Wake-up Call - Chapter 1
Do you know what’s the best part about dreaming? In my case, it’s that I don’t
have to worry about my power. For a short, blissful time, I am free to experience
incongruous moments without a part of me eagerly tearing them apart and
feeding me clues. It’s liberating.
The worst part, of course, is waking up to a world roaring its mysteries at me,
making sure I know how utterly out of my depth I always am. Especially today.
Because today I am tied up to my bed.
Lights never turned on—perpetrator can easily move around in the dark. Tied
over sheets, no physical contact with restraints, restraints loose—delaying tactic,
not final measure. Perpetrator nearby. Perpetrator deciding whether further
action is required. Rachel’s dogs never woke up. Perpetrator either Stranger or
known acquaintance. Restraints thin yet resilient. Spider silk. Skitter.
Fuck.
“Taylor? Didn’t know you were into the kinky stuff.” That’s right, Lisa, pretend it’s
all a big joke. Maybe the biblical plague will play along rather than have the
locusts scour the flesh from your bones—
Control over arthropods. Dust mites are arthropods. Dust mites eat skin—
Thank you, Power! That idea definitely won’t haunt my nightmares for years to
come!
“Tattletale.” Oh. We are using cape names. Guess she isn’t in a playful mood.
I manage to turn around under my cotton blankets enough that, with the faint,
yellowish light of the streetlights filtering through my window’s blinds, I can catch
a glimpse of my eerily still teammate dressed in full regalia, the citrine lenses of
her mask fixated on me (too still, channeling emotions to bugs, no buzzing in
hearing distance—meant to avoid giving out clues, prepared for confrontation
with Thinker).
She’s terrifying.
“Skitter.” I try to inject as much levity as I can into my reply, with a mock-frown
and raspy voice showing her how cliché the whole exchange sounds. I don’t think
I am much successful.
“You have been lying to me.”
Fuck. No, not successful at all.
All right, let’s try and cover all the bases: I’ve lied to her about not knowing she’s
trying to be a hero, about my connection to Coil, about my own legal name, about
her being suicidal…
Any hints, power?
…
Yeah, thought so. Fuck you too.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. Also, I can yell and have the rest of the
team here in seconds, so… maybe you could cut it out with the creepy stalker
vibes while no harm has been done?” To me. Harm done to me. I feel the
clarification is important.
I suddenly get the clear impression of an arched eyebrow under her mask, as if
that was reply enough as to the capability of any of my ragtag band of misfits to
interfere with what is going on. Still, she elaborates, if only for the intimidation
value. “Brian is at his apartment, Rachel went out for a late-night stroll,” fuck you
and your anti dog-fighting rings crusade, Rachel, seriously, “and Alec won’t
bother to come even if you manage to wake him up from his deep, deep slumber.
I wanted uninterrupted privacy, and we are going to get it.”
“… Sooo, you are not helping your case about the whole ‘I am into kinky things’
deal, you know?” Damn, I just can’t help myself. Maybe I am the one that’s
suicidal.
There’s a loud exhalation coming from the general direction of my nightmares
come to life. “Funny you should mention kinkiness…” Oh, fuck, no.
Confrontation is about sexual matters. Deception strong motivator for hostile
approach. Recent discovery made Taylor Hebert reconsider her relationship with
Lisa Wilbourn. Taylor Hebert despises deception and manipulation. Taylor
Hebert angry. Taylor Hebert recently discovered that—
Yes, I know! Fuck fuck fuck, deny! Abort! Exit ship!
In fandom subculture, “shipping” often refers to—
Shut the Hell up, power, or I swear to God I will lobotomize you! Myself! Both!
Okay, just take a few deep breaths that are in no way being resonated through
the silk strings tying me down and feeding information about my mental state to
Taylor through her spiders. Deep breaths, Lisa. You got this. “I don’t know what
the heck you are talking about.”
Again, there’s that damnable, invisible, arched eyebrow. “You masturbated in the
same house as someone with limited omniscience. Denial is no longer an
option.”
“But still a river in Egypt? I could go to Egypt. Egypt sounds nice.”
“How droll. I seem to remember something about them being a lot into locusts,
maybe we could visit together?” Oh no, you fucker, you don’t get to pull terrors
from my mind and use them against me, that’s my shtick. Also, please don’t hurt
me.
“Right, no international travel with the plague made flesh, got it.” I’ve got the
strong impression she would be huffing right now if her body language wasn’t
being suppressed, which is good, as Taylor isn’t the type to kid around with
someone she has decided needs to be… dealt with. Not her style. That whole
thing about a bad man enjoying abusing his power while a good man will just
execute you… Yeah. At least she’s still got those heroic traits, much to her foes’
terror. “Still, I don’t see how my… self-care is any of your business.”
“You are not that stupid.” Hey! I mean, I am not, but phrasing. “It was not that
long ago that you shared with me that whole spiel about how your power has
made you asexual, how it feeds too much information about any possible sexual
or romantic matter and kills your libido.”
“Yep, that’s me, TMI made manifest.”
“But after catching you… in the act,” Is she embarrassed? Yes, she is on the
verge of mortification. Good, that emotion is rarely associated with violent
murder, “I started thinking, and that’s just bullshit.”
“I will have you know asexuality is a perfectly legitimate lifestyle choice and I am
deeply offended by the—” She waves a hand in irritation, which means I am
dragging her into a conversational mindset rather than a confrontational one.
Good. I don’t know how the Hell I managed, but good.
“That’s not the point, and you know it.”
“So what’s the point?”
“That you’ve basically told me that boys have cooties, and that makes you go
eww.”
I pause. Yeah, that’s kinda what I did, isn’t it? Damn, and I thought I was being
oh so clever with that piece of misdirection… “That’s not it at all, Taylor, you can’t
imagine what it’s like to look at someone and know all of their deepest, darkest,
sexual perversions. People are sick.” There, maybe that’s salvageable.
“Bullshit.” Or maybe it isn’t. “But, for the sake of argument, I will give you a
chance. Come on, Lisa, this should be easy for you: what’s the darkest, most
depraved, sexual thing you can get from me?”
I pause. I remember. And, going from the heat suddenly radiating from my face, I
blush up to my hair roots.
“I am waiting.” Is that a hint of smug in her tone? Okay, good news is she’s
definitely letting up on the emotion suppression. Bad news is I am about to hit her
with a trademark infringement claim. Let’s see how you like being demonetized,
bitch. In lowercase. No TM infringement intended, Bitch.
There’s a very pointed clearing of throat coming from the dramatically lit corner of
my bedroom, and I sigh in resignation. “All right, fine, let’s see what I can
remember… you like beefcake, obviously, have no notable experience save from
the multiple times you have used marathon masturbation sessions as a means of
escapism…” I trail off, hoping she will make me stop from sheer mortification—
heck, I am about to choke up just from the second-hand embarrassment—but no
dice, “you often fantasize about hair-pulling, even if you usually don’t allow
yourself to think of you in a submissive position… And… you wonder whether
your thin lips will be good enough to give oral pleasure… and often think about
whether everyone has a different taste, and if that’s distinctive enough for you to
recognize them after all your experience with bug senses… And… Fuck! All right!
You don’t have a rape fetish, nor an incestuous one, haven’t ever thought
necrophilia could be a real thing, have good hygiene and do not squick me out at
all! Are you happy now?!” By the end of my tirade, I am almost panting for breath,
and it is quite clear my tactic to inflict Taylor with enough shame to drop the
fucking subject has backfired in the worst possible way. Fucking hate social
confrontations without God-mode activated.
“… Is that everything?” She asks, with a voice so tiny it lets me know my
suffering is shared. After a silence long enough to signal her to continue, she
once again clears her throat, but without the pointiness. “Very well, I can… attest
to the accuracy of most of that. Also, necrophilia is a thing?!”
“Don’t ask, Tay, just… don’t.”
She looks at me with what I can only imagine to be wariness before deciding to
continue… whatever this whole thing is. A thing, I guess.
“Right… Still, seeing as we just proved your whole excuse is bullshit, and that the
most elementary reading of behavioral psychology would indicate that even if you
were surrounded all day by horny people with sick fetishes, you would just
develop one of your own…” we get it, Taylor, your mom was a college professor.
You are still just a teen putting on airs. No, I am not feeling petty just because
you caught me. Shut up. “Well, the obvious question is… why?”
Subject feels strong emotional attachment with Lisa Wilbourn. Attachment
perceived as vulnerability, manipulation perceived as Lisa Wilbourn taking
advantage of vulnerability. Subject craves attachment. Unwilling to let go of it.
Wants excuse to maintain relationship.
… All right, on the one hand that’s both useful and reassuring. On the other…
Power, you just made me feel like a heel. Damn it, I could have kept playing
around and taken the conversation to an indefinite conclusion that left everyone
unsatisfied and the status quo untouched, but noooo, the fucking voices in my
head just had to guilt-trip me.
I sigh in resignation and finish turning around, getting as comfortable as I can in
my current restraints as I look at my best friend (and isn’t that an awfully
complicated revelation) in the fake eyes of her mask. This is gonna hurt the both
of us.
“I didn’t want you to see me in a sexual way. I wanted you to think I was safe,
that I was as far as possible from your ex-girlfriend as a girl about your age could
be. I wanted you to—“
“Ex-girlfriend?”
And, just like that, just from that inquisitive tone, my stomach drops.
“… Your ex-girlfriend, you know? Childhood friend, deep emotional bond, left you
for the new girl and caused you to trigger?”
Taylor’s mask moves in a way that tells me she’s wetting suddenly dry lips. “Lisa,
Emma and I were never… like that.”
…
Of all the times to get a misfire, it had to be one like that, Power? What the Hell
were you thinking?!
Taylor Hebert displayed severe signs of emotional withdrawal in association with
subject Emma Barnes. Conflict coincided with puberty. Puberty heavily
associated with romantic attachments of violent intensity and flighty nature.
Romantic relationship probable conclusion.
Are you trying to make excuses?!
Lisa Wilbourn is anthropomorphizing power input. Attributing a personality to
non-sentient objects can be linked to feelings of loneliness or emotional
detachment from peers. Lisa Wilbourn going through late stages of puberty. Lisa
Wilbourn probably craves romantic attachment.
… My power is a snarky shipper. Life is Hell.
“Hey, you all right? You kind of… drifted off. And your face looks like you are
debating the merits of throwing up whatever you just swallowed.”
“Geez, flattery will get you everywhere, Tay.” Well, disturbing revelations about
the nature of the voice in my head aside, I still have to deal with the other
disturbing revelations born by a misfire of said voice. Fuck. “Right, we just
discovered this whole fiasco was caused by me being overly conscious about a
perceived issue that wasn’t an issue at all, so… how about untying me?”
There’s another pause as Taylor’s body language once again goes completely
silent. Oh, dear.
“Actually…” No. Oh God, fuck, no, “there’s just one final detail,” shut up, please,
shut up, just close your fucking mouth and— “it’s about what you said while you
were—”
“Nope! Taylor, you can’t seriously expect me to talk with you about—”
“You kept calling my name! I thought you were in danger!”
“In danger of dehydration, maybe! Now just fucking drop the subject before I get
into even more danger of an arrhythmia!”
“You are the first friend I have had in forever, don’t you think we should talk about
this before it becomes a problem?”
“I am tied down to my bed in silk ropes by the girl whose, again, silk-clad,
sculpted legs have driven me to finger myself to sleep for the past week! I
already have a problem, and being scaroused isn’t helping any!”
At that, she stands up and unmasks herself. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks
flushed enough to be noticeable in the low light of the sodium streetlights. As she
takes a single step towards me, I can’t help my eyes from dropping to her
shapely thighs and the way reflected highlights dance over the shifting, toned
muscle beneath the fabric. Goddammit, not the time, Lisa!
“And how do you think I feel?” What? “Do you have the slightest idea what those
tights do to your ass?” Of course I do. Thinker here. Cockteasing is a valid
distraction tactic. “Do you even understand what it’s like being near you,
constantly, while you keep showering me with attention and affection and having
to remind myself that you are just unattainable because your power effectively
neutered you?!” She’s… she’s coming near. Standing over me. Over me tied
down to my bed. Looking into my eyes, frustrated moisture barely held back in
her own, hair in disarray from the violent removal of her mask. She’s
breathtaking.
Both Lisa Wilbourn and Taylor Hebert self-isolated from peers. Shared emotional
bond has quickly grown despite deception on both parts. Resistance to bond
overcome through emotional need on both ends—
“Tay… I… There’s something you should—”
And she kisses me.
It’s rough. None of us have exactly prepared with Chapstick, and our dry lips
sometimes pull at each other as they brush, but I can’t help but lean forward,
searching for more contact—
Enhanced response when leaning forward, Taylor Hebert eager for reciprocity—
inviting yet not pushing would—
I open my mouth just enough to dart my tongue forward, licking her lips and
softening them. She moans, and the vibration makes me hold my breath.
Taylor Hebert afraid of, yet craving, intimacy. Offering and not imposing—
I retract my tongue and, after a second where her warm exhalation washes over
my still open lips, her own tongue pursues me right into my mouth.
Excited by having initiative, yet insecure about own skill—
I moan. Half of it is because I know Taylor wants me to (and isn’t that a thrill all
on its own), and half of it is because this is our first kiss, and no amount of
Holmesian deduction has prepared me for the sheer rush of mingled emotions
racing through my spine.
“Tay…” a moan escapes me as she decides to nibble on my lower lip, “Tay… we
should talk about… Oh God…”
“Tats… I love you dearly, but you talk too much.”
And her lips seal my own.
Excited about romantic connection. Afraid of losing connection. Wants to lose
herself in the moment.
I try to work my arms from under my tied down blankets, whether to push her or
hug her it’s unclear, but Taylor drops herself on me, and her embrace blocks my
movement. I can feel her slight bust pressing on my own, the silk smoothly
gliding over the cotton, and a sharp exhalation flees me as her two hard nubs
start circling and pressing down on my own.
Knows she’s wanted. Exalting in the feeling of Lisa Wilbourn accepting her.
Excited by Lisa Wilbourn passively being subjected to sexual stimulation. Wants
to go further.
Oh God… That’s such a bad idea…
She frees my lips just to lower herself a bit more and start working on licking my
ear, which makes saying what I am about to say even harder. “Tay… Please,
don’t take this as a rejection, but we should stop…”
She lowers herself a bit more, now nibbling on my neck, and the sheer sensuality
of the feeling (thrill of danger enhances—) makes me cry out. “No,” she says in a
happy murmur. And my mind goes blank for a minute, only rebooting as her left
hand starts palming and circling my breast.
“What do you mean ‘no?’”
Her lips go to my wet ear once more, and, between slow, sensual nibbles, she
answers, “I mean that I’ve got a gorgeous, hot blonde, whose spandex covered
butt has been teasing me for days, tied down to her bed, moaning at my every
touch. I mean that I don’t think we should stop.” At this, her tone takes on a
possessive note, and her hand grips my breast with enough strength to make me
gasp. It’s hard to argue her point.
Taylor Hebert often fantasizes about sexually dominant scenarios. Current
circumstances allow Lisa Wilbourn to escape with enough determination. Slight
resistance will be taken as going along with the scenario. Serious resistance will
be taken as rejection and cause Taylor Hebert to withdraw in guilt.
And now my power is emotionally blackmailing me. Great. If he was a human, he
would be such a “nice guy.” Meanwhile, Tayor has taken my silence and ragged
breathing as eager acceptance and let her hands wander. This girl, I don’t know
how she makes such wild leaps of logic.
Our mouths press together once again, and I can’t help but be an enthusiastic
participant. Our legs entangle through my sheets, thighs rubbing through soft
cotton, and I just can’t resist tilting my pelvis upwards, seeking pressure and
friction. Taylor… doesn’t deny me, and I moan into the kiss once again, a low
sound that rumbles up from my increasingly warm chest. For a short, blissful
moment, my mind succumbs to the roar of rushing blood, and even the persistent
mumbling of my power is drowned out. There’s only me, Taylor, and yearning.
Her hands hold my face, scalding hot on my cheeks, and she lifts her lips from
mine, only her surprising strength stopping me from chasing her—that, and my
restraints. I let out a growl that would make Rachel proud. I swear, if she
blueballs me after all of that… “So… I guess I have your permission to continue?”
I look at her with all the grumpy pouting I can manage, which, going by the flush I
can feel burning down to the top of my breasts, may come across as more
adorable than menacing. Damn it. “You think?”
She has the goddamned nerve to chuckle. Oh, girl, you don’t know what you are
getting into starting a teasing war with a fucking Thinker. Or by fucking a Thinker,
come to think of it. Speaking of, why are you getting up and denying me the
feeling of your sculpted legs rubbing between my soft ones? No, I am not needy.
Shut up.
“Don’t worry, I am not about to leave you hanging.” She smiles at me and my
heart fucking flutters. Fluttering isch verboten, you hear, you damn mushy piece
of crap? I am going to gorge on fried chicken and greasy pizza just to spite you,
you pretentious valve system.
“I am more worried about you leaving me tied down to the bed and frustrated out
of my mind, to be honest.” There. A cheeky remark. Can’t let her forget who
wears the pants in this snark—the skin-tight pants, much like her own.
…
Sorry, shorted out there, for a moment.
Lisa Wilbourn uses humor and narrative conventions as a defense mechanism to
avoid considering—
Shut uuuuuuuuuuuup!
Thankfully, Taytay is feeling charitable enough to help me derail my train of
thought and upcoming argument with the disembodied voice of a less boundary
conscious Sherlock Holmes living in my head. By flipping the sheets up.
What.
I stare dumbly up at the still fluttering (forgivable in sheets, not in organs) piece of
white fabric as I feel air suddenly rushing over my legs, followed by a leggy
brunette slipping down my short pajama pants. I am still tied up from my waist
up. Oh God, this could be so bad and so good.
Before I can fully process what’s about to happen, I can feel Taylor’s lips leaving
scorching trails of wet fire as she drags them over the inner side of my thighs,
one leg after the other, alternating and going ever upwards with each pass. My
gasps grow heavy with anticipation, and I clamp down hard on any hints my
power is about to give me. The anticipation, the thrill, is too much for me to stand.
And far too good for me to spoil.
She stops, and I can feel her hesitation as warm air washes over my wet center. I
shiver. “Lisa, If you don’t want me to—” Before she can finish, my hands slither
from under the sheets and grab the silky hair I have admired so often. Then I pull
her towards me.
Taylor groans.
The hesitation, the tentative touches expected of a first-time lover, get washed
away by a torrent of passion finally unleashed. Her tongue attacks me, and it’s
only my own arousal that lets me accept such enthusiasm from the get-go.
“Taylor, I—” Her lips lock around my clitoris and she sucks on it as hard as she
can. My breathing stops.
It’s only after an indeterminate amount of time, which she spends alternating
suction and quick, hard licks with her pointed tongue, that she stops and speaks,
her words a vibrating warmth on my sex. “I always wondered, you know, when
playing with myself, how it would feel to—” My hands tighten their grip on her hair
and pull her against me so hard I can feel the impact reverberating up to my
chest. A low moan hums against my lower lips, and there are no more words.
There’s some shuffling on my mattress, Taylor’s lips intermittently abandoning
my own, and I can hear soft fabric falling to the floor. Before I can guess what it is
that Taylor has removed, her lips return to my nub, suction and an increasingly
deft massage from her tongue leaving me seeing sparks, and then… Then her
bare fingers start prodding me.
And, before I can even begin to process what to say (teasing remark
inappropriate in highly emotional—) she… She penetrates me. Taylor is inside
me. Me.
And I come.
I… I am usually a quiet girl. Sometimes I mutter, or gasp, or moan, and
sometimes I can get really into things and say a word or two in a volume that
may not be entirely appropriate (or, apparently, chant my teammate's name in a
litany insistent enough that she thinks I am desperately calling for help… which
may not have been entirely inaccurate). But I am usually a quiet girl.
Today? With my first real friend since I triggered, the girl I have been guiltily
lusting after since shortly after meeting her, not only reciprocating my feelings but
unleashing her own lust on me while I am helpless to stop her?
No, today I am not quiet.
I let out a scream that is only interrupted by the wracking shocks seizing my
body, barely aware of my fingers digging into Taylor’s scalp as I press her even
harder against me, desperate for her not to stop. I gasp for breath, and, even as
the physical sensations let up, the emotional release is enough to make me cry
out again—in joy, in laughter, in sheer exhilaration. I am here, with Taylor, and I
am shouting my happiness to the world.
Which is when somebody knocks on the door.
Taylor freezes, which, given the way her fingers had been hooked inside me to
rub at the upper walls of my pussy, makes me let out a final, strangled gasp. Of
course, there’s no need to be a Thinker to know that—
Other teammates out of the building. Regent only teammate present. Intruders
unlikely to knock—
… Power, you are useless.
Trying to steady my breathing, I answer with all the dread the situation demands.
“Yes? Is something the matter?”
“You fucking kidding me?” Comes the slightly baffled response.
“… No?” Comes the very mortified reply.
There’s some sighing loud enough to come through the solid wooden door
(theatrical expression of emotion, intended to maximize discomfort), and then,
with an almost chiding tone, he says, “Tats, my dear teammate, either you enjoy
strangling cats to a degree I find most disturbing—which means a lot, as I
despise the little bastards—or you and Taytay finally did the deed. Just wanted to
congratulate you, express my sincere admiration at her amateurish yet obviously
effective technique, and tell you to keep it the fuck (heh… ‘the fuck,’ get it?)
down, because some people are trying to sleep.”
“I have no idea whatsoever what you are talking about.”
“I can still see your nervous system lighting up like a Christmas tree.”
… Given that psychics are not supposed to exist, I am getting fucking tired of
being surrounded by them. My prolonged silence while trying to come up with an
adequate reply (revealing Heartbreaker’s connection considered excessive
retaliation—) seems to instigate further elaboration from the jerk with a heart of…
jerk. “You know, if you have so much trouble trying to be silent, I can always lend
you some gags that I—ouch! Hey! Stop that! There’s no need to—gack!”
After half a second of pondering and at the start of a running retreat from the
other side of my door, I turn my still blinded attention towards my leggier
teammate. “Mosquitoes? Fleas? Gnats?”
“Yes.”
“God, I love you so much.”
We freeze.
“I mean, uh, that’s just an expression, you know, a saying, an idiom, a hyperbole
used for humorous effect in a somewhat cliché manner that nonetheless
contributes to establishing a common ground in the transmission of said effect to
achieve effective communication and—”
“Lisa?”
“Yes?”
“I get it. If you keep explaining I may get upset.”
Regent’s pained cries for mercy play in the background as I ponder the wisdom
of upsetting Taylor Hebert after what has probably been her first non-solo sexual
experience. After a few pico-seconds of careful consideration, I offer my sincere
capitulation. “Do you wanna cuddle?”
There’s some rustling and a few snaps as the slight pressure of my bindings
disappears and Taylor gets off my bed. I throw my blanket back down and,
turning to watch her lithe figure, I scoot towards the wall, offering her a spot with
what I hope is a warm, inviting smile, and not a slasher grin borne from sheer
anxiety. Taylor, mask and gloves off, seems to consider my offer and gestures
towards the rest of her uniform. “It is… kind of streetwear. Should I…?”
I nod.
I try not to nod twice.
I fail.
With a hint of humor, Taylor regales me with the striptease that by all means
should have come before I did. The silk at times glides like water over her
smooth skin, the faint light in the room not enough to reveal any imperfections
and leaving me with the impression of a creature of myth stepping out of a
cocoon of liquid darkness. When she’s finally down to her underwear and she
shakes her head to throw her hair back, my breath catches.
She’s my best friend. Quite likely my only friend.
She’s, no matter what she thinks, gorgeous.
She likes me. Broken, messed up, devious, vicious me.
I… I think I have a huge crush on her.
Postcoital emotional openness known to cause feelings of euphoria and elation,
hormonal imbalance easily amplifies emotions—
Yes, Power, I get it, I am a hormonal teenager who can’t be trusted to know her
own emotions. My feelings are all chemical reactions and everything is terrible
and life has no meaning and love is a lie—
Origin of emotions irrelevant to their effect. Effect divorced from genesis. Lisa
Wilbourne's emotions valid datapoints.
… Thank you, Power.
Suddenly, before I even know how to react, there’s a warm body lying next to
mine. I still have my pajama’s shirt on, but our legs finally entangle without any
fabric getting in the way. Closely. Intimately. I am grinning like a loon.
She looks at me, head bashfully tucked down, and I get the remarkable
experience of looking down at the much taller girl’s eyes. I love it. “So… Where
does this leave us?”
I can’t even begin to think before my mouth opens. “Here. Together.”
She giggles, and I feel her body trembling against mine. I also love it. I find that I
love a lot of things, at the moment. “That’s a remarkably accurate description of
our current circumstances. But is that literal, or…”
I kiss her hair as she starts trailing off, and I murmur between her curls. “Yes, it is
literal and metaphor. You’ve got me, Tay, and it will take some effort to make me
let go.”
We remain silent for a moment that stretches a lifetime before she answers.
“Good.”
And it is.
But… Well, it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t engage in some possibly self-destructive
exchange of words, would it?
“There’s something I should tell you, though.”
She prepares for the worst. She gets it.
I talk long into the night, explaining to her how much of a bad idea it is to try to
infiltrate a villain’s team, more so when said team has its own consulting
detective. I reassure her I won’t betray her trust, that nobody knows about it but
me. There’s a lot of hushed whispering while we try to keep the volume down. I
manage to calm her, and she, delightfully, never leaves the bed and our legs
remain twined.
Then… Then I talk about Coil.
I tell her I have extensive files on everything I know about his operations,
everything I suspect about his power, everything she wanted when she joined the
Undersiders.
She’s free to leave.
I am not.
And so, she doesn’t.
Wake-up Call - Chapter 2
“Lisa, let me go, I need to leave,” Taylor says, with all the patience of somebody
wrangling a toddler and trying not to resort to physical violence.
“Noooooo, stay!” I answer, with my best toddler impression.
“You are being ridiculous.”
“Me? You are the one deciding to risk life and limb on a whim! There’s absolutely no
reason you couldn’t spend the morning in bed and—”
“Lisa! I am just going to school!”
“That’s what I said!”
