Once, there was a maiden...
...whose shadow fled from her. She chased it over fire and stone.
She chased her shadow to a monster's mouth. It went right in. It didn't know how to stop.
The maiden caught her shadow in a deep cave full of ghosts. It turned into a ball of thorns that wrapped around her. When the ghosts pricked their fingers on the thorns, they came to life. This didn't make anyone very happy.
The maiden made a ladder from the ghosts' bones, but it only pointed downward. "Why go on?" her shadow asked.
"I can't quit now." said she.
Do you remember, back in the day, when we had this huge boom of Worm/Exalted fics? Yeah me too.
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I've become entirely too comfortable in graveyards. This is less a graveyard, more a small memorial, but that was a pedantic difference. Twinned sticks of incense burn away atop the cenotaph of a woman I've never met, and I leaned against a second grave marker with little more than impatience. The sky above is overcast, the full moon hidden away behind a thick bank of clouds. A heavy cloak of feathers rests across my shoulders, and my talons shift atop the second gravestone on the lonely hilltop.
In the distance, striding up a gentle hill from the small township below, a man approaches. From my vantage point, I could watch as he drew a heavy cloak tightly around himself, furtively glancing back towards the darkened huts. He hasn't noticed me.
A raven is hardly out of place in a place of death.
He barely notes the rickety wooden gate that's been left open, but stops dead when he smells the fresh incense. For a moment, just one, it seems he's going to turn tail and run, his courage lost. I hope he does, it would make my night much simpler.
But he rallies, and I allow myself a ruffle of my feathers. The chance has passed, and something thrums in the back of my head. I hated what I had to do, what I'd been tasked with tonight, but it was a sad necessity.
He kneels in the loam before the woman's stone and leans forward, casting off his hood as he does so.
I descended behind him, throwing off my cloak in a smooth motion. A shimmering formal kimono, in the purples of mourning, replaces black feathers, and long black curls fall across my shoulders. A length of spider-silk attached to a smooth wooden handle falls into my hands. The kusari-gama is a comforting bulwark against what I must do tonight.
The man before me hears nothing.
"Dreams-Not Cardinal?" I ask, just as he slips a ritual athame from his sleeve. I hate when destiny was right about these things, I truly do. "My name is Taylor Hebert. Do you understand why I'm here?"
He responds in a moment, barely surprised by my voice.
"I can assume. The undead whisper about your ilk." His voice is raspy, hoarse. Like he's spent weeks crying. "Still, I'd hoped to do this before they sent one of you."
My ilk. Saturn's Chosen. That he knew, and still chose this, only made tonight marginally easier.
"Everything comes to an end, Cardinal."
"We die, and are reborn through the cycle of Lethe. I know this. Every child is taught this." He hunches in on himself. "It doesn't help any."
The dagger spins, rotating in his hand like a worry-stone, finger's fidgeting with nervous energy. I remain still. There is precious little Cardinal can do to me, after all. All he can do now is talk, and I can allow him that much, at the least. A few last words to soothe the soul, so to speak.
"There's no comfort in that. Do you understand? What's the point if she's not here, by my side? Could you possibly understand that kind of loss, or do you only exist to cause it?"
I sigh and glance up. Snow is starting to fall, and with it comes memories. Of course I understand loss If I didn't, I wouldn't even be here. But there's no point in explaining. I have little desire to think about those days, anyway.
"There's nothing here for you, Cardinal. Your wife has already passed on, her soul has already been reborn." Out of idle fancy, I reach up and catch a few errant flakes and watch them melt in my palm.
"This is more talking than I was led to expect from one of you."
"It's not your time yet. I would prefer to not have to kill you." I didn't revel in killing. I hate it, in fact.
"And if I don't stop? Let's say you fail to kill me. A hypothetical, of course."
The athame is dangerously close to his wrist. I'm no necromancer, but even I've spent enough time around sorcerers to know that blood has power. Was that the necessary part of raising his wife? A trade of essence? Spells were almost impossible to predict, but they did follow certain patterns. "What you raise won't be your wife, and it will kill you and then most of the town below."
"Ah. Of course." For a moment, just one, it seems he'll put the dagger down. He relaxes, and he turns to regard me with a smile.
But my life is not so easy. It hasn't been since one snowy night, several years ago.
"You understand that I must try?"
I nod. That, at least, I can understand. Even if I cannot allow it.
The athame flashes, but I'm faster than one old man. My blade lashes out and takes him in the temple. He dies in a heartbeat, in the most painless way I can manage.Limp, his body collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. It's messy work, freeing my weapon, but the deed was done. All that was left was to make sure that his ghost was quiet, and passed on as easily as his wife had seven years ago.
I'd prepared a grave ahead of time. His corpse rests inside, freshly tilled soil covering it as neatly as I could manage. There was no headstone prepared, but a cairn of stone is enough marker for my purposes. Inside my kimono is a small wooden case in a pouch, containing the incense and matches I need for this short ritual. Snow continues to fall as I light it, falling in small drifts. The chill slowly sets in, but I have one last duty here.
The prayer I say for the dead man is short and sweet. I'm still not used to it, even after all this time in Creation.
Even now, I can't help but be amazed that Heaven is real, even if it's not the one I was told about as a kid. That I can go to and from heaven itself via a glimmering celestial gate is equally amazing. Yu-Shan, city of the gods, is built of glimmering gold and impossible architecture, the likes of which even the most inspired mortal dreamer would never invent. If I looked behind myself, I could see the impossible structure of the Cerulean Lute of Harmony, gossamer-strand arcs glistening in the Sun. If I looked ahead, I could see the exact opposite; my destination, the Violet Bier. A simple, titanic granite obelisk stretching so high it blotted out the sun. I'm not the only one traveling; gods and spirits of all kinds move to and fro for business or for pleasure.
And I am their equal. Superior, really, depending on the god and where they happen to stand in the Celestial Bureaucracy. I am Exalted. A Sidereal, star-touched, Chosen of Saturn the Maiden of Endings herself. According to the powers that be, I had been destined for this since the day I was born. It entitled me to certain things. Like a desk job with one hell of a benefits package.
I think that part is the part I'm most confused by. When I was a kid, I never would have guessed I was destined for one of the most important jobs in all reality. At least I'll never have to worry about money again. Idly, I adjust my kimono. I'm not used to wearing something so feminine, however necessary the formal garment had been for the ceremonial burial.
A being of towering glass gives me a polite nod as I stride down a long thoroughfare, and a spit of flame following behind fluttered in a way that I interpret as polite greeting.
"Reckoner Hebert, it's good to see you returned," The towering glass murmurs. His voice is like tinkling wind chimes, far more delicate than his stature would suggest. "I trust your mission went well?"
Making eye contact with him is strange. He has no face of his own, but a distorted version of my own face, rendered angular and so much longer by the broken glass, serves the same purpose. Starry, purple eyes gaze back at me, set in a face that's already seen so much.
"Shattering Reflection, it's good to see you too. My mission was... somber, to say the least." The switch to Old Realm from Low Realm is easy, practiced. I can't remember the last time I'd spoken English.
Shattering Reflection was one of my coworkers in the Division of Endings, a subset of the Bureau of Destiny. If I was a troubleshooter, a highly paid assassin sent out to handle the endings that needed to happen now for the safety of all reality, he was a pencil pusher who politicked and jockeyed and helped design the destiny of all Creation, going forward. An important position, I'm told, but I'm not sure the red tape is all that important.
