mildly, not a good thing in my book. I'd have to look at them more later, but I wanted to cover all the groups.


The Merchant's capes weren't nearly as powerful or respected as the Empire or ABB, but they were far more than a match for the likes of me. A woman who made incredibly dangerous vehicles, known by the rather uncouth name of Squealer, gave them far more mobility and firepower than I was comfortable with. This was the gang that made the "Just Say No" campaign's drug dealers look like reasonable, upstanding citizens after all. The other two, Mush and Skidmark (the nominal leader), were dangerous in a fight, but they were largely small timers without ambition. They might take offense if I tried doing something about the problem of drug addiction though.


Faultline's crew were powerful, experienced and numerous, but they were also pure mercenaries who never accepted work within the city, and never killed. As far as the internet knew, anyway. I made note of them, but I had much bigger problems to worry about.


Strangely, it was the supposed smaller players who worried me more. Most of them, anyway. The cat-burglar known as Circus didn't really concern me all that much. What was she gonna do, steal all the valuable stuff I don't have?

Über and Leet were frequently thought of as the joke of the cape community, and with their frequent bumbling and regular explosive equipment failures, it wasn't hard to see why. That being said, I could easily see ways in which their powers could be extremely dangerous. Leet had built an incredible array of powerful Tinkertech, even if it was somewhat unreliable and he never reused ideas for some reason. There was speculation on the Parahumans Online boards that it was something about power limitations. Über was said to be able to rapidly gain any skill, and while the ones he'd shown weren't anything more dangerous than beyond-professional-level martial arts, there were an awful lot of truly dangerous skills in the world.

Bomb-making, marksmanship, assasination, chemical weapons manufacture, and knife work came to mind. And those were just the ones where it would be obvious if he used them. Manipulation, deception, infiltration, psychological warfare: the possibilities were limitless. Even the martial arts could be extremely lethal if he used them that way.

Either they were incompetent idiots with no idea of the raw potential of their abilities, or they were playing the fool on purpose. Given that they'd successfully operated in an incredibly dangerous city without dying, or even ever really facing long-term consequences, for years, idiocy did not seem likely. Hopefully they were just avoiding the risks of being big-time and weren't up to something really nefarious.


Coil's organization was small-time in terms of raw numbers or amount of territory, but they controlled some of the most valuable real estate in town and their relatively few troops were actual soldiers, good ones, with access to Tinkertech and military-grade mundane equipment. The really good stuff, not your stereotypical "remember, your gear was made by the lowest bidder" junk. It frankly baffled me that nobody seemed to think he could be a real threat. Discipline, tactics and equipment count for a lot in a fight, and the organization was better at all three than anyone else in town, including the PRT. Coil had no known parahuman abilities, but vastly superior logistics and training were certainly good superpowers. Most parahumans died if you shot them, after all. Especially if they weren't on guard. He had to have a lot of resources, and either be highly competent in a very broad array of areas or have very good lieutenants and advisors who he worked well with. I'm not sure which would be worse. And just because he had no known parahuman abilities didn't necessarily mean he had no parahuman abilities. He was rather worrying.


The Undersiders were the new kids in town, some of them literally. Grue, their leader, had a decent power and a reputation for competence, but he was also professional enough to not really worry me all that much. Sure he could easily beat me up, but he'd probably need an actual reason to do so.

Heckhound (I refused to touch the PRT issue name) was a known murderess and generally violent individual. She could turn any ordinary cute li'l puppy into a vicious killing machine comparable in raw speed, strength, and ferocity to an angry bear.

Note to self: avoid absolutely anything having to do with dogs.


Regent wasn't known to have done anything really bad, but having a human Master in town didn't exactly reassure me. He could cause muscle spasms, causing similar effects to Stumblebum, albeit in a much more direct fashion.

