Maybe? People do sometimes recover from even very serious trauma and mental illness, and sometimes bullies grow up and regret the bullying. This isn't an Emma redemption fic, but I've enjoyed a couple of stories with Emma redemption arcs.
I'm not 100% sure, but I think it's likely that Emma's arc in this story is now done. More Sophia to come, of course.
Interesting how Zoe manages to thread the line here of not handing her daughter to the police (valid, handing people to the police is seldom the answer) but still not just enabling her.
I agree with you, but I think that given Zoe's wealth and race, it's realistic that she wouldn't think of it that way. (She could think of it that way - she was friends with Annette in college, at least in this fic* - but she doesn't. Like a lot of people, even if she had more radical politics in college, she's moved rightward as her age and income have gone up).
For people like Zoe - white, well-off, insulated from police abuse by her position - the idea that a huge portion of cops are E88 members might seem like a conspiracy theory.
A black girl that she knows is an employee of the PRT as a ward, essentially a cop herself. (Unless Alan being part of Sophia's 'redemption' as a ward is fanon?)
I have no idea what's canon for that! (And even in fanon, I think I've seen stories in which Alan knows but Zoe does not.) For this story, Zoe either knows that Sophia is Shadow Stalker, or has at least noticed that Sophia has an uncanny ability to be able to visit Emma without having to come in the front door.
In this story, Zoe's top priority is helping her daughter. Helping Taylor is a secondary priority for her, and she'll do that only insofar as it doesn't conflict with helping Emma. Doing right by Sophia is very far down on Zoe's priority list, so I don't think she thought twice about threatening Sophia with the cops to (as Zoe sees it) protect Emma and Taylor from Sophia's influence.
Most Americans, even lefties who are critical of the cops, will call the cops when push comes to shove. I'm not even sure I blame them (us) - I blame the system that doesn't give us better-trained and less trigger-happy police we can call upon.
Maybe? People do sometimes recover from even very serious trauma and mental illness, and sometimes bullies grow up and regret the bullying. This isn't an Emma redemption fic, but I've enjoyed a couple of stories with Emma redemption arcs.
I'm not 100% sure, but I think it's likely that Emma's arc in this story is now done. More Sophia to come, of course.
Just to be clear;
I said that because I like imagining characters as if they are people after they leave the stage, in the same way that Zoe also got crisscrossed for threatening Sophia with the police.
And not because I would like to see more of Emma or something want something specific in this story.
The chapter a bit like a Happily Ever After for me if Emma won't make another appearance, because it's sort of ending on a high note with Zoe taking up the reigns and trying her best to rescue her daughter. Even if I think that it wouldn't realistically be enough to rescue Emma in a place like Earth Bet.
Maybe? People do sometimes recover from even very serious trauma and mental illness, and sometimes bullies grow up and regret the bullying. This isn't an Emma redemption fic, but I've enjoyed a couple of stories with Emma redemption arcs.
I'm not 100% sure, but I think it's likely that Emma's arc in this story is now done. More Sophia to come, of course.
Well, I did describe this story as semi-crackfic somewhere.
Thanks!
I agree with you, but I think that given Zoe's wealth and race, it's realistic that she wouldn't think of it that way. (She could think of it that way - she was friends with Annette in college, at least in this fic* - but she doesn't. Like a lot of people, even if she had more radical politics in college, she's moved rightward as her age and income have gone up).
For people like Zoe - white, well-off, insulated from police abuse by her position - the idea that a huge portion of cops are E88 members might seem like a conspiracy theory.
I have no idea what's canon for that! (And even in fanon, I think I've seen stories in which Alan knows but Zoe does not.) For this story, Zoe either knows that Sophia is Shadow Stalker, or has at least noticed that Sophia has an uncanny ability to be able to visit Emma without having to come in the front door.
In this story, Zoe's top priority is helping her daughter. Helping Taylor is a secondary priority for her, and she'll do that only insofar as it doesn't conflict with helping Emma. Doing right by Sophia is very far down on Zoe's priority list, so I don't think she thought twice about threatening Sophia with the cops to (as Zoe sees it) protect Emma and Taylor from Sophia's influence.
Most Americans, even lefties who are critical of the cops, will call the cops when push comes to shove. I'm not even sure I blame them (us) - I blame the system that doesn't give us better-trained and less trigger-happy police we can call upon.
Canonically Alan was an active accomplice to Sophia on at least one occasion and acted as attorney and character witnesses to get Sophia on probation instead of jail once she was caught. Emma was present while Sophia killed one of her victims. It's all in Emma's interlude 19.z if you want the full context.
She hesitated, then spoke in a whisper, "I need your help. Please. Can- can you not ask any questions just yet?"
He hesitated, then nodded.
She handed him the keys, and climbed into the passenger seat.
He started up the car, then drove in the directions she dictated, her eyes on the phone.
They found themselves downtown, in the midst of a collection of bodies.
And in the center, leaning against a wall, Shadow Stalker was hunched over, using her hands to staunch a leg wound.
Emma bent down, opened the tackle box, and began gathering the first aid supplies.
Wordless, her father joined her.
...
"Do you hereby attest that all statements disclosed in this document are the truth, to the best of your knowledge?"
"I do," Emma's father spoke.
Emma reached out and took his hand, squeezing it. He glanced at her, and she mouthed the words, "Thank you."
There was a shuffling of papers at the other end of the long table. "We, the committee, have reviewed the documents, and agree that case one-six-three-one, Shadow Stalker, has met the necessary requirements. With stipulations to be named at a future date, specific to her powers and the charges previously laid against her, she is now a probationary member of the Wards, until such a time as she turns eighteen or violates the terms of this probationary status. Congratulations, Shadow Stalker."
"Thank you," Shadow Stalker's tone was subdued, her eyes directing a glare at the center of the table rather than anyone present.
Emma watched as the capes and official bigwigs around her got out of their chairs, fell into groups.
Dauntless approached her dad. She only caught two murmured words of Dauntless' question. "-divorce attorney?"
...
Emma couldn't stop the memory from hitting her.
The man struggled, and as much as Shadow Stalker was able to make herself immaterial, to loosen any grip or free herself from any bonds, she didn't have the ability to tighten that same grip. He tipped backwards, off the edge of the roof, and a gesture meant to intimidate became manslaughter.
Shadow Stalker stared off the edge of the roof at the body, then turned to look at Emma.
"Is- is he?" Emma asked.
"Probably best if you don't come on patrol with me again."
Canonically Alan was an active accomplice to Sophia on at least one occasion and acted as attorney and character witnesses to get Sophia on probation instead of jail once she was caught. Emma was present while Sophia killed one of her victims. It's all in Emma's interlude 19.z if you want the full context.
I had totally forgotten that - thanks for the reminder. There's so much canon to know! (I've read Worm twice, but my memory is not good. I've bounced off Ward a couple of times.)
I had totally forgotten that - thanks for the reminder. There's so much canon to know! (I've read Worm twice, but my memory is not good. I've bounced off Ward a couple of times.)
(Many thanks to Badoatmeal for excellent beta-reading.)
Friday, February 25, 2011 (one day later)
Sophia's need to talk to Emma only increased now that it was forbidden.
Direct solutions were usually best. At two in the morning, Sophia geared up as Shadow Stalker and went to visit Emma. This was a pretty long trek - Sophia and Emma lived in very different parts of the city, and buses to residential areas didn't run that late.
Sophia ran a few steps for momentum and then jumped forward, shifting to her shadow state as her foot left the ground. In that form, her momentum took her a third of a city block, and with friction only barely slowing her down she moved fast. She went solid for less than a second - just long enough to tap a boot against the ground to keep momentum going - and flew as a dark mist for another third of a block, repeat repeat repeat. Sophia was one of the faster runners on the track team, but Shadow Stalker was much faster. Shame she couldn't run her meets like this, she'd break all sorts of records.
Walking would have been less effort, but Sophia had never been afraid of exercise. Besides, being a fast-moving shadow - no breathing, no heartbeat, no noise, no stupid crap, just the indescribable sensation of air passing through her - was the best feeling Sophia knew.
Well, that, and the feel of a Nazi's nose crunching under her armored glove. Call it a tie.
Sophia wasn't worried about being seen. In her dark costume she was hard to see at night, and even more so when she shifted into dark mist. And it wasn't against any rule for Shadow Stalker to run through the city, anyway.
Once she reached Emma's neighborhood, Sophia moved more cautiously, slipping through dark backyards to avoid the streetlamps. Once in sight of Emma's house, she stopped and waited a full minute, listening and watching for any movement, anyone who might spot her.
Satisfied she was alone, she went into the Barnes' back yard and made for Emma's second story window. The window was lit up, which was a little surprising at this hour but also good - she wouldn't have to wake Emma. Sophia jumped and turned to shadow, easily reaching the second floor and passing through the window before turning solid and landing lightly on Emma's bedroom floor.
But there was no Emma. The room was oddly tidy - no books left out, no soda cans - and the bed was made.
Then Sophia spotted the handwritten note lying in the middle of Emma's bed, with her own name at the top. With trepidation, she picked up the note.
Sophia--
Emma will be attending a boarding school from now on. DON'T try to get in contact with her again.
You should know, you're on camera. If we find out that you've contacted Emma, the PRT will be told you broke into our house.
--Zoe Barnes
Sophia looked up from the note and searched the room with her eyes. She spotted it - near the ceiling, in the corner, a small black camera was mounted, pointed right at her.
Fuuuuck.
Sophia walked across the room to peer closely at the tiny camera. It was a little gray box with a black lens, about the size of a Rubik's Cube. There weren't any wires trailing out of it, so it was probably transmitting. Assuming it wasn't tinker-tech, the receiver had to be somewhere close by. (Or that's what Sophia thought, anyway. It's not like she was a techhead).
So where would Zoe Barnes have put the receiver? If it were Sophia, she'd put it somewhere Sophia couldn't reach it without alerting someone. Probably Zoe and Alan's bedroom, maybe even under a pillow.
She could go find the receiver and destroy the footage, maybe forcing Zoe and Alen to tell her where it was. Sophia took a step toward the door, then stopped.
Beating up influential civilians who know my identity won't end well for me.
Good job, stopping myself in time. Keeping a cool head is how I win.
Sophia gave the camera the finger, pulled it off the wall - a little drywall came off with it - dropped it to the ground, and gave it a couple of stomps. She ripped up Zoe's note into small pieces. She pulled her knife and stabbed Emma's pillows and bed a few times, punching holes into the blankets. She grabbed the side of Emma's bookcase (which had some books but also framed photos, stuffed animals, and other memorabilia) and pulled near the top until the tall piece of furniture toppled down with a stunningly loud crash and the tinkling of broken glass.
Sophia could hear movement and muffled voices from the direction of Zoe and Alan's room. Time to go. She jumped and passed through Emma's window, turning solid the moment she was on the other side and balancing with her heels on the windowsill. This wasn't a position Sophia could balance in for more than a second, but she needed less time than that to kick back a heel and shatter the glass in Emma's window. (So that it would look like someone broke in from the outside, which the PRT would know Sophia had no need to do if it ever came down to a PRT investigation.)
She pushed out and turned shadow, gliding over the Barnes' yard and landing in a neighbor's dark backyard.
As she booked it out of Emma's neighborhood, she mentally congratulated herself for keeping her cool again by knowing when to leave. If she'd stayed, Zoe and Alan would have seen her and things might have turned ugly.
How the fuck could she find Emma? Sophia couldn't think of anything, not unless Madison knew where Emma had been taken.
Was Madison now her best friend at Winslow? Sophia didn't even like Madison.
Sophia's social life was completely fucked.
She couldn't believe she'd planned to be nice enough to stop short of sending Hebert to the hospital. After what Hebert had done to Sophia? Spindly limbs would be broken.
But how could she do it without getting in trouble? Without Alan Barnes in her corner, breaking the rules was chancier. And if she snapped Hebert's legs and word got back to Piggy… Sophia didn't even know what Piggy would do.
Maybe just a slap on the wrist? It's not like Piggy would give a crap about Taylor Hebert.
Maybe revoking her parole and sending her to juvie? Piggy might not care about Hebert, but she hated Sophia, and might relish the excuse.
Sophia waited a little down the hall from Hebert's locker. Not wanting to look like she was waiting, Sophia pulled out her phone and checked her emails and texts. Then, like a tongue to a broken tooth, she reread her most recent texts from Emma's phone.
SCARLETBITCH: Sophia, this is Zoe Barnes. Emma is not allowed to have any more contact with you. If you contact Emma again I will call the police. If I hear about you bullying Taylor again, I will call the police. Mr. Barnes won't help you. Do not contact us.
I'm blocking your number on this phone.
NOMERCY: Hey don't lets talk about this
NOMERCY: Hello?
SCARLETBITCH: Sophia, this is Zoe Barnes again. We haven't shown anyone the video of you using a parahuman power to break into and destroy Emma's room - but if you show up here again, or if we hear of you contacting Emma in any way at all, we WILL send it to both the PRT and the police, and do all we can to see you put behind bars. No more warnings.