"It seems every day in the Division of Endings is somber. Yet, we must continue." Reflections offers a small bow and gestures with a collection of shards that make up an arm. "My friend and I are headed to the Lute to see a play, if you'd like to join us?"
"Thank you for the invite, but I need to attend to my paperwork for my mission. Next time?"
If my clear and obvious avoidant strategy bothers him, he masterfully does not show it. "Of course, my Lady. Your work ethic is to be commended as always."
We bow to each other, and then I'm alone again. There's rarely a crowd this close to the Violet Bier; there's a certain air about the place that most gods, spirits, and even the other Sidereals don't tend to appreciate. The closer I get to it, the larger it looms. Golden towers give way to simpler architecture, alehouses, several gambling halls, and even several dancing establishments as I keep walking. The doors are all shut, and the windows all tightly shut. Given the time, I have to assume most of my coworkers are inside, unwinding from the day.
And, to prove me right, one such person shows herself. She comes rocketing out of a nearby alehouse like an arrow from a bow, knocking the glass against the stone siding with enough force I worry it might break. A woman leans out of it to flag me down. She's broad, with a wild head of stark white hair, a half-mask tight across her face from her nose down, and arms left bare of her tightly fitted black robe. One of her eyes is the same starry purple as mine, but her right eye is a cloudy blind white.
"Taylor! There you are!" Seventh Pillar Everlasting says, and years of working side by side tell me the slight crinkle of her mask means she's smiling at me. "Truth was starting to get worried you'd never return."
Summoned by her words, a second face skitters up. A pattern spider, a kind of god that takes the shape of a large crystalline arachnid the size of a small dog, peeks over Seventh's shoulder. She shimmers in iridescent reds and oranges, lit by the internal light of her godhood. She's also one of my closest friends, and is currently rustling her pedipalps in frustration at me. "I was not. I never worry about Taylor."
I smile despite myself. Truth-Manifold Anatoly is and has been a constant reassuring presence during my time here, and seeing her here goes some distance to banishing the mood I'd found myself in.
"That hurts, Anatoly. That really hurts." Despite myself, I come to a stop and approach the alehouse. I really do have paperwork to handle, but that can wait an hour or so, right? "What are you two doing?"
"Sharing a few drinks, wondering when our friend'll be back. How was the solo mission, by the way?"
The door opens soundlessly, revealing a surprisingly chaotic interior, given the drab exterior. Lights of all imaginable colors dangle from the ceiling, and a smattering of gods and spirits drank in quiet camaraderie. Seventh pats a table where two cups, one tankard and one delicate sake dish, sit unattended.
I take my own seat, Anatoly and Seventh joining me in front of the sake cup and the tankard respectively. A god, a large woman garbed in what I can only describe as the very concept of quiet joy, sweeps up behind me, setting down a steaming cup of tea with a wink and a smile.
"She gets it perfect every time," I mutter as a take a sip of the perfect tea.
"One of these days I'll convince you to have a proper beer," Seventh jibes.
"One of these days, I'll figure out how you drink with that thing on."
"Cleverly."
"Bring anything back from Creation?" Anatoly says in between delicate sips of her rice wine. "I only ask because I'm curious, of course, not that you have to bring me-"
I slip a neatly folded packet of paper out of my kimono and slide it across the lacquered table to her. Sometimes it seems part of my popularity with pattern spiders in general, and Anatoly in particular, is my willingness to bring them little treats. Eagerly, greedily even, she unwraps it with her front legs to find thin shards of red speckled glass-like sugar. "This is fire-glass. It's a local delicacy where I was in the south, but be careful it's-"
Anatoly doesn't wait for me to finish my warning. She shoves nearly a whole shard into her maw, mouth parts working furiously to crush it up into digestible chunks before, suddenly, stopping dead. The glimmering reds and oranges of her carapace intensify briefly, until she coughs furiously and shoves her mouth into her cup of sake.
"It's very spicy." I can't help the small chuckle that issues forth, and one of my friend's eight eyes stares into me balefully. "Take little bites next time?"
"Oh, the sake did not help," Anatoly mutters as she comes back up for air. "At least it tastes really good. Hell of a kick, though. It's like I took a bite of the Fire Pillar itself."
"I'm glad you liked it. That packet should last you a few weeks, I made sure to get a lot."
I catch myself smiling again. My time in Yu-Shan has been a lot more bearable than high school ever had been. I can't imagine sitting around a table just chattering away like this back home. Good friends, good drink, and laughter had seemed so far out of my reach.
"Doubt it," Seventh says with a laugh. "I've never seen a spider put it away like that. She finished off that packet of salt water taffy from that mission you two took to the Blessed Isle in, like, a day, remember?"
Somehow, Anatoly rolls her compound eyes. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Obvious change of subject, how was Loom's Grace?"
Loom's Grace. The kusari-gama still securely clipped to my waist. Delicately, I remove it from its spot and lay it out on the table, spider silk rope curled into a small spiral beneath the handle of the sickle. For a moment, all three of us simply take it in. It's a work of art as much as it is a weapon: delicate spirals of silver are worked into the dark polished wood of the handle, and the blade of the sickle is glittering starmetal, far more solid than most other relics of the same material. It glitters with potential, and out of the corner of my eye I can see stars reflected in its surface; The Crow, the constellation it fell from when it was simple ore.
"It's amazing, but I don't deserve it."
Anatoly shakes her head. "You earned it, Taylor. After that fiasco last year, the pattern spiders wanted to reward you. Take the compliment."
"It's just," I fiddle with the weight at the other end of the rope, thoughts whirling. "I feel so graceless next to this, is all."
Seventh laughs, tankard coming down from still covered lips in a way that made me just impotently furious. "You? Graceless? Then how did you pull-"
My mood freezes over instantly. I knew who exactly they were talking about, and I'd been doing a fantastic job of putting that woman out of mind. "I thought we agreed we weren't talking about her."
"...But you were at her manse last week?" Anatoly says, confused, only to hold up her forelegs defensively as I turn to her. "Sorry, sorry. Not talking about her."
Frustrated, I return to my toddy and try to ignore what they'd said. It was true, but I didn't necessarily like it being pointed out. It was complicated, and I needed them to understand that. Seventh and Anatoly share a glance, and for a moment I wonder if they're going to say anything more. I nearly stand to beat a retreat to my study to actually finish my paperwork, but the door snaps open. It admits a familiar figure, and I'm only somewhat ashamed to admit my poor mood is almost instantly swept away.
"There you are, Tay! You don't make yourself easy to find."
"Siaka!" I pop up, ignoring the way Seventh leans over to mouth 'Tay?' at my spidery friend. "What are you doing here?"
She grabs me in a hug before speaking, and I return it enthusiastically. I'd hit six feet and a small amount of change in my first years here, but Iron Siaka stands tall over me by several inches. She has a strong jaw, a frame wide enough to strain the simple blue tunic and white breeches she'd worn. Her hair was shorn short and swept back, and it was a kind of pale blue-blonde that seemed almost unnatural. Unlike myself and Seventh, her eyes sparkled blue.
For a moment, I remember drifts of snow and a teary, crying fifteen-year-old girl. Siaka had been the one to find me, then. It was strange for a Chosen of Venus to mentor an Endings like myself, but I valued that nonetheless.