Taylor looks at me like I have finally gone over the brink, which, to be fair, is pretty much
the way I am looking at her. It turns out that letting a burgeoning friend engage in selfdestructive behavior while you make it clear you are there for them when they need you
(as you systematically plan to make yourself an indispensable part of their almost nonexistent support network so they will help you when—
Lisa Wilbourn engaging in self-deprecation and self-aggrandizing simultaneously as a
way to avoid confronting her feelings of loss of control when it comes to—
Shut the fuck up! I mean, as I was saying: one thing to let a friend get hurt, quite
another to let a lover get hurt.
Heh. Lover.
Oh God, I am blushing. And now Taylor is looking at me, and also blushing, which looks
adorable now that I can see it almost frames her glasses, and the way the vivid red on
her pale skin contrasts with the dark green of her eyes, and now I am blushing more,
and so is she, both of us caught in a feedback loop of blushing that is making my brain
divide by zero—
“So, I wanted to apologize,” says Regent.
“What?!” Taylor and I break out of the loop at once, yet our speech remains in synch.
This may prove hazardous.
Likelihood of power interaction vanishingly small, yet not zero—
I need to stop joking to myself. It only brings ever greater sources of stress.
Alec looks at me weirdly, as if unsure of why exactly I am pulling at both my hair and
Taylor’s wrist at seven in the morning while I try to bar her from the loft’s stairs. He’s
also looking surprisingly alert for someone who just emerged from his bedroom about
four hours too early for his usual routine. And he isn’t rushing to the bathroom.
Something is up.
No jokes about morning wood, Power. Have mercy.
“For last night,” he continues his alleged apology. “I mean, it obviously was an important
moment, and I shouldn’t have intruded as I did. The sanctity of the lilies should be ever
preserved in this harsh world.”
“What do floral arrangements have to do with—”
“Taylor, sweetie,” I interrupt before she ends up too far down the rabbit hole, “you don’t
want to know. Trust me.”
“Philistine,” Alec haughtily remarks. Which may carry more gravitas if not said by
someone wearing Magical Girl Lyrical Nanoha pajamas.
… Yes, I recognize her on sight. Bootlegging torrented subs from Earth Aleph counts as
supervillainy. A very respectable, yet sinister, activity. Shut up.
Lisa Wilbourn engages in deflection to avoid thinking about the possible parallelisms
between the relationship between Nanoha Takamachi and Fate Testarossa and her
own—
Fine, the traumatized dark magical girl attracted to the heroine with no regard for
collateral damage is a blonde with green eyes. Don’t you also start with your shipping
bullshit, that was disturbing enough last night.
Lisa Wilbourn secretly pleased at the parallelism between—
For fuck’s sake, won’t you let me keep a shred of dignity?!
“Anyway, Lisa obviously being an uncultured swine isn’t the issue, but rather how
uncouth my behavior was, and the distress I caused you two in what should have been
a quiet, intimate moment.”
“Uh, apology accepted, I guess?” Taylor asks, looking at me as if I hold the answer to
her question.
She looks so cute when she’s being socially awkward…
“Thank you, Taylor, for your tolerant, nay, magnanimous acceptance of my churlish and
thoroughly inadequate behavior. But I must insist: at least take this, as a tangible token
of my regret and my silent support of your relationship.”
“You are talking weird. Being weird,” Taylor says, as she automatically takes the small
object Alec hands her. “Why are you being so weird?”
Object small and thin, likely cylindrical, symbolically related to romance—
Oh, motherfucker—
“Guys? Why are you all up so early?” Brian asks, just back from his coffee run, as
Alec’s smile widens to shit-eating proportions and Taylor looks dumbfounded at the
chapstick lying in her palm.
Alec looks at me, triumphant, and I am about to punch him just as he pushes the button
of the remote hidden in his pajama pants and Katy Perry’s spine-tingling voice (I have
needs!) blares out of his bedroom.
“I kissed a girl and I liked it, the taste of her cherry chapstick,” Taylor’s look blooms into
horror as she sees the candy red of the traitorous plastic tube lying on her open palm.
Before she thinks to close her fingers, Katy inexorably dooms us all. “I kissed a girl just
to try it, I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”
Alec is about to say something, to deal the final blow, just as I deal mine and bury my
right arm in his solar plexus almost up to my elbow—
Sudden stimulus to solar plexus certain to trigger a diaphragm spasm and render
speech impossible—
Yes. That’s the idea, Power.
Grue looks at me bewildered, yet absent of reproach (it is Alec, after all), and Taylor
regards enough of her wits to close her fist and hide the incriminating evidence in her
pocket. I start to breathe, just as Katy delivers the last, punishing blow: “Don’t mean I’m
in love tonight.”
I blush. Taylor blushes harder. Alec desperately gasps for breath so he can deliver a
one-liner. Brian looks very confused.
“… Coffee?” he asks while lifting the carboard tray in supplicating offer, hopeful for the
return of a world that makes sense.
Oh, sweet summer child…
**
“Right, so the whole thing boils down to you not wanting Taylor to go back to Winslow
alone and unsupported,” Brian asks, after I swear solemn vengeance on Alec with
eloquent body language.
“Yes, that’s the whole thing. All of it.” I answer, lying through my teeth.
“Tell her she’s being ridiculous.” Taylor’s tone is unwavering, cold, rational. She’s
offloading her embarrassment to her swarm. Cheater.
“No, I think she’s right.” I am about to refute his point when he agrees with me without
arguing. Uh. That feels weird.
“What? Brian, don’t you start too, I can’t just drop out of high school just like that, I will
be perfectly fine—”
“You triggered there not that long ago, are regularly subjected to physical assault, and
the place has more junior gang members than juvie while the ABB is still bombing the
city. You are in very real danger whenever you set foot in that place, and not just as a
random bystander, but as a target.” Oh, that’s what someone being reasonable sounds
like. I should take notes so I can fake it.
“Ahem. Yes. Precisely my point. Thank you for your input, Brian.” Nailed it.
Taylor glares at me, obviously jealous of my quickly growing arsenal of weaponized
maturity and level-headedness.
“I am not dropping out.” Or digging in her heels like a particularly ornery badger. Yeah,
one of those two.
Taylor Hebert wants to avoid ceding ground to her bullies, as her own martyr complex
makes her assign a non-trivial amount of her perceived self-worth to her enduring over
a greater—
Yeah, I got that. It’s just frustratingly stupid, and I don’t know how to dissuade her.
Malicious compliance can often—
Oh, that’s a good one. Thank you, Power.
“Look, Tay, Brian’s got a point, so… Let’s compromise?”
“A… compromise,” she says, as if the very word is anathema to her core.
“Yes, a tiny, teensy one…” Brian looks at me with suspicion over the rim of his coffee
cup, Alec sniggers from the sofa, and Taylor arches a very professorial eyebrow.
Jeeze, everyone is a critic.
**
“This is not a tiny compromise. This is so far from a tiny compromise it makes the Treaty
of Versailles look like two friends arguing over a tip,” Taylor mutters into the hands-free
system hidden in her lustrous, voluminous hair (not jealous, just… appreciative).
“I am letting you march into a den of scum and villainy armed only with a stealth
surveillance system and your objectively hot Big Sister monitoring you from the nearest
café in this area, which, by the way, yuck. Be thankful I am calling this a compromise
and not a gigantic favor you now owe me. Now, class is about to end, so stop talking to
yourself, you weirdo.”
By way of an answer, Taylor silently blows me a raspberry. Hmmm… That could merit a
Stranger half, maybe?
I keep working on my main laptop while the tablet propped up beside it shows me the
feedback of the multiple cameras hidden in Taylor’s backpack, and I sip on what I dearly
hope has at least a tangential relation to a coffee plant somewhere down its ancestry—
Coffee content within the statistical mean of the composition of other caffeinated
beverages consumed by Lisa Wilbourn. Subpar taste likely to be due to excessive
roasting of the beans, aroma lost due to improper preservation, espresso machine
having too low pressure—
My Power, ladies and gentlemen, the barista.
… Damn, now I want to try it.
As I muse (and not smile disturbingly, no matter how hurriedly the waitress just passed
by) on what the properties of Power-brewed coffee may be, I realize Taylor has been
detained when exiting her classroom by two girls who need no further introduction:
Emma Barnes and Sophia Hess.
“Seriously, Taylor, it’s for your own good. Why do you insist on coming here? Do you
want the ABB to finish the job? Is that it? I mean, I can understand wanting to die in
your circumstances, but at least you should be more proactive about it.”
My blood runs cold.
There’s a part of me that expects Taylor to stand up and punch her in the throat as she
takes out her combat baton to finish the job. A part of me that expects her to coldly state
how many deadly spiders the redhead currently has on her body and what their horrific
venom will do to a grown man. A part of me that expects her to be Skitter.
But it is just a part. The rest of me isn’t surprised when the cameras shift, and I can see
her shrink into herself, as if hiding from an incoming blow.
I am going to hurt them.
“Taylor,” I whisper, “repeat after me…” And I unleash my Power.
Keeping my eyes open is an effort of will as I am suddenly bombarded with knowledge
of everything that surrounds me—third tile from the left on top of the toilet door cracked
and blackened, disrepair due to economic downshift—everything within reach of my
senses—left shift key in laptop keyboard worn down due to nervous tic, stress rising
steadily since confronting Lung—and I focus it on the two girls—Sophia Hess silent,
affecting boredom, checking Emma Barnes progress, personal investment on Taylor
Hebert’s low self-esteem—on the two girls I am about to destroy.
I channel my Power through inadequate means, cameras and microphone losing too
much detail, but I manage to direct it in all its terrible magnitude at them, and, for a
moment, I Understand them.
They say knowing someone is loving them. It usually is, but I can make exceptions.
“Emma… I don’t think I am the one in danger,” she repeats the words after me,
following my directions in—Taylor Hebert emotionally distraught, latching onto external
guidance—yes. Later. Now I am fighting.
“Oh? Are you insinuating something, Taylor? Are you going to fight back for once?”
Question masks insecurity. Afraid of Taylor Hebert showing strength, Taylor Hebert
direct threat to self-image.
“Me? No, I am far too weak—” Sophia Hess contemptuous. Despises weakness.
Perceives herself as having overcome weakness, as always having been strong.
Contradiction not resolved—“but you, Ems? You are far too beautiful.”
“What, are you a lesbian now, Taylor? I should have known, what with your mother
being a feminist…” Emma Barnes laughing as a way to mask distress. Unsure about
conversation, wants to take back control.
Oh, Ems, sweetie… No.
“Me? Maybe bisexual, but you? No, I think you are straight, which is good, seeing as
you are flaunting your good looks while coming to school in the middle of a brewing
gang war.”
“And what is that supposed to mean? You throwing in with the Merchants now? Sucking
a dick for half a joint?” Cruder insults. Emma Barnes resorting to harsher aggression
due to unsolved trauma. Avoidant strategy.
“You always tell me how ugly I am, Ems, I am not the one who should be worried about
sucking gang dick.”
They all freeze, even Taylor hesitates for half a second before finishing her line, but she
sees the wide-eyed stare coming from Emma, the absolute stillness coming from
Sophia, and something relaxes inside her. She stands straighter, taller, towering over
the two monsters, and I could cheer with joy if my temples weren’t pounding so hard.
Just a bit more, Power. We are almost there.
“I don’t think you have to worry about the Merchants, they keep away from the rich kids
that don’t buy product, and you are too white for E88 to bother you, but the ABB…”
Emma flinches, actually taking a step back. I have her. “The ABB would do anything to
get their hands on you. They would put you on a farm and get every single dollar you
are worth out of you. “ Taylor hesitates, tone wavering, unsure of her capacity to inflict
such cruelty, of how unheroic all of this is. Then I see Emma’s head twitch, hair falling to
the side and hiding her ear, nose wings flaring, eyes blinking rapidly, and I whisper
reassuringly: “Taylor, just a last push, honey, I promise it will be worth it. Repeat after
me.”
“And you are worth a lot of dollars, Ems. I would say it would cost… an eye and an ear.”
And Emma Barnes falls down.
She’s screaming her lungs out, hysterically tearing at her hair as tears run down her
face and her face reddens from lack of air. She’s a broken doll who has finally realized
the cracks were there all along, and she can no longer fake as if she was still whole.
She’s a ruined shell of a human being, a caricature of what she may have grown up to
be in a kinder world. I have, for all intents and purposes, killed this Emma, but the other
one? The one that held Taylor as she cried for her missing mother, the one who listened
to my lover’s secrets and dreams long before I came into her life? She died a long time
ago.
One down, two to go.
Sophia Hess disgusted at Emma Barnes. Sophia Hess no longer sees Emma Barnes as
peer. Sophia Hess understands reason for Emma Barnes’ breakdown. Sophia Hess
knows Taylor Hebert doesn’t have access to that information. Sophia Hess suspects—
Shit!
“Taylor!” I yell, as I stuff my laptop in my messenger bag and grab my tablet. “Taylor,
run!”
She does.
I run as fast as I can, leaving behind an alarmed waitress as I rush towards Winslow
and keep frantically checking a tablet that shows me a livid Sophia Hess running after
Taylor.
Winslow High School floor plan typical of public schools designed as possible
Endbringer aftermath shelters. Winslow High School has a low budget. Emergency exits
unlikely to be guarded, nearest one is in—
Thank you, Power. Thank you.
I push open the emergency door held unlocked by a convenient stone, with minimal
protest of its rusted hinges, my bag banging against my thigh with every frantic step,
and I check the tablet to see Sophia has dragged Taylor to an empty bathroom.
“I am coming, Taylor, I am coming. Please be okay.”
She doesn’t answer. I hurry.
“Well, Hebert, it looks like you and I are going to have a chat.” Sophia is pulling Taylor’s
hair, throwing her head back, and cradling her throat in the nook of her elbow.
Formal combat training, non-lethal on principle—
Yes, I know. On principle.
“You see, I don’t think a dumb bitch like you would have actually checked, so I am going
to clarify things for you before we decide how are we going to do things moving forward.
What you did back there?”
My feet pound the vinyl floor as I rush to the toilet that is farthest from my point of
entrance on this floor, because of course it is—
Sophia Hess knowledgeable about parahumans—
Yeah, she would be!
“What you did back there is assaulting a civilian with a parahuman power. Because
Thinker bullshit still counts.”
Fuck!
“So I fucking own you now, Hebert. I can get you thrown in jail with a call or…” The
cameras shake as Taylor starts frantically fighting, and a glint of metal comes into view.
“Or I can fucking kill you right here and now and claim self-defense.”
“Taylor! Please, don’t, not now—” But my warning comes too late, and Sophia screams
as a swarm starts tearing into her.
I throw the door open just in time to see Shadow Stalker using her power to break free
and Taylor stumble toward me.
I want to hold her against me, hug her, tell her I will protect her, that everything will be
all right.
I take out my gun and point at the sociopathic monster that nearly killed Brian just as
she regains her solid form.
“Don’t move. Or do, because I am itching for an excuse.”
So she flashes back to intangibility and orients herself towards Taylor, knife ready.
But I know Stalker. I have fought her, seen her patterns, studied her for the very likely
event that she would try to come back and murder my teammate. I know what to do,
and I won’t hesitate when instead of coming after Brian, she’s coming after my Taylor.
Taylor Hebert shaken by events, will obey orders without hesitation. Sophia Hess using
swarm as visual cover while she readies movement, about to—
“Taylor! Throw your backpack at her, now!”
And a backpack full of cameras, a spare laptop, and a cellphone rigged to emit to my
tablet sail through the air toward Stalker, who stands there in contempt, secure in her
shadow form.
A shadow form that is vulnerable to electricity. That spasms in agony as she is hit by a
backpack full of active electronics and backup batteries.
She flickers solid. I shoot. And Sophia Hess falls to the floor with one knee shattered,
her pained sobs a poetic contrast to Emma’s emotional screams.
And now I hug Taylor, and I kiss her as hungrily as she kisses me, not even the lancing
pain on my temples able to stop me from doing so. And she latches onto me like
somebody adrift at sea, like somebody who knows her world no longer makes sense
and desperately needs someone to guide them.
And I just volunteered for the job.
God help us all.
Wake-up Call - Chapter 3
I hold Taylor for as long as I dare, but the clock is ticking, and the sounds of scared
students starting to run say we need to hurry. “Tay, sweetheart, I need you to focus. We
have to act right now.”
She looks at me, eyes swimming in tears, and she nods just before her face goes blank
and a disquieting buzzing starts surrounding me. Oh. That’s not what I meant. At all.
Taylor Hebert unlikely to overcome emotional distress in—
Right. It will have to do.
I kick Stalker’s knife to the corner of the room, give her a quick once over—
overconfident, dismissive of others, unlikely to have contingencies—and suppress a
wince as I kneel beside her.
“Sophia, you need to listen to me.”
A muffled curse makes itself known through her pained moans, more due to intent than
actual syllables. I will take it.
“I am going to leave your PRT phone near you before we leave. You will tell them you
need discreet extraction, that your injuries cannot be reasonably hidden in your civilian
life if made public,” I say, as I start bandaging the mess where her knee used to be
using the first aid kit Brian always makes sure I carry. Bless his misguided, caring, evil
heart. “This is a career-ending maiming for an athlete, Sophia, you will need Panacea to
heal you, and you don’t want that linked to your civilian identity.”
I parse her aggressive body language through the pain (mine and hers), and I know she
will agree to this out of self-preservation, if nothing else.
“I would also suggest you keep Taylor out of this, because it will come back to bite you
when her trigger is made public.” I give her a few of my painkillers so that she will be
coherent enough to make her call, and she swallows them on reflex, but I know this time
she won’t listen. She hates Taylor too much to think straight and will rationalize away
how much this can hurt her own chances. I sigh, deflated.
It would be so easy to kill her.
It is Winslow, home of the Pre-K gangs, home-turf of a lot of Nazi-wannabes. Having the
violent black girl with a chip on her shoulder get killed in the toilets? Perfectly
reasonable, even parahumans can get caught off-guard. Another bullet and her pain
ends, and so do a whole lot of the problems this will cause.
I look at Taylor. Misguided, ruthless, noble Taylor. And I sigh yet again.
I pick up Stalker’s phone with some toilet paper, wipe my fingerprints from anything I
have touched in here, and leave it within reach of her.
Then I gather our strewn about belongings, take Taylor’s elbow, and get ready to leave
this place without anyone recognizing us as I listen to the pattern of frantic steps,
panicked conversations, and hastily barricaded doors as my Power makes my temples
throb.
This would be a good time to have a partner with limited omniscience guiding me. Just
saying.
+++
Finding a hotel in Brockton Bay that managed to have the proper mix of physical
security, discretion, comfort, and willingness to look the other way when it came to
possibly unlawful guests was not a simple matter. It was, in fact, a time-consuming
endeavor that couldn’t be managed on the spot even with my abilities.
It was lucky, then, that I had found the four most convenient places that hit all of my
requirements weeks ago, because Taylor was in no state to watch me fuck around with
my laptop and Streetview. Not to mention my slowly receding headache wasn’t all that
conducive to investigative work.
The room we are currently residing in as the Webster sisters is not quite sparse and not
quite luxurious. The wallpaper is a crème beige, with no apparent stains and a thin
stripe pattern, the carpet has a couple threadbare spots, but is regularly cleaned and
reasonably lush, and the bed is big enough, with blankets that—
Lisa Wilbourn currently distracting herself from—
I let out a small sigh and turn toward the teenager hugging her knees on top of the bed.
Slowly, carefully, I sit beside her and lay an arm around her shoulders.
“Taylor, sweetie, talk to me.”
She barely turns around, letting herself fall against my side, her head resting over my
breast as if I was the tall one, the one who stands against all odds. Don’t do this to me,
Tay; I really am not fit for the role.
I caress her hair, my power guiding me to mimic the motions her mother used to soothe
her so long ago. It is manipulative, but for a good cause. I think. Story of my life, at this
point.
“Don’t do that,” she mumbles.
“I… I am sorry. I just wanted to comfort you…”
“I know, Lisa, but I… I can’t stand anything fake, at the moment.” I look at her still
downturned head, face hidden, and I take a deep breath.
“Then maybe you should stop hiding your emotions in your swarm,” I reply, as gently as
I can.
She goes very still, unnaturally so, and then just releases the air she had been holding.
And hugs me. And trembles. And cries.
And I hold her and run my fingers through her hair, not as her mother once did, but as I
did this morning, a morning that seems so long ago, when I woke up with a happy,
warm, soft girl between my arms.
I lie back and drag her down with me, shifting so I can cuddle her, so she can feel my
whole body pressing against hers, so I can surround her with my arms and my warmth
and keep the world at bay for just a few minutes. Her sobs lose energy as she drains
herself of pent-up emotion and she clings to me, still trusting even after all that went
down, even with how easily her paranoia could have twisted my actions to make them
seem a plan to leave her with no recourse but leaving heroism for good and relying on
me.
The silence stretches as her breathing evens out, and I kiss her hair, mumbling into it, “I
should never have let you go to Winslow.”
She laughs at that, surprised at my joke (that isn’t). And there’s a frailty to it, but not
enough that we can justify further delays.
“Tay, we need to start moving if we want to salvage any of this. Who was your contact
in the PRT when you decided to infiltrate us?”
“Armsmaster. But he’s a prick,” she mumbles against my neck, reluctantly starting to get
up.
“Yeah, no argument here.” I get up myself and go get my bag. I take one of my burners
and start dialing. “Hello? Yes, I would like to speak to Mr. Wallis, it’s about his mother,
there’s been—no, sorry, I should only speak about this with her family.”
I wait for a few seconds as the PRT secretary passing herself as “Mr. Wallis personal
assistant” grabs hold of him to pass the message, and Taylor looks at me with dawning
horror as she realizes exactly what I am doing. Finally, Armsmaster picks up the phone.
“What is it? This is not a good time.” The voice is brusque, no-nonsense. It barely
masks his anxiety, his fear at what this call could mean. Good.
“I know it isn’t. You are going to hang up the PRT phone you are holding right now and
call me from your own personal number, Colin.” My own voice isn’t precisely warm and
laden with pleasantries either. I hang up.
Colin Wallis out of balance. Personal connection to mother figure—trigger event—
unlikely to make him seek outside assistance—
“What the Hell, Lisa—” The ringing phone interrupts Taylor’s mounting tirade before it
can get off the ground. Small mercies and all that.
“What is the meaning of—” Armsmaster doesn’t sound like he’s having a good day.
Excellent, misery loves company.
“I am calling on behalf of…” I hesitate for a second—Taylor Hebert didn’t have a
moniker at the moment of contact, power idiosyncratic enough to— “Bug. The shootout
at Winslow was not her fault, we have proof, and we can’t turn ourselves in for fear of
our lives.”
“You just threatened my mother. Not a good way to build trust.”
“I am not threatening your mother, Colin, but the reason I can’t turn myself in is the man
who made me dig into your private life. The one who would.”
“… This is about that mysterious ‘boss’ of yours, I suppose. What does this have to do
with you shooting a Ward in her civilian identity?”
“Surprisingly enough, very little, she just-“ Taylor’s hand closes over the phone, and I
look into her eyes. I sigh and activate the speaker function, laying it on the bedside
table.
“Sophia Hess tried to murder me with a knife. Tattletale, the villain you warned me
about, saved my life from your Ward. I would like to make a complaint to your manager,
Armsmaster.”
I almost sputter. Karen Taylor would be an utter nightmare.
Collin seems to agree, because the line goes silent for far too long. Which I guess is my
clue to keep the ball rolling: “You are speaking with a Thinker seven. I called you
through an unsecured line because I knew it would have been useless to communicate
with you any other way and expect you not to track me, but I also have prepared
extensive contingencies to release a lot of uncomfortable information in the unlikely
case I am captured. My life is on the line, and I am not pulling any punches, Colin, so
don’t even think about finishing that message to Miss Militia.”
There’s a whine of servos forcefully stopping in the middle of something. If that’s the
only whining I get out of this conversation, I will be positively elated.
“You are playing a very dangerous game, Tattletale.” I sigh at the sheer idiocy of the
cliché.
“I am not playing any games. I just shoot out a teenager’s kneecap after seeing her try
to murder a teammate of mine for the second—no, make that third, time. A teammate
that was made to trigger because that little psycho you keep around decided to play at
bioterrorism and her handler was stupid enough to cover it up and—” Taylor’s eyes are
wide. Oh. I guess I didn’t tell her yet…
“Covered it up?” she says, her voice quivering.
“Tay, listen, he didn’t know, it’s not the—”
“That… How could he not know? How could they—they are supposed to be heroes.
They let that monster just play at being a good guy while she tries to destroy me, while
she—do you know how many times I thought about just ending it all?!” I… I don’t know
how to manage this. I am terribly unsuited to defuse Taylor while negotiating with
Armsmaster with our lives on the line, and I don’t even know what could stop her at
this—
“I am sorry, Ms. Hebert.” For once, the brusqueness falls away and there’s a note of
something else that comes through in his tone. Sorrow. Regret.
Oh, I almost forgot. He’s one of the good guys.
“Sorry? Sorry?! I was almost killed by, by… I don’t even know how to continue. Do you
know what it’s like to see the face of the one who almost managed to murder you every
day, watch her walk free, enjoying herself as if it didn’t even matter, as if she’s free to try
again whenever she pleases because there will be no consequences when she does?
Do you know what that does to a person?!”
“Considering Kaiser is still alive and free, yes. Very much.” His answer surprises me,
but it really, really shouldn’t.
“Kaiser?” Taylor isn’t as quick on the uptake. We can’t all be Thinkers.
“My previous armor had a lot fewer ceramics and a lot more metal. I still have the
scars.”
“Oh.”
“More or less what I said at the time, yes,” he quips, and I can’t help a startled laugh.
May have to update his psych profile.
“But… The Unwritten Rules…” Taylor looks completely disoriented, adrift. I hug her from
behind, and she almost recoils before leaning against me.
“Are made to disproportionately favor villains, in case you hadn’t noticed. When has it
ever been acceptable for a criminal to take off their mask and suddenly become copproof?”
“People could go to a church for sanctuary—” the pedant in me can’t help but interject.
“But not parade around as lesser kings whenever they pleased, Tattletale. The rules
also talk a big game about not murdering people; tell me, Bug, how did that first night
against Lung go? A friendly spar, wasn’t it?” He’s bitter, understandably so, but not
against us. The focus of the hostility has shifted.