The entire situation fucking sucked. But at least Sophia knew exactly who to blame for it.
Hebert finally showed, glancing at Sophia as she walked past. The stupid queef stashed some books in her locker, moved some other stuff from her locker to her backpack, and left. Sophia waited thirty seconds before following from a distance, keeping Hebert in sight without looking directly at her. Yeah, that's right, go outside. It's finally time. I'm going to fuck you up so bad you'll be breathing out your stupid twig neck.
Sophia had wanted to take revenge on Hebert since the day Emma had been taken away from her, but she wanted to really bring the hurt this time. Not just some harmless schoolyard punching and pranks.
And that meant absolutely no one could know that Sophia had done it.
Which meant waiting. Because if some masked girl put Hebert in the hospital the same week Hebert took Sophia's best friend from her, even Brockton Bay cops, who in Sophia's opinion were deeply stupid, might have put two and two together.
Sophia hated waiting.
Maybe the best thing would be waiting ten years. Wait until Hebert was married to a loser, fat and sad and with three kids, and just walk through her door and kick the living shit out of her, and Hebert would have no clue what the hell was going on. Sophia found that thought hilarious.
But waiting that long was out of the question, of course. So how long? A week wasn't long enough for safety. Maybe not even two weeks.
A month, Sophia had decided. If she waited a month, no one would connect it to her.
So here she was, a month later, following Hebert out of Winslow.
Except Hebert didn't go out of Winslow. She turned and went down the stairs to the basement level. Must be some theater club shit going on after school.
Fuck.
The theater was the worst possible place to stalk someone. The theater had two exits - one leading to the school's back parking lot, and, and another leading from the backstage area to inside the school. It was literally impossible for one person to watch both exits, not without some electronic shit Sophia didn't have and wouldn't know how to operate.
And Sophia couldn't just walk into the theater area and watch Hebert from there - she had no good reason to be there, and that creepy old guy who ran the theater department didn't like her.
The only thing Sophia could do is pick an entrance to watch and hope Hebert didn't leave the other way. Which fucking sucked, because fifty percent chance she'd be wasting her time.
Plus, Shadow Stalker was scheduled to do a Wards patrol, so it's not like Sophia could wait around forever.
Screw it. She'd waited over a month, what was one day more? Sophia would fuck Hebert up tomorrow. This time nothing would keep her from her revenge.
Sophia knew she should get up, shower, eat breakfast, figure out what miserable slum Hebert lived in, and go put her in the hospital. That was the plan and she'd been waiting over a month already.
But instead she was just lying in bed, scrolling through PHO on her phone. And she told herself she'd get up right now… And then ten minutes later, she'd tell herself, getting up now… And then two hours had passed and she hadn't even managed to shower yet.
Screw it. Today was obviously blown. Besides, she deserved a day off.
Breaking into Winslow's administrative offices and finding Hebert's address had been easy. A bus ride and a short walk later, Sophia was sitting comfortably in the across-the-street neighbors' locked tool shed, listening to an audio book while she watched Hebert's house.
The recorded voice spoke in her ear. "It did no good to cry, she had learned that early on. She had also learned that every time she tried to make someone aware of something in her life, the situation just got worse. Consequently it was up to her to solve her problems by herself, using whatever methods she deemed necessary."
"Damn straight, Lisbeth," Sophia muttered. Now there was a girl who understood how the world worked.
Nothing happened for the first two hours. Then Hebert got into a car with an old guy who must be her father, a spindly, wimpy looking guy (go figure). They'd returned fifty minutes later with a couple of bags from a grocery store. No chance there to catch Hebert alone, but at least it was confirmation that Sophia was stalking out the right house - it wouldn't have surprised her if Winslow's records had been wrong or out of date.
Hebert would go out on her own, sooner or later. All Sophia had to do was wait.
Sure enough, early in the afternoon Hebert, alone and carrying a long duffel bag strapped over her shoulder, left her house and jogged away.
Sophia waited until Hebert was half a block away before following. Sophia wore black cargo pants and a dark blue hoodie, with a ski mask and wrap-around sunglasses in her pocket. An awful costume that only an amateur would wear. Honestly, the ski mask would make her look more like an ordinary mugger than a cape. But that was part of what made this such a smart plan - the whole point was to not look like Shadow Stalker. No capes here, officer. I'm just an innocent mugger breaking this queef's legs.
Hebert never turned around. She also never slowed her jogging, which Sophia begrudgingly admitted meant Hebert must be in decent shape. She kept hoping Hebert would turn down a dark alleyway, but no such luck. Instead, Hebert kept to the streets until she reached a neighborhood of abandoned warehouses in Empire 88 territory. What the hell?
At this time of day, there was still some traffic - not much, but enough so it didn't feel safe to Sophia to just tackle Hebert on the street. So she kept on following. Eventually Hebert reached a dilapidated looking warehouse with a dozen beat-up cars parked outside and went in the front door without hesitating.
Had Hebert joined the Empire? Was she a drug mule now? That would be awesome - Sophia could put Hebert in the hospital without getting in trouble and turn her over to the cops.
Maybe Hebert was in there with a couple of dealers Sophia could also beat up, which would just about make this the best day ever.
Sophia masked up before finding a window in a shadowy spot and peering into the building. There were at least a dozen people in the warehouse, but they didn't look like gang members. Sophia eventually picked out Hebert, who was walking down a row of cheap crap piled on metal shelves (Dracula-shaped garlic presses, something called a "Poo Trap" for dogs, a coin bank shaped like a butt, all in boxes labeled "as seen on TV"). Hebert found what she was looking for - a chia bust of Legend that could grow moss for hair - brought it over to a table, packed it in a cardboard box, stuck a printed-out-label to it, and dropped it in a bin.
Hebert did that, with different products, over and over.
It didn't look illegal at all.
Well… Sophia supposed it made sense. Warehouses couldn't all be abandoned.
Figuring Hebert would be at work for at least a few hours, Sophia wandered around until she found a diner. She wanted the chicken-fried steak with pancakes, but she didn't want to beat Hebert up with a heavy meal sitting in her stomach, so she just ate some soup and promised herself a real meal once Hebert was in traction.
After lunch, Sophia checked that Hebert hadn't left the building, then climbed to the roof of a neighboring warehouse with a good view of the entrance to Hebert's workplace.
And then she waited… and waited. The longer she waited, the angrier Sophia felt. What the hell was Hebert doing, having a job? Emma had once gloated that Hebert's grades were terrible, so shouldn't she be using this time to study?
All she wanted to do is beat up some skank, and instead she'd been stuck blowing the entire day waiting. Fuck Hebert for making her do this.
Being angry at Hebert made Sophia remember the fight in the Winslow hallway. Hebert had bloodied Sophia's nose a little, but Sophia didn't care about that. What she couldn't get out of her head was Hebert saying "Sophia, if you were ever in a real street fight you'd run away crying in the first ten seconds."
She'd said it so… smugly. Like she was sure she knew everything there was to know about Sophia, and it didn't even fucking occur to her for a second that actually she knew jack shit about Sophia's life. Fuck her!
We'd just see who'd run away crying in the first ten seconds. (Not that Sophia would allow Hebert to get away that easily. First she'd break both of Hebert's legs, then maybe she'd let Hebert crawl away.)
At around five, there was an exodus of employees leaving the building - but no Hebert. Sohia peered in the window again, and saw that Taylor and a couple of other employees were still packing up useless crap. Almost a half-hour later, Hebert finally left, still carrying that long duffel bag, and walked in the opposite direction of her home.
Sophia didn't know or care where Hebert was going. All that mattered was the growing darkness (Brockton Bay got dark early in March), the empty roads at this time on a Sunday, and that Hebert was walking further into a crappy neighborhood. This was it.
Sophia put on her ski mask, sunglasses and gloves, then jumped rooftops to get to a building ahead of Hebert - a warehouse with broken windows and no lights, just waiting for some supervillain to set up a lair. She stepped off the roof and drifted silently to the ground. This put her in a little alley between two warehouses. A few moments later, Hebert appeared, walking by without even glancing into the alley.
Idiot.
The moment Hebert walked past, Sophia grabbed Hebert by the jacket and swung her into the alleyway, aiming the wimp at a filthy-looking dumpster. Sophia intended for Hebert to slam against the dumpster and fall, but instead Hebert took the hit neatly on her palms and forearms and bounced off, spinning and taking a big step back at the same time so she ended up facing Sophia and out of her reach.
There was a streetlight near the mouth of the alley, enough light to see by. Hebert cocked her head and she seemed more curious than anything else. "What's going on? Who are you?"
Sophia was too smart to reply - no sense taking a chance on Hebert recognizing her voice. Instead, she took two steps forward and punched. Hebert leaned back and Sophia's fist missed by a hair's width, so Sophia took a step forward and kicked, trying to get Hebert's knee. But Hebert skipped to the side and pushed Sophia away.
Getting frustrated, Sophia throw punch after kick after punch, but Hebert was really fucking fast, weaving and blocking. How the fuck did she get this good? And all the while, Hebert kept asking questions in an annoyingly polite and unconcerned tone. Is this a mugging? Did I do something to you? Are you with the Empire? (At least Sophia's disguise was effective).
Sophia kicked high and hard, aiming for Hebert's chest, but Hebert slipped aside and Sophia kicked the dumpster instead, hard enough to make a loud clang.
"Whoa, stop! Let's cool it down. If you keep this up, I'll have to retal--"
A PRT trainer had once told Sophia that the best time to hit anyone was while they were yapping, preferably in the middle of a long word - part of their brains would be on whatever they were saying and their reaction time would be a fraction slower. Sophia turned like she was about to throw a roundhouse punch then did a cut kick instead, her fastest kick. Her heel smashed solidly against Hebert's stomach - about time! - and Hebert fell back, landing on the duffel bag she was still carrying.
But instead of staying on the ground, Hebert rolled over her duffel and was back to standing a half-second later, like she'd rehearsed it. What the fuck?
"You know what, my friend? This is fine," said Hebert, pulling the duffel's strap over her head and tossing the bag to the side of the dumpster. "In fact, thank you. Because I've just suddenly realized how much I've been wanting a real fight."
Sophia took a step forward and then, hearing a footstep behind her, spun and put the alley wall at her back. Did Hebert have friends? Backup?
An older guy wearing a long red leather coat was walking casually down the alley, a metal pipe in one hand. He glanced Sophia's way, but kept his eyes on Hebert. Behind him walked four younger guys (younger than him, older than Sophia), one of them really big, all with shaved heads and Nazi tattoos.
"As I live and breathe, if it isn't nose dyke," said the leader. "I gotta be the luckiest guy in the world. Didn't I tell you I'd see you again?"
Hebert tipped her head to one side, looking bewildered. "And you are?"
"You don't fucking remember? New Year's Eve! You stole my bat!"
He had a pet bat?
"Oh, you're that guy!!" said Hebert. "Right, right. How have you been?"
"You think you're funny, nose girl?"
"I try not to fly in the face of public opinion."
No one seemed to be paying Sophia any attention, which gave her time to try to figure out her priorities here. These were Nazis, therefore scum, but they also seemed likely to beat the crap out of Hebert, which was kind of Sophia's main goal for the night. She could finish Hebert by just letting events transpire.
"Markus? You want first dibs here?," the older Nazi said.
"Hell yeah!" One of the Nazis, a guy with a long beard, began swaggering towards Hebert like he was head stud of Stud City.
"Nice meeting you, Markus," Hebert said pleasantly, like this was a tea party instead of a fight. Markus swung his fist at her. Embarrassingly telegraphed, thought Sophia.
Hebert dodged easily, leaning back just enough so the fist swished past her face without making contact. (Now that it wasn't Sophia's fist missing the target, Sophia thought it looked pretty cool.)
Hebert didn't even bother feinting against the slowpoke Nazi. She sidekicked him in the stomach, then before he'd finished his gasp she drove the same heel straight into his nose.
Hebert's two-kick combo had taken maybe a second, and that guy was down, moaning and gasping on the dirty alley floor.
I could have done that.
"Pleasure talking to you, Markus, you Nazi dick moron," said Hebert pleasantly, then looked at the other Nazis and said "Next?"
The four remaining Nazis hesitated, shifting from foot to foot. Then the old one turned towards Sophia. "Hey, you, ahh… mugger lady? Seems like you got a grudge against the nose dyke here. You want in on this?"
Screw it. I don't just want Hebert beat up. I want to be the one delivering the beating.
Sophia pushed herself away from the wall and walked up to him. He shuffled on his feet and raised his pipe a little to defend himself just in case Sophia attacked.
Moron, thought Sophia. She'd stopped with the old Nazi in front of her and the biggest Nazi to her side, which put her in a perfect position to ignore the old guy and kick the big one's knee as hard as she could. She hadn't worn her Shadow Stalker costume, but she had worn her PRT-issue costume boots, with soles of some fancy rubber-like material over steel, practically designed to break bones.