What worried me was the fact that his power seemed really weak and innocuous, something parahuman powers rarely were. Myself excepted, but I rather doubted how and from whom I had gotten mine was at all typical. Stumblebum had been a grab-bag, with multiple unrelated powers. Parahumans like him tended to have weaker individual powers, compensated for with versatility and/or power synergies. Assuming Regent wasn't also a grab-bag, and there were no signs that he was, he probably wasn't showing his hand. Lots of parahumans downplayed their abilities, especially human Masters and other possessors of scary powers. And what he was showing could easily be a cover for much longer-lasting, broader, or subtler control. Or all three. If it was all three he'd be a nightmare to try to deal with. Unless he was holding back due to morality, and somehow that didn't seem likely in an openly self-declared supervillain.


The blonde girl they called Tattletale was the one who worried me most though. Her powers weren't known, but the way she was often seen cutting at people verbally and her name gave me a sneaking suspicion. She seemed a lot like Speakeasy, except far more sadistic, always saying exactly the right thing to hurt people. Nothing entirely credible, but the stories were remarkably consistent, even if they weren't on the best sites.

Speakeasy had been a Thinker/Master, always knowing exactly what to say (and when and how to say it) to get people to do what he wanted, even if it hurt them or their loved ones. And it pretty much always did, emotionally and sometimes physically. Tattletale seemed to skip the "do what (s)he wanted" part and go right into the part about hurting people, and doing it as much as possible.

If the "tattle" part of her name was accurate, there was probably a lot of truth mixed in with the lies and all of it was aimed exactly right to cause the most harm. It was both scary and infuriating. I resolved to never let her talk to me. I'd smash her jaw if I had to. "Never let the thinker talk" definitely applied here.


It's possible I might have been projecting based off of an old childhood trauma, but I wasn't about to take that risk.

That stuff is really terrifying when you think about it.

Let us put it out of our minds for now.

I rearranged my notes, and moved on to more immediate concerns.

This was a school day.


In terms of actual schoolwork and academics, I'd be fine. More than fine, really, I'd been a straight-A student even before I'd gotten an entire extra person's worth of knowledge and experience shoved into my brain. Or I was a competent student from a level of education higher than the 9th-grade pablum I was expected to take in even before I'd gotten shoved into a straight-A student's brain. Or both. Or neither. Whatever the case may be, I wasn't worried on the academic front.

The existential front could wait.

No, it was the social front I was worried about. For both Taylor and myself. Taylor was the usual target, but I was the one whom the bullies had taken special umbrage to lately. Because I'd acted to help Taylor. Standing up to someone who thinks everyone is beneath them will do that. It probably wouldn't be safe to go anywhere without witnesses. The safest thing for us to do would be to keep our heads down and not draw attention while the investigation was ongoing. Maybe even skip entirely.


Emma, Sophia, and What's-her-name would be on the warpath if they had any inkling about our little expedition to the PRT yesterday. Even if they knew nothing, they'd probably want to "put me in my place" or some such nonsense. 50-50 odds they went after me or they went after Taylor to show that I couldn't protect her. They hadn't exactly been subtle about their twisted little excuse for a philosophy. Honestly, some people just don't realise how insane the garbage they spew sounds.

Like this one time, I got kidnapped by some interdimensional whatchamacallit, and they sent me an arrowgram outright stating, as if it was an unquestionable fact, that I was grateful for it!

Well, I'd talk with Taylor and Danny when they woke up, see what they thought. In the meantime I had internetting to do.


Huh. Apparently the entire world is controlled by a mysterious secret organization for the purposes of … something. None of the "truth-seekers" could agree on what. Or how. Or what the "proof" was. I guess conspiracy theorists are the same wherever you go. What kind of silly name for a secret organization is "Cauldron", anyway?

 

[Obscura]

Post-internetting, I went downstairs to wait for Taylor to wake up. I didn't want to take up her room anymore, but leaving for school without notice would be rude. Also, I had no idea how to get to Winslow from here. Not beyond "by bus" anyway, and since I didn't know which bus or where the stop for the line going towards Winslow was, that wasn't much help. I knew how to get here, sort of, but not back to the "school". I also had no bus fare. So no bus for me.