She pulls away and claps my shoulders, hard enough that I stumble and snap out of the memory. "I wish I could say it was just a social call. I do want to check in on my favorite student, see how she's been growing in this dour division, but sadly, no."
Well. That's a disappointment. "Seventh? Anatoly? Can we have the table? This sounds like official business."
"Oh, Anatoly should stay. She's a part of this." Siaka pulls up a chair as she talks, spins it around, and sits astride it with her arms folded across the back. "Fire glass, is it? Mind if I...?"
Anatoly gestures with a forelimb, and my former mentor happily takes a shard and crunches away. Seventh stands with her empty tankard and a wink. She's mocking me, either about my inability to discern her drinking with her mask removed, or my happiness to see Siaka. It's hard to tell. "I can see when I'm not wanted. And, Taylor, I'll go ahead and file that mission brief I know you have tucked away for you. This seems important."
I begrudgingly hand Seventh a tightly rolled scroll, and with an exaggerated bow, she's gone, back out into the shadow of the Violet Bier. And I'm left alone-relatively, of course-with my friend and my mentor. Silence reigns for a time, broken only by the crunch of fire glass and the shifting of glasses. The other patrons seem content to leave us to our privacy, at the very least.
"That kimono looks good on you," she starts. "Branching out?"
"It was step one of the process needed to keep a restless ghost from rising." I take another sip to hide a self-conscious adjustment of my garb. It really was too restrictive, and made me itch for one of the casual hanfu I'd grown used too. The compliment is difficult to accept, some part of me still wondering if it was forced, fake. "After I stopped Cardinal from raising his dead wife and dooming his entire town, that is."
She cocks an eyebrow at me. "So businesslike. Don't you do anything for fun?"
"I train, every morning. Read, when I get the chance."
Anatoly chitters at that and prods at Siaka. "Mostly romance novels. She's been really into this new one, from the Realm, called... uh..."
"A Blessed March," I say, with a small blush. "Let's not get off track. Why are you here? Not that I don't want to catch up, of course, but don't leave me hanging, Siaka."
She sighs, then. Fingers drum the table before us and she stares into space just over my shoulder. She used to do the same thing when I would ask a hard question, during training. Looking for the right words and the right way to say them.
"Have you thought of home, recently?" She finally asks me.
I've thought of snow on the ground and a tombstone that reads Annette Rose Hebert. Shouts and the wrong color eyes in the mirror, and flashing red and blue lights as I run. "No. I never need to, the Bureau never needs to deal with them. I'm only the what, third Exalt from Earth?"
"Second," she idly corrects. "I said I was here on official business, right? Taylor Hebert, Chosen of Saturn, I'm here on behalf of the Special Convention on Earth."
Something goes dead in my chest, and my mouth dries up. "There is no Special Convention on Earth."
Siaka sighs and runs a hand through her hair. "I asked to be the one to break this to you, you know. Figured it would come off easier than if one of your bosses had done it."
"Just say it."
"You're going home, Tay."
It takes me a moment to process, and somehow the first thing to come to mind is the fact that I'm going to need to brush back up on my native language.
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Wanna see Taylor's plan? Check out her first steps on Patreon! You can also yell at me about Exalted OR Worm there!
We see one charm used here, Feathered Cloak Trick. All it does it let Taylor turn into a crow!
Taylor has a hell of a time ahead of her, here.
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My morning training is more than simple exercise and forms. It is those things, to be clear, both strength training and kata designed to strengthen my body. But it is also contemplation, meditation in movement. As I move through my forms, my training chain—a heavy, blunted version of a kusari gama—spinning in increasingly complex shapes, I clear my mind and focus on one thing.
Death. Morbid as it is, the house style of the Division of Endings, Violet Bier of Sorrows, teaches that we must remain ever familiar with death and how close it is to us. It's easy to think that this would wear on someone, bring them down, turn them into a dour, humorless zombie. And depending on who from Endings you happen to run into you, you might even be right. For me, though, learning to accept the cycle of death in my new life has been beyond helpful. And, right now, it's helping me push aside some far more pressing concerns.
I turn and spin, keeping my motions in a tight circle. So long as my breathing stays steady, my arms keep moving, and my eyes stay closed, I can pretend I'm training alone in my quarters in Yu-Shan.
But it can't last. I finish the last of the first forms—Flight of Mercury—and hold the pose. Legs tense, ready to leap, chain held taut across my chest by my outstretched left arm and drawn back right. A breath, seven seconds in and five seconds out.
I slowly open my eyes.
I'm standing in a middle class apartment, in the living room. The shades across from me are drawn tightly across a pair of French doors, and behind me is a kitchen that currently smells of brewing coffee and crisp bacon. On one side is the door out into the rest of the building, and on my other is a short hallway that leads to two bedrooms and one bathroom. I haven't bothered to decorate.
The rent isn't even a concern, something I will never ever be used to. It's being paid out of my mission funds, through a complicated series of money launderers that ends in Heaven's wallet.
My training chain goes back in its place, a rack on the wall that also mounts a staff and a sword. It's heavy, heavier than Loom's Grace, but the ache in my muscles is already disappearing, chased away by the ember of power deep in my soul.
"You train like that every morning?" Siaka asks from her spot at the little table in the kitchen. "And I thought I took my job seriously."
It's odd, seeing her in a button-down and slacks, but she makes it work, even if the seams protest at her musculature. Somehow, it's stranger than watching a pattern spider cook eggs and bacon from her perch atop a high stool. Living in Yu-Shan had normalized a few things my younger self would gawk at.
"Of course. It helps me get ready for the day." I take a few strides to the drawn curtains and throw them open. I can't keep that bandage on forever. "And I need to be more ready than ever."
Outside, there's a balcony. We're a few stories up, enough that I can take in the cityscape across from me. It's changed some, since the last time I saw it, but I can still pick out the important landmarks. MedHall tower, the PRT headquarters, even the oil rig in the bay proper, just barely visible between skyscrapers. Brockton Bay is where I was born, after all.
I never thought I'd be back. I've had nightmares of being back here. The jungle of concrete, steel, and glass is far more daunting than the impossible golden spires of heaven had ever been.
"Tay, seriously. Come eat, you've got to be starving after that little display."
"I'll eat in a moment." Eating right after training always put a strange feeling in my stomach, so I tried to avoid it when I could. "You don't need to stay. I can handle myself."
"Eh, I've got the leave banked, and my assignment is already on pause. "
Siaka joins me at the window with a sigh, and takes a long sip from her coffee as she stares out over it with me. "Are the years really shorter here?"
"The days are shorter, too. Twenty-four hours instead of twenty-five." I'd done the math, when I was still trying to come to terms with what had changed in my life. Earth runs on twelve months and 365 days, give or take a quarter. Creation has fifteen months and one extra five day slot for Calibration, for a total of 425 days. I know how old I was on both calendars at this point, but...
"So that's why you can never tell anyone when your birthday is. It's on a totally different calendar. So you're...?"
"Twenty," I answer easily.
She hums, and we stare out at the city for a spell. It's almost peaceful from here, even with the mission ahead of me weighing me down. It's a bit strange to me; the Bay had been tumultuous in my childhood, and I'd half expected a massive cape fight or some other disaster to break out right when we arrived. But even the seediest cities in Creation weren't that bad, and most crimes took place in pocketbooks and boardrooms anyway.
"Why here?"
I glance over at Siaka. Her face is blank, but I can tell when she's probing me. "What do you mean?"
"Why your hometown? What if someone recognizes you?"