There was a satisfying crack, and the big Nazi fell to the ground, howling. Sophia didn't know if she'd fully broken his knee, but she was damned sure he wouldn't be walking again today.
The other three guys came at her all at once, which would normally be no problem, but with Hebert watching she didn't want to use her power unless she absolutely had to. She punched the nearest one in the throat, and he fell back, gasping. But another one had come from behind and bear-hugged her, and the old guy was walking up to her, raising his metal pipe. She tried head-butting the guy behind her, but he was too tall and she just hit his chest. Fuck.
Then the old guy came at her. She jumped and thrust both feet forward, letting the guy holding her support her weight, and managed to kick the old guy in the chest. He stumbled back a few steps, dropping his pipe to the ground with a clatter.
The old guy looked at Sophia, and said "You know what? Fuck this." He reached into his red jacket and slowly pulled out a gun.
Dammit. Sophia would just have to turn into shadow and deal with whatever the fallout was.
But before she did, a hand grabbed the old guy's wrist and pushed it and the gun to the side. They had both forgotten about Hebert. The guy tried to yank his hand free, but Hebert's grip was too strong. Then he tried to punch her, but she moved out of the way and sidestepped under the arm she was still holding, twisting the arm and forcing the guy to bend over. Using both hands, she twisted his gun arm more.
"God! FUCK!" the Nazi yelled, forced to his knees, agony written all over his face.
"Drop the gun, or I'll dislocate your shoulder, and then you'll drop it," said Hebert conversationally. After a moment, he let the gun fall from his hand, either because he was convinced or just because he couldn't hold on any longer. Hebert caught the gun before it hit the ground, planted a foot on the guy's ass so he fell forward, and side-tossed the gun like she was skipping a stone. It bounced twice and slid under the heavy dumpster.
Hebert's back was to Sophia, so she turned to shadow, just long enough to slip out of the arms holding her. She back kicked without looking and felt her heel hit something soft with a satisfying thunk.
Sophia turned around and considered the Nazi, who was doubled over with his hands on his balls and his head at such a convenient height it was basically an invitation.
She spread her arms, glanced to make sure Hebert was watching, then clapped the skinhead hard on both ears at once. He screamed and fell to the ground, hands clutching the sides of his head. Have some burst eardrums to remember me by, asshole.
Someone tackled her from the side, and Sophia had to skip sideways to keep from being driven to the ground. She managed to twist free and look at her attacker. It was the Nazi she'd hit in the throat, apparently not hard enough. She shot her arms forward and grabbed his jacket, making to headbutt him. He lifted his hands to protect his head, so she kneed him in the balls as hard as he could. Just a good day for kicking Nazis in the balls.
He gasped and might have fallen right then, but Sophia was still holding him by the jacket. She kneed him again, this time in the stomach, and as he dropped she kneed him a final time in the forehead.
Fuck, my knee! Sophia missed the metal kneepads on her Shadow Stalker costume. Stupid amateur hour costume.
Sophia looked around. All of the Nazis were down except the old guy, and he was only still up because Hebert wasn't letting him fall. She had him backed against the alley wall and was working him over like a punching bag - left, right, knee, uppercut, elbow, roundhouse. She took a step back and he fell to the ground.
"Sir, the lesson I'd like you to take from this," said Hebert, panting a little but still sounding polite, "is that you shouldn't escalate to guns, because all that does is convince me to hit Nazis that much harder."
Hebert bent over and yanked his jacket down his arms, pulling it off him. "I wanted to keep your baseball bat as a trophy, but the cops took it. So logic dictates that you owe me a trophy, right?" He moaned. "I'm glad we agree."
He made no response. Sophia wasn't sure he was still conscious. Hebert shook out the red leather coat and then pulled it on before walking towards Sophia, stopping a few yards away. "So what now? Do we keep fighting?"
Do we?, thought Sophia, and she honestly wasn't sure. Hebert was clearly kind of a badass, which was so bizarre, and Sophia wasn't positive she could win. She shrugged.
The big Nazi was struggling to stand despite his hurt knee, so Sophia kicked him hard in his ear. He fell on his bad leg and cried out. "Stay down or I'll put you down, asshole," Sophia advised him.
"Huh. Not to make a big deal of it, stranger. But I just saved you from being shot, so it would almost be a contradiction if I beat you up too."
Hebert's voice was so… smug.
Yeah, we beat up some Nazis together - Nazis that wouldn't even have bothered me if I hadn't been with Hebert, so that was basically her fault.
And Nazis or not, she took Emma away from me.
She's just Hebert! I can take her!
Noticing the old Nazi's pipe lying on the ground nearby, Sophia swept it up and leapt towards Hebert, swinging the pipe.
Hebert danced aside, and when she spoke the mocking tone was unmistakable. "Oh, come on. I thought we were having a BFF moment! Isn't beating up Nazis together a bonding experience?"
Sophia swung the pipe while practically sprinting forward, anticipating Hebert dodging back. The tall girl blocked the pipe with her forearm, grunting a bit. Sophia lifted the pipe like she was going to swing it down on Hebert's skull, then tried to kick in Hebert's kneecap instead. Hebert jumped back to avoid that, as Sophia had expected, and she swung the pipe down in earnest, as hard as she could.
Rather than dodging or blocking with her arm, Hebert turned her face up and the pipe hit her on her enormous nose and bounced off so hard Sophia almost lost her grip on the pipe. Fuck, she thought, even as she drove her knee into Hebert's stomach. Hebert had used her hands to try and catch Sophia's knee, but it was still a pretty solid hit.
How had Hebert known to block Sophia's knee? She'd been looking straight up. Combat thinker?
Sophia pressed her advantage, slamming the pipe into Hebert's hip, then switched up and swinging at the head. Hebert managed to get her shoulder in the metal pipe's way, but that had to hurt. Sophia swung again and again, almost at random, trying not to be predictable. Not thinking, just doing.
Hebert dodged or blocked three out of every four swings, but that was fine by Sophia - being hit by a pipe one in four times would bring anyone short of Hookwolf down, sooner rather than later. Hebert was really good, a hundred times better than Sophia had imagined, but Sophia had years of experience on her.
Get ready to go to the hospital, loser bitch.
Sophia swung for Hebert's head. Hebert ducked under the pipe and lunged forward, so Sophia took a step backward - but she hadn't noticed the Nazi unconscious on the ground right behind her. Sophia tripped backwards over the Nazi fuck and fell on her ass. Dammit.
She sprung to her feet, holding the pipe up defensively, but the rhythm of Sophia's attack was broken. Hebert had backed off and was catching her breath from a safe distance away, rubbing her hip where Sophia had tagged her. Annoyed, Sophia kicked the Nazi she'd tripped over.
Hebert turned and ran - not at Sophia, but at the alley wall. She ran up the wall a few steps before pushing off with her feet and bouncing off the dumpster in a somersault, disappearing behind it. A moment later, Sophia heard a zipper opening.
The duffel bag! What did Hebert have in the duffel bag? Knife? Gun?
Hebert stepped out from behind the dumpster, holding up a… thick stick?
On second glance, it was more like a sword, but without an edge. It was about a yard long and had a pommel, but it was thicker than a pipe and the end was blunt rather than pointed. And it looked… cushiony?
Taylor stepped forward, "sword" held at the ready in front of her, a little smile on her face. "I've joined a boffer group. And just to warn you - I'm much better with this than I am with my fists."
Sophia had no idea what the fuck "boffer" meant, but now that Taylor was closer she could see that the sword was made of some sort of foam material wrapped in duct tape.
It was a literal toy. Hebert - fucking Hebert of all people - was mocking her.
Screw that.
Sophia abruptly charged, swinging her pipe again and again, but in Hebert's hands the toy sword was a gray blur, blocking every pipe swing. Sophia swung the pipe low at Hebert's hip, and when Hebert used her toy sword to push the pipe aside, Sophia kicked high, intending to kick Hebert's unprotected head.
But instead, Hebert got her sword-thing under Sophia's ankle -- too fucking fast! -- and used it to push the ankle far up while stepping forward, forcing Sophia to fall over backwards.
Sophia went with it, rolling back and doing a kip up, but how the hell was Hebert that fast with that thing? No more high kicks, she thought.
Her pipe had wound up on the ground, so Sophia snatched it up and charged again. But Hebert blocked the pipe, her sword-thing pushing Sophia's arm out of the way before slamming into the side of Sophia's face. In the second it took Sophia to recover, the sword hit her again, on top of her head. Then her ribs, then under her jaw, then her stomach, each blow less than a second apart.
The outside of the sword was soft, but the core was made of something hard, and it hurt. The blows were coming too fast. Sophia felt dizzy and her eyes wouldn't focus. Sophia heard the metallic bouncing sound of her pipe hitting the ground and raised her arms to protect her head. Instantly the sword-thing swept her legs and she fell hard, the back of her head smacking against the ground.
She lay there, panting, feeling dizzy. The world felt like it was swinging wildly around her. Get up! Get uuuup!
Sophia tried, but she couldn't get up. Her limbs were just refusing to move, and just trying made her feel even dizzier.
Strong hands rolled her onto her stomach and grabbed her wrists. She heard something rip and realized her wrists were being taped together. Her ankles were given the same treatment.
Hebert moved around the alley while Sophia's eyes slowly came back into focus. She could finally see that Hebert was carrying a roll of duct tape - probably had it in her duffel - and was using it to secure the Nazis. The one with the big beard was trying to crawl away, but didn't resist when Hebert pushed him down and began taping his wrists. While Hebert did that, Sophia wiggled and worm-crawled until she was sitting with her back against the wall.
Hebert, done with restraining the Nazis, stopped and explored the pockets of her stolen jacket. With a little victorious sound, she pulled out a cell phone. A minute later, she was explaining things to the 911 operator and asking for police to be sent.
Fuck.
Hebert finally hung up, tossing the phone so it bounced off its owner, who grunted, and sauntered over to Sophia and crouched in front of her.
"So… I'd unmask you, but there's no point. Sophia."
Sophia barely kept herself from swearing aloud. She's just guessing. Don't confirm.
"Not talking was smart. But you messed up - I heard you tell that big Nazi to stay down. Just like you told that Nazi kid in Winslow to stay down. In exactly the same words.
"You know, Sophia, I have been dreaming of beating you for so long. And now that it's actually happened, I feel… What's the word? Disappointed? Let down?
"I've got it! The word is spectacular. It was better even than I imagined. So while we wait for the police to arrive and drag you and these Nazis to jail, where you both belong. I want to give you my gratitude."
Hebert put a palm against her chest and smiled. "Thank you, Sophia, for this sublime, this practically transcendent feeling of closure. But it's like I said - you clearly don't know what you're doing in a real street fight."
"Fuck you, freak," Sophia growled.
"A kind offer, but friendless loser sociopaths aren't my type." Then Hebert gave Sophia's nose a firm poke through the ski mask and said "boop!"
If the ski mask hadn't covered her mouth Sophia would have tried to bite.
Hebert grinned then went to check on the Nazis. The older Nazi began talking to Hebert, at first offering her money to let him go, and then threatening to sue her for assault, a threat that made Hebert laugh aloud.
Sophia heard sirens approaching. Hebert walked to the mouth of the alley to wave down the cops. Sophia glanced around to check that none of the Nazis were watching her, then changed to her shadow state and fell through the wall behind her, duct tape falling to the ground. She'd noticed earlier that the warehouse had broken windows and no lights, so she gambled that it didn't have working electricity.
Inside the building, Sophia struggled to stand up, leaning against a wall for support. She hurt all over, but she had to move - too great a chance of being caught if she stuck around.
If I'd used my power, I'd have kicked Hebert's ass for sure.
Right?
She couldn't even walk straight. Stumbling towards the opposite side of the warehouse, Sophia thought: Fuuuuuuuuuck!
Longest chapter so far, and the first big fight scene! I was really intimidated by writing this - although not as much as I was intimidated by writing the big "insults" scene.
Thanks again to Badoatmeal, whose beta reading really improved the chapter.
The line "I try not to fly in the face of public opinion" is a quote from one of my favorite TV shows, Black Adder.
The chapter title - "all you have to do is wait" - is from a song from the criminally underproduced musical City of Angels. The cast album is super fun, and includes René Auberjonois, who is best known for playing Odo on Deep Space Nine.
Amazing! First sword fight! Though Taylor needs to work on the poetry.
Also: wonder what Sophia's next Very Good, Super Smart idea will be after smashing the house of people she cannot really afford to piss off and picking a fight with someone who's better at it than she is.
Hebert danced aside, and when she spoke the mocking tone was unmistakable. "Oh, come on. I thought we were having a BFF moment! Isn't beating up Nazis together a bonding experience?"
I looked at the almost aggressively plain clock hung high on the gym wall, a twin to the clocks in every Winslow classroom. Might Principal Blackwell be making money on the side selling Winslow clocks to local businesses?