Since I was downstairs anyway, I decided to make breakfast for my generous hosts. And also for me.

I didn't know where anything was, but the nice thing about being awake this early was that there was plenty of time to look. The potential issue of them not having the right things or me not being able to find something in time I solved via the simple expedient of laying out everything I would need before I got started. That's how I ended up not trying for french toast: they didn't have any powdered sugar. Or maybe they did and I just wasn't looking in the right place. It was a toss up, really.

Pancakes were the obvious alternative, but I didn't know how to make those, and now really wasn't the time to learn.

Fry up it was. I ran into not having something a few times with that too, but the whole setup was pretty flexible. Bit of bacon, bit of sausage. Butter, just in case. Eggs. They weren't high grade eggs, but for what I was doing that didn't really matter. Frying pan, spatula. Sliced bread. Washing materials. With all the ingredients and tools set out, I double checked everything.

---

I had no idea how to turn their stove on safely. Really shouldn't have assumed it'd have the same button set up as I remembered from home on the other world. Some things are so obvious in hindsight. I really didn't want to set fire to the Hebert home. For all sorts of reasons. Mom not least among them.

"Guess I'll read then", I thought to myself. There were a few bookshelves around. Ooh, Don Quixote. Unabridged, even. I, meaning outsider me, am very fond of that book, even if I can never remember to pronounce its eponymous main character's name properly. I know how it's supposed to be pronounced, but that doesn't help. Quicks-oat just sounds right.

Everybody's favourite pseudoknight (No, you can't just decide you're worthy of a knighthood) was arguing about the chivalric duty and whether knights on quests had to pay for lodgings when somebody finally came downstairs.

"Jacqueline, why is all this out?" Danny questioned.

"I wanted to make you guys breakfast cause I was up first and to thank you for everything, but your stove is different from what I'm used to and I'm not sure I know how to use it safely."

"Ah" he sort of dramatically sighed. "Let me show you how it's done."

It rapidly became apparent he wasn't talking about turning the stove on, or even how to properly observe the safety measures. I'm honestly not sure what he was doing differently, but his fry-up smelt a lot better than either past me had ever managed. He was taking a lot of care to explain, but it all seemed pretty much the same as I'd been taught before. I have no explanation for that. His chuckling was kind of reassuring though.

I wasn't paying the upstairs a lot of attention, but I liked the thought of Taylor being woken up by the smell of pure deliciousness cooking. Whether it was that which awoke her or something else, the Taylor was soon among us.

For a brief, blissful, period, all was well. Light conversation was made. Food was had. Social bonding was restablished and reinforced. Then I put my foot in my mouth by asking what we should do today about the situation with the bullies. That killed the mood alright.

There were three obvious options, none of them good. We could go in and kick up a big fuss by confronting the bullies and the administration, but it probably wouldn't accomplish much and it might screw up the investigation. We could just go in and pretend everything was normal, but now that Taylor actually was making progress in fixing things/Danny and I knew things were wrong, nobody really wanted to risk more bullying. Or we could skip school entirely, but that felt like cowardice and none of us really liked the idea of truancy anyway.

We all saw the problems and nobody had any answers. Not any good answers anyway. "Can't we just set Winslow on fire" doesn't count.

Tempting though the idea might be.

Maybe we could call the PRT, see what they thought. If going or not going could help or hinder the investigation, that'd at least push us to a decision. Maybe see about power testing or somesuch.

It was as good a plan as any.

Naturally, right in the middle of my musing about the possibility of calling the PRT, Taylor suggested that maybe someone should call the PRT.

Great minds think alike.

Danny, being the responsible adult, nominated himself to take care of it. I mean, I like to think I'm responsible, and Taylor seemed to be pretty responsible except for a bad habit of not telling people about her problems, but he was the adult. Taylor was around 15 and I was just barely 14. Sort of. Jacqueline was. She/I had skipped a grade and Winslow was 9th-12th, and I as a complete whole had no idea how old I was. I might have quite literally been born yesterday. Would certainly explain why I fell for the thing with the wasps.