I hadn't thought it through that far, which means I have to come up with an excuse on the spot. "Taylor Hebert doesn't exist here anymore. The benefits outweigh the risks. I know this town, if I did this anywhere else I'd be starting from scraps. The mission would end up taking too long."
"Arcane Fate doesn't work like that," she takes another sip. "It's still possible for people to remember you. It's hard, blindingly so, but you'd be surprised."
I grit my teeth. The Arcane Fate is something of an enduring problem for Sidereals; memory of us tend to fade, disappear. Even records of our existence are lost, destroyed, or otherwise rendered useless, unless we personally maintain them. And all of us, every single one, experience it first hand in the first few moments after our Exaltation. Pick a Sidereal at random, and they have a horror story to share on a quiet night.
"My own father couldn't remember me, and he was looking me right in the face. No one is going to know who I am."
The bitterness in my voice is obvious, but she gamely doesn't say anything about it. "Alright, alright. Still, surely you don't expect to get anywhere without-"
"Siaka," I stress the syllables, frustration leaking into my voice. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not a fresh-faced neophyte anymore."
To prove it, I reach out and tug on strands of fate. I might be little more than a specter in the eyes of reality, but the little spark of fate wedged between my souls gives me certain perks. A weapon against the Arcane Fate as it was. Fate itself could be woven into a new identity, a resplendent destiny, something I can drape about my own diminished fate. There's no change to my shape, to myself, but it is a name that actually exists. A person who can be remembered.
Nothing actually changes, but nonetheless I feel different. Just a touch, a bit more constrained, a bit off. It's easy enough to ignore at the very least. "My name is Juniper Clarkson, for all purposes, here on Bet."
"June for short?" Siaka asks as she returns to the table, where Anatoly has set out three plates and is waiting impatiently. I give her a nod in return.
"Alright. What's the rest of the plan? You've been pretty cagey up until now." Anatoly is somehow perfectly clear, despite the bacon she's tossing back. Perks of godhood, I suppose.
I'd thought long and hard about that. My orders were surprisingly circumspect. 'Establish a foothold on Earth Bet to acquire crucial intelligence about the origins of parahumans. In addition, compile a threat profile in aggregate, in the case of open hostilities between Earth and the interests of Heaven.' That I was doing this functionally alone, save the pattern spider next to me, wasn't too terribly strange. It would give me more flexibility to move, and I would have the power to request reinforcements if it ever became an issue.
My plan is, perhaps, a little audacious. But I'd rather spend as little time as possible here, and what better way was there to gather intelligence than straight from the source?
"Easy. I'm going to pretend to be a parahuman. Specifically..."
"...I'm going to infiltrate the Protectorate."
If I was still fifteen years old, I would have done this far differently. Found a high profile villain, started a fight in the middle of downtown, joined them amid the fanfare of victory. It was a scenario I'd imagined constantly, while sitting under my framed Alexandria poster or while playing Cape. But that was dumb, and had its own risks. I was Exalted, to be sure, but I had to be extremely careful. Revealing the sheer extent of what I could do would blow my cover before I had it.
No, there was a far easier solution.
I called them and told them I thought I had powers.
The lady on the other end hadn't believed me. Reassuring her that no, I was not, in fact, a prank caller had taken some doing, but by the end of it a man's voice had cut in rather curtly and informed me of two things, in no uncertain terms. I was to immediately go to the PRT headquarters downtown-in civilian clothes-and give the woman at the front desk a prepared code phrase.
I feel faintly strange in ripped up jeans, a crop top, and a pair of mirrored aviators. What I wouldn't give for my combat uniform, right now. It feels almost exactly like walking into enemy territory naked.
The lobby isn't exactly packed, but I still have to navigate a few throngs of civilians here to either report a crime or linger for autographs to make it to the reception desk at the far end of the room. I lean against it and cough lightly, catching the attention of a blonde haired woman with her hair up in a bun. I'm fixed with an unamused brown eyed stare in response.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
"I'm a victim of a crime," I manage with a straight face. "I'm here to complain that a villain wearing nothing but a smile hit me with a bottle."
It takes her a moment, incredulous smile bubbling across her face before recognition lights in her eyes. "I'm so sorry to hear that ma'am. If you'll follow me, we can get your statement taken."
I allow myself to be led behind the desk and through a secured door. There are few prying eyes; everyone in the small lobby is a PRT employee in some regard. She keys a code on a keypad and the door clicks open: 5789. I shouldn't need it, but it's worth remembering at the very least.
"Are you well? No lasting injuries?" She continues as we step inside. She's a good actor, I'll give her that. The concern in her voice is genuine and sincere, despite the ridiculousness of the crime I'd claimed.
"I'm fine. Just doing my civic duty." The door snaps shut behind us, and her face goes entirely businesslike, losing all the previous candor and concern. She's good. I glance down at her name tag. A. Middleton.
She gestures at a second door, labeled INTERROGATION 2. Some paranoid part of my mind wonders if this is all some kind of excuse, a chance to arrest a nefarious foreign actor. Where would they decide I was from, I can't help but idly wonder. No, I remind myself, this is going exactly as I want. It's just Brockton Bay getting to me. Now, it's time for the second part of today's plan. How do I prove that I'm a cape, when that's not actually true? That answer is just as trivially easy. I'm a Sidereal. In parahuman parlance, I'm a combat thinker.
And whoever I was here to see would test that. They would never just take my word. I would just have to pass that test.
The knob turns, and I walk into a stark concrete room, the wall to my right dominated by a one way mirror, and the center by a stainless steel table bolted to the floor. There are two chairs, and a naked bulb hanging overhead that provides the only light in the barren concrete cube.
I'd say they were leaning into stereotype too hard if it weren't for the massive man in gleaming blue and silver power armor on the opposite side of the table, long halberd leaned casually against his side. His visor leaves the only visible facial features, an immaculate beard and a frown. I recognize him, of course I do. I was a fan of his as a kid.
"You're the first cape to use the hotline in about fifteen years," Armsmaster says. His voice is even, controlled. "If you are one, of course. Juniper, was it?"
"I prefer June." I pull out the chair in front of me and cross my legs as I sit down. I'm careful to act in ways that define Juniper, and not Taylor. Wearing a destiny is as much putting on a performance as it is magic. "Surely you don't do this for just anyone."
"I like to take a more hands-on approach." Emphasizing his point, he leans forward, forearms landing on the table and fingers lacing together. I can't help but admire the craftsmanship; I was no Tinker, no smith, but there was something about the smoothness, how naturally the armor moved with him, that impresses me. How it stacked up to proper artifacts, I can't say.
"Let's get the basics out of the way, of course. How long have you had your powers?"
There's no notepad, so I have to assume he's recording with a camera hidden in his visor or other nook of his armor. Or even hidden in the room proper, or there's someone hidden behind the glass taking notes in his stead. There's no point in stressing about it.
"A few weeks. I was—" I cut myself off with a face and a glance aside, before I take a breath and make eye contact again. "Attacked. Ever since, there's been this... thing, in the back of my head."
I wait a moment. Just a beat. "Oh, and... these."
The sunglasses come off. No matter what destiny I don, the bright purple eyes and the stars in my pupils are almost impossible to hide or get rid of. The best compromise I had was to claim that they were a minor mutation caused by my power.