Probably not, if only because running a small clock-selling business would require more effort and initiative than Blackwell had ever demonstrated.
The gym was old-school, with heavy canvas punching bags suspended from the ceiling and two boxing rings in the middle of the floor. The walls were adorned with weight racks and fading black and white photos of boxers whose careers ended before I was born, and the smell was surprisingly not awful. More air freshener than stale sweat.
I'd rushed through my post-workout shower, not wanting to keep Brian waiting, but I'd overdone the rushing and was now stuck waiting for him. Normally I'd just go home, but today I'd asked Brian to grab a coffee with me afterwards so I could talk to him about something. He'd raised his eyebrows with a bit of surprise, but he'd agreed.
Yesterday's fight with Sophia kept coming back to me. Sophia attacking me made sense - revenge for Emma. Disguising herself made sense, too, if Sophia's intention had been to hurt me more seriously than usual.
But what didn't make sense is how good Sophia was. Fighting Sophia had been much tougher than fighting the Nazis, and the Nazis were full-grown men.
Sophia was a track star, trained to jump hurdles, not jump kick. So how was she able to fight like that?
(Or maybe the Nazis were just that incompetent? That would explain how I'd done so well against them.)
And why had Sophia helped me against the Nazis? True, she'd helped me against a Nazi once before – but that was about making sure the Nazi attacking me didn't derail her plan for her track buddies attacking me. This time, she had genuinely helped me (before she tried to take off my head with a steel pipe).
It could be as simple as Sophia hating Nazis more than she hated me. Sophia was Black, so despising the Empire would be honestly the most understandable thing about her.
And how the Hell did she get out of the duct tape?
That had really been bothering me. As soon as I was sure the cops had found the right alley, I took off, which in hindsight wasn't the smartest thing. But I was worried the cops might take the Nazis' side, or that they might decide to arrest me alongside the Nazis and sort everything out at the station. It seemed almost inevitable they'd call my dad.
So I ran.
But as I was running towards the other end of the alley, I saw that Sophia had disappeared, leaving behind the duct tape I'd tied her up with lying in a little heap.
How?
Did Sophia have powers? You could get out of duct tape with super strength. Or with the ability to turn yourself frictionless, maybe. Or to pass through things, or teleport, or telekinesis.
But if Sophia had powers, wouldn't she have used them during our fight?
After getting home, I'd found a list of female villains in Brockton Bay on PHO. The Empire had several capes whose powers could free them from duct tape, but obviously Sophia wasn't in the Empire. And I probably would have noticed if Sophia had grown ten feet higher or shone like a searchlight.
The Undersiders had two female members, but both were White. (Possible secret Empire affiliation?)
Parian could probably get out of duct tape - duct tape is technically a kind of fabric, after all - and her outfit hid her race. But even aside from the height issue (and the not-being-a-villain issue) I knew Parian and she was way too nice to secretly be Sophia.
The best possibility was Circus – she could have freed herself by putting the duct tape into her dimensional pocket, and then dumped it back on the ground to mock me. She was about the right height, with an athletic build like Sophia's.
But if Sophia was Circus, she would have fought better. Circus was supposed to have superhuman balance and reflexes. Sophia had fought incredibly well, but not impossibly well.
Then again, she didn't have to be a known parahuman. Maybe she had Harry Houdini powers, which didn't apply to fighting but let her open locks and escape bonds. Which would also explain the times the Trio had gotten into my locker.
Of course, that wouldn't require being a parahuman. Houdini himself wasn't a parahuman, just abundantly skilled, like I was becoming. It would be weird if she had escape artist skills on top of her fighting skills - but obviously there was a lot about Sophia Hess I didn't know.
My fruitless ruminating on Sophia was interrupted when Brian finally emerged from the men's locker room, his gym bag slung over one shoulder, and walking with a very slight limp. I pulled on my new red leather coat, grabbed up my own gym bag - a purple-pink one I found in the basement, which presumably had once been Mom's - and followed him out the gym's plain metal door..
The gym was located in the Docks. This neighborhood always felt sleepy to me - it wasn't a slum, but it was slumbering. Everything was made of old brick and stained stucco. All the shops were at least forty years old, and would probably shut down once the elderly owners retired and moved to Florida..
"Sorry for the wait," said Brian as we walked. "Some of those old guys, they start telling you about what's up with their kidneys and sure, I feel bad for him, but I also wish there was a quick way out of the conversation. And you know the worst thing about it?
"What?"
"He was sitting there naked the whole time he was talking. Knees apart."
I was so surprised I almost stumbled. "What? Wait, seriously?"
"Old white guys have no body modesty at all. None. Like, sometimes there'll be a whole row of them in front of the sinks. Just standing there naked, brushing and flossing. They could wait until they were dressed to brush their teeth, but apparently that would go against the old white man code. Are old women like that in locker rooms?"
"I hope this doesn't disappoint you, but I don't think I've ever seen a naked woman of any age in there. People change with towels wrapped around them, or they go to a shower stall and pull the curtain shut."
"The women's showers have curtains?"
"The men's showers don't?" Brian shook his head. "So you guys are, like, looking at each other buck naked the whole time you shower?"
Brian snorted. "Never. There's a strong social convention against looking directly -- openly staring could even be grounds for a fight. Like being at a urinal. But there's no avoiding catching glimpses."
"I am learning so much about the mysteries of the male tribe today."
We reached our goal: a coffee shop near the gym. It was an old fashioned place, with absolutely everything made out of stained formica and looking at least fifty years old. A sign on the wall said "NO SMOKING - leave that to the cook."
They didn't have counter ordering, so we sat down in a booth. As we sat down, Brian's cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Pulling it out, he peered at the screen to see who was calling and made a face. "I should take this. Just a sec." I nodded in acknowledgement as I glanced over the menu. Only two kinds of coffee (regular or decaf) but ten different donut options.
"Yeah?" said Brian into his phone. I heard someone reply; the volume was too low to make out the words, but the voice was female. "I'm with someone right now, can it wait?" The waitress walked up, and Brian looked up at her and said "decaf and a glazed, please" with a polite smile. He finished his phone call while I gave the waitress my order.
"Girlfriend?" I asked when the waitress had left.
Brian chuckled. "No no no. That would be an absolute nightmare. It was a co-worker. She's got her strong points, but she's really not girlfriend material, even if she was into me, which I'm sure she's not."
"Oh, was that Dog Girl?"
"No, someone else."
"Well, speaking of Dog Girl… I've been thinking, and there's no way to say this but to say this: Did I blackmail you into teaching me how to fight?"
Brian looked puzzled. "Why do you say that?"
I looked around quickly to make sure there was no one else in hearing range. Fortunately, the coffee shop wasn't crowded at this hour. "Well, it seemed like you suggested teaching me to fight because you were afraid I'd call the cops on your friend. Which I definitely wouldn't have, by the way. But I wanted to tell you that, so you don't think I'm holding it over you to make you spar more."
Brian shook his head. "I never thought of it like that. It's like I told you then: I see this as an exchange of favors. And to be honest, I'm getting a lot out of our sparring, and I'd be happy to continue, no blackmail required. You've gotten good."
"Thank you!" I grinned. "That's good to hear. And I know you're holding back."
"It's more like I used to hold back."
The waitress brought us each a donut, along with Brian's coffee and my tea. (They only had Earl Gray, but I felt lucky they had tea at all.) We chatted about nothing for a while, until we were interrupted by a blonde girl who came from behind and slid into the booth next to me. She was pretty, with freckles (not as many freckles as Amy) and her hair done in a messy braid. "Hi!" she chirped, looking for a clean spot to stash her purse.
I looked at Brian, and I could see from his face he knew who this woman was, and her presence wasn't welcome.
She turned to me, already speaking. "Hi, I'm Lis--WHOA!" She nearly fell off the side of the bench but managed to grab the table and regain her balance. Brian looked pleased.
I smiled a little sadistically. "Hi, Lee's woe, I'm Taylor."
After a second, she chuckled and seemed to relax. "Sorry, you caught me by surprise. I'm Lisa. And you're the famous Moon Girl. I love your videos."
"Oh, um, thank you. I didn't make the videos, though."
"You lived them, which is much more impressive."
"Wait, what did you call her? Moon Girl?" Brian gave me an odd look. "You have a cape name? Wait, sorry, you don't need to answer that."
"It's not a cape name, it's just… A nickname, I guess? It's a little hard to explain."
"Brian, I'm sending you a link to Taylor's first video," said Lisa, thumbs dancing rapidly on her phone screen. "You really should watch it, she was great. Since then, people on PHO have christened her 'Moon Girl,' for reasons that'll be obvious once you've seen the video."
"Better than 'Nose Girl,' at least," I muttered.
"So, Lisa," said Brian. "Not to be rude, but is there a reason you're here?"
"I was just interested in meeting your sparring partner," shugged Lisa. "If I'd realized it was Moon Girl, I would have insisted on an introduction."
"And I would have said no."
"Wait, how did you even know where to find us?" I asked.
Lisa grinned at me. It was more than a little bit smug (although I had to admit she was cute). "I'm psychic."
"Fine, don't tell me."
"Wait," said Lisa. "You're the one who had two fights with--"
"Dog Girl," Brian interrupted. "And yes, she's the one."
"How is Dog Girl?" I asked. "Despite her beating me up twice, I kind of like her."
"She's good," said Brian, right as Lisa said "she's as well as she can be." They glanced at each other, and then Lisa continued. "She's had a difficult life, and it's made it hard for her to get along with people, so even at her best she's still lonely and angry. I'd talk to her about it, but one of the things that pisses her off is me talking, so…"
"Catch-22," I said.
Lisa nodded and changed the subject. "You don't mind talking about your nose, right? Because I have to admit, I'm curious what the deal is there. Not a case 53, but definitely a parahuman. Do you have nose-based powers?"
"Lisa, no. You can't just ask her like that, it's--"
"It's okay," I interrupted him. "I don't mind." And I didn't. Lisa seemed overly cheery and smug, but she didn't seem to be disgusted by my nose or making fun of it. And I liked her approach better than people who clearly wanted to ask me, but were afraid to. "Do you know what a trigger event is?"
"I've heard of them."
"Well, I had one, which I don't want to talk about, and it left me with this." I gestured at my nose. "And no, I don't have any nose-based powers like super smell, which is probably for the best because think about all the stinky things in this city. But my nose is invulnerable."
"Like, really invulnerable," said Brian. "Speaking as someone who's sparred with Taylor, there's just no point in hitting her nose. You could slam on it all day and not get anywhere. Which is an advantage for her because, sorry Taylor, that's a really large portion of her face."
"No, it's fine." I said. "So nothing hurts the nose, and the rest of me heals faster than normal, which is why I'm not covered with bruises right now. And that's it for my powerset."
"You told me that it lifts your mood a bit," added Brian.
"Oh, right, that's true. So in terms of my well-being, it's great, despite looking like a naked mole rat parked on my face."
"That's not what you look like," Brian gallantly objected.
"I know. What I look like is a giant nose with a face attached." Brian made a disagreeing noise, which I ignored. "Don't get me wrong, things have been really good for me lately. It's just… When I was a kid, I dreamed of someday having powers and being a hero. So it's a bit of a let-down that my powers aren't more useful."
"You might be better off without those kinds of powers," said Brian.
"Yeah, the doctor at the PRT told me the same thing. But I can't help wondering what it would be like if I did."
Lisa snorted loudly, and I looked at her with bewilderment. "What?"
"Just ignore her," Brian advised, but Lisa was talking over him.
"Taylor, how long have you been training with Brian?"
"Well, I--"
"About two months? Daily training at the gym? No. Four times, no, only twice a week?"
"Did Brian tell you that?"
Lisa waved my question aside like a fly and kept on talking. "And before you met Brian, how many fights had you… five or six, ever? And you lost them all badly."
Brian was looking like he suddenly understood something, but I was bewildered.
"And here we are now," Lisa went on, smiling like a fox. "And he's trying to hide it, because guy, but I can tell that Brian's bruised all over. He's got a pain in his hip, another in his back, and his arms are sore from blocking your attacks."
"No," I responded. "Come on. Brian beats me sparring easily."
"Actually, it st--"
Lisa spoke over Brian again. "It stopped being easy a while ago. In a serious fight, you'd beat him. And Brian's genuinely tough."
I guess I looked astonished, because Lisa sighed in an aggravated manner. Then she looked around to make sure no one was near our table, and leaned in, gesturing to me to do the same. Brian leaned in too.
"Your power isn't just your nose, Taylor," she whispered. "You can do much more than you realize. You know your muscles have improved, but they've improved more than you think. You've got the body of an elite athlete or better. You're fighting better than people who have trained for years. That's your power. You improve. And when you put effort in, you improve insanely fast."
Lisa sat back, grinning smugly at me, and then turned to Brian. "I can't believe you didn't figure that out."
"Yeah, well, you… I…" Brian sighed. "Neither can I. Shit."
I gestured for Lisa to lean in again, and she and Brian both did. "How can you even know all this?" I hissed. "You just met me!"