Also, I was about 86% sure both Taylor and I suffered from some sort of social anxiety. Taylor talking to authority or me talking to someone I couldn't see wouldn't be fun. At all. Danny wasn't without his own issues, I could tell, but talking to people he wasn't emotionally invested in didn't seem to be one of them. Talking to Taylor, on the other hand? It was probably a good thing I'd be there to push them into it and keep things from going really wrong.

I've mentioned it before, but in my experience no one is totally sane. Everyone has their own problems, and dealing with them responsibly is important. On Earth Bet that was even more the case, given the massive amount of problems to go around. One of the many things I'd have to try fixing was the relative scarcity of therapists. Probably can't do anything about that directly, but maybe I could set up a scholarship or something once I had money. Healing like I could do would be valuable, especially in this degenerate society without universal healthcare. Maybe that would be another thing to try to fix, or at least I could help those who couldn't afford medical help out somehow. Probably by clockwork aura, at least as a start.

That aura could help with a lot of things, really. From what I could tell, it could fix just about anything that was physically wrong with just about anything. Not fast by parahuman standards, but faster and more completely than most mundane methods. People, buildings, technology, cultural artifacts, all of it. Couldn't fix dead, though. I felt it would work on corpses, but even if my aura could bring them to perfect physical condition, they'd still be dead. Really gives a new meaning to "live fast, die young, leave a pretty corpse". Now you could die old and leave an equally pretty corpse!

Cold comfort to anyone who cared about the deceased though. Including me. I knew where mom's body was, but fixing the burns wouldn't bring her back. I remembered wanting so desperately to fix things, for all the cruel wounds on her body to disappear so she could hug me again and everything would be alright. Now I could get rid of everything done to her body, from the deepest burns to tiniest slivers, and absolutely none of it would make things okay.

I've read that this sort of cruel irony is common with powers. I wanted to fix things to bring my mother back, and I could fix anything except death, the thing I wanted to fix most of all, the thing that had created the need to make things right in the first place. Taylor, from what she'd told me, had wanted to not be alone, for someone to try to help her. She got bugs, who couldn't help her with what really mattered. A lot of Thinkers apparently wanted to know what went wrong, what happened to destroy their lives or take someone from them, and found that knowing didn't do anything to fix it. That sort of thing.

I couldn't fix my own cruel irony, but hopefully I could help others with theirs. Taylor's bugs couldn't be her friends, couldn't fix the things that really needed fixing, but I could. I hoped I could, anyway. I was certainly trying.

Knowing how things went wrong didn't help those Thinkers fix it, but at least in some cases I'd be able to. I'd do what I could to fix those vexing problems that powers so often addressed in the most useless of ways.

My power couldn't bring back anyone I cared about, but it could help stop other people from losing their own loved ones. Directly and indirectly. I could address all sorts of problems, and I would do my best to do so, hopefully in a way that actually helped.

Maybe then this world wouldn't be such a dumpster fire.


I could only hope.

 

[Obscura]

AN: These interludes are presented anachronically (out of order) for dramatic and/or comedic purposes.

Assault:

Ethan wasn't usually a vindictive person. He'd benefited too much from his second chance to easily deny others their own shots at redemption, and even before then he'd never really liked the concept of punishment. Admittedly, a big part of that was because of the possibility of punishment coming his way, but he didn't like it even when it applied to others. Still, he did have his limits.

Shadow Stalker had seriously tested those limits. He could forgive a lot that was done in the heat of the moment, or from people who didn't feel they had any other choice, or at least no good other choice. Sophia Hess's little campaign of torment had no such excuse. One or two petty clashes, a few harsh words? That much he could understand. Everyone had bad days. But Sophia and her cronies had been persecuting Taylor Hebert on a daily basis for well over a year by this point, and they could have backed off at any point. There didn't even seem to be a real reason.