"Interesting. Minor changes aren't unheard of; I'm put in mind of Canary and her feathers." He seems to notice himself, and he leans back and takes a more official tone. "I'm sorry that you were attacked. Are you interested in pursuing a criminal case?"
"I'd rather not think about it right now, if it's all the same to you." I cross my arms and pull tight into myself, affecting an image of avoidance as best I can. According to my friends, it's something I'm quite talented at.
The façade seems to work, Armsmaster pulling back just a touch and nodding. "I understand. Your power, then. You described it to the phone operator, but would you mind?"
He's pushing me forward, looking for any holes in my story. I've seen it, done it even. It's certainly fair given that I'd claimed a distinctly low-key power set. "It's like a thread, or maybe a series of them, tugging at the back of my mind. Warning me about—"
Two kinds of advanced danger sense, born from my innate connection to fate itself, scream in the back of my head at that exact moment. One tells me that I'm in danger, of the clear and present variety. The second clarifies and adds precision: someone is going to fire an arrow at me through the glass.
The operant issue with catching an arrow isn't strength or dexterity. It's reaction time. Even avoiding too much use of my essence, even with purely mortal, albeit highly trained, reaction times, this much forewarning is more than enough.
There is no crescendo of glass, just a lance of black mist passing through the window soundlessly. I pluck it out of the air an inch from my neck, just as it rematerializes into an arrow proper. Idly, I spin it between my fingers and smirk at my table-mate.
"What if I was lying? You'd have me shot through the neck for that?" It's a well crafted arrow. Carbon fiber shaft, synthetic fletching, but the head that catches my eye. It's complicated, but if I have to guess, I would call it a slimmed down aerosol injector. A sedative of some kind, then. "Ah. Of course, you thought of that."
"I'm impressed. We were ninety-nine percent sure you were telling the truth, of course, but reacting to unseen stimulus… More testing will need to be done, but I'm comfortable calling that a Thinker-class ability. Do you also have enhanced reaction time to complement your danger sense?" The seriousness in his tone is still there, but there's a note of genuine interest now. I'd proven I was telling the truth, and he's eased up just a tad.
I do, but I'm not interested in telling him that. "No, that's just old martial arts training. We trained to deflect the arrow, but..."
"Training from where? That was some John Woo shit, damn." A dark shape, composed of the same mist that had made up the arrow still in my hand, steps through the glass and wall. It's vaguely person shaped until it resolves, just as the arrow had.
A cloaked woman leans against the one way mirror, arms crossed over her chest. Her costume is form fitting, in the way that armor is fitted to the body to maintain freedom of movement. It's easy to pick out the armor panels hidden under dark fabric across her chest and stomach. Her boots flow seamlessly into almost floral greaves, curves suggesting the leaves of a plant or tree. Her bracers bear much the same affectation,
My attention is drawn more fully to two things, the costume of dark grays and greens little more than a quick note. First is the advanced recurve bow held loosely in one hand, slimmer and yet somehow far stronger looking than any mortal weapon I'd seen in human hands. It didn't seem as advanced as Armsmaster's futuristic plate, but it was still a beautiful piece of work.
The second is the granite gray mask that covers her face, just barely cast into shadow by her hood. It's like a woman's face, carved from stone. It bears a sharp jawline, brows furrowed in what I can only read as idle disapproval, and lips that only suggest a downturn, and yet read as displeased nonetheless. One eye is blank, the void filled by a blank black glass. The second is covered by a finely detailed flower in bloom, snaking up her cheek from a stem that disappears down her cheek and under the dark fabric that covers her neck.
It cuts a striking figure, and a quiet part of me wonders if she's so beautiful beneath it.
The cloak and the bow together bring an old memory bubbling up. Just before my Exaltation, a new local Ward had been announced. Was this Shadow Stalker? If so, I had to admit that she'd grown into her costume quite well.
"A girl deserves to have some secrets, doesn't she?" I respond easily. Juniper might be drawing too much from Siaka, but that well is easy to tap and easy to separate from my real self. "Here, I believe this belongs to you."
I flip the arrow around, holding it out to her fletching first. That mask cocks at me, the women beneath taking a measure of me. There's a short laugh, and she reaches out to take it and slip it back into a quiver hidden inside her cloak. "Cocky, too. Let's see if you can back that energy up. This work isn't for every Jane off the street. This is real life."
I grin despite myself. It's easy to rise to the bait, to the challenge. Fortunately for me, that instinct fits the profile I need to fill. "I'm more than willing to show you cocky. Couple rounds in the ring should-"
Armsmaster coughs, interrupting what was sure to become one hell of a spar. "I'm glad to see you're already hitting it off so well. I would prefer you introduce yourselves, rather than start an open brawl in the PRT Headquarters. We don't have the budget for repairs after the last time."
I allow him that with a simple nod and a gesture. The cape before me just shrugs her shoulders. "Fine, fine. I already know your name, so let's get this out of the way."
She leans forward and plants one hand on the corner of the table, doing her best to loom over me. In fairness, she's doing a good enough job that the average perp would probably lose it and confess just to get her out of their space. Sadly for her, she's up against an Exalt and she doesn't even know it. I just cross my arms and cock an eyebrow at her.
"I'm Nightshade. I can't wait to work with you."
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If you'd like to see just a bit more Nightshade, consider my Patreon!
This chapter we saw Prior Warning and Expected Pain, two danger senses that act as a nonspecific spidey sense and a specific forewarning of danger, respectively.
Being back in Brockton Bay is...difficult, for our favorite of Heaven's Gardeners.
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The excitement of the moment was short-lived. Now, with a stack of paperwork in front of me, I have to wonder if perhaps I'd overstepped in my plan. I'd had my fill of paperwork in my real job, thank you very much, now I have to add this on top of it.
"Are these really necessary?" I ask. I'd been moved into a more appropriate venue, a private conference room with plush chairs, soft lighting, and air conditioning. "This seems so..."
"What, did you think joining the heroes would be easy?" Nightshade snorts at me. She's leaning back in her chair, booted feet kicked up on the table and hands idly worrying at an arrow with twisted fletching. "If you wanted fun, you should have started a fight and gotten dragged in off the street like the rest of us."
I flip through to the fifth page of the hiring paperwork in front of me, making a show of actually reading all the terms and conditions even if I had no intention of ever actually following it, or being caught breaking it. It was rather simple, as far as contracts go. Nothing like the labyrinthine nonsense I had to cut through back in Yu-Shan. There I was at least crowned with the holy authority to ignore bullshit red tape half the time.
"Sounds like you're speaking from experience there," I say without looking up.
She laughs at me. "I'm changing my guess to 'monastery with no internet', by the way."
She's been needling me for the past thirty minutes about where I'd learned to fight, enough to where I'd seriously begun to regret denying having enhanced reflexes of any kind. "Warmer, but no. Who said I stayed in one spot?"
"You're just jerking my chain, aren't you? No one gets abs like that without someone yelling, 'drop and give me twenty'."
I was overthinking it, I knew I was. I had no reason to assume that they had an idea I was anything other than my cover story. Juniper Clarkson's background check will come up clean, with just enough juvenile dysfunction to not be too clean. If they dig deep enough, they would even find a short stint in the hospital just around the time of the supposed attack I'd mentioned to Armsmaster. It takes far more supernatural might than they can summon to pierce a resplendent destiny.
Still, there's something about the blank stare of Nightshade's mask that makes me wonder.
"You're warmer with that one. But you're avoiding the question," I respond easily.