Lisa smirked. "I'm smart."
"She might be right, Taylor," whispered Brian. "She's the most annoying person I know, but she's usually-"
"'Fourth most annoying person you know," Lisa cut in.
"Fourth?" Brian looked puzzled. "I can see third, but--"
"I'm counting your sister."
"You've never even met her!"
"So? I'm still right." Lisa stood abruptly and pulled a slim wallet out of her purse. "Come on," she said, tossing a fifty dollar bill on the table and turning towards the exit.
"But--"
"I don't care about the change, let the server have a good day. Come on," she repeated, and without another word walked out the door.
I looked at Brian, who shrugged and said "I guess we're following her."
We walked out, and I told Brian "you've got weird friends."
"Yeah, well, Lisa's more like a coworker."
We followed Lisa down the street. She stopped at an intersection and turned in place, like she was looking for something, before saying "Ah! This way," and turning down a side street I'd never been down.
Brian and I caught up as she fast-walked. "You know this neighborhood?," I asked. She seemed too sleek and well-off to hang out in a crumbling area like this. She muttered "Never been before, and here we are" as she led us around another corner and into a little park.
It was a sad, narrow little park, half a block long, with some benches and struggling trees on one end and an unfriendly, dilapidated looking playground on the other end, with a swing set and some ugly metal animals on springs for kids to sit on and rock.
The park's atmosphere was "move along if you know what's good for you." I was certain that if I looked under the benches, I'd find broken needles and other druggie leftovers. There was no one but us - I guessed that the park's usual patrons preferred to come after midnight.
Lisa stopped and looked around. Seemingly satisfied, she nodded to us. "No one will hear us as long as we don't yell."
"So my power's--"
"Not useless," Lisa finished for me. "Miles from useless. You just need to work on it. There's another big aspect to it, too. It's like… It's like your power has a goal, and you're especially good at learning things that bring you closer to the goal. Which is extremely strange, by the way. But I can't figure out what the goal is."
"Oh." I sat down on a bench. "Wow."
Brian put on a strict voice. "Lisa, how sure are you about this?"
"Pretty damn sure. Taylor, who did you fight yesterday?"
Brian looked surprised. "She was in a f--"
Lisa again cut Brian off. "When she said her power is why she's not covered in bruises. She didn't mean her spar with you, she meant a real fight yesterday. How many were there?"
"Five, but I had help. Sort of. This girl--"
"Five adult men? Why did they – oh, they were Empire. They had a grudge against you. And then you beat up the girl that helped you?"
"Yeah, but we were already--"
"You were already fighting when the Nazis interrupted, got it. And what happened to the guys afterward? Did they run or –oh, you called the cops? But then you ran away."
She and Brian exchanged a glance.
"Taylor, I think you're in trouble," said Brian.
"So I hit a Nazi--"
"You and this other girl - she's a teenager, too, right? A classmate. So two teenage girls beat up five adult men," said Lisa. "That's attention-getting. First of all, if the cops suspect you're a parahuman, then they've already reported the whole incident to the PRT."
"The PRT already knows--"
"All the PRT knows about you is that you've got a big nose and virtually no powers. Or that's what they think. And since you ran away before the cops saw your face, the PRT won't connect a new vigilante beating up Nazis to you."
"Wouldn't the Nazis have told them what I look like? I mean," I gestured towards my nose. "I'm pretty distinctive."
"Why would they? They don't want the PRT to find you. They want the Empire to find you. And since you didn't stick around to press charges, they're not in jail, so they've probably already told the whole story to their bosses."
"And the Empire is run by capes, Taylor," added Brian. "I don't know how much you know about the Empire, but they're the biggest group of parahumans in Brockton Bay, and they've got some seriously heavy hitters."
Now I was worried. "So are they, um… You think they'll come after me for revenge?"
"No," said Brian. "I think they'll come to recruit you."
"What?"
"Regular thugs are a dime a dozen for the Empire," said Lisa. "But a parahuman - a White parahuman - that's something they care about. And not just the Empire. Coil's going to want you, too."
Brian glanced at Lisa, looking surprised. "Coil? He just hires mercenaries, not capes."
"You'd be surprised. But what's important here is, Coil's a thinker with informants everywhere - including the Empire. If he hears about you and decides to hire you, you might not be allowed to say no."
I scoffed. "I'm not working for any super-villains."
"I know that, and it's really inconvenient," said Lisa. "It would be easier if you would. What if you say no, and he puts a gun to your head? Or to your father's head?"
I gaped.
"And even if you could convince your father to leave town, Coil and Kaiser both have a lot of resources. One of them might track you down."
I raised my voice. "So what, I'm just supposed--"
"Shh!" said Lisa. "Don't yell."
Lowering my voice, I said "So I'm just doomed to work for a villain?"
"No, inconveniently, you're not. Like I said, if you were willing to join a villain group, this would be simpler. But you won't, so it isn't. Because even if he puts a gun to your head, or your dad's, you'll just look for the first opportunity to turn it around on him. Which won't work, by the way, and you could get killed which would make Brian mope. Which would make my life harder.
"So there's only one solution, which is for you to do exactly as I say."
I folded my arms, looking suspiciously at this girl I'd met a half-hour ago. Is she trying to extort money from me?
"No, I'm not. Even if you had real money, which you don't," said Lisa. I didn't say that aloud? "You need to go straight from here to PRT headquarters. Go tell them you want to join the Wards."
"But--" I said. "I have to--"
"Tell your father, I know. Phone him from the PRT; they'll want to bring him in anyhow. But you need to go to the PRT right now. Remember, you're doing this to keep your father safe."
"But they won't--"
"They'll take you seriously. They need capes."
"But--"
"It won't be like last time, This time you know what your powers are."
"Won't they--"
"They won't be mad. You're not the first one whose powers weren't clear at first -- just look at Dauntless."
"Can I--"
"You can't wait a day, because Kaiser could already know, and Coil won't be far behind. Every day you wait is a day they might send someone to grab you."
"How do--"
"Oh my God, would you shut up!" Lisa snapped, and immediately looked contrite, raising a palm. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."
I glowered at her.
"Listen, Taylor," said Brian. "I know Lisa can be abrasive, but she's usually right about these things. These guys want recruits, but they won't target a ward, because they don't want that kind of heat. Kidnapping a ward could even bring Triumvirate attention, and nobody wants to take that chance."
"Can you--"
Once again, Lisa cut me off. "I can't prove any of this to you. But what's the worst case if I'm bullshitting you? They turn you down and it's a little embarrassing. On the other hand, if you don't believe me and I'm not bullshitting you…"
"But… I have a play. It opens this week."
"You're in a play?" She sounded surprised. "Oh, wait, stage managing. That makes sense. Go sign up tonight and tell them you'll need a week before starting."
As I was considering that, Lisa stood up and slid on a pair of sunglasses.
Lisa smiled at me, and said "Listen, I'm sorry but… I've got a headache coming on. A big one. Brian, could you give me a ride?"
Brian looked between the two of us. I nodded at him.
"Allright. Um, I'm sorry things got weird. You okay getting home, Taylor? I could pay for a cab."
"I'm fine. I take the bus all the time. I can't make it to the gym on Thursday - dress rehearsal - but I'll see you next week, right?"
Brian agreed, and they started walking away. Lisa stopped and turned back for a second. "Hey Taylor, please don't mention me or Brian. And when they power test you this time? Tell them to check if you're stronger in front of a crowd."
What?
After they were gone, I paced around the little park, thinking.
Part of me wanted to just forget the whole conversation with Lisa. Seriously? Kaiser and a thinker would find out about me? Meaning a thinker in addition to Lisa, because that girl couldn't be more obviously a thinker if she stood under a flashing neon sign reading "look at the thinker, it's me, I'm the thinker."
So what was Brian's job, if he had a thinker coworker?
And why would a villain even be interested in me? I was a nobody.
Or what if there was no second thinker? Maybe Lisa was the supervillain here, trying to manipulate me? Although I couldn't see how any evil scheme of hers would be furthered by me joining the Wards.
And a lot of what Lisa had told me just made sense. Things did seem to be coming very quickly for me since my nose came along. Like, I'd been teaching myself parkour from videos on the internet, and although I wasn't yet leaping across rooftops, I did seem to be picking things up much faster than the videos had led me to expect.
Like the boffer stuff. It had taken me a single session to learn to beat all of them with the padded swords except their very best fighters – all of whom I beat by the end of my second session. I'd blown off how impressed they were at the time, but maybe…
Like memorizing the entire script of Little Shop just by reading it a few times.
Maybe Lisa was right. Maybe my power is more than an invulnerable nose.
And if I'd known that from the start, I would have joined the Wards. So is anything any different now?
Now I have friends, a job, a life. Now I have things to lose.
Dad wouldn't like my having better powers – he'd been really relieved that I wouldn't be fighting villains. But if Lisa was right, then joining the Wards would keep Dad safe. Whether Dad liked it or not, that was more important.
-----------------------------------------------
Despite what I told Brian, I didn't take the bus. I began jogging, then running, Mom's gym bag jostling against my side. My route took me through the neighborhood where Brian's gym was located, then into the warehouse district where I'd fought Sophia.
Lisa's voice came back to me: "You can do much more than you realize."
I stopped running and contemplated a warehouse, taller than its neighbors, with metal pipes ascending towards the roof high on one wall.
Making a snap decision, I ran up the wall, my momentum enough to carry me up three steps before I kicked off the wall towards a lamppost next to the building. Wrapping my limbs around the post, I shimmied up until I stood upon the curved top of the light. The top of the post was considerably broader than the tightrope I'd been practicing on, and despite the slight breeze it was easy to keep my balance.
From there, I was high enough to vault back towards the wall and grab a window ledge. Pulling myself up, I got my sneakers onto the ledge and jumped again, hands stretched above my head to reach those pipes. Then it was simple to climb up until I reached the rooftop, walking my feet up the bricks while my hands ascended the pipe, the rivets and seams of the metal pipes as good to me as rungs of a ladder.
I pulled myself up and paused for a minute to look around. From this height I could see the bay -- its waters deliciously blue and clean-looking at this remove -- and the softly glowing dome of the Protectorate headquarters in the distance.
Were the Wards based out of that architectural wonder, or out of the more humdrum PRT building on Lord Street? I couldn't remember.
I walked to the edge of the roof, and considered the neighboring warehouse. There was about a fifteen feet gap between the buildings, and the other rooftop was a little lower than this one. I walked to the opposite side of the roof and knelt like a sprinter preparing to race.
"I can do more than I realize," I said aloud. "I can do more than I realize."
I sprinted, running across the roof as fast as I could, and at the edge I leapt.
In my mind, it's pretty much for the reason she says: Because she doesn't think that Taylor is recruitable, and if Coil destroys Taylor trying that would make Brian unhappy.
And also, because it was a chance to show off being smarter than Taylor and Brian. They've been faced with this for months, and don't figure it out, and Lisa can figure it out in two minutes? She'd need an awfully strong motive NOT to speak out in that circumstance.
I have this scene in my head where they describe Taylor's power as being like Dauntless but not with equipment but her person, and Clockblocker immediately piping in that she could stand to focus a little more on her nonfacial attributes. Charisma is not a dump stat!
Many thanks to z.ro for an excellent beta reading, which has improved this a lot.
Monday, March 28, 2011 (the same day, a few minutes later)
I leapt from building to building until the warehouses gave way to regular houses. Coming to a stop, I looked out across a sea of angled roofs to chart the best way forward. The houses were built close enough together that I could have continued roof-hopping, but I worried someone would hear my footsteps and call the police. Instead, I descended from the final warehouse, my feet walking down a conveniently positioned tree while my back slid down the wall, and ran the rest of the way home.
The homes in this neighborhood were small colonials, differentiated mostly by being painted different colors (although a few houses had decorative fishscale siding or were stucco instead of clapboard). There was even an old Victorian, its whimsical turrets and asymmetrical designs sticking out like a macaw surrounded by ducks.
Paint jobs were old, roof tiles missing, lawns patchy or overgrown. The houses in this neighborhood, like the people living in them, felt worn down.
As I ran, I thought about my decision to join the Wards. It was an intimidating prospect -- other than a single conversation with Glory Girl, and the extremely one-sided conversation with Lisa, I'd never had a substantial conversation with a parahuman. I'd been feeling untouchable at Winslow lately, but spending time among capes would make me vulnerable again.
But it was also exciting. Lisa said my power would grow with training, and training was something the PRT would provide. I also liked the idea of being challenged more - sparring with other Wards, or even fighting some of the less murder-happy villains. Plus, the Wards were all supposed to be Arcadia students, meaning none of them had preconceptions of me as a bullying victim.
(Would I have to transfer to Arcadia? I hoped not -- I wanted to remain part of the Winslow Theater Department. But given how indifferent to rules Mr. Haller was, changing schools might not actually bar me from the theater group.)