Colin Wallis frustrated at his duty being overshadowed by interests he doesn’t
understand. Actually heroic, self-sacrificing. Glory-searching tendencies exacerbated as
he felt his efforts were futile in the long—
“Call me Lisa,” I speak over Taylor’s shoulder, my arms still wrapped around that belly
she had so many complexes about. “It’s only fair.”
“What does fair have to do with it?” he asks.
“Well, I would think it’s only fair that I have your identity because Coil made me
investigate you, that Coil has my identity because he recruited me at gunpoint, and that
we will get Coil’s identity as we collaborate to bring him down.”
“… Collaborate?”
“I didn’t call you to blackmail you, Colin,” I shift the inflection, his name no longer an
implicit threat, “I called you because I don’t want to get murdered after I leave my villain
team.”
“And shooting a Ward was your letter of resignation?”
“I… Believe it or not…” I squeeze my arms, holding onto Taylor with more strength than
I should. “Bug turned me last night. I would have defected as soon as it was safe.”
Taylor turns her head to look at me, still bewildered, still off-balance with all the
revelations she keeps getting hit by. But there’s a seed of a smile there, a hint of sun
shining through the storm. I guess we are a pair of sappy, hormonal teenagers.
Puberty is a period of intense emotions characterized by—
Yes, I know. God, do I know.
“I can vouch for her. She had been gathering information on Coil’s operations for quite
some time and believes the bank job is the last piece she needed.” There’s a pause,
and I can safely say that having Taylor act as my character witness to the leader of the
local heroes without prompting nor warning is quickly making its place to my Top Ten
‘What the fuck, Power, how about a hint’ moments chart.
Taylor Hebert’s emotional attachment cemented during moments of crisis—
Of course. She is an adrenaline junkie hooked on the suspension bridge effect. How did
I not see this coming.
Romantic attachment often correlated with blindness to object of affection’s character
flaws.
La la la, I can’t hear yoooouuu!
“That’s the second time you mention tangible evidence. I would like to get a look at it
before I keep letting a Thinker seven talk me into things.”
“Spoilsport,” I automatically interject.
“School shooter,” he parries. I don’t even know if that is the most spectacular deadpan
ever delivered by a non-cyborg or if he really is pissed at me for shooting at Sophia
fucking Hess.
Colin Wallis unlikely to—
Shush, Power, let me bask in the mystery.
“Fine, you win this round. I will send it to your private PHO account, just make sure not
to open it on any computer accessible through the private PRT network. Your offices
are bugged to hell and back.”
“And that is why you can’t ‘defect,’ I take it? Also, PHO? No hidden account in the dark
web?” Taylor also looks at me with mild confusion. Oh, I get to mansplain to my
girlfriend, I guess that’s part of the lesbian experience. Thanks, Armsy!
“In order: I can’t safely defect because a good deal of your agents have been suborned
by Coil and he knows I know enough to warrant getting me killed in custody—
incidentally, I am also including a list of known moles—and I am sending it through PHO
because your girlfriend has managed to make the place the most secure
communications system in the world. I haven’t yet hacked it, something I can’t say for
any governmental agency.”
“Yes, keep confessing crimes to the LEO known to always carry recording equipment
with him. Please, be my guest.”
“Oh, please, it was all done under duress.”
“Lisa, he has a tinkertech lie detector.” I freeze. If this was a face-to-face conversation,
this would be the point where I slowly look up into Armsmaster’s face and find a smug
grin directed at me. Damn it, I am supposed to be the smugger, not the smugged!
“I can confirm I do, in fact, have a tinkertech lie detector.”
Likelihood of Armsmaster enjoying dry humor revised up to—
Right. I get it.
“Well, it is a good thing I haven’t lied so far then, isn’t it? Also, Bug, this is the kind of
information you relay to me before I start negotiations.”
“This is also the reason you should tell me what the Hell do you intend to do instead of
letting me fumble around in the middle of a fait accompli.” Oh. Damn, she kinda has a
point.
She must never know.
“As… entertaining as this has been, I was called while in the middle of a very tense
conversation. A conversation I should immediately get back to.”
“Right. Of course. I will send you the files right now.”
“Very well. And what do you expect me to do in the meantime?”
This… this is what everything boils down to. I cross my fingers and say something I
never, ever thought I would say to Armsmaster, or to any other hero, for that matter.
“Well, I expect you to keep quiet that we are working undercover for you.”
A muffled noise that efficiently mixes strangled cat and a hint of aneurysm comes from
the other end of the line and Taylor turns in my arms to look at me as if I have gone
insane and doesn’t know whether to pity me or confine me for my own safety and that of
others.
Likelihood of Colin Wallis accepting the very same deal that started the chain of events
that culminated in the current crisis vanishingly small—
Et tu, Power? Sigh.
Everyone’s a critic.
Wake-up Call - Chapter 4
The rest of the conversation with Taylor and Armsmaster is anything but calm and
collected. There’s quite a bit of raised volume, panicked back and forths, barely
restrained swearing, and incredulous reiterations of objective (?) fact.
All in all, I would say I am in my element.
Lisa Wilbourn delights in social confrontation as a way to compensate for her perceived
weakness and vulnerability when it comes to—
Oh God, Power, can’t you let me have any nice things?
Lisa Wilbourn looking forward to spending more time with Taylor Hebert as they both—
… You are mortifying. Have I ever told you that you are mortifying?
Well, to make a long story short, Armsmaster is currently trying to downplay Taylor’s
involvement as a possible recent trigger/bank robber, yours truly is being presented as
a “mysterious Thinker” who may have influenced an unstable schoolgirl to act on her
behalf (which… uncomfortably close to the truth, but whatever), Sophia has been given
a gag order as somebody has “fortuitously” found records of Taylor Hebert being
hospitalized in the recent past, something that a junior LEO should have, maybe, kind of
thought relevant to mention to someone if they didn’t want to appear suspicious, and…
Well, that’s where the good news end.
The PRT is almost handled, in that we are unlikely to get shot on sight, but Coil would
still lock me up in a dark basement if he caught me after I put everything in jeopardy by
shooting up a school, Emma is a loose end because someone is bound to care enough
about her to raise some kind of a stink over her going catatonic due to my emergency
psychological surgery (without anesthesia), we can’t go back to the Undersiders as long
as Coil is still in charge, Taylor’s dad remains at risk if the snake thinks he should get
some leverage on Taylor (or on me through Taylor). And dear Armsie still hasn’t given
us any secret badges or cool gadgets to go with our Totally Spies new schtick. Party
pooper.
Oh, also? My head is killing me. So, so much.
Overuse of Thinker Power in stressful situations—
Don’t I know it…
“Does it still hurt?” Taylor asks in a sweet whisper as she rubs my back while we both
remain seated on the bed.
“Like a bitch.”
“You sure? I think Bitch would hurt a lot more. She has a mean hook.” I can’t help
snorting at her quip. She’s getting better at those.
“She has a mean everything. Seriously, power-induced abnormal psychologies are the
worst.” The hand rubbing soothing, tingling circles over my taut muscles stops at that,
until a pleading look from me restarts the cycle of warm, fuzzy feelings. Dignity? Is that
something that gets in the way of being petted like a pampered kitten? Don’t need it,
thanks.
“Power induced what?” Oh, something else I hadn’t told her. Darn, those things keep
cropping up, don’t they?
“Her Power lets her empathize with canines and understand their body language. Given
that she was systematically abused in her foster home and her social growth was, to
grossly understate it, stunted, she currently is unable to relate to anything that isn’t her
‘pack.’”
“’Currently?’ Meaning she could learn?”
“Well, if you manage to force the violently maladjusted juvenile delinquent with
superpowers to go to therapy and make an effort… Maybe? These are the kind of
connections that are established during the formative years; the brain grows less
malleable as it grows older.”
“So this is a time-sensitive issue.” Oh, I know that look.
“Don’t make this into a personal crusade, please; our slots for those are kind of filled up
at the moment.”
“Aren’t you a bit too talkative for somebody who has a debilitating migraine?” And that,
ladies and gentlemen, is a grade-A deflection if I ever heard one. Or spoken one. Which
I have.
It’s my superpower, don’t judge me.
“I think my Power makes an exception for conversations. I don’t know why, nor how.
Heck, I don’t even know why Thinkers get headaches when teleporting Movers don’t—
it’s not like my brain is doing the heavy lifting here.” I wince a little at the admission; it
still smarts. “The rules seem kind of arbitrary.” And with that, the deflection is accepted.
It’s for the best: do not fight on dispersive ground.
“Like that thing about ‘psychics not being real’ Glory Girl went on a rant about?”
“Right?!” Finally! Someone who gets it! “The floating barbie with a forcefield tells me I
would need a brain the size of a football stadium to read someone else’s thoughts, but
how the Hell does she think she’s flying? What brain-size do you need to stop bullets?”
“Bullet. Singular.” I take a moment to get it. And then I start laughing. Oh God, it hurts
and I can’t stop.
Taylor looks far too smug at having effectively neutralized me before a flash of actual
human compassion goes over her features and she lays me back on the bed.
“Come on, you need to rest,” she says, softly enough to be soothing rather than jarring.
“I need cuddles,” I try to whine. I think I manage admirably.
“Let’s compromise.” I swear, every time I hear Taylor use that word, I get the urge to
check whether she’s a shapeshifter—
Body language consistent with patterns—
Thanks, Power. Also, ouch.
“Compromise?”
“Yes. Turn over.”
I reluctantly obey her instructions and lie on my stomach, and then I am suddenly
pressed into the mattress by Taylor’s weight lying square below my ass. She’s sitting
astride me and—oooohhhh…
“I see you like that,” she says, smug satisfaction dripping off every syllable.
“Whatever gave you—oh yes, just right there—that idea?” I answer as I feel her slender,
deft fingers press along my shoulder blades, releasing the tension hidden underneath.
“You are literally purring.”
“I object. Kittens purr, we foxes do… something? I don’t know; I will google it later.”
Much later, if I have my way. I have never had a massage before, and I never knew
what I was missing.
Taylor chuckles, and I can feel the vibration where her hips meet mine, which I am sure
would be doing all sorts of wonderful things to me at any other time. As it stands, her
hands traveling up and down my back in trails of smooth embers hold my attention
captive.
She keeps at it for some blissful moments, before she starts tugging on my shirt.
“The clothing is getting in the way,” she explains. ‘Hey, it’s not like I was objecting,’ I
don’t verbally answer.
My pleased mumbling shall suffice to get the message across.
Her thumbs sink into my lower back, digging small circles that frame my spine and
make me go slack with sheer relief before they travel upwards and release my bra
strap.
She doesn’t comment. Neither do I.
My shirt is now bunched over my shoulders, caught beneath my breasts on the front,
and Taylor’s fingers burrow underneath the fabric, kneading the taut muscle it hides. My
breath deepens, and my eyelids droop as slow waves of relaxation radiate from every
point she touches.
“Stop moaning, Lisa. It’s distracting,” she whispers, leaning right above my ear, the tips
of her hair gently dragging across my naked back.
‘I am not moaning,’ I try to answer, but the words get caught up in a long, dragged-out
moan. Truly, I am surrounded by traitors.
Taylor giggles, and I once more feel her body make mine vibrate with her enjoyment,
her hands pressing down on me as she resumes the blissful kneading of my flesh. At
this point, my power-induced migraine is a distant memory, and the uncomfortable
throbbing of my temples is quickly losing the battle against the sheer relief she brings
me with every circular twist of her thumbs.
“Seriously, stop moaning.”
“I can’t help it; you are too good at handling my body.”
We both pause as we digest our latest exchange. I am about to laugh at the absurdity of
the porn-like double entendre when I feel her weight shift over my body, and once again
I feel her voice, her much huskier voice than usual, murmuring beside my ear: “You
don’t know the half of it.”
I lick my dry lips as I try to come up with a reply that’s up to par.
“Really? Because I am always up for a learning experience.”
… It seems my dialog is currently stuck on the porny setting. Only time will tell whether
that’s a bad thing.
“Well, in that case, I guess it is always a pleasure to instruct such an eager pupil,”
Taylor positively purrs straight into my ear, her voice reaching far, far deeper and
southward.
Good thing. Getting stuck on porny dialog is a good thing. Definitely.
She nibbles on my earlobe just enough to leave me wanting more before she leans
back and her hands start traveling downward from my shoulders, tracing gentle lines
down my sides till they reach my hips. She leans forward then, using her weight to sink
her hands along the bone, making me curl back as yet another moan escapes my lips,
lips which I promptly bite while I try not to picture the kind of face I am making at the
moment.
Thank God there are no mirrors here.
But Taylor doesn’t let up, dragging her fingers up, skimming them along my skin, till she
reaches the side of my breasts, what little of them is spilling from below me without
being covered by my bra or my shirt. She starts teasing at the line of skin that
transitions from breast to torso, the change in sensitivity clearly visible through my
reactions, even if right now it feels like my whole body would be sensitive enough to
bring me over the edge as long as she’s the one who plays with it. Though at least I
have stopped moaning.
Now, instead, I am letting out what even I can’t describe as anything but these cute,
little gasping yelps that make me sound like an overexcited puppy. Fare thee well,
Dignity, we hardly knew ye.
Taylor isn’t about to show me any mercy, and she presses her assault without any
regard for my exposed weakness or non-verbal surrender. Very in character of her, I
should add. She leans forward, her thighs pressed around mine, holding her weight as
she bends over me and her face rests next to mine, and then lets go, laying over me,
pressing me into the mattress.
And she hugs me.
And stops moving.
Oh. Shit.
“I am sorry, Lisa, I wanted to, but I just…” she apologizes, voice unnaturally steady, and
I kick my horny brain for its sheer incompetence in managing the situation.
“Shh, it’s all right. There’s nothing to apologize for.” I mean, other than me needing a
change of underwear, but I am guessing a pair of panties may cost about the same as a
good massage, so we should be square. Now, about that happy ending…
No! Bad brain. Bad! No cute heroine in tights for you!
“It’s just… I try not to, but I keep thinking about it, about her being a hero, about
someone covering up for her, and I—”
“Taylor, sweetie, you almost died today. I won’t complain if you feel up to snuggling
more than snogging.”
“… ‘Snogging,’ really? You are henceforth forbidden from reading Harry Potter.”
“You are henceforth allowed to infringe on my trademark and use humor as a deflecting
mechanism to avoid talking about thorny issues.” See how generous I am? Robin Hood
has got nothing on this professional thief.
“How magnanimous of you.” Well, that’s another positive adjective than the one I had in
mind, but I won’t complain as long as you praise me.
“Damn right I am. Now scuttle over, I have a girlfriend to cuddle.” She rolls to my side
without any further prompting and, after some quick maneuvering that is in no way
made awkward by my state of undress and managing to trip myself when my elbow gets
caught on my bra strap, I find myself lying on my side as I wrap Taylor between my
arms and I look into her green eyes.
And she keeps looking, her face carefully devoid of emotion. Wonder why—oh.
“So. Girlfriend, uh?” she asks without any inflection. Damn her anti-Thinker
countermeasures! This is just unfair.
“Well, I mean… We are having sex?” Nope, bad start. “And living together, I guess,
since we are now both runaways.” Oh my God, Lisa, stop digging! “Also… I call dibs?”
That’s it, you are hereby expulsed from the Thinker club. You are the Anti-Thinker. Your
stupidity is powerful enough to neutralize parahuman enhanced cognition. It wasn’t bad
enough to get Coil on your ass, now you also had to antagonize Accord.
She keeps looking at me without saying nor doing anything, and I feel my nervous grin
wilt under her implacable assault till she, finally, reacts in a way that is recognizably
human. And laughs in my face.
Should have seen that coming.
Lisa Wilbourn trying not to use Power to avoid further pain—
I know that!
“God, you should have seen your face,” she says, wiping an errant tear from her eye as
she gets her breath back under control, and I try not to show how annoyed I really am.
And then she leans forward and kisses my lips, and I try not to show the goofy grin that
is inexorably rushing to said lips.
“So. I guess I’ve got a girlfriend now. This day really has some ups and downs,” she
says with a teasing smirk.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think everything is going to be uphill from now on.”
“I… Are you sure you didn’t get that backward?”
“I know what I said, sweetie,” I say, before hugging her closer. She takes a moment to
answer, as I feel her breathing press her chest rhythmically against mine and her scent
fills my head with a fluffy haze.
“So, things are that bleak, aren’t they?”
“I don’t know. Coil must have heard about things by now, so we can’t count on the team
anymore—”
“But, Brian wouldn’t… Would he?”
“Brian is stubbornly loyal to his own. In this case, his sister. We also counted until we
became an obstacle to the boss who is so kindly providing him with a fake work history,
and thus has him by his balls. Make no mistake, he’s a very nice guy, but his morals are
very, very flexible when it comes to what he’s willing to do or tolerate for the sake of his
objectives.”
“If he is doing all of this to get the custody of his sister, then maybe…”
“Taylor, Wards get paid. They also don’t have to do crimes. He had a choice, and he
picked sides a long time ago.”
She nuzzles against me, face rubbing between my breasts. Before she mumbles: “So
did you.”
My arms go slack around her, and I take a deep breath.
“That’s unfair.”
“It is. But here you are.”
I sigh, and I cuddle her closer.
“Yes, here I am.”
And her arms wrap around me, her face coming up right in front of mine, dark green
eyes holding me still.
“I am glad you are.”
And she kisses me.
I feel my renewed tension drain out of my shoulders as her tongue invades my mouth,
as her fingers travel up, digging trenches of tingling flame through my scalp, as she
turns and pulls me on top of her, her other hand tracing my spine until it comes to rest
over my ass and starts kneading me there, my pelvis instinctually tilting and pressing
down on her own, her hand guiding me in an up and down motion, my body helpless to
do anything but follow her demands.
“Are you… sure? You aren’t, you know…?” I mumble as I lean back enough to get a
much-needed gulp of fresh air.
And she pulls me down and devours me.
My head goes blissfully blank as I become nothing more than a plaything in her hands,
as she pulls even more moans and gasps out of me while her hand forces me to give
both of us some much-needed pleasure. She lets me keep going as she stops kissing
me long enough to finally get completely rid of my shirt and bra, the hand that had so
thoroughly enjoyed my ass now paying equal amounts of attention to my breasts.
Her legs open, one jean-clad thigh slipping between my own and pressing upward just
as I tilt down with enough force that I go cross-eyed as I whimper into her lips.
She throws me to the side and we both rush to get our pants and underwear off right the
fuck now.
And then she sits between my legs, her right one going under my left, her left enticingly
extending over my nude torso even as she unfairly keeps her awful, black hoodie on.
“I always wondered how this would feel,” she says, eyes locked onto mine with hunger
and yearning.
“Always?” I can’t help asking, an inquisitive eyebrow reflexively raised.
She flushes—now, she flushes, when I am already a gasping wreck—before answering
in a small voice. “My mom had… books. I am a very avid reader.” I can’t help my
positively vulpine smirk at that nugget.
“Oh, I bet you were avid—” And she presses her sex against mine and manages to shut
me up.
The amount of unfairness I am putting up with today…
Reciprocity usually considered essential for functioning relationships—
Oh, right, a moral excuse. Thanks, Power!
Just as Taylor grinds her hips down (and a spark of something wet and warm shoots
through my spine, but we aren’t dwelling on that), I rest my thumbpad on her suddenly
exposed clitoris and start rubbing it in small circles. Her hips jerk, once again doing
wonderful things to me as her wet lips glide along mine and my own clitoris gets briefly
engulfed in her warmth, but her rhythm is sidetracked, and her eyes shoot open, almost
bewildered by the turn of events, as if this I the first time she—
Oh, right, she only played with me last night. I didn’t get to return the favor.
A vicious smirk pulls at the corner of my lips as I see my chance, and my thumb keeps
Taylor off-balance as I press my assault and let my Power give me a few tips.
Taylor Hebert surprised by turnaround, vulnerability intellectually unappealing, yet
viscerally exciting—
Figured as much. My free hand takes Taylor’s arm and pulls her up, and, off-balance,
she goes along with the motion, sitting up as our legs bend and entangle, our torsos
shifting. Then I lean forward and kiss her, as gently as I can while my thumb speeds up
over her clit and I mix the circular motions with intermittent pressure.
“You can let go,” I tell her, softly, a warm smile blooming on me as I hold her close, as
my breath ghosts over her lips and soft shadows outline our faces, framed by our falling
hair, mixed dark and gold glinting with every thrilling shiver of sensation. “You can let go
with me,” I repeat.
And she does.
Taylor’s body goes rigid next to my own, and shuddering waves wash over me as she
finally experiences an orgasm that has been given by another. I try to hold back, to just
delight in spectating the joy, the release, of my lover, but I can’t, and I soon follow her
as our heat mixes between our entangled legs, as we both lose ourselves in one
another.
It’s… It’s magical. Even better than last night, if only because it’s shared.
Also, orgasms make me corny. Good to know.
We take our time coming down from our respective heights, and I take advantage of her
momentary weakness to pull her on top of me and cradle her head between my naked
breasts. Her soft breath over my cooling sweat is quite distracting, but it’s a sacrifice I
am willing to make.
Yes, ‘magnanimous’ sounds about right.
We just lay there, silent, for a while. When we get up, we will have to plan and act,
recover all of my hidden assets, hammer down the deal with Armsmaster, make sure
Coil has not made any moves… It’s a long list, and all of it is important, but, at the
moment, it can wait, because my girlfriend just had her first shared orgasm and
deserves some goddamn cuddles, no matter what the world may have to say about it.
“Lisa?” she mumbles, lips dragging over the skin between my breasts in a way that
makes warmth bloom under it.
“Yes?” I answer, dragging almost limp fingers through her gorgeous hair.
“Remember what you said last night?”
“I said a lot of things.”
“That you loved me.”
Oh.
“Oh. That.”
“Yes, that.”
“It was… in the heat of the moment. Sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable.”
“No, I get that, it’s just…” She tilts her head up and looks at me, a small, fragile smile
uncertainly growing on her face. “It’s just… I think I am in love with you.”
I look at her, my brain taking far too much time to process what she just said before a
goofy smile answers her hesitant one and I feel a giddy energy shoot through my limbs.
She lets out a yelp as I drag her up and kiss her yet again, rolling around the bed with
her caught between my arms.
Yes. She deserves all the cuddles.
And the world can wait.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 5
‘All the cuddles’ may have been an overstatement, given in how much of a time crunch
we currently were, but we still lounged in bed for far longer than it should be reasonable
given the hour, said time crunch, and how soft Taylor’s body feels against mine.
Yes, that’s a factor. An important one.
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
Not precisely an Earth-shattering revelation, Power.
Lisa Wilbourn unsure about course of action and stalling due to deep-seated fear of—
Right. This one’s on me. Why would I tempt fate so?
Lisa Wilbourn picking up on Taylor Hebert’s ‘adrenaline junkie’ tendencies due to social
mirroring.
… Fuck.
Aaaanyway, Taylor and I are currently engaged in what clearly is the first priority for a
pair of fugitives: having a makeover.
“I don’t really think this is necessary.”
You know nothing, Jon Snow.
“Lisa? Really, isn’t there something else we should be doing right now?”
“Shut up and try on the bloody blouse.”
“But…”
“Taylor, sweetie, either you come out of that changing room wearing the very nice
clothes your girlfriend carefully picked out for you, or I am going in there.”
“… Is that a threat or a promise?”
Oh, you think you are all that suave, do you? You get into a girl’s pants a grand total of
two times, and suddenly you think you can throw sexually charged jokes left and right,
do you? Well, I am not—
Lisa Wilbourn’s face, ears, and upper chest experiencing rapid heating due to sudden
dilation of capillaries—
Power! Whose side are you on?!
Lisa Wilbourn trying to ascribe loyalties to parahuman abilities’ interfaces reflects a lack
of understanding of—
Right. Your own. Of course.
“Well, seeing as you aren’t coming in… In a scale of ‘total disaster’ to ‘we should call an
exorcist,’ how do I look?” Taylor says as she opens the curtain. And I stare.
Her eyes still are what first catch mine, no longer hidden by glasses after I have (wisely)
invested my money in contact lenses. It takes a physical effort to tear myself from that
dark green, almost malachite, and her freshly applied eyeliner just brings more attention
to them. Her pale foundation and light pink lipstick just make the contrast even more
vivid, and the lines of her face look sterner, more severe, now that her hair is pulled
back in a high ponytail rather than loosely diffusing her silhouette.
She is looking at me as if expecting something—clothes. Right.
Her cotton blouse is a soft pastel blue with a sharp cut that goes well with her black,
open blazer, the satin finish on the narrow lapels directing attention upwards to—right,
not again. That way lie recursive loops.
And her pants… Skinny jeans, faded dark blue, almost painted on, thick denim hugging
and holding her shape in just the right way, with a braided leather belt breaking the line
between the two shades of color. The matching brown leather Oxford wingtips (with
sneaker soles, because Brockton) just give the final touch to a very sharp, professional
look.
Basically, Taylor is a tall, thin girl, whom I have, by the dark magic of power-assisted
makeovers, turned into her college self. And now I am quite sure I am drooling.
“Earth to Lisa? Everything fine?”
“Oh, more than fine, I would say…”
And now she’s blushing. That makes it even better.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve, just in case.
“I still think my hoodie is more comfortable,” she says, demurely looking down.
“Which is precisely why we are changing your style so drastically. You now look distinct
enough for people to give a good description of you, but one that won’t resemble, at all,
the description they would have given of the past you,” I explain, didactically and calmly.
For the third time. Also, I am burning those fucking hoodies till only ashes remain as
soon as I get some privacy. It will be cathartic.
Social mirroring—
Hah. No. Taylor wouldn’t use fire… Oh God, I shouldn’t give her ideas.
“Right, I get the theory, but… Is that really necessary?” she asks, distaste dripping from
every syllable as she points to the most recent addition to my newly-concocted look.
“Don’t tell me you dislike the jacket so much? I really thought the white vinyl with pink
trims sold the look,” I deflect with an eyelash bat. Masterfully.
“The jacket’s fine…” she grumbles.