He'd taken the task of bringing the recalcitrant Ward in himself. He'd been smart about it, planned things out carefully to minimize the risk of her escaping or hurting someone trying. Armsmaster had made an electro-cuff thing as soon as they'd learned her weakness, well before people higher up than Ethan had decided that pressing the violent vigilante into the Wards was a good idea. It hadn't been hard to distract her with a bit of meaningless small talk, and she hadn't noticed the cuff until it was already on her. Without her Breaker state, the ensuing fight was over before it began. People didn't associate the hero Assault with good tactics or planning, but if he hadn't been a good planner he would never have gotten away with any of his many crimes for as long as he had.

The girl still wasn't talking, but the sheer contempt she'd shown for her "weakling" victim spoke for itself. She was in Master/Stranger confinement now, but that was pretty much just a formality, a way to be absolutely sure that the situation was as bad as it looked and there wasn't any easy way out of it. It would sure be a lot easier if Shadow Stalker wasn't responsible for her actions, but it wasn't likely. Kinda shows just how screwy the situation was that a 15 year old under PRT protection having been Mastered into absolutely psychotic behaviour was the good option. It was definitely looking like Shadow Stalker was guilty as sin, and Ethan, for one, had no intention of letting her get away with anything.


Lady Photon:

Sarah Pelham wasn't all that surprised to get a call from Emily Piggot, the director of the local PRT branch. Communication between the organization responsible for policing parahumans in Brockton Bay and the leader of the only independent hero group in town was only common sense, although Emily usually had one of her subordinates take care of it.

No, the subject of the call was what was unexpected. New Wave was, loathe though she was to admit it, basically dead in the water. Not sinking, not yet anyway, but the engines were busted, no real force left behind the movement she and the others had so idealistically formed all those years ago. Now somebody wanted to join up, and Emily Piggot was pushing for a meeting. Probably under her terms, but still. Sarah wasn't sure which was more surprising.

Piggot hadn't explained very much, but they were both trying to set up a meeting between the possible new recruit, the PRT, and New Wave. Sarah Pelham decided to reserve judgement until she'd actually met this "Jacqueline Colere"

Emily was almost certainly up to something, Sarah knew her a little too well to think otherwise, but the girl might not be involved in it. It might not even be bad for New Wave. Emily Piggott would stop at very little to keep Brockton Bay as much under control as it ever was, but Sarah agreed with that goal, it was why she became a superhero in the first place, although Emily phrased it more cynically than Sarah ever had. Than she had ever phrased it where someone besides her sister or her husband could hear, anyway.

She did wonder why she'd been asked to make sure her sister came along though.


PRT ENE Records:

Parahuman Response Team East-North-East division Internal Threat Assessment 1597 (La Mademoiselle de Ma'at)

Name: La Mademoiselle de Ma'at (tentative), civilian name redacted.

Disposition: Hero, Currently Unaffiliated. Has expressed interest in joining Independent Hero group New Wave. Cooperative with PRT ENE.

Classifications:

Shaker 1 (Brute 1, Tinker 1): Subject possesses a "clockwork aura" of varying radius and intensity. Intensity and radius appear to both derive from the same factor, the level of focus the subject puts on "creating order". This Shaker effect repairs damage within its area of effect, affecting humans and objects alike. Effect does not appear to be Manton Limited. No known offensive utility. Effect as so far observed is too slow to be meaningful during combat, although the self-repair capacity of Subject has been observed to significantly reduce recovery time. (Brute subrating). Tinker subrating is due to the Aura's effect on technology. Several items have been observed to be "repaired" to a state of function slightly superior to mint condition, hypothesised to be due to correction of minor manufacturing faults and/or perfect maintenance.

Thinker 0/1 (Theorized): Although the subject has no known Thinker powers, several agents have reported that the subject demonstrated a level of calm, clear thinking, and clarity of purpose well beyond the norm for the subject's known age, level of training, and experience. Further testing required.