I would go to the PRT, as Lisa had told me to. But I wanted to talk to Dad first. He deserved to be told face to face.
Panting and sweaty, I stepped across our patchy front lawn. It occurred to me I had ignored a soothsayer's advice to go straight to the PRT for protection. By the laws of story structure, this made it a near certainty that as I reached for the doorknob, a sack would suddenly descend over my head and I'd be kidnapped into a series of ever-escalating dangers and adventures, perhaps not to return for years. There was every chance I'd be scarred, facially and psychically, and it wasn't unlikely that I'd fall in love with a beautiful pirate queen with a heart of gold just days before her tragic death.
On the bright side, that would get me out of an awkward conversation with Dad.
But no sack descended, no cosh hit the back of my head, and no chloroform-saturated handkerchief was shoved under my nose. (Honestly, they'd need a pillowcase to block my nostrils.) Thus unkidnapped, my only option was to open the door and walk into my house. I grabbed a towel I'd taken to keeping in the coat closet and mopped off my sweat before going further inside.
I found Dad in the kitchen, seated at the table and studying a partly completed jigsaw, holding a piece against various gaps in the puzzle. The picture on the jigsaw showed a profusion of toads of wildly differing sizes and colors.
"Dad? We need to talk."
"Mmmm. Okay, just a minute."
I gently took the puzzle piece from his hand and slotted it into its correct place near the edge. Dad looked up at me, blinking.
"It's kind of important," I said.
-------------------
Demonstrating my combat ability -- I was still having trouble thinking of it as a "power" -- to Dad proved difficult. I suggested he swing a hammer at me, but he quite unreasonably refused.
So I said he could punch or slap me instead. He reluctantly agreed to the slap, saying "I'll be gentle." We moved to the living room for more space, and Dad raised an open hand to slap me. And stood there for thirty seconds, hand in the air as I waited to dodge, before finally lowering his palm with a shake of his head.
Dad just couldn't bring himself to hit me.
Which I realized was good -- many kids' lives would be immeasurably better if their fathers contracted a similar malady -- but at that moment it felt inconvenient. Dad was afraid I'd be hurt if I joined the Wards, and I was trying to convince him I could handle myself, but how could I if he wouldn't try to hit me?
It's not like Dad wouldn't hit anyone -- I thought of how close he'd come to punching Alan Barnes. I wondered if I should be trying to piss him off.
Fortunately, that didn't turn out to be necessary. Instead, we agreed he'd try to hit me with a soft pillow from his bed. His first try didn't even come within a foot of me; I didn't move, other than rolling my eyes at him. His next swing I just leaned away from, and on his third try I finally had to duck.
He gained confidence, swinging faster and suddenly switching directions, trying to fake me out, and honestly dodging was getting kind of fun. How long had it been since Dad and I roughhoused at all? (I skipped over a low swing.) We did it all the time when I was little, but at some point we'd just stopped, and I couldn't even remember when. It was a little melancholy to think of it. (Dad snapped the pillow at me like a wet towel, but I sidestepped.) Logically there must have been a last time we played like that, but I didn't know it was the final roughhouse at the time.
Dad finally threw his pillow at me, gathered the little throw pillows on the couch in his arms, and threw them all simultaneously in a single messy heave. I kicked up the pillow Dad had dropped and used it as a shield, blocking three throw pillows while I leaned away from a fourth. The fifth cushion looked like it would hit a lamp, so I caught it with my free hand.
Dad sat heavily in his armchair, panting. He brushed sweat and some of his remaining hair off his forehead and looked at me ruefully. "Were you even paying attention at the end there?"
"Well… um… partly?"
"I should have known I wouldn't be able to touch you -- I saw that video. But experiencing it in person is something else altogether." He gathered himself and sat straighter, gesturing for me to sit on the couch, which I did, first picking up the throw pillows and putting them in their place. (Why were they all brown and tan? This room needed more color.)
"Look, Taylor, I can't deny that I'm impressed. But I'm a middle aged bureaucrat. What's going to happen if you're facing Hookwolf or someone like that?"
I explained that was exactly why I needed to join the PRT -- being a Ward would make me far less likely to be killed by a monster like Hookwolf. In a transparent attempt to appeal to Dad's sensibilities, I said "It's like unions. Being in an association will protect me by association."
That brought our discussion to a temporary halt, because Dad insisted on going online to find out what sort of union representation the PRT heroes had. What he discovered, to his ire, was not only did PRT heroes not have a union - they were legally banned from forming one.
Dad was a little surprised since he'd thought of PRT heroes as federal law enforcement agents, like the Border Patrol, and those groups often have powerful unions. But heroes had been classified as confidential employees (perhaps due to secret identities), and confidential employees aren't allowed to unionize.
I hadn't known that, and I felt a little silly to have used "I'll be in an association!" as a point with Dad. "I'll be a confidential employee and thus legally barred from forming a bargaining unit!" didn't have the same panache.
But the essential point was still true -- being part of a group would make me safer, and there weren't any alternatives if we stayed in Brockton Bay. New Wave is a family group, and the other non-Protectorate parahuman groups were one shade or another of villainous. In the end, Dad reluctantly agreed that the Wards were my only real choice.
"But I'm going over everything with a microscope before you sign up," he added, looking much more energized than usual. "Organizations that don't allow unionizing can't be trusted."
-------------------------
Tuesday, March 29
After Dad called them on Monday, the PRT wanted to meet with us as soon as possible. They wanted a much more thorough power testing than last time, and told Dad they'd facilitate that by getting me out of school early every day this week.
This wasn't acceptable to me, since I'd essentially be dropping out of Little Shop. My week already seemed overstuffed, and if Lisa hadn't been so insistent on me joining immediately I would have put the whole Wards thing off until after the show was over.
Dad got them (and me) to agree to a compromise: No power testing until after Little Shop completed its two-day run, but I would provide a "power demonstration."
I assumed this was the PRT's way of ensuring I wasn't wasting their time with a delusional power. And realizing that made me worry that maybe it was a delusion. I don't have powers, really; I'm just good at some things I practice a lot.
I considered cancelling, but I didn't think Dad would like that. So after Tuesday's rehearsal, I changed into workout clothes. For good luck, I wore my favorite sweatpants, which were purple with a pattern of happy face stars and moons (a gift from Charlotte). After Dad picked me up and drove me to the PRT building, one of the receptionists guided us to a gymnasium several floors below.
The PRT gym shared a lot of features with my regular gym: Two boxing rings, hanging punching bags, weights on racks. But no one would ever mix the two up. The PRT's gym was so clean it gleamed, with smooth white walls and a row of exercise machines that might have been delivered from the factory yesterday. It felt a little lifeless to me. My regular gym was dirty and worn in comparison, but it had personality.
"Taylor! And Mr Hebert! How nice to see you both again," chirped Dr. Joy, the seemingly perpetually cheery woman in a white lab coat who'd run my power testing back in December. There were also three fit-looking people in PRT T-shirts, a guy and two women, chatting together to one side.
"Did you bring your…" Dr Joy paused to consult her notepad. "Your 'boffer'?"
Pulling the padded sword from my duffel, I proffered my boffer. This caught the attention of one of the trio wearing PRT shirts, a thirtyish woman who trotted over to join us. Dr. Joy introduced her as Sergeant Xiomara Schwartz. She had brown skin, hair held in a tight ponytail, a muscular build, and whatever reaction she had to my nose was kept well hidden.
She held out a hand for my boffer sword and I handed it over. "You make this yourself?," she asked, and I noticed a faint Puerto Rican accent. I confirmed I had, and then was startled by how minutely Schwartz examined it. She held it to her eye and peered down its length. She ran a thumb along the tape seams. She held it at both ends and flexed to see if it would bend (it didn't). She slapped it hard against her forearm several times and drove the "point" into her palm. Finally, she swung and thrust it through the air experimentally.
"This should be safe enough," she said, putting it down on a small table. "You can hit with the blade, but no strikes with the pommel, got it?"
"Of course," I said. "Am I going to be fighting you?"
She smiled. "We'll see if you get that far. We'll start with some hand-to-hand. Private Patinkin?"
Patinkin, a tall woman with short kinky hair and wearing an open hoodie over her t-shirt, walked up. We shook hands and put on some padded headgear while Schwartz went over some rules with me - no eye-gouging, hair-pulling, head-butting, and so on. (I learned the meaning of "fish-hooking," which was forbidden, which given how easily my nostrils could be grabbed could be to my advantage.)
We both climbed into the nearer boxing ring. "Okay, Taylor," called out Dr. Joy. "Private Patinkin is going to try and subdue you. If you give her enough trouble, we might send in someone to help her."
The Private held out her fists, and I wasn't sure what was happening. "Just bump my fists with yours," she said, and I did. "Don't worry, kid. We'll have some fun with this, okay? I'll go easy."
"No she won't," Schwartz called out. "Begin."
Patinkin immediately charged me, but I skipped to the side. She spun and threw several punches and kicks at me, not as fast as Sophia had, and I blocked them all. She then grabbed my arms right as I grabbed hers, and positioned her leg behind mine in an attempt to push me down over it. I got the impression she wanted to take me down and grapple me on the mat, which made me think I shouldn't allow it.
I leaned forward to push her away, and she leaned back, pushing in. It turned into a slow contest of strength, like full-body arm wrestling, as we grunted and pushed for dominance. Patinkin was taller and heavier than me, but to my surprise, I was stronger. I forced her back one step, then two, and finally shoved her away. She stumbled back a couple of steps before catching her balance.
"Peters! Go!" I heard Schwartz say.
I couldn't see Peters, which meant he was coming into the ring from behind me. I danced to the side, turning to get both my opponents in view. Peters was just climbing into the ring. He was shorter than me, but much broader, especially in his shoulders. He had the kind of physique I associated with professional weightlifters, a layer of pudge over enormous muscles. He and Patinkin glanced at each other and without a word began approaching me from opposite flanks, arms spread.
I danced to the side again, but they pivoted in unison. He shot a fist out while she tried to sweep my legs, and I was able to block him while jumping over her leg, but it left me off-balance and I had to back up. I pretended to punch at Patinkin and side-kicked Peters in the stomach, and he grunted, but it felt like I'd kicked a tractor trailer. He tried to grapple and I pushed him away, but while I did that Patinkin kicked my side solidly. It went on like that, the two of them fighting like a single machine, and I was forced to back up until I felt one of the ropes around the ring against the back of my calf.
They're too used to working together, and too experienced at corralling suspects. I have to do something they haven't seen before.
I bent over backwards, grabbing the top rope from below, and pulled my entire body out between the top and second ropes. The instant my feet were clear I released the top rope, dropping to grab the bottom rope like a gymnast on the uneven bars, and yanked myself forward, sliding under the bottom rope and shooting between the two surprised PRT troopers.
I rolled to my feet and turned to face them. Peters grinned and Patinkin said "well, all right."
They moved into position to flank me again but, not wanting to let that happen, I jumped onto the top rope and began trotting around the ring, moving to keep Peters between me and Patinkin. Peters gave up on flanking and just charged me, grabbing at my legs. I somersaulted forward, giving myself a boost with a hand on his head, and did a turning flip in the air, going over Patinkin's head and landing facing her. She spun, but I was already grabbing her and swinging her whole body into Peters. That almost knocked them over, so before they could regain their balance I sidekicked Patinkin into Peters, sending them to the mat.
I felt very pleased with myself for about half a second, until someone slammed into me from the side, sending me staggering several steps to the center of the ring. I just barely turned in time to block Sergeant Schwartz's high kick. She grinned at me like a lion pleased to see a rabbit and threw a flurry of punches at me, one of which hit my stomach right under my ribs, and I had to block her next punch while gasping.
This woman was much faster than Sophia.
She pressed her attack, and by this time Patinkin and Peters had stood and were coming at me from both sides behind me. The fight intensified, and I entered an almost fugue state where I couldn't take the time to think -- I just spun, ducked, punched and blocked continuously. I was blocking and dodging a lot, but also getting hit a lot, and was too busy defending to do much attacking on my own.
There had to be a way out of this. There had to be.
But I just couldn't force my way out of their triangle. There were some attacks I didn't try because they were against the rules -- I let a chance to elbow Peters' throat pass, and didn't kick in Schwartz's kneecap -- but that was fair, since they were presumably letting similar chances to cripple me go by.
Finally, as I kicked Patinkin in the gut, Peters bent to tackle me around the waist, and I jumped and managed a sloppy vault over his back. Escaped at last! But Sergeant Schwartz's hand shot out and caught my ankle, and I was abruptly dumped to the mat. Seizing their chance, the three of them piled on top like giant bags of flour.
No, no, no! I kept moving, trying to free myself, but they were working to control my limbs and they knew what they were doing. I managed to yank an arm free and elbow Schwartz's head, but I didn't have the leverage for a really solid strike; she just grunted and tackled my arm. It only took them another two minutes of struggle before Peters was sitting on my legs, Patinkin was bear-hugging my left arm, and Schwartz had me in a headlock with her legs wrapped around my other arm. And there was nothing I could do.