“The pants, then? Are white jeans really so excessive? Or maybe they don’t suit me?” I
insist, turning back and shooting her a look over my shoulder as I fake trying to see how
my butt looks in these. Obviously, it’s a trap: it looks fantastic. The strategic rips add
quite a bit more information than needed to get that point across.
“The pants…” she can’t help staring. And blushing. Again. I think I have a new favorite
pastime. “The pants are also… fine.”
“Well, you can’t have a problem with my sneakers. They are sensible. And a pastel pink
crop top is far from the more scandalous thing you have seen me wearing,” I ponder
while tracing the strip of exposed, slim belly with my fingertips. Damn, now I am giving
myself goosebumps. I am good.
Lisa Wilbourn’s behavior commonly referred to as cocktea—
Nope. No cocks here. You are losing your touch, Power.
Two college-aged men currently staring at Lisa Wilbourn and Taylor Hebert. Likelihood
of them wondering about a possible sexual relationship highly—
… I hate you. So much.
I throw a glare over my shoulder, and, predictably, the two guys who have presumably
come in to accompany their girlfriends or friends who are girls suddenly find the row of
colorful blouses by their side extremely interesting.
Taylor clears her throat; it seems she has also noticed them, and her own glare makes
them discover what an incredible deal on skinny jeans the store is having. On the
opposite corner of the changing room.
I still have so much to learn... Teach me your ways, Master! I mean, Mistress! I mean…
Oh God, why do I do this to myself?
Lisa Wilbourn—
Not a peep. I don’t need the headache.
“Your top is fine. Your shoes are fine. Your everything is fine—except that.” Seems
scaring off two grown men didn’t merit any further comment. Also, it seems the glaring
match somehow disrupted my psyops.
Cocktea—
I know what I am saying, Power.
“’That?’ I don’t know what you are talking about.”
Taylor gets close enough for our chests to brush and then, not too gently, grabs my
recently made side-ponytail in a way I can’t misinterpret as something sexual (not at all,
pinky-swear) and then shows me what is offending her sensibilities so much:
A streak of electric blue hair.
“Oh, come on, it’s a clip-in. I will take it off when I am in costume, I don’t see what’s your
problem,” I don’t quite whine.
“It’s not your hair. And it stands out.”
“That’s the point. If you have a very distinctive detail, that’s what an eyewitness
description will focus on, and if it’s something you can throw away, then you suddenly
don’t match your own description. Heck, with a little luck, sometimes the very
eyewitness will no longer recognize you, if the detail is distracting enough.”
“All right, fine, let’s say I believe you.” Finally! “Then what is my ‘distinctive detail’
supposed to be?” Right, that’s the point to which I have masterfully led this
conversation. Because I am apparently far too easily embarrassed to do this
straightforwardly.
“These,” I say as I hand her a small box.
One eyebrow raises inquisitively, and I gesture for her to open the damn thing before I
lose my nerve. Then the other eyebrow raises in solidarity as she looks at the pair of
silver emerald earrings inside.
“Lisa? Wh—When did you get these?”
“I… Shouldn’t you ask another thing?” This is mortifying. It seems to be a pattern with
us.
“No. We have been together since we left the hotel in your harebrained search for the
makeover to end all makeovers—”
“Harebrained?! Come on, look at us: we look like a serious college girl hanging out with
her party-goer classmate who may or not be up to Sapphic shenanigans! It’s the perfect
disguise compared to what went out of your house yesterday.” Deflection powers, don’t
fail me now!
“Right, and we will have another talk about that as soon as we are done with this.” My
powers are, once again, useless. “Now, when did you get this?”
“… During math period…” I grumble, scuffing the floor with the tip of my shoe like a
petulant child, because, apparently, that’s a thing I am doing now.
“So, before I needed a ‘distinctive detail’ to throw off ‘potential eyewitnesses,’” she says,
in a way that’s not quite a question.
“… They looked pretty.”
“And that’s relevant because…?”
“Because I wanted to give you something pretty to cheer you up after class. There. I
said it. I wanted to do something nice for my girlfriend, and I couldn’t just be
straightforward about it, because I am a mess and I never have been in something like
this before and I just—” And then she grabs my side-ponytail and pulls me toward her
and mercifully silences my rambling with a kiss that is just long enough I lose track of
my rant.
I would sigh in relief, but… That’s not currently an option.
We stand there, the kiss light enough that we can just keep going, more a sharing of
presence, of reassurance, than anything sexual, till I hear an obnoxious whistle.
Followed by a yelp and the sounds of somebody frantically trying to smack a buzzing
insect.
“Missing Alec already?” I tease her, whispering in her ear with a smile.
“God, no,” she answers, with a full-body shudder that makes my smile broader and
sharper.
“Yeah, me either.”
“Good, because it’s not him we are meeting.”
“And you had to go and remind me…” She looks at me reproachfully. Something tells
me I will need to get used to that look in the future.
Likelihood of interpersonal conflict in first romantic relationship high due to—
If you keep saying things like that, I am going to start calling you ‘Humbug.’
Despite association with Dickensian imagery, the word ‘humbug’ actually means ‘fake,
deceitful—
I know what it means; I am the one who read the whole dictionary for you, remember?
…
That’s what I thought. Ingrate.
“Lisa? You still with me?”
“Always,” I answer automatically, before I register the actual meaning of the question.
And now we are both blushing. Again.
Sigh.
“Come on, let’s go already. He must be getting nervous,” I tell her.
Not as much as I am, but, well… The sacrifices one must make when dating an
undercover, runaway hero.
***
Going from the relatively upscale boutique where Operation: Makeover ended (and
Operation: Give Her The Damn Earrings Without Making A Fool Out Of Yourself
catastrophically failed) to the nearly dilapidated little dinner lost in the cramped streets
near the docks is not a pleasant contrast. The place is at just the right location where,
rather than a refreshing sea breeze, we get to experience the humidity and ever-present
smell of seawater going stagnant with a dash of ship fuel thrown in the mix. It is a more
‘authentic’ marine experience than what the tourists at the Boardwalk are likely to get,
but damn if I don’t envy their make-believe restaurants with actual air fresheners at the
moment.
Genuine things are overrated.
Still, this is not what is making me uncomfortable, it’s just yet another reason I am
coming up with to hate this place before even crossing the door (chipped blue paint
characteristic of business in the area as—). Right, even Power is getting in on it.
“If you don’t want to come…” Taylor trails off before she can even finish, and I squeeze
her hand.
“Hey, this won’t be easy for any of the three of us. The least I can do is be there for
you.”
“It’s not. You don’t really need to do this,” she answers forcefully. I can’t help but note
that she hasn’t let go of my hand.
“Well, I mean, I would have to eventually.” And she smiles at that, and tucks her chin
just a bit, and then pulls me along as she opens the damn door with chipped blue paint
and dirty glass, and we go into the poorly lit and hardly hygienic dinner. That smells like
oil that should have been changed four fishes ago. I already hate it.
And then Daniel Hebert looks up from his coffee, sees his daughter looking like a
college-aged girl, and grasps the table to avoid falling as his world crumbles for a
moment.
Apparent age of Daniel Hebert, age of Taylor Hebert and typical age difference between
heterosexual couples indicates Daniel Hebert likely met Annette Hebert during college.
Taylor Hebert currently resembling—
Fuck. Could I just break people when I mean to? That would be swell, thank you.
Before I know it, I am standing by his side, grasping his shoulder.
“I am so sorry, Danny, I really didn’t think she would look so much like her—” And he
looks at me, the sheer weirdness of what I am saying, of me being the one who says it,
bringing him back from his ghosts.
“Lisa? I… I didn’t recognize you. What have you done with your hair?” See? If this was
any other moment, this would be the time for me to get my smug on. Obviously, my
girlfriend’s father is using the powers vested in him by his position to stop me from
enjoying myself.
“Don’t even ask. Trust me,” Taylor says, exasperation mixed with concern. Which
doesn’t stop her from capitalizing on the weakness of my current circumstances, as
expected of the combat pragmatist.
Danny looks at his daughter, still shaken, but regaining his grasp on his surroundings
doesn’t do him any favors as he now clearly remembers why we are meeting like this, in
this place.
“Taylor… What happened?”
“That’s… a long story, dad.”
“I am not going anywhere.” Damn, Danny, that’s a smooth line, mind if we swap tips?
“Yeah, I was afraid of that…” Taylor, apparently, doesn’t appreciate how suave her
father is. And must have been, if he bagged Taylor’s mom looking like he does.
“Well, if you want me to get the ball rolling…” I look at Taylor, and she nods while Danny
looks at me with wide, uncomprehending eyes. I mean, maybe he could be cute in a
‘lost puppy’ way… “Your daughter and I are… parahumans,” I say as we sit on either
side of him.
“What,” he states eloquently. I sigh.
“Taylor, if you please.” She glares at me, but soon a few flies land on the table and write
‘Hi, dad’ in a very disturbing, possibly Satanic, way. Danny looks like he’s about to
scream bloody murder before I clutch his arm and make him look at me.
“We are also in a torrid lesbian relationship.”
“What?!” Oh, that brought him out of his shell-shocked funk. Who would have guessed?
Me. It’s me who would have guessed. Obviously.
“Lisa!” Looks like I also brought Taylor out of her (hypothetical) shell-shocked funk. Who
said I am not good at conversations?
“Yes, dear?” I answer, as sweetly as I can. Which should be enough to weaponize
cavities.
Oh, Taylor is flushing, but more with anger than embarrassment, though there’s also a
hint of that…. There’s an idea. For later. In privacy.
Lisa Wilbourn likely to enjoy flaunting in public her—
I draw the line at you suggesting new fetishes for me to try, Power.
“Oh God, Annette was right…” Danny mutters.
“Mom what?” Taylor definitely doesn’t sputter.
“She always said the way you and Emma—” And now I am witness to the novel
experience of a fully grown man being interrupted by two teenage girls fake-gagging.
Well, not quite fake, if I am being honest—I can now taste once again my breakfast
blueberry muffin, and it was much better the first time around. Danny, you have verbally
incapacitated a Thinker seven. Congratulations, mortal, your feats shall be recorded in
the stars.
“No. Definitely not,” Taylor says.
“Sweetie, to be fair, my power thought the same.” And now I am being speared by my
lover’s stern look. This day is definitely full of first times. Aaaaand now I am blushing.
Why do I do this to myself?
Lisa Wilbourn likely to be aroused by—
Nope! Nope! Can’t hear yoooouuu!
Taylor’s ocular lynching of my innocent person is interrupted by Danny’s groan.
“Oh God, it’s true…” he says, clutching his head in the throes of despair.
“Elaborate,” Taylor demands.
“You two. Together. That’s the way Annette always looked when—” And he interrupts
himself. And now he blushes. I am feeling a strange kinship with this man.
“If you finish that sentence, I swear you won’t ever sit in a chair that hasn’t been
sabotaged by termites.” That’s right, love, you tell him. Also, that could be the most ecofriendly act of terrorism you have ever come up with.
“Right… So. Parahumans. This has to do with what went on at Winslow?”
And now we come to the less fun part of the conversation. Because it involves Taylor
telling his father about how she has been hiding from him how bad things actually were,
how defenseless she has been, how throwing herself against an almost certain death in
a battle with Lung was a relief compared to what went on in her daily life. And how he,
her father, hasn’t even suspected a fraction of what was going on under his very roof.
To be fair, most parents would expect their children to tell them if they were suffering
horrible abuse rather than hide it and internalize it as their new normal.
To be even fairer, most parents are morons.
I try to mediate, even if Power is far more suited as a Warhammer (for the Emperor!)
than as a scalpel, but ultimately I am an outsider in what very clearly is a family matter. I
am only allowed to expound my views on specific matters.
“Taylor was never a villain, no matter what the press said. Yes, she most likely
traumatized some of the people at the bank, but the ones who put them in actual,
physical danger were the Wards shooting artillery and Glory Girl deciding that
architecture is optional on casual Fridays.”
I mean, I try, but the facts aren’t that flattering by themselves.
“Her objective always was to get a hold of the actual villain behind the Undersiders.
And, when it comes to actual villainy, the only person she has seriously hurt is the
parahuman terrorist bombing the hell out of the city. Taylor saved all of our lives that
night. Again.”
Well, some facts are.
“Danny, seriously, don’t even think about suggesting she signs up with the Wards. Not
until Sophia Hess is behind bars. This shouldn’t be a hard concept to grasp.”
And some facts are just plain stupid. Seriously, that supervisor went from ‘wanting to
keep the cushy job without making waves’ to ‘let’s pretend the attempted murder via
bioterrorism didn’t happen.’ It’s a wonder she hasn’t already died by forgetting how to
breathe and walk at the same time.
“No, really, Danny—”
“Lisa, if you don’t shut up, I will show you exactly how much Annette taught me to
believe in gender equality.”
Ah, right, Taylor isn’t the only one with a temper. Well, I guess that’s an improvement.
Low emotional response usually associated with depression—
So, yeah, an improvement. Thanks, Power.
He takes a few calming breaths after his almost outburst, and then he looks straight at
Taylor (likely trying to ignore me, for reasons unknown to mortal kind).
“To summarize: you have been hiding from me that you have powers, that you have
been systematically abused since you were released from the hospital, that you joined a
villain team while trying to be an undercover hero, and this morning you were almost
shanked by one of your tormentors, who turned out to be an active Ward.”
“I… Yes. That is correct.” Taylor doesn’t flinch when she returns her father’s gaze, but I
notice the flies buzzing off into the corners of this place. I don’t comment on it.
And then Danny hugs her to his chest, completely enveloping her like the child she can
no longer be.
“Stupid, stupid kid,” he mutters in a watery garble.
“Dad, I…” Taylor is trying to hold back tears, receiving an embrace from her father for
the first time in far too long.
“Shush. You are all right, and the bitch got shot. That’s all that matters to me,” he says,
face buried in her hair, fingers clenched white over her shoulders.
“I also sent Emma into a catatonic shock by ruthlessly exploiting her trauma,” I can’t
help but interject.
Danny raises his head just enough to look at me out of the corner of his eye.
“Good,” he says, in a voice so low it rumbles in my chest.
Damn, now I am jealous of my girlfriend. This can’t be healthy.
And then there’s a loud crash and the street is on fire, and Danny is throwing the table
on its side and pulling us behind it, clutching us both to his side and offering the meager
protection of his slight frame.
Ah, right. Ongoing terrorist attack. How could I have forgotten?
Lisa Wilbourn prioritizing threats of a personal nature due to—
Of course. Well then, that makes the solution simple, doesn’t it?
Bakuda, you almost killed my team and me. You almost killed my lover after subjecting
her to the worst pain a human being can physiologically experience. You almost got
lucky and got us both at the same time just now.
And now? I don’t care how much of a cliché this is; now I am making this personal.
And I don’t think Taylor will take your almost murdering her dad very calmly either.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 6
Flames spreading over non-flammable surfaces—
“We need to get out of here, the building is going to burn.” Taylor nods at my warning
and Danny tries to look like he knows what he’s doing, because he is a parent and that
is just habit at this point. Being crouched over us as he tries to protect us from some
other possible explosion just helps sell the look.
I guess suicidal overconfidence runs in the family.
“I don’t see anybody acting deliberately, anyone in the near vicinity is panicking,” Big
Sister informs me as she focuses on something quite beyond the table we are using as
an impromptu barricade.
“Right, so no ambushes to take out stragglers, that—” Docks area, buildings low,
averaging at two floors—“Danny, you know this place, does it have any back entrance?”
“No, Jeff always complains it’s rusted shut.” He looks at the windows, where the glass
panes are starting to burn with—is that pink fire? “Stairs?”
“Stairs,” I confirm, as I get up and start pulling them both towards the kitchen.
The place is mercifully empty, and we only meet a waiter with a lost look and a panicked
cook when we arrive at the door to the stairs hiding in the kitchen (where the smell of
overly fried fish almost manages to jump up in the list of things I am in a hurry to avoid
experiencing right now). No need to worry about evacuating civilians. Oh, shit—
“Tay—”
“Already on it. I am drawing arrows with bugs to guide trapped civilians in the area.” I
nod gratefully, and her father looks like he’s almost starting to actually believe his
daughter is a superhero.
I am about to tell them to get their clothes wet to—Combustion doesn’t emit visible
residue. Combustion consuming non-flammable materials. Combustion likely
consuming smoke as it is released.
Thank God for small mercies.
Combustion unlikely to leave behind identifiable remains.
Well, aren’t you a fucking ray of sunshine?
Danny takes the lead and pushes the door open before rushing up with only a muffled
protest from the cook before the waiter silences him with a hand on his shoulder. The
floor above the dinner is a residential space—family business, father and son, mother
absent—right. As soon as he climbs the last step, I overtake him and go straight to the
back of the building, where a window shows the back alley where supplies would be
delivered in any place that wasn’t as dilapidated as what this previously buoyant area
currently is. They are lucky the city can’t even afford regular health inspections.
The height—eight feet plus the height of the window—may not—parkour articles
indicate significant risk of injury when falling over eight feet without rolling. Shit.
“Tay, are you carrying any silk lines?”
“Yes. Braiding them at the moment.”
“Thank God. We are going to need—” tensile strength— “make that six—” The crashing
sound of a door falling off its hinges interrupts my instructions.
Unusual properties of combustion particularly effective at undermining structures—
“Fuck! New plan, extra number one, number two, you lower this man,” I point at the
cook and the waiter before pointing to Danny, “to the ground then we lower your father
so they can help catch us when we drop.”
“What? But dad—” Seems the waiter has regained enough of his bearings to argue with
the bossy client currently invading his home. Unconvenient.
“Move it! We have—” exotic combustion not leaving any residue that can act as
structural support—“less than two minutes!” The fact that my warning is punctuated by
the sound of the frying oil deflagrating helps make me more convincing. I should hire a
sound effects specialist.
Also, I am now doubly grateful this fire doesn’t leave residues.
Without further prompting, they start lowering Danny, who does everything he can not to
be a nuisance and insist Taylor goes first.
Soon, the two older men are outside the building, and not a moment too soon as I can
feel the broiling torrent of air rushing up the stairs at our back. I look at Taylor, and
heroism and logic agree enough that my selfishness is defeated before it can be
expressed.
Without a word, we help the waiter get out the window so that the three men—greater
upper body strength on average—can help us if we fall.
“Tay—” there’s no time to argue, and I don’t know what to say to make her go first—
Before I can finish my line, her lips meet my own, dry and rough, and my train of thought
derails as my eyes meet her warm ones.
“What—”
“For good luck,” she says with a faint smile. And then pushes me out the fucking
window.
Dammit, Tay! Couldn’t you just break up like a regular person!
Taylor Hebert unlikely to break up with Lisa Wilbourn in current—
I know that!
Thankfully, the three men down there aren’t as useless as the stereotype would imply
and manage to catch my weight without much of an issue—I am not even going to
remark about how the waiter managed to cop a feel.
Likelihood of—
Not now! Tay—
And Taylor jumps out the window just as the flames burst out of the frame. She seems
to hang out in mid-air before her arm flashes forward and a glint of metal sails from her
hand before it tangles on the power line crossing the alley, the silk line trailing from it
allowing her to swing and hang just for a moment before the power lines rip from the
walls and she falls the rest of the way down, her long legs bending and absorbing her
momentum before the very tips of her fingers brush the ground and the cables fall
around her as her hair gracefully settles over her shoulders.
…
Gymnastics. I am making her sign up for gymnastics.
This is very important.
She disentangles her keys and silk from the cables before she gets up, brushing her
disheveled ponytail behind her shoulder as she straightens up and her battle mindset
takes over. And the sound of the second floor of the building we had just been on
collapsing doesn’t even make her flinch.
… Now put on some sunglasses and walk away from an explosion, Tay. You know you
want to.
“You two don’t know anything about this. There are villains who would torture you if they
thought you knew even a clue about a cape’s secret identity. Follow the arrows toward a
safe area. Run.” Her voice is cold, steady. Thrilling. “You,” she points at her dad, “are
coming with us.”
And she turns toward the alley’s exit and begins to walk with long, confident steps,
expecting me to just follow.
Well, I hate to see you leave, darling, but I love to watch you go.
By which I mean, I don’t have any objections to following her… lead.
***
We don’t immediately run away from the area, as Taylor makes me call the fire
department and relay a detailed account of the situation (including that trying anything
with a firehose would be a spectacularly bad idea unless the flames are a regular, sane
color) as we circle around the fire and her range allows her to map everything going on
in the affected area. We come across a few people catching their breath after narrowly
escaping the glam inferno, and I can see Taylor’s father wonder at the realization of
how many lives his daughter just saved. Enough to make up for some traumatized
bank-goers, by my account (pun very much intended, also, insert ‘eat the rich’ crack).
The fire at the periphery is quickly becoming the regular kind, constrained by the laws of
physics and color theory, so it appears that whatever Bakuda pulled here is centered at
the point of origin and unable to spread, though the aftermath is still a problem the city
will need to deal with as soon as possible.
Which is quite a pity, seeing as…
“This is a coordinated strike,” I announce with none of the glibness I would dearly like to
add after a quick check on social media allows me to connect the dots.
“What? Who would—” Danny starts to ask.
“Bakuda, the current leader of the ABB,” Taylor anticipates. “If she is willing to get this
much attention, she will be gearing up for something that will protect her from the
backlash.”
“Yes. Freeing Lung. Shortsighted, as it will only allow the E88 to claim legitimacy when
orchestrating a response.” I almost tsk at the stupidity, but I am kind of used to it at this
point.
“Legitimate Nazis. Of course. God, I hate this city.” Danny looks a bit hurt at his
daughter’s comment, but… It’s hard to argue with reality. Not that I back off from a
challenge.
“That’s a lie and you know it,” I try to add some levity. Also, to allow my in-law to catch
up with our back and forth, because apparently he is not yet tuned to the hivemind—
Unlimited parallel processing of sensory input would allow Taylor Hebert to—
Not the time. Save it for when I am about to fall asleep and you want to keep me up all
night shivering in terror.
Taylor Hebert likely to intervene if Lisa Wilbourn rendered unable to sleep. Intervention
likely to involve—
Her father is right here!
Father-daughter pairings not as popular as unrelated siblings, though—
That’s it, I am cutting you off from the internet.
“Lisa? Any clues?” And now I need to pretend I just drifted off because of something
important and pertinent, and not because my Power likes to go off on random tangents
just to get a rise out of me. Let’s see, what do I know…
Oni Lee’s teleportation ability involves replication of equipment worn when—
“Yes. Fuck, yes! Something very important has—Danny, we need you to drive us to the
Rig. Right the fuck now.”
“Language,” he protests out of habit as he starts leading us toward his parking spot. Oh
mister, if you want to ‘teach me a lesson,’ you are barking up the wrongest tree.
Daniel Hebert unlikely to foster sexual interest in Lisa—
And now I feel offended. Fucking fragile ego.
Well, not the time to explore how my low self-esteem and daddy issues have most likely
messed up my ability to relate to older men and it is a goddamn godsend I am not the
tiniest bit hetero, because that would have been a minefield—
Lisa Wilbourn stalling to avoid—
Where were you when I was procrastinating for my exams?
Sigh.
Resigned to my fate, I take out the burner phone I used to talk with Armsmaster and dial
up the number he called me from, because that’s the one I am relatively sure isn’t
bugged. He picks up at the second ring.
“This better be important,” he greets me.
“Who writes your lines? The guy sorely needs more motivation.” Taylor raises an
eyebrow, likely deducing who I am talking to by my tone. And body language. And my
anticipatory grin.
Worthy snark rivals are few and far between, and should be ever treasured.
“That doesn’t sound important. Hanging up.” Jerk. You know you like it.
“Fine, fine: Oni Lee is about to assault the Protectorate’s base with a full loadout of
tinkertech explosives that he can spam at will due to his power. His aim is to free Lung,
and the current terrorist attacks all over the city are just a smokescreen. Spoilsport.”
“At some point in the near future, we need to have a talk about priorities.”
“See? Now you are getting into it!”
He sighs into the phone, which comes across as a very annoying burst of crackling
white noise. I am pretty sure he did it on purpose.
Taylor opens the backdoor for me before climbing on the shotgun seat, leaving me to
my natural habitat: the backseat driver. She knows me so well.
“Any further revelations about the impending destruction of the local hero base where
my living quarters are located, or can I get to work?”
“As if you would stop on my behalf. I can hear your armor being mounted.”
“So I need a better sound filter for this phone. Thank you for your valuable input.” Damn.
Are you sure you don’t have a tiny Thinker rating yourself, Colin? You could join the
club; the first box of Tylenol is free!
Danny starts the engine and I signal him toward—
Main roads most likely to be targeted in attempt to disrupt emergency response. Adding
semi-stochastic attacks to obscure pattern would—
Toward where we are less likely to be blown up as we don’t cross the direct routes to
attacks from first responders. Which will add half an hour to the trip. Fuck.
“Listen, Colin, I have seen what her bombs can do in person, and it’s a fucking
nightmare. You cannot fight a defensive battle and do anything but die messily.” Danny
looks like he’s about to comment, probably something along the lines of an exhortation
to an absent divine figure or maybe something to do with fornication (or both), but
Taylor shushes him. Thanks, sweetie, I expect a repeat performance on all future
Christmas dinners.
“Your faith in my tactical acumen is duly noted. Any actual suggestions?” The whirring
of the servos stops, and I can hear his hurried steps, rushing now that his armor is
properly fitted. Impressively fast, though I shouldn’t be surprised.
“Empty your base of every squishy normal, shoot Lung full of your tinkertech tranqs,
take him on a remotely controlled boat to the middle of the sea and load it up with
flashbangs strong enough to permanently blind the psychopathic mime as soon as he
boards it.” Danny takes a sharp turn at my insistence (and at Taylor’s nod—it seems he
still trusts his daughter better, for some unfathomable reason).
“…” Come on, Colin, don’t make me fight you on this.
“Colin?” There’s an edge to my voice, but I would rather not think of what.
“I am trying to succinctly express how many laws your suggestion would violate. It will
take some time.” Shit.
“Well, how about you think the list of names of people who are likely to die with any
other plan. I bet that will also take some time.” Danny is looking at me through the
rearview mirror. Because, obviously, he has already put together who it is that I am
talking to and is appropriately horrified at what he can make out of the conversation.
Apparently, he’s sane.
Uh. Weird. Well, nobody is perfect.