"A girl gets to have her secrets, right?" Her mask doesn't move, obviously, but I can tell she winked at me. I roll my eyes theatrically at her, but I allow her the echo of my own words. "Fine, fine. At least tell me why you're in here making me sign things instead of Armsmaster."
She shrugs and makes a noncommittal grunt. "Because I took a promotion. Turns out being second in command means running a lot of shit work. I get to tell scrubs like you what to do, at least."
"And while you do the scut, boss is away to play?" I sign my fake name with a flourish, even adding a little heart over the I. "Hardly seems fair."
"That workaholic? He's either meeting with the Director or fixing his shit again." She's testing the sharpness of the arrow now, pricking the tip of the broad head with one gloved finger. "Read it again, the tax information hasn't changed."
"I just signed it, thank you." I toss the clipboard back at her. "I just couldn't believe the salary number."
"It's a damn sight better than what I made as a Ward, and all I have to do is regularly get shot at." She flips through the paperwork, arrow still held in one hand, and hums. "Good enough for me. Welcome to the team, don't expect to go out in the field yet, yadda yadda."
"Don't you need to clear it with your boss? This all seems very fast." The lack of fanfare was more than welcome, but this was far more clinical than I would expect. Of course, my experiences are colored by the frankly ostentatious Bureau of Destiny, or, more formally, 'The Most Excellent Designers of Destiny and Sidereal Conjunctions'.
The Protectorate and the Parahuman Response Team are downright tame compared to that.
"Yeah, well, welcome to Brockton Bay, where we're always hurting for help. And this is just step one. You're gonna need to be sworn in, there's about twenty different people who need to talk to you, you need to do PR shit." The arrow disappeared, slipping into the quiver, hidden from view. "But, legally speaking, you're on the team now. Which means-"
A knock at the door interrupts her, and I get the sense that she rolls her eyes under her mask. "Which means you get to talk to the other boss. Come in!"
The man who enters is tall, almost as tall as Siaka is, but beanpole thin. He's dark skinned, with close-cropped hair going silver at the temples. His face is just a touch worn, wrinkles starting to show at the corner of his eyes and mouth. Despite that, he stands ramrod straight with his hands held loose behind his back. A former soldier, then.
"Nightshade, I can take this from here. You have more important work to attend to." He sounds every bit the soldier he looks.
Nightshade just stands and gives me a cocky two-fingered salute. "Don't chicken out, got it?" Then she's gone, fading into mist and disappearing through the wall.
"June, is it?" He says, and his voice is firm and even. "I'm Director Calvert. When I was informed someone had called in that they had powers... Forgive me for being surprised. Parahumans are not exactly known for their possession of level heads."
I stand as he comes to stand beside me, hand outstretched for me to shake. His grip is firm, but not overwhelmingly so. "Having a danger sense in the back of your head will do that for you."
He gestures, and I sit back down as he claims a seat, keeping a far more professional posture than my previous companion. "I suppose I should extend my thanks then. The peace has been precarious in recent months, and new triggers often upset the status quo in a way that gets people hurt."
Magic jolts in the back of my head, and I have to keep my face carefully still. For a brief instant, the threads of fate had screamed danger at me, and then gone silent. A moment later, they did it again, and I gripped my leg under the table. I needed my weapon, but I wasn't sure what the threat was.
Calvert just kept an easy stare on me, waiting for a response.
"Wasn't ready to go get my head caved in without a health plan, you know?" I'm flippant, dismissive even, but my gut is twisting into knots. A complication this early is a bad sign. So I twist my essence again, as carefully as possible, expending just the barest amount necessary to achieve what I need. Metaphorical fingers reach out and take hold of the Loom of Fate itself.
I tug on its strings and ask, 'Who is the greatest danger to me right now?'
"Eminently sensible. Never let it be said practicality is a poor trait for a hero." Calvert's hands are folded neatly in front of him, but my danger sense is screaming.
'Director Calvert/Coil.' Fate answers just as my danger sense elaborates, insisting someone is pointing a gun at me and is going to-
The sense is gone again, and despite my raised hackles, I smile at the man in front of me. "I try my best. Still didn't think the hiring process would be so easy."
Calvert taps the desk, taking a moment to answer, and I have to wonder if he's picked up on my sudden discomfort. It's only the mission keeping me planted in my seat, though I have a metaphorical finger still left on fate, ready to make it decide I was and had always been somewhere else should anything go wrong.
"Nightshade isn't wrong, we do need the help. I trust she informed you of the background check process?"
"Of course."
"Good. Certain things can be looked over, of course. Good Thinker help is hard to come by, and your power requiring a more active, involved presence should save you from being poached by the Think Tank," he says, and it's like he's eased up. Or stopped clenching a muscle I couldn't see. He even fixed me with a lazy half smile, and it had me confused.
"Does that happen a lot?" Any information is good information, at this point.
"It happens to most divisions. Pure Thinkers are best to keep out of the spotlight, after all. Still, it does complicate the process of actually acquiring Thinker support. Why, the amount of paper work alone is-" He coughs into his hand. "Apologies. If I get off track, I could complain about the running of this office all day. I'd like to officially welcome you to the team, Miss Clarkson."
"What about that background check?" I ask, injecting just the right amount of my current whirling concern into my voice.
"Oh, I highly doubt that will be an issue. I expect to see you bright and early tomorrow morning. Best to get you through PR and Image as fast as possible. Now, if you'll excuse me," he stands with a long-suffering sigh, the kind I was used to hearing from older members of my Division when they weren't around their superiors, "I need to go make sure nothing has caught on fire in my absence. Enjoy the rest of your day."
I stand and follow him out of the conference room, but we split off from each other without another word. I drop my sunglasses back over my eyes from where I'd left them perched on top of my head, and despite the gnawing sense of dread in my gut I make it out of the lobby and back out into the city, evening light already glinting off of the steel towers surrounding me. There's a crush of people, rushing home from work. I ignore them.
I wait. I close my eyes. I breathe. The gnawing subsides.
An invisible presence settles on my shoulder, the gentle prick of arthropod legs a deep and instant comfort. Anatoly and I set off, winding our way through the city. We aren't heading back to our apartment.
We're going to a graveyard.
First Lutheran is a little church in the docks district, and it's closed by the time we get there, evening becoming night in almost an eye blink. Technically, so is the large graveyard that it oversees, but hopping a wrought iron fence is almost comically easy for me. Counter-intuitively, being surrounded by so much death is easing to me. Once, this graveyard had been frightening to me. Now it is… welcoming. Whatever priest or pastor-I wonder if it's still Mr. Gustaf?-takes care of this place hasn't been slacking on his funerary duties, and the gentle feel of properly tended souls washes over me.
"Can we hang out somewhere nicer sometime?" Anatoly asks as she weaves herself back into reality. "Respect to the dead and all that, but..."
The sight of her plucking threads from nothingness to build her body anew was once astonishing to me, but now it's about as simple as when I put my clothes on in the morning. Mundane.
"Didn't want to go back to the apartment. Not to discuss this. What did you find?"
She perches atop a stone crucifix across from me once she's finished becoming material again. I've spread a length of parchment out across a headstone, pen scratching out my first report as quickly as I can manage. I hadn't appreciated how integral a brush was to writing Old Realm before I attempted to do it with a ballpoint pen. Doing it by the light of a flashlight is comparatively much easier than some of the poorly lit halls of the Violet Bier. Maybe I can introduce the technology? There has to be some smith-god who can replicate batteries...