Once at Winslow, before I found the theater department, I was getting something out of my locker while Madison and Sophia walked past. Without breaking stride, Sophia put her arm around my neck and pulled me down the hall with her. Neither of them looked at or said anything to me -- they just discussed a homework assignment while I was dragged along. I flashed back to that, remembering how helpless I was, and - Winslow being Winslow - how many things were stolen from my open locker by the time I got back to it.
"I give," I managed to choke out, and the three troopers immediately released me. Schwartz stayed on her hands and knees, panting, while Peters and Patinkin both fell and lay on their backs.
I jumped up and climbed out of the ring, keeping my eyes on the floor and trying not to cry.
Lisa was wrong,I'm not some kick-ass cape.
So without a Ward membership, what could protect me from Coil and Kaiser? It seemed like the best I could hope for is that their moles would tell them I'm useless and they'd decide I'm not worth recruiting.
Dr. Joy, smiling -- like the last time she'd tested me and found me completely lacking in useful powers -- walked up to me with a towel and a bottle of water. Dad was just a step behind her. Dammit, why did he have to be here to witness this?
"I'm-- I'm sorry," I said to her.
Dr Joy and my father looked at me with identical expressions of puzzlement.
I started again. "I mean, I'm sorry for wasting--"
Then, almost like a voice in my mind, I thought: It's not normal for three trained adult troopers to have to struggle ten minutes to take down a single fifteen year old girl.
"I mean, uh, how did I do?"
"I'm very impressed," said Dr. Joy. "I'm looking forward to doing full power testing once you've joined up."
"If she joins up," interrupted Dad. "I still need to see the paperwork."
Dr. Joy shrugged. "Not my department."
"Hey," interrupted Sergeant Schwartz. She'd put on a warm up jacket and was wiping her face with a towel. "That was okay. You told the doctor you fight better with your, uh, sword?"
"I think so," I replied.
"We'll see. Just give me a few minutes. You should hydrate." She turned away from me, pulling a phone from her pocket and hitting a button. I opened my water and drank. As she walked away, I heard her say into her phone "I need a few more guys."
-----------------------
Colin didn't relish being in charge of the Protectorate ENE Wards program, but he considered himself someone who fulfilled responsibilities unshirkingly. When he received a text from Doctor Joy saying she had a strong prospect for the Wards demonstrating combat thinker skills in workout room C, he decided he could spare up to four minutes to watch.
(As an added benefit, examining a Wards prospect was a legitimate reason to temporarily excuse himself from the interminable meeting which had brought him to the PRT building today.)
When he entered the workout room he immediately noticed Doctor Joy and a middle-aged man standing against a wall, Doctor Joy scribbling something on a notepad. Not wanting to interrupt, Colin crept in (Colin could move surprisingly quietly in full armor, a result of hundreds of hours developing microscopic sound dampeners) and closed the door gently behind him. Then the sound of combat drew his attention to a boxing ring. In the ring, six PRT troopers in workout clothes and protective headgear had surrounded a teenage girl, presumably the prospect Doctor Joy had texted about.
The PRT troopers were armed with pugil sticks, while the girl was wielding a padded gray sword of some sort, moving it so fast it was a blur. She bounced it between two trooper's heads, hard enough to knock one over, then thrust it behind her seemingly without looking, hitting a third trooper solidly in the stomach. She followed this by throwing herself into the air, rolling with her body parallel to the floor, to avoid two pugil stick swings. Landing, she immediately blocked a third pugil stick, simultaneously sweeping her leg to knock a trooper off his feet at exactly the necessary angle to make him fall onto Sergeant Schwartz.
As Colin walked towards the Doctor, automatic face-recognition software alerted him, on his helmet's internal display, that he'd met the middle aged man 114 days earlier. He tensed and released his jaw muscles in a specific pattern, and the display brought him further information about Daniel Hebert, including a note about the correct pronunciation of his surname. Colin glanced at the girl again, remembering her distinctive proboscis.
He nodded a greeting to the two and turned to watch the demonstration. Hadn't the girl told him she had no powers apart from her unusually sized nose? Had she been lying, or simply unaware?
Connecting remotely to his servers, he reviewed his previous encounter with the Heberts. Unfortunately, it seemed that both he and Clockblocker had been rude to the girl -- or, rather, the boy had been rude, and Colin had unintentionally given offense. Not the best first impression for starting a work relationship. Hopefully she wouldn't be so sensitive in the future.
Unfortunately, it seemed that both he and Clockblocker had been rude to the girl -- or, rather, the boy had been rude, and Colin had unintentionally given offense. Not the best first impression for starting a work relationship.
Then, almost like a voice in my mind, I thought: It's not normal for three trained adult troopers to have to struggle ten minutes to take down a single fifteen year old girl.
Unfortunately, it seemed that both he and Clockblocker had been rude to the girl -- or, rather, the boy had been rude, and Colin had unintentionally given offense. Not the best first impression for starting a work relationship. Hopefully she wouldn't be so sensitive in the future.
Also, theory: Taylor's last power aspect is a motivating voice in the back of her head—maybe like Cyrano was to his friend. Or maybe it's super eloquence...
"Hey," interrupted Sergeant Schwartz. She'd put on a warm up jacket and was wiping her face with a towel. "That was okay. You told the doctor you fight better with your, uh, sword?"
"I think so," I replied.
"We'll see. Just give me a few minutes. You should hydrate." She turned away from me, pulling a phone from her pocket and hitting a button. I opened my water and drank. As she walked away, I heard her say into her phone "I need a few more guys."
"What the what?" said Charlotte, stopping so abruptly I nearly bumped into her.
"What the what what, specifically?" I asked, as a flood of students flowed through Winslow's halls and around the two of us. I noticed a student (carrying a purse that I'd last seen with one of the Christian protesters) about to dip her hand into the open back pocket of Charlotte's knapsack. I reached out and caught her wrist. Our eyes met for a moment then she pulled away, which I allowed. Then I zipped the knapsack pocket closed.
Charlotte, having noticed none of that, tapped a flyer taped to the wall and said "This!" I stepped around her to get a better view, and my jaw actually dropped.
At the top, in faux-blood-splatter lettering, it said "Little Shop of Horrors." Below the title a drawing of a circle made up of alternating humans and potted plants, all eating each other, took up most of the sheet. I recognized it as Drina's drawing style. Written in the center of the circle were the words "Meat Is Murder."
"Did you know there was a poster?," I asked, a little vexed no one had told me. Not that the stage manager is in charge of posters, but still.
"Nope. Actually, I bet Drina didn't tell anyone. What I'm wondering is, just how stoned was she when she drew this?"
"I suspect she was all the stoned," I joked, although I was uncomfortable with the subject.
Until recently, I'd believed drug users were stupid junkies, criminal junkies, or both -- as if a single toke would make a kid lose thirty IQ points and stick up a bank within a week. But on New Year's Eve, Charlotte had clued me in that occasional pot smoking was normal among the theater kids, and two in particular - Drina and Obi - were full-on stoners. (So was Sparky, but I'd known he was a pothead before he joined the theater group.)
So I'd been forced to reconsider my attitude towards drugs. Sure, Obi was spacey, but he wasn't a criminal (apart from using drugs, I mean) and he maintained a 4.0 G.P.A. without resorting to bribing the teachers. Really, most of the theater kids seemed smart and normal and nice.
If I joined the Wards, would I be expected to beat up stoners? Probably not. Or, at least, only incidentally; someone like Skidmark was no doubt stoned anytime he wasn't on any harder drugs, but that wasn't why we'd try to arrest him. But would they expect me to turn my friends in to the cops? I didn't think that was likely, but probably I should nail that point down before signing anything.
Although asking if it was cool for me to give drug users a pass - whether I asked the PRT or my Dad - might seem just a tad suspicious.
And what if I got my friends' pot smoke on my clothes and some sort of tinker-tech detected it? Even if they believed me saying I didn't do drugs, they might order me to stop hanging out with my druggy friends. Were they allowed to give me orders about my life when I wasn't in costume? Another point to nail down. (Also, I really should be thinking about costume ideas.)
If I come out to Charlotte as a cape, she'd help me brainstorm costume ideas, I thought. I'd been doing that a lot in the past day, trying to convince myself it would be smart to tell Charlotte I was joining the Wards. I didn't like keeping secrets from her. But the PRT had strongly advised me to tell no one outside the PRT I'd be a Ward.
I shook off those thoughts and refocused on the poster. "It's so odd Drina wrote 'meat is murder' on the posters," I said. "I've never seen Drina eat a vegetable; I suspect she'd rather eat a vegetarian."
"Maybe she didn't mean it as a bad thing? Like, 'meat is murder, yay murder! Come see our show?'"
As we continued walking, we discovered Drina had been quite industrious - Little Shop flyers adorned every wall, many lockers, and even the floor.
As we passed an intersection, I stopped. "Taylor?" asked Charlotte.
"Go to class -- I'll see you in theater," I said, turning off from our route and hurrying down the hall, where Sophia had backed Xack up against a wall of lockers. Sophia was leaning towards him, supporting her weight on a palm pressed against the wall inches from his head. There were only two reasons for people to be positioned like that, and I didn't think Sophia was about to kiss Xack.
As I got closer, I heard Sophia talking. "...a coward. Are you a man or a worm?"
"Is there a checkbox for all of the above?" said Xack, which I thought was a good line under the circumstances. Sophia must have thought so too, since she slammed her other hand an inch from Xack's ear with a loud clang. He jumped, eyes wide with fright.
As I passed them, I reached out my right arm and pulled Sophia into a side headlock, forcing her into a bent over position. Since I hadn't slowed my walk, Sophia was dragged along with me, with her left shoulder behind my back and her head crooked in my arm.
Sophia fought back, slamming her right fist against my side and trying to pull herself out of the headlock, and I countered by walking faster, making her stumble to keep up.
Then she used the arm trapped behind my back to reach over my shoulder and violently grab my face, right under my nose. It didn't hurt, but it gave Sophia leverage, which she used to push my whole face up and backwards. I had to release her or risk losing my balance.
Nice move. I'll have to remember that, I thought. She punched me again in the ribs as I backed off.
"Sophia, how nice to see you. I was hoping we could have a chat," I said, rubbing the spot Sophia had hit. I could feel the bruise, although I knew it would heal quickly.
I had dragged Sophia to a door with "accueillir les étudiants" painted across it in cheerful cursive. I opened the door and waved for Sophia to walk in.
She sneered. "Like I'd go anywhere with you, Hebert."
I gestured to indicate several other students who had stopped to watch us, hoping for a more extended catfight. "You want to have this talk in public?"
Sophia cast an angry glare in all directions and stomped into the French room. I followed her. Winslow's sole French teacher, Mrs. Parker, won the lottery and moved to Quebec, leaving behind only a lesson plan and the immortal words "va te faire foutre Mme Blackwell" painted in huge letters across the wall. The wall had quickly been repainted (apparently maintenance could happen fast when Blackwell was motivated), but months later Winslow hadn't secured a replacement French teacher. Since nature abhors a vacuum, the empty classroom had become a popular spot for Winslow's druggies to light up.
Drina and Sparky were there when we walked in, giggling at some video playing on a smartphone. As we watched, Sparky passed Drina a joint. "Oh yay, they're serving baked moron today," growled Sophia, and they looked up at us with surprised rabbit expressions.
"Sorry to interrupt, guys. Could we have the room? I promised Sophia I'd make passionate love to her." As Sophia sputtered while the two stoners hurriedly stood and gathered their stuff, I added: "Drina, the poster you drew is beautiful." Drina blew me a kiss before she left, whispering "have fun you naughty vixens" as she shut the door behind her.
I really looked at Sophia for the first time since our fight three days ago, noticing the bruises clearly visible on her face and arms. She was examining me the same way. All my bruises were long healed, of course.
"Sophia, you look like you fell off a trapeze. Is the circus in town?" Not a great line, but I'd hoped to provoke Sophia into a reaction that would confirm whether or not she was the villain Circus,
Sophia ignored what I'd said. "Nice healing, Hebert. No powers but the nose, huh? Maybe I should call the PRT about you."
I shrugged. "Feel free. I signed up for the Wards last night." This was a slight exaggeration on my part, but it was worth it for Sophia's startled expression. She even looked a little worried, which would fit with her being a villain.
"And before you go telling Emma or anyone else, google 'The Vikare Act.' It's an actual crime to out Protectorate capes - and only Protectorate capes. It's not some circus tent that fits everyone."
"You're worried I'll out you, got it. That's what you had to say?"
"One more thing. If I ever catch you bullying again, we will have a rematch, this time in public."
Sophia scoffed. "Fine by me. Bring it on."
"But is it fine by you, Sophia? You and Emma spent years convincing everyone that I'm some… some sort of worm. Even if you miraculously beat me, it won't be easy, and then you won't be the tough girl anymore. You'll just be the wimp who barely beat up a worm. And that's the best possible outcome for you. If I beat you -- which we both know is likely -- no one will ever be scared of you again."