“Lisa…” Armsmaster hesitates, which I am willing to bet is never a good sign. “I can
evacuate the building; the rest of your plan is not viable.”
“Fuck.”
“Language.” Oh, come on!
“Then giftwrap Lung for him and leave the baby Godzilla at the door. Save on the
collateral.”
And now I hear the emergency alarms going off and the containment foam dispensers
start spraying their load.
“I am afraid that ship has sailed. Unlike the remotely controlled one,” he says. And
hangs up.
On the one hand, I hate it when people hang up on me. On the other, he slipped that
little quip about my boat plan, which is kind of heartwarming.
Oh, I guess the circumstances also merit some leeway—wait, what—
“Taylor, what the Hell are you doing?”
“Changing.”
“Obviously, but why the fuck are you putting on your costume?”
“I am starting to think living without adult supervision isn’t doing you any good, Lisa,”
Danny dryly mutters.
“I can guarantee that adult supervision accounts for about ninety-five percent of my
current problems. And Tay, sweetie, I am not letting you go out to brawl with Lung and
Oni Lee on your own!”
And now she’s looking at me as if I am the one who is somehow acting like an insane
person. Sanity isn’t hereditary, Tay!
Mental illnesses often rooted in physiological causes that are transmitted genetically—
She fought Lung on her first night out, Power, don’t argue with me about this.
“You what?!”
“Daaad,” she starts to whine like a teenager who doesn’t want to be embarrassed in
front of her girlfriend, which is as disturbing as is cute, before she catches herself and
flushes. “Dad, I am not going to brawl with them, I will just…”
“Get in range of a teleporter who carries enough grenades and exotic explosives to turn
the whole city into a Godzilla movie homage?” I helpfully clarify.
And Danny slams the brakes of the car. Which, rude, but I will forgive.
This time.
Also, I shouldn’t need a superpower to remind me safety belts are there for a reason.
Ouch, my forehead.
“I didn’t realize Godzilla was still popular,” Danny adds nonchalantly. Most likely to avoid
directly confronting Taylor when she’s digging in her heels. I should take notes.
“I mean, it’s either that or something to do with Endbringers, and things are looking grim
enough—”
“Will you two stop stalling and—”
“Not if you still plan to fight—”
“If I am not going to fight, what’s the point of going to the Rig—”
“To give remote support! We aren’t heavy hitters, and your power just has two settings:
annoyance and murder!”
“Then maybe I should—”
And there’s a sound like a watermelon splattering on a sidewalk, and I can see flashes
of stroboscopic light reflecting off a window before the sounds of violence erupt at our
back.
Because this was the safest route. Which doesn’t mean it was safe.
I turn to see what kind of fucked up, Escherian nightmare Bakuda’s feverish mind has
come up with this time, but I don’t see a towering spire of acid-spitting rainbow mussels
or something like that.
No. I see people hitting… Everything.
Each other, the nearest doors, windows…
“They are going to kill themselves.” Thank you, Danny, what would the group’s Thinker
do without your valuable input?
“Tay…”
She’s looking out the window over her father’s shoulder, absolutely bewildered. Lost.
Right. That’s what I am here for.
Uncoordinated—
“Try to trip them and—” The man nearest to us, a portly man with a combover and a
brown suit who was punching a trashcan with his already bloodied hands, trips on what
I guess is a silk line and rolls down the street before he starts dragging himself toward
his previous target.
Fixation on target indicates—
“They will only attack what they were looking at when the bomb detonated. Prioritize
couples and groups—” When they hear me, both Taylor and Danny rush out of the car
and start running toward two kids who are bleeding heavily from their noses and mouths
as isolated people start falling as Taylor’s insects get busy. Of course, I follow them,
because it seems having the survival instincts of the average Brocktonite is the kind of
thing you pick up just by living here. Like the accent, or systemic poverty.
And so I find myself carrying a small kid in my arms that is doing his best to evade my
grasp so that he can go back to beating up the little girl who keeps hounding my steps. I
am torn between horror movie and Benny Hill sketch, at this point.
But Taylor and Danny are wading into the melee, and there was a group of burly
dockworkers who… Damn it. Power, how do we—
Objective fixated on detonation. Fixation visual stimuli—
It can’t be this easy.
Hoping against hope, I cover the little boy’s eyes while trying not to drop him. He
struggles for a few seconds, enough that I start to doubt—
“Wha—what is going on?!” And now he renews his struggles to get out of my grip and
the little shit manages to punch my boob.
No good deed goes unrewarded.
“Cover their eyes! If they don’t see their objective, they calm down!”
I test how well the cure works by lifting the kid over my shoulder and seeing how he
reacts to his overly attached pursuer. He doesn’t start trying to jump from my hold to
tear her throat out, which is good, but he does start crying and calling his previous
target when he sees ‘Sally’ so mad at him and with her blood-streaked face, which is
bad, because now I can’t hold the moral high ground against Taylor when it comes to
traumatizing innocent bystanders.
So I drop him like a sack of potatoes and grab Sally and cover her eyes till she stops
struggling in murderous rage and starts doing it in wild panic. Which is much better, of
course.
I mean, therapists still need to make a living, you know?
Lisa Wilbourn using humor to disassociate from situation—
No shit, Sherlock. I am not equipped to calmly process a world in which a deranged
terrorist makes little kids murder each other with their bare hands.
Also, my head hurts, and not just because all of the hair-pulling. Wonderful.
I keep moving so that shock doesn’t set in and go help Taylor and her father use the
blankets they grabbed from God knows where to blind as many people as possible as
quickly as possible and then I select those lucid enough to recruit for further help with
the situation as Taylor starts using her flies in a way that is most decidedly unhygienic,
but will make a lot of ophthalmologists happy. Soon enough, everyone is back to
normal, if normal includes sprained wrists, broken fingers, busted lips, some worrying
eye injuries…
All right, not normal at all, but at least nobody is dead.
Or dying.
With faltering steps, we go back to the car, and I take a shuddering breath when I finally
sit down after the exertion of wrestling very uncoordinated but also extremely motivated
adults.
And Danny starts the car.
He turns to look at me, face set in determination.
“Where to?” he asks.
I look at Taylor, who silently nods, and then take out my phone and do the quickest
search I can while Power starts hammering at my temples.
“Three blocks south and two to the east. It looks like a maze-like distortion. Taylor can
help guide the survivors out.”
And Danny nods at me, a small, grateful smile slipping out, before he turns back and
speeds up.
Taylor remains silent, focused.
And I close my eyes, and try to rest as much as I can before I am needed again.
***
The rest of the day proceeds just like that, jumping from one crisis to the next as Taylor
and I stretch our abilities as much as possible to lower the body count of the insane
monster behind this massacre. Danny falls silent after pulling a child out of the liquefied
cement that was about to suffocate him, and I don’t have the heart to try to engage him.
He drops us two blocks from our hotel after Taylor explains to him how to handle the
evidence she has been gathering for so long and how to react to the possibly
unavoidable PRT investigation. He follows along and nods where appropriate, but…
We will need to talk to him. Soon.
But there’s another man on a Quixotic, doomed quest to fix this city I should speak to
before.
I call Armsmaster, this time on speaker, in the unlikely case Taylor wants to break her
moody silence and comment from where she’s been huddled on our bed.
He picks up on the sixth ring.
“Second Lieutenant Jessica Fairchild, transferred from Boston two months ago and
working on her law degree on her downtime. Private Harry O’Malley, started working on
the Brockton division seven years ago and planned to retire here, without any drive for
promotion or transfers. Sergeant Richard Nowak, son of immigrants, transferred from
the army three years ago and would always start a fight if someone called him ‘Dick…’”
And his voice breaks.
“You don’t have to continue,” I tell him, as gently as I can while Taylor looks at the
phone with growing horror.
“I… I do.”
And Armsmaster… Colin spends the next ten minutes telling us a list of names and
ranks, always adding in a personal detail, sometimes slipping an anecdote, either fond
or aggravated. And he doesn’t cry, but it’s only because of sheer practice.
When he finally winds down, all three of us share a silence that I don’t dare qualify. But I
called him for a reason, and it wasn’t this, even if I should have known… Fuck, my eyes
sting and—
And Taylor wraps me in her arms, and I quietly sob on her shoulder because of people I
have never met, for faces I have never seen, and for a man who still is not a friend who
is grieving.
I never would have made it as a villain. Too soft-hearted.
I clear my throat, for once not looking for a dramatic effect, and tell Colin what I have
wanted to tell him since I bandaged the bleeding stump where a veteran nurse used to
have an arm.
“Taylor and I… We are ending this. No rules.”
And there’s silence from the other end of the line, before I hear a crackling that sounds
like something very high-tech turning on.
“Tell me if I can help,” Colin says, and I feel the ghost of my smirk settling on my lips.
Because of course he can. And he will.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 7
Contrary to popular belief, hacking doesn’t involve frantically hammering away at a
keyboard as symbols too fast to process keep scrolling up the screen. Most of the time,
exploiting a known vulnerability just involves knowing which forums to frequent or what
underpaid and overworked intern won’t be feeling up to double-checking things when
you call to report you have forgotten your password.
And thank God for that, because Power is far better at that than at giving me inhuman
key-pressing skills.
Fine motor control has a non-trivial mental processing factor—
Well, look at you, trying to be helpful! Who’s a good Power? You are! Yes, you are!
Lisa Wilbourn attempting to assign moral values to parahuman abilities interfaces
reflects—
You are adorable when you act all bashful like that.
Anyway, as I was saying, there are a lot less keyboard-shattering maneuvers and a lot
more lazily scrolling a bunch of open tabs that you had already managed to get in
months ago, because what kind of moron waits for a time-sensitive situation to try to get
into the local police department’s database? Not this moron.
Uh, I mean…
Disruption of circadian cycle often associated with short-term loss of cognitive abilities—
Yeah, I know. God, do I know.
It’s three in the morning, that means that I have been curled in this armchair with my
laptop for the past four hours, and that’s only because Taylor forced me to stop while
we ate. That is, I have been at this for about six hours with a very small break inbetween. And that leads me right back to why I am glad I don’t need to maniacally hit
my keyboard with electronic music blaring in the background:
Taylor is asleep, just like I am supposed to be.
Don’t tell her.
Lisa Wilbourn’s use of narrative conventions in internal monologue indicates a lack of
focus due to—
Right. Sorry about that.
I let out a sigh as my blurry vision goes back to digesting the latest missing person
report featuring an Asian man living in the Docks. Xiu Wang, or Wang Xiu, with the
traditional order, a Chinese refugee—Japanese and Chinese stereotypically hostile
relations may have played a part in Bakuda’s selection—middle-aged, reported missing
three days ago. He is a likely match for a headless corpse found near a liquid pool of
shifting colors and geometric patterns that prompted people who saw it to try to drown
themselves in it, growing in radius with each death. Wonderful. I mean, I was already
planning on not sleeping today, so—
Lisa Wilbourn’s mental focus rapidly degrading after being subjected to traumatic
experiences and—
I know! Fuck, Power, I know, but I can’t go to sleep till I solve this! Every minute that
bitch walks free is another atrocity waiting to happen and—
And two soft arms wrap around my shoulders as a menacingly steady voice whispers in
my ear: “Why aren’t you in bed?”
… Power, why did I not notice my girlfriend crawling out of bed and getting behind me
till it was too late?
Lisa Wilbourn’s degraded mental focus due to lack of sleep and excessive stress—
Traitor. You are all ganging up on me.
“I asked a question, Lisa.”
“Oh, it wasn’t rhetorical? Sorry, the dramatic delivery really gave the wrong idea.” Sass,
don’t fail me now.
The arms tighten just a tiny smidge before she sighs and relaxes them, her chin coming
to rest on my shoulder in a posture that’s far less ominous and more… I don’t know.
Domestic? Is that a word I can use after a whole twenty-four hours of—
“You know, I just realized something,” I can’t help but interject. Right, it’s me; no need to
clarify that.
“Hmm?” she signals for me to continue.
And so I turn my head and kiss her cheek before I let out as much saccharine
sappiness as my current mental exhaustion allows me into my voice:
“Happy one-day anniversary, girlfriend.”
And Taylor blinks those big, green eyes of hers and lets out a surprised laugh that, just
for a moment, lets me relax in her embrace.
I lean back, my head resting on her arm, her warmth seeping into the parts of my body
she touches as I finally notice the slight cold I have been feeling for hours, my legs
already a bit numb even as I rub them together. And I can smell Taylor’s hair draped
over me, and the bluish light of the screen is filtered by it, my dry eyes slowly blinking in
the soothing darkness.
All right, it’s more than a moment.
She cradles me, humming something soothing that I didn’t know I needed so much up
to this moment, and I let time melt away between the two of us, the pounding of my
temples no longer as urgent, my breathing no longer as short.
I have it bad, don’t I?
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
Nobody asked for your opinion.
“Come to bed, Lisa. With me,” she murmurs.
“I… I am sorry. I want to, but I just… I need this, Tay. I need to do something, and
this—”
“I know. I understand, really, but you aren’t getting anything out of this at this hour. Rest
for a bit and come back to the problem with fresh eyes.”
“I… I tried. I can’t sleep.”
She hesitates, before she rests the side of her head on mine.
“Is it that urgent? I thought the attacks stopped.”
“No, it’s not, I don’t think… I mean, yes, she can start again whenever she pleases,
there are far more missing people than bombs exploded today and many of those were
from citizens who hadn’t gone missing, who had just been going through their daily lives
before the insane—”
“Lisa. Stop. Breathe. I know.”
And I do. I breathe as the stench of flesh rotting in a matter of seconds assaults me
once again. As the muffled screams of people trapped in eternal distance reach me long
after they desperately called for me, as flashes of ever-shifting crystal show me a
kaleidoscopic man, still alive, still suffering.
And I break. And sob into my girlfriend’s arms.
“God, I am the veteran, suave supervillain, why am I the one crying my eyes out like a
crybaby? Why can’t I think of anything better than ‘crybaby?’ Maudlin! Maudlin is much
better, I want a redo!”
“First, maudlin is an adjective, not a noun—”
“I know! I meant a maudlin child, obviously!”
“—Second, because you are none of those things.”
“What things?”
“Veteran, suave supervillain?”
“Hey! At least let me keep suave.”
“You just tried to convince me you thought ‘maudlin child’ was acceptable outside of a
Victorian novel. You are not suave; you are a nerd with the superpower to camouflage
yourself as a popular girl.”
“…”
“What?” she asks, suspicion laden heavily on her tone.
“My Power enjoys reading internet forums and collecting esoteric miscellanea while also
cluing me in on social nuances going on around me. It… may be the power to be a nerd
who can fake it?”
And Taylor goes still before slowly turning toward me.
And then laughs in my face.
“Oh, come on, it’s not that funny!”
Her grip on me gets tighter as she actually starts guffawing to my unmeasurable
mortification. This is why you don’t overshare on the second date, you know? Because
hot girls laugh at you.
“Taylor, I swear if you don’t stop, I will start randomly switching the labels of everything
you are likely to use in the bathroom and the kitchen.” She has the nerve to raise a
finger, asking for a moment while she devolves to silently shaking in uncontrolled mirth
as she buries her face in my shoulder.
Fine, be that way. See how you enjoy your salty tea from now on.
Mongolian salty tea is a traditional beverage from—
Of course. Of fucking course I would end up unwittingly serving her a Genghis Khan
breakfast special.
“Sorry…” she gasps out, barely managing to. “Sorry, I just imagined you dressed like
Greg Veder, with his haircut, and—” aaand she’s laughing again. Wonderful.
I don’t know who that Greg Veder is, but he has my eternal commiseration.
Mostly because he missed out on being called Lord Vader just by a letter.
… Uh, Power didn’t say anything about how nerdy—
References to pop culture usually indicative of self-identification as—
Aaand there we go. Right, I am actually getting pissed off, so…
“Ouch! Hey, no pinching!” she protests, hands moving as if to counterattack.
“Girl, my Power has memorized enough anatomical diagrams to know where every
single nerve ending in your body is. You do not want to start a tickling war with this
Thinker.”
“Fine…” she grumbles. Oh, great, now I have to deal with pouty Taylor, only slightly less
adorable than hyper-focused, possibly homicidal Taylor. No, there’s nothing weird about
my tastes, shut up.
“So, we kinda were in the middle of an emotional scene before you decided to go full
bathos on me…” change the subject, Lisa; maybe she won’t remember anything about
your everlasting shame tomorrow morning.
“Right, right, it’s just—” she starts chuckling, and I wiggle my fingers as threateningly as
I can. “Never mind. Tell me what you are doing.” And now she’s in hyper-focus mode.
That’s just unfair.
“Correlating the last known appearances of missing people who died today so that I can
track Bakuda’s base by the movement of—”
“You are not going to get any results from that.” I swallow. She’s right, of course, but…
“Then what do you suggest?”
“From what you told me, she’s grabbed people from all over the ABB territory, you
would need witnesses to track movements, and you aren’t going to find them in those
reports, because any actual leads would already have been acted on.”
“How optimistic of you.”
“Am I wrong?” she asks with perhaps a tad more archness than merited.
“Not… exactly. I don’t know whether the BBPD would have already started tracking the
kidnapping victims if they had a good lead, but that is a moot point. Nobody’s talking.
Either they don’t know anything, or the ones that do know are too scared. Reasonably
so,” I say, pointing at Wang Xiu’s report.
Taylor stares at the screen for far too long, her jaw clenched, working side to side.
Finally, she lets out a breath and lets me go (and I don’t whine at the loss of her
warmth, thank you very much) and comes up from behind me, forcing me to almost
climb over the armrest and… Oh.
I am now sitting in my girlfriend’s lap. This is infantilizing.
Lisa Wilbourn associates early childhood memories with uncomplicated feelings of—
I didn’t say I disliked it.
“All right, work. I will wait for you to finish.” Her voice brooks no argument. As usual.
“Tay, sweetie, I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but one of us being a wreck
tomorrow is more than enough. Go get some rest.” And she shifts under me, restless,
muttering something right behind my ear that I still manage to miss.
“What was that?” I ask.
“I said I don’t want to sleep alone.”
Oh.
I… Try not to preen, because what kind of idiot would be glad at hearing that admission
given the circumstances, but it still… All right, I may be sappier than I thought, happy
now?
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
You are starting to repeat yourself.
Lisa Wilbourn using infatuation with Taylor Hebert as a way to realign her moral
compass and feel better about—
Right. Can you go back to repeating things, please? That would be grand.
“Then we better solve this soon, don’t we?” I say, as much to break the silence before it
sets in as to utterly avoid my Power turning into Sigmund Freud and telling me
everything stems from my desire to usurp my mother’s place in my father’s bed.
Psychoanalytic theories mostly debunked and studied because of their historical
significance.
Thank God. I really was tempting fate back there.
“Right. Change of tack. If we can’t track their movements, maybe we should try to track
their decisions,” she states, and I should be aggravated at how used she is to taking
charge of the situation, but… I still think it’s reassuring. I don’t want to know what that
says about me. About us.
“What do you mean?”
“How would Bakuda decide where to set up a base?”
“I don’t know, maybe access to supplies? Lung would have been the one to make that
decision, anyway.”
“Would he? I think Bakuda’s plan overreached, Lung wouldn’t have decided to—”
“No, of course she went too far. She was recruited forcefully, which shouldn’t take a
genius to infer, given that lecture she gave us about the nature of fear, and her ego is
too big to accept that without some kind of defiance, a middle finger aimed at—” Of
course.
“Lisa?”
“Just… just a second.”
Bakuda was taken against her will, like me, but she outdid herself to free Lung. Why?
Didn’t she want to be rid of him, to regain her freedom? No, that wasn’t the priority; the
priority was keeping her self-image as capable, as above others. Her trigger was about
feeling inferior, so now she can’t abide it. If Lung inspires terror, she needs to be worse
than him, a monster whispered about for generations. If Lung held the heroes at bay for
years, she needs to hold the city hostage. If Lung made her feel beneath him…
She needs to insult him.
She won’t remain in the lab he set for her, not when he’s not there to force her. No, she
will move, still on ABB’s turf, because that’s just pragmatic, but to a place that signals
Lung’s failings, a place that lets her tell herself that she is better than him in some way,
a place that stands as a reminder of Lung being defeated for the first time since he
battled an Endbringer.
And the fact that it will also remind her of how much she wants to kill Taylor will be icing
on the cake.
I do a quick search on the fire department’s database and confirm it: the building is still
standing but has been abandoned since the fire. It has a basement. It’s out of the way,
with not many people around to report suspicious movements… It’s perfect.
And I think this wooziness is my adrenaline high finally crashing down.
And my head… Uh. I didn’t use Power for that one?
Lisa Wilbourn studied deductive reasoning as a way to supplement power-generated
inferences—
Oh, hush. You are going to make me blush.
“Lisa? You all right?”
“You need to come up with a pet name. It would be so much cuter.”
“I will take that as a yes. Did you solve it?”
“I… I did. I think I really did.”
“Perfect. Let’s go to bed.” And, against what every inborn instinct of mine tells me to do,
I don’t argue. And get in bed with my gorgeous girlfriend.
Sometimes, being a contrarian doesn’t pay.
But I don’t think I will admit it when I am not about to fall unconscious from an adrenalin
crash—
***
“Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three…”
Hearing numbers muttered through clenched teeth is not exactly the way I expected to
wake up this… Let’s say morning, going by the quality of the light barely filtered through
the closed curtains—
Angle of direct light entering through window on southern wall, color temperature of
light, and Lisa Wilbourn’s state of wakefulness indicate—
You and I need to have a talk about what constitutes a waste of mental resources.
Wary of Taylor’s increasing count, I open my eyes slowly without shifting under the
sheets. What I see is not at all what I expected.
Taylor. In her underwear. Doing push-ups.
The underwear I bought her, which is designed to be comfortable, sure, but at the same
time is a black lace little number that, while covering enough to qualify as decent by
some measures, also hints at enough to be anything but. And so I am treated to the
sight of Taylor’s legs being kept straight with taut muscle as her pleasantly defined back
shifts with every up and down motion that can’t help but draw my attention to her also
pleasantly defined (and toned, yet soft and squishy) derriere.
Not at all what I expected.
Also, from this point onward, I no longer hate surprises.
Oh, it looks like the show has stopped.
“Lisa? Why are you clapping?”
Because I am a hormonal moron in love with no self-awareness and even less control
impulse.
“Just admiring your dedication.”
Lisa Wilbourn’s duplicity counter to her proclaimed interest in romancing Taylor
Hebert—
I will not tell her I was salivating over her just right after waking up. Besides, she’s
already conceded defeat, I mean, reciprocated; the romancing part is over.
Lisa Wilbourn dismissing the ongoing efforts required to keep a relationship stable
indicates high likelihood of—
I am not taking relationship advice from you, mister. Even if you are right.
Shit, should I buy her flowers? Maybe joke about it, ‘the flowers and the bees?’
“Well, it’s not like I could go out jogging, you know?” she says from where she is sitting
cross-legged on the carpet. “And… we are kinda… I don’t know, I didn’t want to leave
you alone, after last night.”
“That deserves cuddles. Yes. I shall magnanimously offer you cuddles in repayment,” I
offer, magnanimously, as I shift back and lift the blankets with royal grace.
And she chuckles. That’s like the guillotine of cuddles.
“I think we are already starting the day late enough as it is.”
Oh, right, I have responsibilities. And a personal vendetta. I think I would rather focus on
that second one; it will be more productive.
With that conclusion having been reached, I grab the burner currently dedicated to
contacting Colin from my bedside table before going to the bathroom (because morning,
and late night, and I shouldn’t need to explain anything else). For a moment, I am
tempted to offer Taylor a shared shower, but as much as I am in the mood to appreciate
her form, the truth is I am not up to aquatic shenanigans yet. Not when I still feel like I
need in the neighborhood of ten showers before—
Lisa Wilbourn correlating cleanliness of body with mental well-being—
Yes. That’s a thing people do. We have bodies, but we still feel like we are bodies, so
we tend to identify our physical state with our mental one. That’s why it’s so easy to stop
showering when you are depressed.
Lisa Wilbourn unnecessarily reflecting events outside of Lisa Wilbourn’s control on Lisa
Wilbourn’s self-image and mental state.
… Yes, Power. That’s what being human tends to amount to.
After taking care of my most urgent business, I let the hot water of the hotel’s
surprisingly pleasant shower (seriously, the broad showerhead and the gentle pressure
make me feel like I am under the most ecologically alarming cascade ever) while I
ponder Power’s idiosyncrasies. Some times I answer his prompts only to get the feeling
I am getting frustrated at a particularly clever chatbot, but others… I think it’s learning to
have some kind of emotion. Not… not fully human, but it likes some things more than
others, and dislikes me getting in a mood. I think it started when it discovered that my
being depressed made me less likely to get him fresh information (he loves new things),
and then he just learned to associate me being engaged or in a good mood with him
being more likely to get the data he enjoys. I think I am Pavlovying my Power into caring
for me.
Lisa Wilbourn’s anthropomorphization of parahuman abilities interfaces indicates need
to acquire companionship and—
Or it could be that. Yeah. Also, screw you. See if I get on that speculative thread about
Dragon’s new suit now.
Lisa Wilbourn’s attempt to punish parahuman ability’s interface indicates frustration at
parahuman ability—
Yes. That’s another lesson about humans for you: we are petty as fuck.
When I finally get out of the shower, I check the burner once again and—
‘Package delivered.’
My breath catches before I start cackling maniacally until Taylor cautiously peeks in.
“Presents, Tay! We’ve got presents!” I say, right before I throw my head back and keep
on cackling in full supervillain pose, hands grasping at the unwary Heavens.
I mean, I am acting as an undercover bad guy at the moment. May as well keep
enjoying the perks.
***
“I am not apologizing for that.”
“You took more time to cackle than to shower. And you took a long shower. Also, the
bathroom order has now been set in stone if today is any indication.”
“Oh, come on, a girl needs some time to—” I stop before I can finish putting my foot in
my mouth. That arched eyebrow tells me I may not have been that successful with my
evasive maneuvers. “Look, can we just pick up our parcel and enjoy our ill-gotten
gains?”
“I don’t know, can we?”
“Oh, don’t you start with that passive-aggressive nonsense.”