General information: Subject approached PRT immediately upon discovery of powers, and has been fully cooperative. Subject's power has been deemed useful but non-dangerous, and subject has shown respect and admiration for PRT personnel, particularly Regional Director Emily Piggot.

Personality: Subject is cooperative and friendly, with known heroic tendencies. Subject has expressed an aversion to parahuman violence, but has demonstrated a desire to help both society in general and the PRT in particular.

Notes: Despite her minimal combat ability, the subject is a high-priority target for recruitment, as her healing abilities are of tremendous potential value.

It is also probable that the subject's abilities are more extensive than demonstrated. No direct evidence of such a possibility exists, but given both the subject's newness to her own abilities and the strong tendency of parahuman abilities to be combat-useful it has been deemed a strong possibility.

Recommended Strategies: As the subject is currently well-disposed to PRT and is a priority target for recruitment, it is recommended that agents attempt to diplomatically resolve any conflict with the subject. Should this prove impossible, the subject has no known combat-useful powers, equipment, or training, and in a physical confrontation is effectively an untrained ordinary high-school student. Should her abilities prove more extensive or dangerous than they are known to be, standard Shaker protocols are to be enacted.


Coil:

Thomas Calvert was a careful man. He was also a manipulative and deeply sadistic man without any sense of empathy or concern for others, admittedly. He was practically your classic Hollywood depiction of a sociopath given life, actually. Not that sociopathy is a valid medical diagnosis. Not anymore anyway, and that was probably a good thing in most cases, but in Calvert's case it was probably the best possible. But he was a careful man. He knew full well that all parahumans were dangerous, at least when they wanted to be. The ones who didn't seem dangerous were no exception. He should know. He was, after all, Exhibit A on the subject. Despite his deliberately crafted images as a wise and respectable PRT consultant / a minor bit player technically-a-supervillain, he was far more dangerous than the Empire, ABB or any of the other parahuman criminals of the city.

Thus, it was entirely possible, even probable, that this new player was more dangerous than they seemed. It wouldn't be hard, she seemed about as dangerous as a kicked puppy. No threat ratings higher than a 1, even if that was partly the assessor deliberately using the strictest interpretation of "threat" in order to make sure Colere fell as low in the ratings as possible. Thomas would need to learn why, but more importantly Coil would need to see if this puppy had teeth, and, if so, how big they were and if she knew how to use them. Fortunately for him, Thomas Calvert had been on duty when Danny Hebert called to ask whether the two girls in his house (which would surprise the PRT as a whole, although Coil had the surveillance capacity to be entirely unsurprised) should go to school. Two possible answers presented themselves. Fortunately for him, he could give both. He could split time itself, running two parallel universes with the sole distinction being his own actions, share information between them, and pick and choose which would be the "real" timeline.

He was very smug about that, although he would never admit it. Even if somebody else actually knew what his power was. He was kind of a jerk that way, although not nearly as much of a jerk as he was in so very, very, many other ways.

In one timeline, he did the simple, sensible thing and said that both girls should stay home, and the PRT would have their absence excused, as they had already done for the previous day. This option had the benefit of being exactly what he was expected to advise as a PRT consultant, and would improve his reputation for reliability and trustworthiness. After all, even if the main perpetrator had been shoved into Master/Stranger protocols, sending a pair of young girls into a building where they had been assaulted yesterday would reflect badly on him.

In the other timeline, he did something slightly less sensible. It should perhaps be noted that Thomas Calvert had a definite tendency to be far less cautious when in a timeline he could discard on a whim, so when in a disposable timeline he sometimes did things like taking risks. Or torturing innocent (or guilty, he didn't discriminate) people for information. Or torturing innocent (or guilty, he didn't discriminate) people for his own amusement. Sometimes to death. To his mind, the consequences were only real if he let them be. He was, after all, a jerk.

That simply cannot be overstated.


In this timeline, he said that Taylor should stay home, but Jacqueline should go to school. It'd be suspicious if they were both absent, he justified. It was a risk, but it would probably be thought of as little more than a slight overconcern for the investigation over the victims. He also arranged for orders to be sent to his spy in Winslow, telling him to get Jacqueline Colere into a fight. Pick one himself if necessary. Or maybe he could just kidnap the girl.