Sophia fake yawned and glanced up at the clock. "You're making us late for class."
"They probably won't even notice. Winslow is practically a three-ring circus."
"What's with you and circuses today? Planning to join a freak show, freak?"
"It comes to mind when I'm looking at a clown."
Sophia gave me the finger, and turned to leave.
I called out just before she left the room. "Sophia, one more thing?" She paused without looking back. "When I said I'd better not see you picking on people anymore? That doesn't include Nazis."
Sophia stood in the doorway for a few seconds more, and for a moment I thought she'd say something. Then she just left.
I had severe doubts about Sophia's ability to quit bullying cold turkey. But if she couldn't quit, perhaps she could be aimed at deserving targets. Some might say that was mean of me. But "mean to Nazis" is a character flaw I felt entirely able to live with.
I stepped out of the French room, half-expecting Sophia to be waiting there to ambush me. Instead, I found Xack and Charlotte. Charlotte was staring at me with wide eyes and an expression I couldn't quite parse, while Xack was grinning ruefully.
"Hey, you know, a lesser guy than me might be mad to be rescued by a girl. You know, worry about getting a rep for being a sissy man."
I smiled. "But unlike that proverbial lesser guy, you say…?"
"I say, you have my willing, nay, my eager consent to stop psychos from beating me senseless any time it fits into your schedule. I will happily embrace my sissy man rep to protect my best feature."
"Your extensive Hawaiian shirt collection?," asked Charlotte in a faux-innocent tone.
"My face." Xack framed his face with his forearm above his head and his other hand under his chin. (For once I got the reference - Madonna's "Vogue" video.) "Look at this thing, it's so beautiful you'd think Michaelangelo sculpted it. Grandmothers line up for miles to pinch these cheeks."
"Of course," I said. "And if you ever need those grandmas' asses kicked, I'm there for you."
"Hah. Seriously, thanks, Taylor." Xack gave me a hug, and I squeezed him back. He glanced between me and Charlotte, and said "See you girl-types in theater, 'kay?" before walking down the hall. I glanced at Charlotte, who was still looking at me with that odd expression.
"Weren't you headed to class?," I asked.
"You're amazing," she said. "I mean, that was amazing. Rescuing Xack. How'd you get her to back off like that?"
I wanted to tell Charlotte about my fight with Sophia, but that was connected to my powers which were in turn connected to me joining the Wards. Which I was supposed to keep secret.
Do I trust her?
I looked at her - at her wide, sparkling eyes, so often filled with mischief. Her curly brown hair, shorter and softer than my own. The swoop of her neck and the delicate dip of her suprasternal notch. I realized that beyond any doubt, I trusted her. More even than my father.
But Little Shop premiered in just two days, with Charlotte playing the ingenue. This would be a terrible time for her to be distracted by my life's little drama. I'd tell her once the show was done, I decided.
----------------
Deputy Director Renick's office in the PRT building was almost bizarrely devoid of personality. No interesting little knick knacks or family photos ornamented his generic office desk. There were two identical bookcases filled entirely with thick binders with opaque titles on the spine, like "A12-b supplementals August 2007." The only art on his wall was a framed anti-drug poster featuring a group of smiling PRT capes below the caption "Heroes Don't Do Drugs." The poster was so old it included poor Hero, who'd been murdered over a decade ago. I suspected the poster was already here when Renick moved into the office.
After some chit-chat, he placed an inch-thick pile of papers on the desk in front of me and Dad. Dad picked the pile up and flipped through the edges. I could see that every page was filled with small print.
"Now, I know it seems like a lot…" said Renick.
"A lot?," gruffed my father. "The last time I signed a pile of papers this thick was when I bought my house."
"It's actually a lot like buying a house. Because when you buy a house, the paperwork you sign isn't just the deed to the house. There's also paperwork for the loan, and mortgage payments, and house insurance, and just a whole bunch of things bundled in with home ownership." He smiled at us. "Becoming a Ward is like that - there's a whole lot of elements tied together in the Wards contract. The main thing is that we're agreeing to train Taylor to use her abilities safely. But there's also non-disclosure forms for things like other Wards' identities, and, uh, merchandising and branding stuff, and non-compete, and school requirements, and the escrow payments, and so on.
"So don't let the thickness worry you. When we go through it, you'll see it's just boilerplate language."
Having met my father before, I resisted the impulse to face palm.
"Mr. Renick, I've been negotiating labor contracts since before Taylor was born. Can you guess the phrase I most hate hearing? The phrase that lets me know I'll be needing a team of lawyers to go over every word with a microscope and a doggy scoop?"
"Ah." Renick's mouth formed a tight little smile. "I'm going to hazard a wild guess that the phrase is 'it's just boilerplate language.'"
"Smart man," said Dad, rising and gathering the pile of papers into a folder.
The deputy director looked startled. "You're -- don't you want to go over the papers? I can go through them all with you, explain what each section means--"
"I'd very much like that," said Dad. "But not until after I've found a lawyer to explain each section to us. You understand."
"I do. And to tell you the truth, I'm glad you're being so diligent. Parental support is a major factor for success as a Ward," said Renick, rising. He looked through the papers on his desk and immediately found a business card, which he handed to Dad. "This is the number of an excellent lawyer with a lot of experience in this area." Dad took the card, we both shook hands with Renick, and he walked us to the elevator.
Once we were alone in the elevator, I asked Dad "So are you going to call that lawyer?"
"This lawyer?" Dad held up the business card. "The lawyer whose business card the Deputy Director already had ready on his desk, before we even walked in? No. The attorney the PRT wants us to hire is absolutely the last one we want."
"Besides," Dad continued, "I've already found a lawyer."
"Oh. Um, didn't you say you hadn't gotten a lawyer yet?"
"I never said that. I implied it, which isn't the same thing." He checked his watch as the elevator doors opened onto the lobby level. "She agreed to see us after hours, so our appointment is in just over an hour. Should give us just enough time for dinner: how does Lebanese sound?"
------------------------------------
We didn't talk much over dinner - Dad had pulled out the stack of PRT paperwork and was reading through it, making frequent notes in a little pad. Fortunately, I had a book for English class with me, a slim anthology of poetry, so I picked a poem to read. The teacher had given us directions for reading poetry that I tried to implement. "Read slowly and with curiosity. Have a conversation with the poem."
You may write me down in history
with your bitter, twisted lies,
you may trod me in the very dirt
but still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
with the certainty of tides,
just like hopes springing high,
still I'll rise.
The strangest sensation came over me as I read the third verse, as if the skin of my forehead was pulsating. I could see that the room was still, but nonetheless I had a physical sensation as if the ground were swaying underneath me.
"Still I'll rise…" This is me, I thought, but the thought felt presumptuous.
This is not me. I'm not the certainty of tides. That's more like Legend. Legend was one of the world's greatest heroes, a Triumvirate member who fought at every Endbringer battle. Just as impressively, he had advanced queer rights nationwide by coming out as gay, risking his own popularity and public position. That wasn't something that powers of invulnerability and light speed helped him do. It was just him, being implacable in doing right.
I'm not the certainty of tides. But I want to be.
Realizing I'd lost focus, I restarted the poem, forcing myself not to rush through the lines.
Slow.
Curious.
Converse.
-----------------------------
After dinner, Dad drove us into a nice neighborhood - the sort of neighborhood where the lawns were lush and the houses inconsiderately set too far apart for roof leaping. Not a neighborhood whose kids attended Winslow.
The house we stopped at was relatively modest for this neighborhood - nicer and better-maintained than our own house, but not all that much larger.
"By the way," said Dad as we walked up the flagstone path to the front door, "you've actually heard of this lawyer. Her name's Carol Dallon, but she's also--"
"Brandish! Neat. I've met her daughter."
"Yes, at the hospital, I remember." Dad pressed the doorbell and I faintly heard chimes.
"Oh, not Amy. I mean, you're right, I've met her too. But I was talking about Amy's sister Vicky. We hung out on the Boardwalk." I elected not to share the precise circumstances of that meeting -- which came about as a result of my asking Amy out and getting shot down so hard that fighter pilot casualties of World War Two rose from their graves to whistle and say "whoa, that was harsh" - with my father.
The door was opened by an attractive fortyish woman in a well-tailored skirt suit. I'd seen her before, from across the room at a book signing, but of course she looked entirely different without her Brandish uniform. I wondered if wearing different outfits helped her keep things compartmentalized.
As Dad was thanking her for seeing us on short notice and after work, she glanced at my face and did a double-take. Then, sounding annoyed, she said "if this appointment is a pretext because you're hoping to jump the line to see Panacea, you're in for a disappointment."
"What?" said Dad, confused.
"She means my nose, Dad." I turned to Mrs. Dallon. "Amy's already tried to fix my nose, and she can't do it. It's part of my power."
"Panacea can't do it? That's unheard of. Was she really trying?"
"She tried several times. But every time she shrank it, it grew back."
She hummed, not looking satisfied. "So your powers are… nose-based?"
I laughed. "You'd think so, right? But no. They're not done power testing me yet, but Doctor Joy at the PRT is thinking I'm mainly a combat thinker. But I'm also a bit stronger and faster than I should be, and I heal quickly."
"The PRT wants to sign Taylor up," interjected Dad, holding up the folder with the thick PRT paperwork. "But I've been looking through this contract, and there's already some things I don't like the smell of."
"Yes, well. I've never seen a PRT contract I didn't want to amend." She took the contract from Dad and looked at it like a wine collector considering a bottle of questionable vintage. "Let's sit down - my office is down the hall. Taylor, would you like to say hi to Amy? We can catch you up later."
"I actually spent a lot more time with Vicky than Amy. Is she home?"
"I think she is. Up the stairs, second bedroom on the left."
I walked up the stairs, stopping frequently to look at the framed photos on the wall. There were photos of a cute blonde baby (presumably Vicky), then a cute toddler and the cute child the baby became. I didn't see any picture of baby Amy, which was odd. But there was a photo of Vicky and Amy as children, sitting inside a giant teacup and waving at the camera. They looked about the same age, and I realized I didn't know which of them was the elder. (Or they could be fraternal twins, I supposed.)
There were two framed photos of graduates in cap and gown. The first one was a man I didn't recognize, while the second was unmistakably a younger Carol Dallon, with a big smile and big feathered hair. Then there was a framed cover from an issue of Bay Today, showing Vicky, practically dripping wholesomeness, taking flight with one arm stretched above her and long hair flowing like a river.
Why didn't Dad and I have a wall like this? It would be nice. Maybe I should look through our photo albums for a good one of Mom to enlarge and frame.
As instructed, I made my way up to the second floor and headed for the second door on the left. Just before it was a shelf that was piled with trophies, like someone had put up the shelf to nicely display two or three trophies and then another ten had been piled on top.
I expected they'd be sports trophies, but from closer up I saw it was a literal heap of commendations for Amy. There was an oversized key - she has a key to the city? There were numerous trophies and certificates from city agencies and hospitals. (The trophy from the Fire Department was shaped like a fire extinguisher, which I thought was funny.) Balanced on top of the pile, attached to a red ribbon, was a fancy medal which said "Republicque Franncaise -- Honneur Et Patrie."
There was also a short handwritten note, which seemed out of place among the trophies and medals, until I noticed that it was signed by the President. WTF?
Someone should really build a second shelf for all this stuff.
I knocked on the second door, and it swung open. I wondered if Vicky likes poetry - maybe I could read "Still I Rise" to her.
"Vicky?," I called, taking a single step in and looking around for her. No Vicky was evident, but this was clearly a teen girl's bedroom - there were textbooks and a laptop on a desk, next to a bookcase overstuffed with romance novels and manga collections. A small table covered with little plant boxes was set under a window. Coke cans, dirty dishes, and some drab girl's clothing were strewn across the floor. The laptop screen showed a photo of Amy and Vicky side-hugging and smiling at the camera. Cute.
Wait a second, I thought.
Which is exactly when a heavy lump of metal slammed into the back of my skull.
I fell onto my knees, clutching the top of my head. A moment later, I scrambled forward, wanting to put some distance between me and my attacker. I got my back against a wall and stood up, trying to make my eyes focus. Come on, power, heal me already.
"I knew it!," said a girl's voice, angry and close to hysteria. "I knew you were a stalker!"
I shook my head and peered at the person. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with a picture of Narwhal, and holding a trophy shaped like a fire extinguisher above her head. "Amy?"
"How'd you find me? Did you break in?"
I stepped out from the wall. "Look, there's been a misunderstanding."
"Stay away from me!," Amy swung her trophy, trying to bean me on the head again. Even feeling a little dizzy from the head bonk, it was easy to catch her wrists. She tried to pull away, but she wasn't very strong. "Vicky!" she yelled.
"Please listen. I didn't break in, I'm here with--"
Amy stopped struggling and glared at my hand on her wrist, and I didn't even feel it when I hit the floor.