"Not much. Peeked through a few files, read a few fates. Pretty mundane people in there. Followed that Armsmaster guy, though, now that was interesting."
"How so?" I could always deliver my report in High Realm. I considered it, just for the ease and speed of writing in that language. But, no, this is my first long term assignment. Everything needs to look perfect. Be perfect.
"I got a pretty good view of him taking apart and doing maintenance on his halberd," she gestures with her forelimbs as she talks, mimicking the actions Armsmaster must have taken. "He was on the radio with someone, but that sounded like just normal law enforcement stuff. Statistics talk."
I scratch out a few more symbols. "What was so interesting about his halberd? It looked high-tech from where I stood, but-"
"That thing would have Five-Metal Tang drooling, Taylor. I don't know how he packed it full of all the stuff he did, but it's like twelve weapons in one! It's no Loom's Grace, of course, but. That thing is crazy."
I can't help but cock an eyebrow at her. Five-Metal Tang is the god of all weapons, small and large. A living daiklaive who achieved apotheosis, Tang was one of the gods I had least cause to interact with; he was a member of the Bureau of Humanity, the head of the Division of Weapons to be specific. But I knew him by reputation, and if a weapon was enough to impress him, then I would need to keep a careful eye on the man who'd built it.
"I can add that to my report. You'd estimate his work is on par with magical weapons?" It was one piece to the puzzle, and certainly an interesting one. "But without access to any of the magical materials..."
"Makes you wonder what he could do with a hunk of orichalcum, huh?" Anatoly shifts and fixes me with an even stare, one I studiously avoid as I add the finishing touches to my report. "You aren't telling me something."
She knows me too well. I'd hoped to hide my concerns from her for a bit longer, but I'd never been as successful at lying to Anatoly as I was with almost anyone else. May as well rip off the bandage. "While I was finalizing things with Director Calvert, Fate went haywire. It named him and someone named Coil as the most dangerous person in that room, but there was only us. Not to mention the way my danger sense kept going haywire then stopping. It was... odd."
She clacks her jaws, needle-fangs glistening in the moonlight. "Maybe your essence is still adjusting to the surroundings?"
"That can't be it. All of our magic works perfectly fine," I fold the letter closed with a sigh. "It should have returned 'No One' if he wasn't a danger, not... that."
Anatoly shuffles in place slightly, thinking hard. "Maybe it was a parahuman power? We aren't sure how they operate, exactly, but if they use essence in a way that the Loom hasn't previously accounted for, maybe it makes your future-senses act up?"
"We'd need to prove that parahuman powers both rely on essence and affect the Loom like that," I say quietly. Anatoly clicks again. The implication is obvious to both of us; humans, mortals, only have access to one thing with supernatural power like that.
Exaltation. If parahumans are at all similar to Exalts, I need some heavy proof before I commit to bringing that to committee.
"You know, there's someone you can ask, right?" Anatoly folds her forelegs, mirroring the defensive stance I'd taken. "I'm sure if you apologize hard enough, she'll give you a hand."
"I don't want to bother Amritte. I'm sure she's busy," I say as I fish a lighter out of my pocket. Last time I'd been to her manse, just a few weeks ago, I'd seen evidence of several projects lying around. When I'd had a chance, between our other activities.
"You don't want to bother her because you ran off without talking to her again, you mean."
"No," I lie, even though I know she's hit the mark. I'd slipped out of Amritte's bedroom in the dead of night, and I hadn't bothered to reach out to her before leaving on this assignment. I'd meant to leave a note, but no words had felt... good enough. Big enough.
"Worst she can do is tell you to fuck off, Taylor." There's a frustration in the motions of her forelimbs, like she's resisting the urge to reach out and strangle me. Or envenom me.
"She's a sorcerer. There's a lot worse on the table than just harsh words." I didn't relish to find out what spells she'd added to her repertoire in our time apart, especially if I was on the receiving end of them.
"And how much worse will it be if you go back to Yu-Shan without ever saying anything? You're already sending one letter, just write to her!"
"Fuck, fine." I slap another sheaf of parchment across the grave before me, just to shut up my friend. This letter comes together faster, the slashing characters of High Realm much easier on a ball point pen than the looping hieroglyphs of Old. It folds into a square, same as my official report. Then, spidery god watching, I take hold of my essence once again and bend fate, just a touch.
The lighter clicks and flame takes the first letter. The fire sparks and spits, violet energy lashing through it and rendering the square little more than ash and embers to be wicked away to Creation. I remold the shape of the magic and burn the next letter, the one addressed to Amritte, and when it too is on its way I let myself breathe just a touch.
"...I'm sorry for pushing you so hard. I know things are complicated between you two." Anatoly apologizes after a quiet moment spent watching the drifting remnants of the paper.
"It's fine," I admit. "I need the help. Amritte can keep a secret."
Anatoly hums a noncommittal agreement before gesturing at my forehead. "Your caste mark is showing."
I touch a finger to the burning symbol of Saturn—a cruciform shape with a looping tail on the bottom right—on my brow and breathe out. "It's fine. I intended to spend a little more time here, anyway."
"I figured. Seemed like you knew the place," Anatoly says.
"Last time I was here was right before Siaka came to tell me what happened to me, back in…" I have to screw up my face and really think. I'd gotten so used to realm years that remembering the Gregorian set up was a little hard. "December 2010?"
And it's currently 2016, in August. Which means…
I have to smack my head. "Which means I did my math wrong. I'm twenty-one."
"Oh, damn," Anatoly shifts in place for a moment, awkwardly looking for her words. "Happy late birthday?"
"Thanks. I guess that makes this visit more important."
"Who are we here to see?"
I take two steps back from the stone I'd composed two letters on and gesture at the well-worn face of it. "My mother."
Annette Rose Hebert. Gone, but never forgotten.
It's clean, cared for, but there are no flowers. No offerings. Either Dad hasn't been visiting, or he hasn't remembered to leave flowers when he has visited. I shake my head and ignore the bubbling anger in my gut. Instead, I pull out my little wooden incense kit and light a stick for her. It's been years, now. If she was going to leave a hungry ghost, she would have already. But she deserved even such a small offering.
"Hey mom. It's been a while, I know. I'm sorry. I've been out of town, working." I sit down, heavily, and wrap my arms around my knees in front of me. Anatoly skitters over to alight on my shoulder again and press her warm body against my head. "I wanted to at least introduce you to my friend. Meet Truth-Manifold Anatoly."
"Hi, Annette. You've got one Hell of a daughter, you know?"
It was three hours before we stopped talking to her. Anatoly didn't leave my shoulder once.
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Wanna see what those letters said? Check out my Patreon to read Letters 1 early!
Taylor uses Prior Warning and Expected Pain again in her conversation with Calvert, and she makes mention of Avoidance, which lets her roll a special dodge roll to make it so she never actually was where she just was. In the graveyard she uses Superior Entreating Memorial Style, which allows her to burn a letter to magically send it to any Sidereal, any god in the employ of the Bureau of Destiny, or any character with authority over her in some way.
I wanted to do some epistolary stuff, so I decided to just damn the hatches and do it here. That letter sending charm is a good excuse!
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The below letters are translated from Old Realm and High Realm, as faithfully as possible.