It might seem odd that a high-level supervillain would have a spy in a high school, but Coil had spies everywhere, or at least tried to. A lot of low level gangers went to Winslow, and just listening to the ambient gossip got his agent a lot of information on the activity of the other gangs. And it wasn't like the agent knew who he reported to. He thought he was working for one of the little gangs in town, one without any parahumans or worthwhile territory. There were about a dozen of those in town, and even taken as a group they were barely a blip on the radar, but they did have a presence in Winslow. The particular gang his spy thought he worked for didn't actually exist anymore, but without Coil's extensive network of information he had no way to know that.

Coil's network of information was extensive. Hundreds of agents, most of them unaware of who they reported to, dozens of computers, moles in every major organization in the bay (and most of the minor ones) including his own (to root out sloppiness or betrayal), a plethora of supporting assets and logistics, and the immense advantage his power offered in the field of operational intelligence. Few things could truly surprise him. One of those things had happened last night, but Coil wouldn't find out about it until much later.


"John Smith":

Being Winslow's custodian wasn't an easy job at the best of times, but the night had been worse than usual for "John Smith". Some dumb kids had decided a food fight in the cafeteria was a good idea, and, this being Winslow, things had gotten out of hand. Play-violence had swiftly turned to fists and kicks, leaving "John" to mop up the blood and chocolate. As well as all the other foodstuffs. At least now there was only one room left on today's cleaning schedule, the third story girl's bathroom.

---

Clearly there had been a murder, and somebody had gone overboard wiping up the evidence. There was no other possible way any room in Winslow would be that clean. "John" wasn't about to complain. Whistling cheerfully, he packed away his cleaning supplies, put them in the designated area, and walked straight out of the school.

He had way too much alcohol waiting for him at home to care.


Shadow Stalker:

Sophia didn't have any way of knowing how all of this had gone so wrong, but she blamed Taylor Hebert. There were coils inside her brain. She was aware that she didn't really have any reason to blame Taylor for Assault deciding to punch her out and drag her into Master/Stranger confinement, but it was so easy to blame everything on the wimp's weakness. She was kind of a jerk that way, although not nearly as much of a jerk as Coil. agree-AGREE. Maybe she could blame that other girl, the one whose name she'd never gotten. AGREE. It hadn't occurred to Sophia that the girl might snitch to the PRT, but it would explain everything. agree. She had been certain her little use of her power to not smash her head on the sink after the little punk's cheap shot hadn't been noticed, but if it had?

Well that wouldn't be good for her. There was definitely something weird about the girl. Sophia had snatched one of the pieces of paper sticking out of the girl's pocket, and it turned out to be some sort of bizarre letter about comic books and world hopping. Some stupid fan junk,but the syntax was definitely off, she could AGREE with that much. She blinked. Agree with who? Coils within coils and lies within lies. Something was wrong. agree-AGREE.

Nothing was wrong. Sophia Hess was a good girl. The girl talked weird too, if not in quite the same way. Coils within Coil. agree-AGREE. And what was a little starveling weasel like that doing standing up to her in the first place. She listened to her mother, played nice, and followed the rules. She hadn't done anything wrong, ever. There were coils and Coils in her mind, she agreed-AGREED, but she hadn't done anything wrong.

Mara Sorrows (as she was calling herself for now), Master/Stranger confinement overseer, observed silently as Sophia Hess, AKA Shadow Stalker started screaming incoherently about agreements, good girls, and the supervillain known as Coil. The incident was extremely concerning. The interview afterwards, wherein she didn't seem to remember anything past middle school, would be even more so. That her last memory before the Master/Stranger screening cell was of a man in a black bodysuit with a white snake wrapped around it telling her to be a "good girl" was not only concerning, but also deeply disturbing.

Something was rotten in the state of Denmark. agree_AGREE.