“Lisa, that’s not me being passive-aggressive; that’s me telling you to stop blathering
and get Armsmaster’s package before someone else gets lucky.”
“… Phrasing.”
She looks at me uncomprehendingly before blushing to the tip of her ears.
“I—I didn’t mean… Oh gosh, I wouldn’t—”
“Shush, I know. Relax. Just… don’t ever say that within Dragon’s hearing range. Which
might be wherever there’s an electronic device. You’ve got stiff competition, Big Sister.”
“And now I am mortified, challenged, and paranoid in equal measure. You make me feel
things no one else ever has, Liz.”
I puff my chest in pride before that last syllable catches my ear, at which time the pride
goes out the window and a big, goofy, defenestrating grin takes its place.
“Is that my pet name?”
“It’s… I mean, it’s just an abbreviation.”
“Of course. The extra vowel could prove dangerously superfluous when time is of the
essence.”
“… Please, stop teasing me,” she says, face red, hands gripping each other, and eyes
glued to the ground.
So I hug her, tilt her chin up, get on my toes, and kiss the tip of her nose before
answering.
“Never.”
She frowns cutely, her nose cutely wrinkling (it’s extra cute, it merits reiteration) before
she nips the tip of mine.
“Hey!”
“I found the package. It’s at the back of the alley, hidden behind the trashcan,” she
delivers in a tone so flat it could be used to level a bookshelf. And then starts walking.
“Your powers are bullshit.”
“Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”
“Oh, come on, we are about to get our own super-spy gadgets! Lighten up!”
“Correction,” she says, as she kneels down, “I just got my super-spy gadgets. Be nice,
and I will let you play with them.”
“You cheat.”
“I win.”
Right, that line’s cool enough. I will let her have this. No, it’s not because I can’t come
up with something to one-up her.
Dammit! I could have pointed at my curves all suggestive-like, winked, and said
something like ‘oh, you did.’ Damn, another one for the mental drawer. Hopefully, I can
recycle it later on.
“Well, don’t keep me in suspense, is there everything we asked him to get us?”
“Let me see… Lightweight micro-cameras and microphones, paralytic agents,
nociceptor activators… What does that even mean?”
“It’s… Like the reverse of an anesthetic. It should activate the pain response of… Wow,
Colin got pissed.”
“I… am not sure I am comfortable using this.”
“Yeah, I completely understand. Speaking of things that make us uncomfortable,
though…”
She looks at me before taking Armsmaster’s package (heh) and standing up. She
doesn’t hug me or anything melodramatic like that (no, I am not disappointed, shut up)
but still looks at me with this weird intensity she has when she wants to take on the
weight of the world, but circumstances won’t let her. My gorgeous, sweet martyr.
“Are you sure about this?”
And no, I am not, because this goes against everything I have fought for the past few
months, against every pettily rebellious teenager instinct in my body, but… But there’s
also a certain pleasure at finally making the bastard useful to me.
So, with my skin crawling at the very notion, I take out another burner phone from my
messenger bag and answer Taylor’s question.
“Not at all.”
And then I press the call button. He picks up at the second ring.
“Tattletale. I expected you to call earlier,” Coil’s unctuous voice comes from the phone,
and I almost drop it.
“Sorry, I… I have been working non-stop, and I couldn’t find the, you know, privacy.” My
subservience is half-faked, because I am not in the bastard’s clutches, not anymore,
and it’s only a matter of time till Colin manages to nab him with that mountain of
evidence I sent him. But that’s half of it. The other half? That’s the one that’s legitimately
terrified of what he can still do to me, what he will try to do as long as he’s able to.
Because I know how many times he has tortured me, drugged me, and… and raped
me. And It’s never happened, not really, but I can still feel it when he is pleasantly
explaining his plans while another he takes another me and—
Oh God, I am going to throw up.
“Understandable. My reports indicate you and Miss Hebert were very active yesterday.”
Clench your teeth and answer, Lisa. Just swallow that bile and think about wonderful,
karmic, prison gang rape.
I may even send him a few yaoi mangas to cheer him up.
“You don’t know the half of it. That shooting at Winslow? That’s a Ward. A Ward that
was torturing Taylor for over a year right under her probation officer’s nose. I have
completely turned her; she no longer wants anything to do with the Protectorate. And
spending the day mitigating Bakuda’s body count outright sealed the deal.”
“I am not sure bringing so much attention from the PRT is worth Miss Hebert’s loyalty.”
“I… I am sorry, but it was that or letting Shadow Stalker murder her. I have tipped off a
couple of moles so that they know how bad things actually are, and that should make
them let up on the pressure. I am expecting her to be transferred to another city within
the month.”
“…”
“Boss? This is a win, I am sure of it, we just need to let the heat die down for a while. It
was Stalker that broke the rules. Taylor thinks she has screwed up and is forced to stay
with the Undersiders, but that’s not what is happening. Really, I will send you the report,
it just is another nail in Piggot’s coffin.” Come on, come on, bite, you damned bastard.
“I expect those reports tomorrow at the latest. It seems you may have done well,
Tattletale.” God, thank you, thank you, thank you…
I try to hold back my relief, to not let him know how much this means, to not let him
know how much power he still has over me, and… And Taylor hugs my shoulders,
kneeling beside me on the ground where I am crouching after sliding down the wall of
this alley, and I am very grateful at how neat it unexpectedly is, because cleaning my
white jeans after only wearing them a full day—
Lisa Wilbourn focusing on non-pertinent details as an avoidant behavior to—
Yes. Yes, you are right.
“You won’t regret it, boss. Of course, I will stay away from the rest of the Undersiders
until the internal investigation progresses. We don’t want them to be targeted because
of this.”
“… Of course. That seems to be the prudent course of action.”
“Right,” Brian, Rachel, Alec? You are welcome. You don’t know what for yet, but you
are fucking welcome, you bunch of ingrates. “There’s one last thing, though?”
“Oh?”
“How would you like for a pair of villains to get rid of Bakuda before the PRT even has
time to announce their response?”
Another pause. I don’t know if he’s splitting the timelines or just pondering how to
answer, because in his case both things are nearly synonymous. I can’t blame for that,
though, in his shoes I would abuse the heck out of a save-scumming power.
Coil’s parahuman abilities limited in scope as he cannot simultaneously profit from
short-term and long-term advantages provided by—
… If that’s you being jealous, I don’t know how I will react, so please try not to freak me
out when I am already a nervous wreck only held up by my girlfriend’s arms.
Who is now squeezing my free hand and looking into my eyes with soft, warm worry.
I mouth a ‘thank you’ to her, and take note of this. Because… Because I think the world
is a bit better when we remember that people have done us kindness without us asking
them to, and I—
“I think I would like that very much,” Coil says, and his very existence neatly explains
why I need those reminders of warmth and careless virtue.
“I take it we are bomb-proof at the moment, then?”
“Don’t take it for granted. The situation is volatile enough that I may not be able to afford
you this protection for long. I will warn you when things change.”
“I… That should be good enough. Thank you, boss.” And now I am swallowing bile even
as I feel triumphant. What a wonderful juxtaposition.
“Of course. I will expect good news shortly.” And he hangs up.
Thank God. I couldn’t have managed another minute.
“So, that’s done?” Taylor asks as soon as she sees me pocket the phone.
“Yeah,” I answer, allowing my words to get out with the shuddering breath I had been
holding back since I made the call.
“I am glad.”
We crouch in silence for a while, Taylor tactfully allowing me to calm down from my
melodrama, and—seriously, I have spoken with him so many times, why did this one
feel so different? Is it because I felt like I was going back willingly? Because—
“I couldn’t help but notice… You could have easily done what you told him you did.”
“I… Yeah. I could have.”
“So, rather than trapping me under your evil sway with clever schemes, you are instead
risking your life going against a demented terrorist with a half-baked plan.”
“The plan is fully baked! Any more baked and it would be toast!” She raises that
damned eyebrow of hers. “You know what I mean!”
“Yes,” she chuckles, “I do. Do you know what I mean?”
“That you have been a terrible influence on me?”
“Precisely.” She leans forward and kisses my brow.
And my answering smile is not goofy, nor wide. Not this time.
But… it is there. And that’s far more than I could have hoped just a week ago.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 8
You wanna know something funny about humans, Power?
…
I will take the lack of biting, possibly self-inflicted snark as a yes. Well, you see, there’s
that thing where we kinda evolved our emotional responses in a context where it didn’t
make much sense to keep them for long. A tiger attacks you? Holy shit! Flood the
system with adrenalin and run all systems on the highest setting, because holding back
is not an option! Your midterms are next week? Holy shit, I just remembered I haven’t
even opened the textbook since last month! Flood the system with adrenalin, because…
uh, wait, what do you mean ‘next week?’ We don’t have a setting for long-term
emergencies, Lisa, that’s not what ‘emergency’ even means. It’s all-or-nothing here,
much like your stunning good looks.
Lisa Wilbourn’s internal monologuing indicates lack of focus and—
Yeah, right, that’s precisely my point. I am currently lying on a fluffy beach towel laid on
a roof with my fugitive girlfriend as we stake out a known terrorist’s lair a scant two
blocks from us. We could be spotted at any minute, our lives are in mortal danger, we
are right in the middle of enemy territory in what amounts to the opening salvo of a no
holds barred war!
And I am boooooored.
Lisa Wilbourn’s lack of focus in dangerous situation indicates lack of self-discipline and
training in—
Not quite how I would have put it, but yes.
Lisa Wilbourn’s complacency with her lack of skills likely to lead to—
Right, I just realized I am basically begging the voice in my head to nag at me because
of how bored I am when I have a much better solution right in front of me.
“Hey, Tay, how’s it going?” My suffering shall be shared.
For some weird reason only known to girlfriends of blabbermouths everywhere, Taylor
sighs before turning her head to the side and silently leveling a flat stare at me. There’s
not even a hint of sexy, uh, I mean, supercilious arched eyebrow. Yes. Supercilious.
That sounds like a nice, not at all charged with connotations, adjective.
“Don’t tell me I am distracting you; your power is basically multitasking as much as a
teenage boy with fifty different porn video tabs open thinks he’s able to.”
“… Why do the tabs have to be on porn videos?”
“Because he’s a teenage boy. Duh.” Really, I am about to revoke her Thinker rating just
for that.
“Of course, how did I not think about that?” Exactly! It was so glaringly obvious! “I am
sure that’s the reason and not that you’ve been fidgeting for the past half-hour and don’t
know what to do to distract yourself other than try to bait a reaction out of me.” Right,
Thinker rating restored. You are heretofore dubbed as a Thinker: Bitch.
“To be fair, that’s the longest I have been conscious without a phone or laptop open in
months. I think I am going through withdrawal.”
“It was you who said we should turn them off so radio signals didn’t set any
countermeasures.”
“Right, right, and I was, of course, and forgive me my reiteration, right. Still, I could
always check if Armsmaster’s shielded signal protocols work properly. Just as a test,
you know.”
At that, Taylor takes a deep breath before lying on her side and staring straight at me.
“You want to check whether the second most famous Tinker in the world has gotten his
electronic warfare measures right.”
“… Everybody needs a beta tester?”
And now she’s sighing. Really, I think I should be offended.
Lisa Wilbourn’s hypocrisy regarding—
Hey! It’s not nice to call me names.
Lisa Wilbourn’s nagging of Taylor Hebert—
Oh, you meant the ‘nagging’ thing. Right. Good point.
Also, she’s now massaging the bridge of her nose. Maybe I should ease up a tiny little
smidge.
“Look, I am sorry, it’s just the waiting is driving me up the wall. Could you walk me
through what you are doing?”
“Fine… We have set up as far as we can from Bakuda’s lab—”
“Which was right where I said it would be!”
“—Which was right where you said it would be, and I have already sung your praises
about that, so stop preening before you get a literal bee in your bonnet—”
“Oh! Are you gonna give me a bonnet? That’s so thoughtful!”
“If that’s the only way to get you to stop wearing that monstrosity you call a hair
accessory, then yes, I will get you a bonnet. With a bee in it. As a deterrent.”
“Hey! What’s so bad about my blue hair streak? I thought it sold my roguish, rebellious
disposition well enough.”
“It’s fake.”
“Well, yeah, like a catholic schoolgirl’s first shared ‘orgasm.’ So what?”
She facepalms and mumbles.
“Sweetie, if you want me to divine your words by mere context, you are going to have to
give me more of a clue.”
And now she’s slightly lowered her palm to glare at me through her fingers. Progress!
“I said I like your hair. Your actual hair.”
“Oh. Uh. Thanks?” Going by the flat look she’s still leveling at me, that’s not the right
answer. Oh, well, nothing an insightful young woman can’t figure out with a little bit of…
…
Power, I don’t know what I am doing wrong! Help!
Taylor Hebert insecure about her physical appearance. Taylor Hebert looks up to
absent mother figure. Taylor Hebert’s hair dissimilar from Daniel Hebert’s hair. Taylor
Hebert’s hair likely similar to Annette Hebert’s hair. Taylor Hebert assigns high value
to—
Oh, right. Which neatly explains her hair-pulling fetish in a way I would rather not delve
too deeply into—
Taylor Hebert associates hair pulling with desire channeled through her only physical
trait she’s secure about—
… While that’s not as disturbing as I feared, and it is rather sad and makes me want to
give her all the cuddles, I would rather you didn’t intrude on my girlfriend’s privacy like
that. It’s rude.
Lisa Wilbourn’s hypocrisy—
Look who’s got a bee in its bonnet now.
“Hey, sweetie, sorry, I didn’t know it meant that much to you,” I say, as I lay a hopefully
comforting hand on her shoulder.
“... You just used your power to cheat at relationships, didn’t you?”
“You call it ‘cheating,’ I call it ‘winning.’”
“You are lucky you are so cute when you are acting like an insufferable brat.”
“Well, I would say I am lucky to be acting like your insufferable brat, but… Oh, wait, you
are not into incestuous roleplay, are you?”
Gagging noises. She’s so adorable when her brain short-circuits.
“Lisa… Are you trying to kill my libido? Because I think that’s how people start sleeping
on sofas.”
“Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist. You know how it is.”
“I actually don’t, but I fear the knowledge won’t contribute to my mental well-being.”
“You know me so well.”
“I actually don’t, but I fear the knowledge won’t contribute to my well-being,” she
repeats, with the smuggest grin I have so far seen from her.
And I don’t feel even an iota of annoyance.
I am in love. Goddammit.
“… Sorry for distracting you. I will let you get back to infiltrating the evil Tinker’s base.”
For a moment, Taylor looks at me incredulously, as if she can’t process that I am
backing down without interjecting my own quip—which means she does know me so
well—but she promptly shrugs her shoulders and goes back to lying on her stomach as
she coordinates an inordinate amount of insects to carry out her will upon an
unsuspecting world.
And that’s when I sit astride her.
“Wha—?”
“Relax, I am just returning the favor. Nothing like a nice massage on your main body
while your extras do the work, right?”
“… This is my body, not my ‘main body.’ As if, the only one I will actually care if people
try to step on it.”
“Is that a fetish I should be aware of?”
“… Didn’t this whole thing start because you told me you picked up on people’s fetishes
even when you didn’t mean to?”
“Didn’t you want me to shut up so you could focus?”
“Always needing to say the last word…” she grumbles, apparently unaware of the irony,
as I start to knead her shoulders.
Which… wow. I mean, I am pretty sure there’s a bridge on San Francisco that could
these for spares, going by how much tension they are carrying. Taylor, sweetheart,
when people warn you about carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders, they
don’t mean it literally, no need to actually train for it.
Right, it looks like my girlfriend is more stressed out than the Siberian’s nutritionist.
Power, time to cheat with those anatomy charts.
Several clusters of nerves running parallel to human spine require careful
manipulation—
On it. Circular pressure with thumbpads, traveling upwards from right above the coccyx,
syncing breathing rhythm so that movements are perceived as less intrusive…
And Taylor lets out a low moan that vibrates right beneath my legs.
Right. Focus. You are trying to do a nice thing for your stressed out of her mind
girlfriend (because she’s in tiger-fighting mode, but the tiger is still hours away, and, as
we have already established, the human body doesn’t handle that very well), so focus
on her and keep digging your thumbs right… There!
And she gasps in what I am mostly sure is relief, but sure sounds like something else.
Taylor Hebert touch-deprived. Taylor Hebert unused to physical intimacy. Taylor Hebert
likely to associate comforting touch with sensual—
… If this is your way of getting back into your shipping groove, I sure as Hell will expect
you to shut up and not ruin the mood.
Lisa Wilbourn touch-deprived. Lisa Wilbourn unused to physical intimacy. Lisa Wilbourn
likely to associate lying on top of sexual partner with—
… You are awful.
Lisa Wilbourn attempting to assign moral values to parahuman abilities interfaces
indicates—
That I am done talking with you. I have a mewling, panting girlfriend to focus on right
between my legs, so there!
…
Why do I do this to myself?
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
That’s your excuse for everything.
“Lisa? I don’t know if—I mean, this massage is very nice, but—”
Stupid martyr complex not letting her enjoy herself… Right, I am now on a mission.
I shift my weight forward so that my pelvis rubs against her exquisitely petite derriere as
I press the heels of my palms right below her shoulders and start moving back and forth
to the increasingly shallow rhythm of her breath, her whole upper body shifting under
me as I make her feel as if my touch is going through her. She turns her head to the
side, and I can see her biting her lip as she muffles yet another moan, which makes it
very, very hard to hold myself back and…
Oh, so this is what happened to her last time. Note to self: massages are dangerous
and not to be trifled with. Also, should be done as often as possible
I lean farther so that I can massage her neck, sinking my thumbs right beside where
muscle meets bone, and then spread my fingers as I glide them through her hair and
over her scalp—
And she shivers right beneath my pelvis, because hair. She and her stupidly easy-toexploit hair anything fetish. Seriously, may as well count as kryptonite.
And no, I am not biting my own lips while I contemplate my girlfriend’s lithe body
writhing beneath me. That’s not a thing.
Lisa Wilbourn’s hypocrisy—
Are you offended? Is this you being catty?
Lisa Wilbourn’s complacency with lack of skills likely to lead to—
Oh. You are worried. That’s… sweet. Look, if I promise to start digesting manuals about
police procedure and special forces tactics or something like that, do you promise to
stop nagging at me while I grope my far-too-serious girlfriend into submission?
Taylor Hebert likely to resist openly sexual advances. Taylor Hebert unlikely to notice
escalation if adequately stimulated.
Right. Thanks for the tip.
Power is more likely right than wrong, so I take my time giving Taylor a toe-curling scalp
massage (running my fingers over and over through her lustrous, gorgeous, and
amazingly full tresses is an unintended side-effect, but I will just have to bear with it—
woe is me). Her sharp breathing deepens once more, gaining a relaxed quality that just
makes me… I don’t know how to explain it. I am attracted to her, and still aroused by
having her lying under me while my hands keep eliciting all these wonderful reactions
out of her, but also… I don’t know. There’s this warmth, this tenderness at seeing her
just feeling better, feeling good because of me, because of what I am doing and my
presence, and it isn’t sexual, but it also is not not sexual, and I am confusing myself just
by feeling all these—
“Lisa… if you are going to go any further, you better do it soon. And if you aren’t…”
That’s… I don’t think that’s a threat. I mean…
“If I am not?”
“Ever heard about ‘denial play?’” And I can’t help my surprised snort at that, because
hearing prim and proper Taylor Hebert talk about denial play so matter of factly while I
still have her dressed as her college self is so deliciously incongruous I just want to
wrap her in my arms and roll around the towel while maniacally squealing. Still, I do
have a reputation to maintain...
“That a threat or a promise?”
“Why not both?”
“OK, that seals it: no more internet for you, young lady.”
“Yes, God forbid my obsessive browsing corrupts me down the path of villainous
activities, sapphic romance, and snarky quipping.”
“Are you talking about yourself or—”
“Well, they say pets end up resembling their owners…”
And at that I get the very uncomfortable feeling of knowing, absolutely knowing, that
Taylor calling me a ‘pet’ makes me… Wow. I mean, I would’ve thought that, after
learning about Coil’s worse inclinations, that fantasy would have been ruined for me, but
here goes the world, once again inconsiderately proving me wrong.
She must never know.
At least, not till I have bought—focus, Lisa.
Lisa Wilbourn’s intense focus indicates—
Oh, fuck off.
Now that I have verbal consent (or my marching orders, one of the two), I quickly help
Taylor shimmy out of her pants and panties. The April’s breeze that occasionally wafts
across the roof is more fresh than cold, but I still leave her upper clothes untouched in
my urgency to finally get at her in the way she’s been unintentionally getting at me since
I started my ill-advised massage, but once I have her creamy skin on display I can’t help
but lose myself in caressing her perfectly defined calves…
“Liz… Oh, this is such a bad idea…”
I agree. Wholeheartedly. But you just called me ‘Liz,’ so everything that happens from
now on is on you.
My hands linger on the back of her knees, where they don’t stop until her hips buckle
from the stimulation, and then gently travel up her thigs, fingers sinking into taut muscle,
the edge of my palms digging between them, following the crevices of her body ever
upward until… until I circle right around her sex, to her muffled, frustrated complaints
that make a flowing warmth inside me boil over. My hands now handle her firm, soft
ass, wondering at the way her muscle shapes its perky, delightful bounce, and I spread
it and close it, giving me tantalizing glimpses of her sex weeping right over our towel.
And I just want to dive right in, but I catch a glimpse of my messenger bag and…
My right hand plays with Taylor’s inner thighs, gliding from one to the other, always
teasing her with maybe straying straight down the middle, and with my left I rummage
inside my bag until I find…
Yes. Oh, yes.
This is unhygienic, though maybe not too much, given it’s already meant for a mucous
membrane, even if… It doesn’t matter: the irony is so irresistible it may as well be
sexual catnip for Thinkers. Which may be a thing, but I won’t ask Colin about it because
ew.
So, while trailing fingers keep Taylor on the edge of being properly worked up, I uncap
the cherry Chapstick Alec gave us as a prank what seems like ages ago… And I trace
her lips with it.
“Liz?! What the—?”
“Please, let me do this, I promise you will enjoy it.” I mean, I am going to try my
damndest either way, so…
“What do you mean by ‘this?’ It feels…”
“Soothing? Refreshing?” I say as I fastidiously cover every fold in sight… and then
spread her to get at those that had been hidden. No, I am not salivating… But if I am,
it’s only due to Pavlovian conditioning. Ding.
“I mean… kind of… Uh, it’s somewhat nice, but… Can’t you tell me what you are putting
in my vagina already? I don’t feel it’s too much to ask for.”
“Cherry Chapstick.”
There’s a silence only broken by wet skin sticking to—
“You wouldn’t,” she says, in that tone that makes it perfectly clear she knows I definitely
would.
I hum a nice, cheerful beat under my breath as my only answer.
“Lisa… Tell me you wouldn’t.”
“I kissed a girl, and I liked it~.”
“Lisa, you are about to get your vagina-handling privileges revoked.”
No, I am not, I don’t say as I take off my suddenly superfluous jacket, shortly after
followed by my top. The bra can stay. For now.
“Lisa, really, this isn’t funny.”
And then, with some careful positioning and more upper body strength than I would
have thought necessary, I raise Taylor’s hips and dive right under.
“Lisa!”
She starts shuffling, but what she ends up doing is sitting right over my mouth, her
thighs framing my view of her flushed face as her eyes widen in almost shock. And then
I lick her and, with my cheekiest tone, purr straight into her pussy the very words that
will damn me for eternity:
“The taste of her cherry chapstick~.”
And I wink up at her while she grits her teeth for two very different and conflicting
reasons.
“Of course, you realize this means war.” Oh, Bugs Bunny. Nice.
“Of course, you realize this is the first time you will have sex without being able to
channel an iota of emotion to your bugs.” And her eyes widen in panic as my smirk does
in sadism I didn’t know I had.
Lisa Wilbourn’s lack of self-awareness—
Fine, fine, I did have a slight inkling. Now let me work.
Before Taylor can properly react, I dive right in, her arousal high enough that I don’t
need to start slow. My lips kiss along her own as I devour every trace of cherry I can
find (proper hygiene is important), and she shrieks before biting her lip as her hands
dive straight into my hair, which she grabs and pulls upwards.
And she gets wetter. Heh.
I play with her, keeping constant eye contact that she is unable to break as I kiss and
lick my way around her whole sex without ever venturing to the peak or too far in. And I
am precise and methodical, not neglecting a single crevice or fold that I don’t mean to
leave alone, till all I am tasting is the surprisingly mild, somewhat sweet flavor of Taylor
Hebert without any single addition, and she’s panting, obviously holding back from
asking me for more, but desperately wanting to.
Heh. I kissed a girl, and she liked it. Take that, Katy.
Something in Taylor finally gives, and her hips start rubbing up and down on my face,
forcing me to pay attention to what had been purposefully let out. She lets out another
unintended cry before her left hand (regretfully) stops pulling my hair and she covers
her mouth with something that won’t so easily break when she needs to bite down her
screams.
I stop, letting her eyes bear down on mine once more, and, staring straight into them… I
capture her clitoris with my lips and suck on it as hard as I can.
And her eyes roll back, and she does bite her fingers. And I am far too pleased given
that…
Hmmm… On the one hand, I would lose control of the situation. On the other, my
panties are already drenched, and I am not into denial play if it’s me the one who is
denying me…
Fuck it.
I slide a hand down my body and discreetly undo my pants before I slither out of them,
increasing my stimulation of Taylor at the key points to make sure she doesn’t notice
what I am doing, and then… Well, then I do what I had been doing days before this
whole thing started.
I finger myself to Taylor Hebert.
Of course, having the genuine article moaning and writhing atop me as her taste
invades my mouth and her scent erases any trace of Brockton’s docks air, as her
flushed cheeks redden again and again at my tongue’s demands while her soft thighs
embrace my head, is far, far more satisfying than masturbating to a fantasy of
something that could never be, than a release that only brought the pang of loss when
faced with reality.
And I kinda want to reach back in time to past Lisa and tell her to stop moping, because
things do get better, because sometimes life hands you the cute heroine with long legs
and perky butt and you can just grab those thighs and…
Uh… Maybe I will write my letter to past Lisa when I am not otherwise occupied. But
seriously, girl, things, sometimes, get better. It’s worth holding on, just in case.