The Special Convention on Earth
28 August 2016/25 Descending Air RY 762
Lady Taylor Hebert, Reckoner, Spider-Friend
Integration is moving ahead smoothly. The local PRT and Protectorate have proven very easy to infiltrate; there is little indication that they have access to any powers that could pierce a resplendent destiny or the Arcane Fate. I intend to act as a hero in good standing in order to gain access to existing research on the parahumanity phenomenon. As it stands, I have no evidence that they have access to anything like essence or exaltation. I struggle, however, to imagine a way they could generate these effects without essence or an analogue. Evidence needs to be gathered, but given the presence of the Loom of Fate, evidenced by mine and Anatoly's continued access to our abilities, I have to wonder.
Below are my thoughts on the first parahumans I've encountered in person.
Armsmaster: Local culture classifies him as a Tinker, a kind of parahuman that has the power to craft amazing things that defy logical explanation. While using mundane materials, the created items are of exceptional quality, and Anatoly suggests they could rival some of the less powerful magical artifacts of Creation for craftsmanship. It is currently unclear what heights could be reached with such a power, as the local polities have no access to any of the magical materials.
Recommendations: If necessary, a Tinker could be easily handled while away from their crafted weapons. One would assume that it's exactly as poor an idea to assault one in their den as it would be to assault a sorcerer in her workshop. Armsmaster himself is known as a talented mortal martial artist, and it is impossible to know how small of an item he could have concealed on his person. Caution is warranted.
Nightshade: A Breaker class parahuman with the ability to turn into a mist-like substance that allows her to pass through solid surfaces. This extends to weapons in her possession; she was able to fire an arrow through a one way mirror without shattering the glass. The extent and weaknesses of this power are hard to ascertain without more exposure, but I would expect it to render her a gruesomely capable assassin.
Recommendations: Despite her talent, she's still functionally a mortal with a trick. Hit her first, hard, and fast, and she should go down as quickly as any other human.
I expect my integration to continue smoothly. As of now, I do not anticipate requiring official reinforcements.
The prompt report is appreciated, Lady Hebert, as is your ability to operate alone in dangerous territory. I find it most regrettable that you could not be afforded a more equipped Convention to handle your operation, but needs must, I fear. The situation in Creation taxes our already limited resources, and it is only the relative quiet of the Wyld that allows me to act as your heavenly liaison at this time. In addition, I've taken the liberty of forwarding your recommendations about combatting parahumans, should it be necessary, to the relevant Sidereals in the Division of Battles.
Now, as to the matter of the Loom as it pertains to Earth, I must recommend that you acquire a sorcerer who can join you, should you ever need to investigate the matter deeper. Truth-Manifold Anatoly, though a pattern-spider, may prove insufficient to analyze a Loom under the stresses of unregulated essence usage without backup, as they say.
Continue as you have in this short span, Lady Hebert, and you may find yourself rewarded most justly.
Respectfully,
Drowning Opal, Chair of the Convention on the Wyld
DearestDearAmritte,
This isn't a casual letter. I didn't even want to write you, I thought it wouldn't be appropriate. But I was pushed.
I'm on an assignment, and things are strange. I'm encountering powers that I don't understand, and I need your help to figure them out. I don't want to tell anyone, this is my first big solo assignment and I would rather not fuck it up. As a favor, to me, I would appreciate it if you could come and help me answer a few questions. Solve a problem, even.
Your pup
Love
Taylor
Taylor,
You were right. It's not appropriate. I am, however, glad to discover you are not as dead as I had believed. What is a woman to think, when she wakes alone to find her lady caller missing, not to be heard from for nearly two whole weeks? It seems to me that you have well enough in hand, and indeed, prefer the solitude.
Say hello to Anatoly for me. Also, don't write me again.
Amritte
///USERNAME: Dir.Calv
///PASSWORD: *****************
///CLEARANCE AUTH: ENE/DIR/TOP ///AUTH ACCEPTED
///ACCESSING PARAHUMAN FILE, CODENAME: KINEMATICS
Temporary Designation: Shaolin - PR Note: CHANGE THIS!!!!
Name: Juniper Clarkson
Clearance Level: Initial Hire
Pending Threat Designation: Thinker 2 (Danger sense, unclear physical limits, possible enhanced reactions), Striker 0 (Similar to GRACE, advanced training combined with parahuman ability)
Tactical Overview: Shaolin presents as a dangerous single combatant; the combination of advanced warning of physical danger, as well as advanced martial arts training/possible power-enhanced reaction times, would make her a threat for even the most well-trained and equipped single soldier. However, absent outside support, she should only be a threat to a single combatant. A squad of soldiers equipped with con-foam sprayers should be capable of overcoming her danger sense and capturing her.
Description: Shaolin is a Caucasian female, aged twenty. She stands at an estimated 6'1", and weighs approximately 175 pounds. The only striking feature of her appearance is her eyes; Shaolin claims that, after her trigger, they changed to their current shade: a bright violet iris with twinkling sparkles in the pupils. Armsmaster was able to determine they were not contacts after examination of high definition cameras mounted to his armor. PR recommends an upper face visor to conceal this, calling it impractical to hide in her civilian life. An official diagnosis of Alexandria's Genesis has been added to her civilian medical file to assist in this.
Relevant Files: NIGHTSHADE 8.28.16, SHAOLIN BG
Notes: Shaolin displays uncommon sense for parahumans. Current theory is that her danger sense extends farther than she expects, her experiences with combat training coloring how she uses and expects her power to operate. Further training is necessary; the mindset of a martial artist is a poor one for Hero work. However, she has developed a clearly positive initial rapport with Nightshade, and such a partnership could prove fruitful in the field. Shaolin displays a minor accent of unknown origin, perhaps related to her training.
///NIGHTSHADE 8.28.16
<Meeting summary redacted for brevity>
Alright, time for the candid part of the report. You want my honest opinion? This bitch is exactly the kind of person we need in the Bay right now. She's cocky, sure, but what fresh-faced greenhorn with a new power isn't? And there's no way her power is as limited as she seems to think. She was moving to catch my arrow right when I launched the thing. Unless those fancy eyes let her see through walls and the best one-ways tinker-tech buys, her power is gathering information without her knowledge or input. Dollars to fucking donuts, that's why she didn't go out on her own. I bet it was screaming in her ear that she'd eat shit in the Bay if she tried that. We need to make sure she doesn't get transferred out, or god forbid get pulled into WEDGDG. Enough time, enough training? I bet we've got our own personal Nostradamus.
///SHAOLIN BG
THINK TANK TAGS: BLUE, DELICIOUS, IV OF THORNS
Shaolin was born in Brockton Bay on December 15, 1996. She first showed an interest in martial arts at age seven, when she attended a local Jeet Kun Do school, now closed. Records of assault and battery against a Jason Grimmwal in 2006 were unearthed, which led to her expulsion from Taft Middle and her subsequent homeschooling. No other criminal records surfaced. The next most recent official record of Shaolin is a lease agreement for a small apartment downtown.
Note from Lieutenant Shannon Falls: This looks way too clean to me. I recommend a deeper, more personal dive. And no, I don't care that the Think Tank returned positive, except for whatever IV OF THORNS means. Don't thinkers interfere with each other?
(+1 339-555-5555): I trust you've had an easy day?
(+1 339-690-7900): No trouble, sir. The neighbors have been out for holiday.
(+1 339-555-5555): Good. And the dog?
(+1 339-690-7900): Sleeping, sir.
(+1 339-555-5555): Wake her up.
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