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
You are damn right I am.
And then I twirl my tongue around Taylor’s clit and she throws herself back, dragging
me up with her, but instead of screaming her ecstasy at the cloudless sky she turns her
head just enough to see what I am doing, what being under her all but demands I do,
and she reaches one trembling hand—
And my vision goes white.
I think I scream my release into her, that I shake under her touch, that I drag her along
with me in this overwhelming wave of something that I cannot even name… But I don’t
even know. I just know that, after a time I can’t even begin to define, Taylor is lying atop
me, looking at the same sky as I am while we try to get our ragged gasps back under
control. And from right beside my still tingling pussy, I hear Taylor’s voice as she says
those magical words:
“You are so gonna get it.”
“Bring it.”
And I can’t, for the life of me, stop smiling.
***
Hours later, well past sunset, a half-moon peeks in and out of the cover of the drifting
clouds. Taylor and I are on another rooftop, still within the radius of her control around
Bakuda’s workshop, having spent a good part of the day switching locations while she
did all the preparations we needed. I mean, it’s not like I haven’t been kind of
instrumental, Power is surprisingly good at breaking and entering, but I think my
delightful Orwellian nightmare would have managed so far. Now? Now it’s my time to
shine.
“Are you sure about this?”
“For the last time, Tay, I am one of the most powerful Thinkers in the country, have had
personal contact with the subject, and I am acting with the support of one of the most
versatile Tinkers in the world and a Master who seems custom-made for just this kind of
work.”
“So, not at all.”
“Precisely. Still, we don’t have much of a choice, do we?”
She sighs and shakes her head, so, before I let temptation allow me to drag this even
longer than I already have, I turn on my laptop and tablet.
And the screen shows me the live feed of the eight cameras Taylor’s spiders have so
carefully installed in the corners of Bakuda’s workshop.
I unleash Power, drinking in every single detail Armsmaster’s top-notch tech allows me
to reach, and with every twitch of my eyes Taylor makes her bugs change the angle of
our little spies. Soon enough, there’s not anything in Bakuda’s lab I haven’t thoroughly
analyzed, and, so far, there’s nothing there we didn’t expect and plan for. Which is a
good thing, seeing how much Thinker time and Taylor’s accurate descriptions we have
already devoted throughout the day. Heck, at one point, she even managed to kinda
draw me a wireframe model of the lab with bugs that were replicating the relative
positions of all the spies she had managed to sneak in—
Oh, right. That’s what she was doing: sneaking things in.
See, there’s an old saying about what happens when you attack a Tinker’s lab, and said
saying involves your relatives being very happy about how much they just saved on a
funeral. Bakuda, after having a close encounter with Taylor the Toe-slayer, was
understandably wary of any arthropods and set up an electrified field around her
working area. Of course, as people tend to dislike having to buy a new phone each time
they cross a door, the field was deactivated whenever someone had to go in or out.
Which means that, for today only, Bakuda, with every ABB visitor you earn a surprise
prize. The surprise is nightmares come to life.
Surpriiise~
The lab is currently packed full of every single nasty thing Taylor’s range has been able
to get a hold of throughout the day, but they still don’t show in the cameras. No, what
the cameras show is a surprisingly neat arrangement of barely recognizable tools,
crates full of materials and finished bombs (that, to my non-tinkery eyes, are barely
distinguishable from one another), a few computers, what looks like the distant cousin of
a radio console, and a single cot in the corner of the room.
Oh, and one asleep Bakuda laying on said cot. That last thing is kind of important for
our plans.
The insane Tinker is not looking very threatening at the moment, due to her pastel blue
panda pajamas and her sleeping mask (with a sleeping panda face drawn on it,
because at least she’s that consistent). I mean… I am not one to go for the cutesy ones,
but I guess Asians do… oh, shit, is that racist? Was my blonde hair a clue all along
about my inevitable corruption and downfall as an E88 pawn?
Lisa Wilbourn stalling due to—
Yeah, yeah, I know.
I nod, and Taylor’s eyes narrow as the cameras pick up a flurry of movement. I can
barely make out the lines of pressure being traced around Bakuda’s sleeping form till I
get the signal that Taylor has finished tying her down as she makes a vaguely humanish
figure out of bugs. I tap my earbuds to make sure they are not about to fall (because
that would be embarrassing, and embarrassment is the last thing I want to feel when
facing mass murderers, panda pajamas or not), and at my signal the screeching buzz of
hundreds of arthropods is transmitted from inside the Tinker’s lair.
And it’s showtime.
“Pathetic,” Taylor’s clone rasps my insult in a voice made of buzzing, rasping, and
clacking, and Bakuda starts jerking awake before the lines of silk tying her down
brusquely stop her movement. And then she tries to scream, just as I predicted she
would, and Taylor is ready to have her spiders stuff her mouth full with a silk sack that is
filled with enough indistinct debris to silence the woman before she can even realize
what’s happening. And what’s happening is that a dozen coordinated spiders are fixing
her gag in place inside her mouth, so I hope she doesn’t have a runny nose, because it
would be a shame if she asphyxiated.
I mean, there’s still that dead man‘s switch to take care of.
“All your prattling about the nature of fear, about how it allows you to control others, and
this is what I find when I come looking for you?”
I stand up and let Taylor cover me with enough flies to mirror my movements with her
clone. The body language will be imperfect, I will lose a bit of the effect of my tonal
inflections, but having a nightmarish body deliver my words should more than make up
for it.
Said body’s eyes seem to come to life in flames with the firefly grubs inside its face as
Bakuda’s sleeping mask is cut off from her face by what I think are cockroaches. Her
eyes fly open, the eery light of the shifting firefly larvas in the ceiling and the stark light
of the three computer screens Taylor’s servants just turned on barely allowing her to
make out enough about the shifting shape at the foot of her cot to see that no, it isn’t
made out of shadows and darkness. It’s much, much worse.
And there is rage and hate in what can be seen of her expression, yes. But what stands
out the most is fear, and I can’t bring myself to feel guilty about not feeling guilty about
it.
“A small girl, huddled up in her bed, restless with nightmares. A small, scared little girl.”
And I don’t know how Taylor manages to transmit my emphasis, but she does, and I
can feel a shiver run up my spine at my visceral rejection of it.
“But you told me fear is a mix of certainty and mystery, didn’t you? That was the basis of
your random attack on my city: a targeted strike against the heroes and reckless,
senseless massacre everywhere else.” And the clone leans over Bakuda in a way no
human with actual weight ever could, because Taylor is a drama queen and can’t help
herself under the circumstances. But when I see tears brimming at the corner of the
terrorist’s eyes as she tries to sink into her pillow without being able to look away, I can’t
blame her for her theatrics. At all.
“And all that just to free Lung? To have your reign end as you give it back to the man
who kidnapped you, enslaved you? Was that what you learned about fear, Bakuda, that
you would rather fear Lung than me?”
And Bakuda doesn’t nod, but she may as well have.
“You may be smarter than I thought.”
And she starts to look confused at the line, before I point to the script written on the
tablet beside my laptop so that Taylor can read her next cue. And a spider drops down
on Bakuda’s face.
She starts shaking hysterically, a visceral fear that most of us share in some measure
taking over as she tries to dislodge the fat black widow clutching her nose.
“You wanted certainty? Here is the only certainty you will ever need: I can kill you
anytime I please.”
And she shakes as she forces herself to remain still, but I can’t allow her to calm herself
down, because I need her out of balance, because I need to keep hitting before she
realizes what it is that I am actually doing.
“You want certainty? I can see and hear with any single bug around you. I can find you
through them, smell you through them, track you through them. And they are
everywhere.”
She shudders. Good.
“You will never be safe as long as I live, Bakuda. You will never know if I am watching, if
today is the day I decide enough is enough, that I have suffered your existence for too
long. You will never know till I decide that I would rather you die than keep darkening
my city. My life. My world. This is your first uncertainty.”
And Taylor reads her next cue, and the microphones pick up the angry buzzing of three
enormous wasps that start circling Bakuda’s face in strange, irregular orbits.
“There are far too many species of wasps that lay their eggs inside their victims. The
larva hatches inside the still alive insect and devours it from within.”
A brown recluse dangles from a single thread right over Bakuda’s left eye before
climbing up and disappearing in the shadows.
“The brown recluse’s venom produces dermonecrosis, the skin of the victim rotting
around them as their whole body is exposed to a world that would like nothing more
than to cover them in insects that will devour the fresh meat beneath.”
There’s a pause, and Taylor holds her breath, but I can’t afford to.
“You hear that, Bakuda? No? Well, I do. That’s the sound of hundreds of dust mites
going through their daily lives around your body, eating dead skin cells, waiting for me
to tell them it’s all right to eat the living ones.”
And she tries to scream as she thrashes against her bonds, which are far more secure
than the ones Taylor used on me that first night. And I am sorry to taint that memory
with this, but if it works, if it ends up being worth it…
“This is your second uncertainty, Bakuda: if I decide to end you, will I make it fast?”
And Taylor reads her next clue, and her dutiful spiders remove Bakuda’s gag.
The moment of truth.
“You… you—you! You can’t do this to me! I am Bakuda! I am the greatest Tinker the
world has ever seen! You can’t—”
And she breaks off, trying not to let me know she’s holding back a sob.
Perfect.
“You aren’t. You are Yumi Tanaka, a little girl who has never even had any friends,
because daddy’s little girl was far too precious, far too brilliant to be appreciated by
those beneath her. But you weren’t, were you? You were a shameful failure, unable to
keep up when you finally got out of the small pond you had lived in your whole life.”
“No! That’s not true, those bastards were jealous of me, of—of my genius! They tried to
tear me down, tried to—” And Taylor cuts her rant by having her forgotten black widow
wave its arms in front of her blue eyes.
“They did nothing. They did nothing but their jobs, their duties, until a crazed terrorist
tried to take them out with the nightmarish things that little voice in your head allowed
you to build. Because that’s your power, Bakuda: to have something smarter than you
whisper the right answers in your ear. A cheat and a failure to the end.”
And she screams. Because that’s not what tinkering is, not at all, but it is just enough
like it that someone with Bakuda’s particular damage will buy it.
I let her scream herself hoarse with denials and insults as Taylor and I share an uneasy
glance. I can’t deny I am enjoying this, enjoying flexing my intellect and Power’s
viciousness on a deserving target, but it also… I don’t like what I could be if I let myself.
So I don’t feel guilty about attacking Bakuda’s already broken mind till the shards take
the shape I demand of them, not at all, but…
But.
“And that’s your third uncertainty, Yumi: if you are so worthless, if I can kill you with a
thought wherever you care to hide, if I can make you suffer in any way I deem adequate
before I tire of it and end you… Why are you still alive?”
And she stops breathing.
“I don’t care about grandstanding. I don’t care about an audience. I don’t care about
reputation. I almost killed Lung because I forgot to hold back, and I let Armsmaster take
the credit. So, why am I telling you this?”
And her reflex is to insult Taylor, to curse her, to thrash against her restraints. But
there’s another instinct, the one that made her desperately try to free Lung when faced
with a threat she couldn’t defeat without even trying. Because to Yumi Tanaka, failure is
not something you do, but something you are.
And if she’s a failure… she needs somebody better than her to tell her what to do.
And Taylor is, by any metric, better than Lung.
“Don’t fool yourself, it’s not because of your dead man’s switch, not because of your
schematics. I can have a better Tinker than you picking them apart in less than an hour.
It’s not because of your security, because you have already seen what I can do to it.”
And something in those blue eyes is yearning for the answer. Because the answer may
give her that self-worth she so desperately needs, even if it comes from someone who
has terrorized her so badly. No, especially because it comes from someone who has
brought her so much fear, because daddy dearest never let his little girl be anything
other than his perfect, A-student daughter, and that’s the kind of love that always comes
with a measure of fear.
Lung had half his recruitment already made for him. How thoughtful of you, Taro-san.
“It’s the same reason I allowed Lung to live, really.”
And Yumi, not Bakuda, holds her breath, holds Bakuda’s hysterics and screams back,
waiting for an answer and meaning.
“Tell me, Yumi, what could you do against an Endbringer?”
And I can see the moment it lands. I can see her eyes widen in wonder, as she so
easily pictures her triumphing over the nightmares of the world, personally defeating
what the greatest heroes of our age can only hold back at the best of times. I can see
her picturing herself above Scion himself, the most revered person in history.
Yumi Tanaka. The savior of the world.
And I almost throw up.
The rest is almost mundane. Taylor’s clone frees Bakuda and watches her deactivate
the dead man’s switch, disarming every single implanted bomb as we call Armsmaster
and confirm she’s ready for pick up.
There’s a last, single detail, though.
“Yumi, before I let you out, before I let you meet the heroes and reassure them you
don’t need to be put down like a rabid dog, there’s one last thing I need you to do.”
And she nods, afraid to speak, afraid she will start screaming and raving once again
and let out the wrong thing and ruin her golden future before it can come to pass.
“Kill Oni Lee.”
And I can see Taylor hesitate, can see how she almost doesn’t transmit my command,
but she knows we need this, that the assassin has crossed too many lines and holds
too much power… and that this will bind Yumi irrevocably to us.
And so, Yumi Tanaka, afraid to fail and eager to please, presses a few keys, turns a dial
in her console… And Oni Lee dies, and Bakuda beside him.
And this isn’t vengeance, nor justice, because it’s far too pragmatic to be either of them,
because Oni Lee has just been murdered and Yumi will spend the rest of her life
enslaved in a workshop without realizing she has been punished, but I hope…
It’s stupid of me, really, but I hope Colin will sleep easy tonight.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 9
Hiding in an alley while we wait for Armsmaster to finally make his appearance isn’t as
nerve-wracking as it could be. The immediate danger has already passed, and Taylor
and I are more than capable of monitoring our surroundings for any disagreeable
surprises, so it’s just a matter of waiting.
And waiting.
Waaaaaiting.
“Hey, Tay, do you—”
“Lisa, I am as keyed up as you are, so this better not be a repeat of this morning.”
“I thought you liked this morning. If you didn’t, you shouldn’t moan and writhe like that; it
gives a girl the wrongest of ideas—”
“Lisa!”
“Taylor!”
And she kisses me.
She is pressing me against the wall of the alley (I sure hope my jacket won’t be
scuffed—priorities), and her tongue is roughly invading my mouth, leaving me with no
recourse but to respond to her own lead as her hand creeps up under my top, my belly
trembling under her firm caress as she draws her fingers higher and higher…
Uh, I mean, that’s not at all what I was going for, but I will definitely take it.
And then she backs off, and I catch myself chasing her up, unwilling to let her get away
from my lips.
“Armsmaster is here,” she says, smugness dripping off her tone and washing over my
face. Uh, no, sorry, that seems to be her warm breath that makes my knees—
Focus!
“Uh?” I reply with all the sharp wit I am renowned for.
“Armsmaster. The man we’ve been waiting for. You know, beard, maybe around forty
years old, wears power armor to parties?”
“You timed that. With your bugs. Just so you could shut me up and fluster me.”
“Of course.”
“I am so getting back at you for this later.”
“I hope so,” she says, with a wink that makes me feel… A lot of things. Pride, mostly,
seeing as how she would have been unable to do anything like this just a week ago.
Who knew tender, loving sex could have such therapeutic effects regarding the healthy
expression of emotions?
Taylor Hebert far from neurotypical standards—
Baby steps, Power. Baby steps.
With barely seconds to spare, I fix my clothes and my side-ponytail (with blue streak still
attached, because I have a right to self-expression even if—especially if—it bothers my
girlfriend and makes her prone to quipping battles—a girl needs foreplay) and look at
Taylor doing pretty much the same. I mean, we are both in civvies, but that’s no excuse
for appearing unprofessional.
Lisa Wilbourn prone to flaunting conventions when—
Fine, fine, but playing against type has its own appeal.
And now the clacking of his metallic—ceramic alloys supplemented to display metallic
properties—fine, the clacking of his needlessly tinkertech boots approaches, and he
turns the corner of the alley, full armor on display under the citrine light of the sodium
lamps, the yellow streak glinting off his visor shifting with every measured, careful
movement.
There’s a beauty to it, to Colin’s economy of motion, almost like watching the world’s
less expressive dancer performing a heartless yet impeccable routine. It also gives the
completely wrong impression about a man who is far from devoid of emotion, but far too
apt at keeping it hidden. Damn, first Taylor, now him? Is the universe telling me to hurry
up and become the most inappropriate therapist in history?
“Armsmaster,” Taylor gravely greets him and curtly nods, following cape etiquette as
established by far too dramatic TV shows.
“Skitter,” Colin replies with the same nod, because of course, then turns to me, greeting
me with that same solemn, flat tone. “School-shooter.”
I almost manage to not burst out laughing. And then he nods.
Likelihood of Colin Wallis enjoying dry humor—
Oh God, my stomach, it hurts!
“Lisa, for fuck’s sake, get ahold of yourself,” Taylor shoots me through her teeth.
“Don’t worry, I can wait. It’s not like I am the leader of the local superhero team in the
middle of a city-wide emergency.”
I raise one finger, silently asking him for mercy.
“Lisa! This is completely unprofessional!”
“Yes, unlike any of our other interactions. I am agape with shock and surprise. Agape, I
tell you.”
Mercy! Mercy, I said!
“You aren’t helping!”
“Me? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You know perfectly well why she’s laughing her head off!”
“No, I am not a Thinker. The only one of us who isn’t. I am feeling a bit left out, actually.”
“Lie… Detector… Technically Thinker…” I manage to gasp out between dry, silent
spasms.
“Oh, right. Now I feel included. Everything’s fine, then.”
And I lose it again.
Taylor patting my back with what appears to be equal parts concern and exasperation
finally manages to bring my breathing under control (even with the occasional,
extremely annoying, hiccup), and Colin mercifully manages to keep quiet long enough
for me to raise my mental defenses against his weapon’s grade deadpan.
I shall plan my vengeance, mortal, and I will strike when you least expect it.
Lisa Wilbourn overly dramatic—
I have found my worthy rival, Power. You shall assist me, or you shall stand aside.
“Well, now that the pleasantries are out of the way, everything went as planned?” I say,
with all the fake dignity I can muster.
“We will know in a few hours. At the moment, she’s sedated while I prepare the fake
evidence of her capture.” And now Colin’s all business. Which isn’t that different from
his deadpan, so, Power, I will be extra grateful for any early warnings.
“Right, so we don’t need to warn Coil yet about—”
And my phone buzzes.
‘Emergency. Protection dropped. Take care with Bakuda.’
And I let out a stream of curses that would have made Alec proud.
“He found out?” Taylor asks, concern sweetly evident in her tone.
“I don’t know, maybe. Or maybe he got into something dangerous in his other timeline
and he needed to use his power. I don’t have enough facts to say one way or the other.”
“That is unfortunate, but at least it will give us more time to discuss matters,” Colin says
with a hint of relief, something oddly out of place given we were about to hand him a
Bond supervillain on a silver platter.
“Or we could move out right now and hope he doesn’t have enough time to act before
it’s too late.” Taylor, once again, demonstrates she hasn’t been replaced by a
shapeshifter while I wasn’t looking.
“And then what? We strike to kill until we are sure he isn’t getting up like a movie
monster?”
“If that will keep you safe—”
“Tay, I am grateful for the feeling, really, but…”
“But what? He will avoid the law just like Bakuda would have if we hadn’t—”
“Miss Hebert, as much as I appreciate your help tonight, I should tell you you are about
to cross a line.”
“What? Telling you how utterly ineffective the organization that allowed one of its
members to almost torture me to death is? Is that a line I shouldn’t cross?”
“No, telling a superhero, in detail, how you plan to murder someone in cold blood is the
line.” And now there’s no dry humor there. I wish there was, no matter how dark the
shade.
And Taylor must have realized the finality of the moment, because she shuts up. I can
see her seething, planning any and all ways she can work around Armsmaster to do
whatever it is she intends to do, and I know she would be doing it out of protectiveness,
out of care, and I love her that much more just because of it. But, maybe, I love her
enough to…
“Oni Lee.”
“What?” She looks at me, surprised by my interjection, and Colin tenses.
“We agreed he was far too dangerous, that he had crossed too many lines, that he
would kill anyone sent against him that wasn’t a police sniper. Colin gave us the goahead.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“And you hesitated.” She looks at me as if I had just slapped her.
“Wha—what do you mean—” No, I won’t let you recover from that, Tay, I will keep
pushing.
“Bakuda pushed the button. I gave the order. Colin made the call. You just had to relay
my words to her, barely more than a glorified radio.”
“And I did! I ordered the fucking psycho to kill the bloody—”
“No, Taylor, you repeated my words. You didn’t have to make any hard choice, just
follow my lead. You knew what they had done, you saw as much of the aftermath as I
did—more of it, given your bugs. And you hesitated.”
“Stop saying that! Yes! Yes, I hesitated, but I did it anyway! I did the right thing, and now
Oni Lee is—”
“Dead. Because of something you did.” And she flinches away from me, and I almost
stop when I see it. “Because of you, a man died tonight.”
“All the more reason. What’s one more?” she says, her voice cold and emotionless as
flies buzz ever so much louder around us.
“No, Tay,” uncross my arms, open body language, face her at a slight angle, palms
toward her, “you misunderstand.”
I cross the growing distance that has separated us as we argued, and slowly raise a
hand to brush a strand of dark hair away as I cup her warm cheek and stare straight into
her far too wide eyes.
“A man is dead because of something you did, but not because of something you
choose. And it’s eating at you inside, as you wonder if you couldn’t have done it any
other way, even if it meant risking your life, even if it meant you could’ve died just to
spare the life of a monster.”
And I hug her against me as she tries not to sob between my arms. And then I whisper,
warm, gentle, caring, into her ear.
“Because you are hero. And that’s what heroes do.”
And we stand in silence, under the citrine light of sodium lights and the watchful gaze of
another hero.
“Ritchie Williams,” he says, after Taylor sags and releases whatever it was that had
been keeping her upright.
And Colin leans against the wall opposite us, looking at the sky as if giving us a
measure of intimacy.
“He wasn’t a cape, barely a man. I was a rookie on patrol through what was supposed
to be a nice neighborhood when I heard the screams. Domestic dispute. I called it in.”
He takes a pause that makes me think he’s mentally taking a drag out of a cigarette,
because that would be the perfect moment to watch the smoke stream up.
“They told me the police would take care of it, that it wasn’t the kind of thing a newbie
should get into, but they would have taken too long to get there, and I didn’t—couldn’t
think about walking away and then just reading…”
He swallows. Pauses. Taylor’s transfixed, as if about to find the answer to a question
she desperately needs to understand. And I…
I look at Colin with far more gratitude I ever expected to feel for this man.
“So I got in. The door was open and probable cause had been screaming at the top of
his lungs for far too long for me to get in trouble, so I walked into a suburban house to
find a girl kneeling on the ground, clutching her face, while a muscled man waved a
knife at her. I tried to deescalate, to warn him, but he just laughed at my armor as if it
was some kind of a joke, because it was far more functional than aesthetic… Back then
I didn’t understand that aesthetics have a function all of their own, and every time I
design a new accessory or paint a pattern approved by the image department I have to
wonder if…”
He takes a deep breath.
“Sorry, I am rambling. The thing is, the thug doesn’t take me seriously and screams at
me to get out of his house, that what happens under his roof is none of my business.
And I am terrified of letting him be alone with the victim, but he seems to be channeling
his aggression toward me. And I can take it. He’s only a thug with a knife, and I can see
he doesn’t know how to use it, so I let him focus on me and don’t back away. I keep
talking, trying to get him to drop it, but if he gets a bit madder at me, if he gets more
overtly aggressive as he forgets all about his girlfriend sobbing on the floor, I don’t think
I am doing something wrong. No, I think I am being pragmatical, doing what’s best in
the circumstances.”
He releases something under his helmet, and his visor slides up.
“And then he tries to stab me.”
And I know how this ends, of course I do. But I listen anyway.
“He aims for my face, for the unprotected part,” he points at his jaw, “but it’s easy to see
the blow coming, especially when it is aiming at the only obvious weak spot. I sidestep
him, grab his outstretched arm at the wrist, palm strike to the elbow to incapacitate him
as I direct him toward the ground. And it all works precisely as I pictured in my mind,
exactly the same as my training simulations.”
And he looks straight into my eyes before he closes his own, and I am sorry for what I
see in there.
“Except he steps on a baby’s toy car, and the smooth motion jerks his arm out of my
grasp. He tries to get back up before he’s finished falling down, but only manages to
accelerate forward and he crashes headfirst into the doorframe. And something splits
open.”
He stops, Taylor watching like a hawk, not a single insect buzzing in the alley.
“Ritchie Williams. The ambulance didn’t get there in time. The first man I killed.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I say, before I can even consider whether it’s the right thing to say.
“There was nobody else there.”
And that’s it, isn’t it? He was there, he was a hero, someone died.
So it’s his fault.
And I want to scream at him how moronic that is, how utterly unfair that his colossal ego
can’t stand not being the center of the universe for just long enough to not be
responsible for something. And I am angry and upset; at him and on behalf of him.
But that doesn’t matter. Not now, perhaps not ever, because he didn’t tell us this story
because of me. No, he did it because of Taylor.
And Taylor is looking at him… like she has found something she had thought lost
forever.
“What should I do?” she says, voice unnaturally steady.
“Give it time. It doesn’t make it better, not really, but… It gives you perspective. There
are people trained to help you deal with these situations, but the Protectorate’s policy on
therapy won’t ever let you actually find the help you need. For what it’s worth, Taylor,
Lisa, I am sorry I let you… kill him. I wasn’t thinking straight. I should have known.”
Oh. He thinks I also need help. That’s adorable.
Lisa Wilbourn—
Not now. I am deflecting far too much to let you give me a sudden glimpse into the dark
corners of my psyche.
We stand there for… a while. It’s hard to measure the time that goes into shared
silences full of half-starts and quiet questions. Taylor is the one who finally breaks it.
“So. No killing,” she says, wrong, stupid, idealistic, and I could kiss her right now.
“No. No murders,” he says, right, experienced, caring, and I could hug him.
Except that armor doesn’t look all that cuddly. A design fault, obviously.
“I… I don’t understand,” Taylor seems almost afraid to admit.
“If you are facing a lethal threat? If you are in mortal danger? Don’t pull your punches.
You had the right idea with Lung, and I am sorry I didn’t tell you so at the time. I am…
sorry for a lot of things, actually.”
She stares at him, at his uncovered eyes, maybe finally realizing what it means for him
to show us so much, to not even mention it before he exposes his face to what are still
technically a pair of villains.
I mean, I already knew, but… It’s still not the same.
“I forgive you.”
My eyebrow couldn’t be more arched if it had been studying Gothic architecture for
years.
“Tay, are you feeling okay? Do you have a fever?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You just forgave someone; that’s not normal. Quick, Colin, how do those MasterStranger protocols go? Do we need tinfoil hats?”
“Not since the latest regulations. A regular dose of fluoride is enough.” Oh, are you
really…?
“Doesn’t that make the frogs gay?” Come on, take it, take it!
“Yes, of course. It’s a plot to sell more Legend merchandise.” Yes!
“Oh God, now there are two of them…” Silence, Taylor, you are interrupting the sacred
ritual of my people.
Lisa Wilbourn enjoying bonding experience with Colin Wallis.
That’s… quite obvious?
Colin Wallis older male. Lisa Wilbourn’s parental figure absent due to—
Go fuck yourself.
“Is she…?”
“She does that sometimes. I think she’s arguing with her power or something.”
“Oh, that’s all right then. I was afraid she was showing signs of emotional instability.”
Oh, make fun of me when I have been brought low, will you?
“My power thinks I have daddy issues I am projecting on you as a surrogate father
figure. There, now my suffering is shared.” Vengeance executed.
“… Thinker seven, you say?”
“I think the phrase ‘mad genius’ is an apt descriptor.” Yeah, keep making this genius
mad and see how that works out for you, Tay.
“Please, do contact me in time if she starts ranting about shooting anything at the
moon.” Ha. Ha. Very funny.
“An early warning sign, is it?” If you align yourself with the enemy, you won’t get any
warning. Nice legs or not.
“You would be surprised.” Fuck. He’s serious.
“All right, no giant lasers in my future; I just get a bit grouchy when Power insists on
psychoanalyzing me. He’s not very boundary conscious.”
“So you speak with your power, whose name is Power. My moon-related fears are
assuaged.”
“Now we only need to take care of all the other ones,” Taylor quips. Oh, is it fun to pile
up on me? Is it? You ingrates, you shall come to rue the day—
‘Rue the day’ is a phrase often associated with comic book villains—
That was the joke!
Contemporary psychological theories suggest sarcasm often used to mask underlying
truth—
I hate you all.
***
“So, we are in agreement?” I ask, after all the completely unwarranted teasing being
thrown my way has stopped for long enough to resume a productive conversation.
Lisa Wilbourn’s hypocrisy—
That’s it, no Dragon papers for you.
“I wish we weren’t, but I don’t see a better alternative,” Colin says with a sigh.
“Of course you don’t. You aren’t a Thinker seven, are you?”
“According to my lie detector, no, I am not.”
“Hah. How droll.”
“What’s the matter, Liz? Can dish it but can’t take it?” Taylor smirks far too mirthfully as
she says that particular line. Note to self: look into strap-ons and whether they can have
a custom engraving…
“If we could stop the snark parade for just a minute—and fuck you all for making me say
this and affront the most deeply held tenets of my religion—we could maybe bring this
clandestine meeting to an end before someone realizes an old, masked man hanging
out with two teenage girls in an alley isn’t a good look?”
“Well, if you call me ‘daddy’—”
“I have a gun.”
“Do you have a license?”
“… I will only speak in the presence of my lawyer.”
“If only…” Ouch, Taylor. Ouch.
“Look, it’s really getting late and I have spent the whole day planning how to demolish
the mind of a terrorist into compliance, so, if you would all kindly finish this up without
raising my hackles anymore so I can go to sleep, I would be grateful enough not to plan
your inevitable downfall for at least the next week.”
“Hey, Colin, what does your lie detector say?”
“If I hear a single ‘nine thousand’ out of you, Colin, I swear I will shoot you.” Taylor looks
at me uncomprehendingly, and Colin raises an eyebrow. Heh. I knew it. Nerd.
“I think it says the young lady is past her bedtime and getting grouchy.”
“Either that was intentionally weak so I can get a break, or you are also past your—wait,
how many caffeine pills?! Are you insane?!”
“Sleep is for the weak.”
“Yeah, and for those who don’t suffer waking hallucinations while working with highly
unstable exotic technology, AKA, people who don’t end up splattered all over their
workshop!”
He has the decency to shift uncomfortably at that. Good, he doesn’t get to tell me I
should go to bed—
Parental figure often responsible for—
I will end you.
“I am the only one currently sane and not arguing with the voices in her head, aren’t I?”
Yes, Taylor, you should feel proud about your lack of mental issues. Revel in the
novelty of it.
“It appears so. Very well, our agreement will remain in place for the foreseeable future,
at least until Coil is brought to justice. You can count on my support.”
“And you will both refrain from further assaults on my mental stability.”
“No deal.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Fine. Fair warning, though: after Coil, you two are next.”
And Taylor sniggers as Colin flashes me a grin full of white, gleaming teeth that can
only be accomplished with frog gayifiers.
“Bring it, Tattletale.”
And he turns on his heel and gets out of the alley.
That’s it, run away while you can, coward.
Lisa Wilbourn actually glad Colin Wallis teases her about parental—
I wonder if Taylor will ease up on the snark if I start sobbing?
Wake-up Call – Chapter 10 – Perspectives From The Dominos
Daniel Hebert
‘I am fine, dad. Problem solved.’
I read the phone message from Taylor for the third time, my shoulders finally sagging in
relief when I allow myself to believe the words I’m reading—and the thinly disguised
message they contain. I will never again question the utility of these bloody machines,
not when this thing just saved me from a heart attack.
“Danny? Since when do you have a phone?” Kurt asks me from across the table.
“Teenage daughter. Brockton Bay.” I answer dryly. And he chuckles.
“Took you long enough,” Lacey grunts, and I can’t help the look I shoot her. Which isn’t
that great of an idea, given that both she and her husband can fold me like a camping
chair, but since when have tempers cared about logistics?
There are some murmurs of assent from the other assistants, though, so I would better
change the subject because, apparently, my refusal to have a cellular phone until my
city has been put under siege by a mad terrorist hasn’t earned me any sympathizers.
“Right. Now that that’s out of the way…” I put my elbows on the table and lean on my
fist, trying not to clench it and barely succeeding. “Are we all in agreement?”
The murmurs change in tone and looks are exchanged. Toby, who has been around
longer than me and towers over half the room, even if nowadays he can only use the
machinery rather than unload things by himself while decrying the laziness of youth,
clears his throat.
“I am not even sure what we are agreeing to, Danny Boy.”
I sigh. I can’t help it.
“What we should have done from the beginning.” I lean back, palms flat on the table,
stabilizing me. “Heck, it’s even a classic for the union, Toby: we protect our own and
keep the business clean. A junkie from the Merchants gets here and tries to get us to
unload an unregistered boat? Bat to the knee. Skidmark gets uppity and shows up to
rough us up a bit? Bullet through the skull. No more bullshit. The gangs have had long
enough to hang themselves with all that rope we’ve been handing them; it’s time
someone tied the noose.”
“Skidmark? A black guy and ‘tying the noose?’ I can’t say I’m all that comfortable with
those implications, Danny—” Phil, Irish as good whiskey and paler than a KKK laundry
load, starts to say before Gretta, who looks like Aretha Franklin had a fling with Arnold
Schwarzenegger, cuffs him over the head. He looks at her reproachfully, and she rolls
her eyes in that way that all married men know means you’re that close to a comfortable
stay at the closest sofa.
“Kaiser doesn’t come here all that often, Phil, but I am sure we could also accommodate
him. We can all show him why the armed forces no longer parade around in full plate.”
A bit of joking, Danny, it will make this go down easier. Come on, guys, you know me:
Lanky Hebert, Danny Boy, that guy who used to be fun to hang around with before…
Everything.
“And that is?” Kurt asks with a raised eyebrow. And I almost groan.
“If it’s light enough to move in, it’s not thick enough to stop a bullet, Kurt. Come on, my
daughter’s in high school and could tell you that.” Don’t point at him. Too aggressive.
“Oh, sorry we all don’t have a fancy high school diploma.”
“… Lacey, correct me if I am wrong, but don’t you two go to the Boston Ballet at least
twice a year?”
There’s a chorus of gasps around the room, and Kurt shoots me a betrayed look as
Lacey cackles and a glint is born in Toby’s eye that promises hours of fun are ahead.
Pity I will miss most of it in the office.
“Yeah, that’s all fine and good, Danny, but…” Herman hesitates, and it feels wrong to
see such a strong man fidgeting like that. “But what about Hookwolf? Lung? Or what
about… afterward?”
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? There are things we definitely can’t handle. And things we
shouldn’t have to.
“Anyone you can’t put down? You run and hide. Lung comes around and there’s not
much we can do other than hope Armsmaster finally does what should come natural
when a knight meets a dragon. About our families… We protect them, Herman. We
thought we were doing it by keeping our heads down, but after the past few days… Any
of you feel like that is still the better option?”
And I look at them. Really look at them, taking their measure and letting them know it,
my eyes meeting theirs one by one till they finally land on Gerry.
Gerry. Big, burly, black Irish. Fallen on hard times due to the endemic lack of work only
to finally ended up as a henchman. Gerry’s case should not have been exceptional… if
not for the gang he ended up with.
Über and Leet’s gang.
Gerry hadn’t said a word since he arrived, and he flinched any time someone moved too
fast.
“Well, do you, Gerry?” I ask him, hands now tightly clutching my pants under the table.
I do not resent him, not really. He didn’t know what he was signing up for at the time, he
was just choosing the best out of a few very bad options, and the gaming duo wasn’t
known to do the same level of evil that the other gangs did. But… He needs to act, or he
will remain like this the rest of his miserable life.
“Danny, I…”
“None of that. You are one of us, Gerry. Us. Not them. You didn’t know, but you were
there when all of his started, so tell us, as one of us: should we all go back to our
regular lives as if nothing happened? Do we let them keep going like this?”
And he swallows, blinks a few times, and looks around the room, at the partners and
friends that are putting up a brave, boisterous front because that’s the only thing you
can do when the world around you stops making sense and everyone you come across
on the street can blow up in a fresh new nightmare.
And Gerry shooks his head and stands a little taller.
Good lad.
“There you have it. Bakuda is the latest, but we have seen this brand of crazy before.
The storm isn’t gonna pass any sooner just because we want it to,” I gesture around the
table, hand carefully loose until I close it in a fist that has my knuckles go white. “So we
stand up. We fight. We defend ours. And we choose our fights.”
There are some quiet nods, and I can see the crazy bitch already did half my work for
me. They want this, they want an outlet, a mission, something that lets them give some
kind of meaning to everything they have gone through.
So I give it to them.
“One last thing. We know who works for the gangs. We know who can snitch. We know
where you live.”
I look at a very select few of the assistants, people I haven’t excluded because I am
hoping I can make use out of them, because I think they are still decent enough to know
who’s actually on their side when the chips fall down. I look at them, making sure
everyone else knows who I am looking at and that they take notes.
“Make no mistake: this is a threat and a promise.”
And I feel the quiet undercurrent of rage beneath my skin come ever that closer to
surging out. I should hate it, be ashamed of it.
The truth is… I never have. That’s what scared me so much all of my life.
And now… Now it doesn’t.
Colin Wallis
“Bakuda’s transfer to the Guild’s custody has been approved by Chief Director Costa
Brown. Your arguments were convincing enough, and your personal request taken into
account.” Emily lets out a deep breath and pinches the bridge of her nose before her
voice drops out of her official tone and gets back to her more familiar ornery one. “Now,
would you mind telling me why you didn’t even have the courtesy to inform me before
doing this whole… thing?”
‘It’s better to ask forgiveness than permission,’ I don’t reply. ‘Sorry, I was trying to do
some actual good, and I thought the shock may be detrimental to your health,’ I keep
myself from mumbling out. ‘Because the Thinker seven with daddy issues told me so,’ I
definitely don’t tell her.
“A confidential source has informed me Bakuda’s transport may have been
compromised if I didn’t go straight to the highest authority.” Emily’s look sharpens, and I
wonder whether the effect could be replicated for halberd maintenance.
“Confidential, as in ‘unreported contact with unaffiliated Thinker?’”
“Confidential as in ‘Protectorate Team Leader’s discretion.’”
“That’s a yes.”
“That’s a no comment.”
We stare at each other for a bit, my visor giving me a much appreciated unfair
advantage in the contest that more than makes up for Emily sitting down while having
me at parade rest. Fair fights are for amateurs.
“You are putting me in a very difficult position, Armsmaster.”
‘Aren’t all of them difficult given your physical state?’ I hold myself back from answering.
‘Emily, I have verbally sparred with Lisa Fucking Wilbourn and managed Taylor Overkill
Hebert, you don’t get to tell me what a difficult position is,’ I restrain my headache from
venting. ‘You don’t know the half of it,’ I almost let out.
“Then you will appreciate my taking a load off your shoulders. I am reassuming the
leadership of the Wards, effective immediately.”
And now her eyes widen.
“Wha—I am—You said they were a distraction, that I was doing you a favor!”
“And you were. Up to the point where we found out one of them has almost managed to
pull a bioterrorism attack while under your watch.”
“That’s ridiculous! It was a high school prank—”
“That almost killed Taylor Hebert and either managed to make her trigger or led her to
collaborate with an unknown Thinker in lashing out against her aggressors!”
“Sophia’s statement clearly—”
“You will forgive me if I take with the proverbial grain of salt anything Miss Hess says
while the investigation is ongoing.”
Another pause. More strained than the last, and I can almost hear a cheeky blonde
quipping about how much time I am wasting given my specialty.
Note to self: freshen up on cognitohazard countermeasures.
“Is this your final decision?” she asks, more for formality’s sake than anything else,
given the frost on her tone.
“It is, Director.” A hint of respect to ease up on the aggression. Let her keep face while
she still has enough power to make my life interesting.
“Very well. You will have the paperwork tomorrow. Good job on capturing Bakuda.”
“Thank you, Director.”
“Dismissed.”
With a nod of acknowledgement, I walk out of the office and keep a steady pace while
rushing to my lab.
“Well, that was tense,” Dragon’s soothing voice whispers in my ear.
“It had to be done,” I answer, taking advantage of the subvocalization systems in my
armor.
“I am not saying otherwise, Colin, it’s just… Are you sure you can’t tell me what’s going
on? With Bakuda and those instructions?” And there’s that hint of something in her
usually steady tone that could be pain or worry or anything in between, and it makes me
feel like a heel.
“I trust you with my life, you know that, right?” I try to reassure her.
“I do. But you aren’t trusting me with this.” And I guess I failed.
“It’s not… Look, I am not proud of some things I have done, and I am trying to make up
for them.”
“What does that have to do with—”
“I can’t betray their trust, not again. I have been asked to keep a secret, and I will do it
until they tell me otherwise.”
I am already in the elevator, waiting for it to drop me at the garage so I can take my bike
and drive to my workshop, lamenting once again the sheer stupidity of using two whole
buildings for what should be the same department if colorful costumes didn’t get in the
way.
“Oh,” she says, and I don’t feel the need to add anything to that.
It’s not until minutes later, when I am taking full advantage of not needing to follow the
speed limits and the sharp wind of the night has left my exposed jaw pleasantly numb,
that I hear her voice once again caressing my ear.
“I am proud of you, Colin.”
And I can’t help the smile that stretches across my face.
Lung
I stare at the blackened stump where I have used my fire to sear off my own arm after
the black crystal started creeping up my flesh.
The skin bubbles in slow motion, my regeneration already working to erase any trace of
my injury.
Of my friend’s death.
I saw Oni Lee’s eyes as the mix of explosions consumed him in slow motion, each one
interacting with the other in a way that I find hard to believe Bakuda hadn’t intended
from the beginning. I saw his surprise, undisguised, and the very dredges of fear he still
had left in him flaring up.
And rage explodes around me.
How dare they!
How dare the halfbreed betray me!
How dare the whole city turn against me! Against the Dragon of Kyushu!
How dare the bug bitch leave me for dead and set this travesty in motion!
How dare my friend die!
My fire rushes over my skin, turning my couch to ashes that whiten before the scorching
air that surrounds me blows them away. The tiles of the floor are already blackened and
cracked, and a single stomp is enough to reveal the cement beneath. I can already write
down this house, so—so—
I roar.
I unleash the flames, no longer contained around me, and I set them rushing up the
walls, consuming everything that is wooden and cracking everything else. I am
surrounded by bright yellow, orange and red, licking at my skin, tickling at my wound,
and I wish I could feel scales glide from beneath frail flesh, but I don’t need the strength
of the dragon for this. No, for this Kenta is enough.
And so I punch through the walls with never flagging strength, with power that is not
increasing, but also undiminished. I throw a piece of plaster behind me to the satisfying
sound of cracking glass, and I keep going until the roof of the room falls down on me.
Only then, as I look at the night sky through the hole left in this building and I rest under
the weight of the rubble, as flames rage all around me in their hungry dance, do I allow
myself to stop.
Bakuda. Bug bitch. Armsmaster.
The dragon shall have vengeance.
Taylor Hebert
I am freaking out.
I am in bed, an infuriating, motor-mouth blonde sleeping beside me with the cutest pout
I have ever seen as she seems to deal with whatever it is dreams offer someone who
has gotten used to not being alone in her head, and I just defeated the second and third
supervillains of my career after barely escaping the trap laid by an archetypical
mastermind to lure me to the dark side, reconciled with the superhero who failed me
when I was just starting out, had one of my bullies unmasked as a junior superhero who
moonlights as a nascent serial killer and my oldest friend psyche dismantled in front of
me, not to mention working as a search and rescue volunteer during one of the
bloodiest, weirdest attacks this city has ever seen, all of this in the span of three days!
So, yeah, I am freaking the fuck out.
Speaking of which, I have also lost my virginity and started what my better half (or so
she would like to claim) has described as a ‘torrid lesbian relationship.’ Which, given the
amount of sex… Apt.
The sex… I mean…
Down, girl. Down.
No, that doesn’t mean go down on Lisa. Really, just… enjoy the silence, Tay. God
knows it’s a scarce resource.
… And now I am calling myself with her nickname. I got it bad, don’t I?
I am sure this is the part where her Power would interject something inappropriate yet
insightful. I almost envy her that, as mine only interjects how much uncooked meat the
diner down the street just threw away. I am really thankful for whatever part of my power
ensures I don’t quite consciously process things I don’t mean to, but the intellectual
knowledge is still vaguely disturbing. I guess I need to get used to it.
Also, dad knows.
I am of two minds about this. On the one hand, I am relieved I no longer need to hide,
even if part of the superhero fantasy always let me separate my life from my heroics. It’s
just… I know Lisa is right, that it not only isn’t practical but is liable to cause a lot of
problems sooner or later.
Well, of course I agree, it isn’t like she unmasked me behind my back. No, she just
methodically explained why I should do it myself.
Something that would seem far less sinister if I hadn’t witnessed her surgically take
apart two girls with just her words up close and personal. And that’s not counting
Panacea, because she at least seemed salvageable afterward.
She’s terrifying.
Cute, scatterbrained, funny, endearing, and terrifying, because not only can she turn
that off when she means business and lets the true extent of her power unfold, but also
because there’s a part of me that can’t help but wonder how much of it is deliberate,
how much is carefully constructed to elicit a specific reaction in me, and I know some of
it is just Emma getting in my head once again and making me doubt anything good that
happens to me, but…
“Tay…” she whispers, and I freeze.
I look down, expecting to see green eyes analyzing me, dissecting my fears, deftly
constructing a façade designed to fit into the cracks left in mine… But I see a frowning,
sleeping face, and a hand clutching the silk pajamas she bought me on our last
shopping trip.
“Tay… Don’t leave…”
And my heart melts, or breaks, or both.
I lie back down and turn over, wrapping her in my arms, and I feel her body relax as I
kiss her brow.
“Shhh… I’m here, Liz. With you.”
And the frown melts into a relieved smile as she nuzzles into my meager chest.
She’s cute, exasperating, funny, endearing, a scatterbrained mess of a genius.
She’s terrifying.
I hold her closer, my arms tightening as I hear her happy murmur.
She’s mine.
Yumi Tanaka
I open my eyes to see a wonderful dream.
I make sure to blink twice, to reassure myself I am not living through some anesthesiainduced delirium, but not, it’s all real.
A whole laboratory full of Dragon-tech tools and equipment, and nobody else in sight!
“Is this Paradise?”
“I don’t think so, Miss Tanaka, but I thank you for your appreciation of my designing
sensibilities,” a voice answers me from a carefully hidden speaker.
Dragon.
“Heh, of course I appreciate it. I have just gone from a basement full of scavenged
materials to a laboratory fully stocked by the most famous Tinker in the world! Just
imagine how much more I can do now!”
I leap off my cot, the brief disorientation at getting up so quickly not enough to impede
me from examining what looks to be a 3D printer capable of extruding biological
materials. Interesting… Clone in a bomb? No, I would need a variety of samples… But
maybe I could program a neutral biological lattice, expanding to fill gaps in a functioning
organism, replicating structures as it infiltrates the original organs and bones…
Explosive healing. Yes, I think I can—
“The most famous? Not the best Tinker in the world?” Dragon interrupts me.
“Not anymore, no,” I answer, irritated at her having me made lose track of—
“It seems they were right to warn me, Miss Tanaka.” And I freeze.
“They?”
“She, more explicitly.”
Glowing orbs crossed by flickering specks of darkness, the buzzing of a voice that
vibrated all around me, as if the whole room was inside of her, as if I was inside her, as
if she had already decided to—
“No! She’s not here, she isn’t, she can’t—”
“Calm down, Miss Tanaka, I was only asked to pass a message along to you. I can
assure you you are alone in there and nobody can come in.”
The buzzing… It’s only in my mind. I can forget it. She’s not here. Just a message.
From her.
“What… what does she want?” I shouldn’t want to know, but… Maybe it’s more prudent
to listen. Yes. Not because I… No, it’s just prudence. Caution.
“She says… She says you still haven’t proven you deserve to live. But that she is eager
for you to show otherwise.”
And I relax at the message. It’s… better than I feared. Much better. I am even happy to
hear it, to know she thinks I can do it, I can rise up to the challenge and prove, once and
for all—
“She also tells me she will check up on you. From time to time.”
What? But… But this is closed and nobody is supposed to come in until I have… Until I
have killed the Endbringers. Only then she will reveal---only then will I show my face to
the world and…
No. It doesn’t matter whether it’s hidden and sealed off from the world. Not to her. She
told me as much.
“Understood, Dragon. I better start working, then.”
“Of course. I will leave you to it.”
So I go back to the biological printer, possibilities already shuffling in my whirring mind,
and I lose myself in the flow of ideas and motion, of imagination and materialization,
until…
Until I hear an intermittent buzzing, almost like morse code. Far too deliberate for a
natural insect.
And my muscles lock up with dread at her presence, but also…
She’s watching me.
So I also… smile.
Coil
My Tattletale’s confirmed Bakuda’s capture, even if the Protectorate hasn’t yet
announced an end to the ongoing crisis, which suggests non-standard measures have
been taken to ensure nothing goes amiss during Miss Tanaka’s transfer.
A pity. As volatile an asset as she has proven herself to be, her technology would have
proven an invaluable boon to my forces. Especially with Trickster’s abilities. Ah, well,
you can’t win them all.
Chasing every prize is the best way to end up with none.
Take, for instance, young Miss Wilbourn. An intelligent young woman, far more powerful
than she herself realizes, someone who could very easily orchestrate in years the kind
of thing that would take me decades. But she’s inexperienced, impulsive, foolish.
So she dedicates her efforts to turn the Undersiders into a successful, yet apparently
harmless band of merry thieves. And she recruits Miss Hebert into the fold, increasing
her apparent value to me by linking it to that of a very powerful master in the making.
She is poised to become a trusted lieutenant, even with the rocky start to our
relationship. I certainly appreciate all of her efforts in that direction, and then…
And then Miss Hebert gets in trouble at her school, and all of Miss Wilbourn’s efforts go
down the drain, because she can’t help but act impulsively and wreck her own long-term
prospects. I would be disappointed if I wasn’t so amused.
To top it off, far from being content with having made a mistake and going back to what
remains of her previous plans, she then decides to double down. The Undersiders will
remain under Grue’s leadership, and she and Skitter will act independently until the
situation with Shadow Stalker resolves itself so that they don’t taint the rest of the team
by association. Admirable. Self-sacrificing and almost noble, given the circumstances.
Farcical.
I let her play at it, at the independent agent, knowing full well how disastrous the whole
endeavor is set to be, knowing her efforts will be for nothing, that her lack of focus will
make sure of it.
And then she succeeds. And I ponder.
Because that’s not like my Tattletale, to have the will and drive to set a goal and follow
through with such ruthless efficiency. I know her well enough by now.
So, this success must be due to Miss Hebert’s influence. A determined individual, by all
accounts.
And now I have the two of them working together, unaffiliated to the Undersiders, but
still under my sway. For as long as Shadow Stalker’s situation isn’t dealt with.
Hmmm.
Dinah Alcott
I look at the far too bright light glaring off the white tiles covering the walls of the room
where the man who isn’t a nurse takes care to keep me useful. I am lying on a cot, my
temples throbbing after the latest barrage of questions, the… candy that isn’t, but that I
don’t want to name barely enough to keep me aware through the pain.
And I… I can’t resist.
Once more. Please.
Just once.
“Chances… Chances I will see mom again if they survive the next week?”
Wake-up Call – Chapter 11
‘White and Nerdy’ is a Weird Al Yankovic song that parodies the song ‘Ridin’,’ which, as
far as I am concerned, is clearly superior to the original.
No, this isn’t relevant at all; I am just so bored that I am coming up with random trivia.
Just because.
Lisa Wilbourn lonely due to—
Power, I am not so desperately clingy that I cannot stand being apart from my girlfriend
while she has dinner with her quasi-estranged father. It’s just that the past few days
have been eventful enough that I am not quite sure what to do with all this extra energy.
Lisa Wilbourn no longer finds masturbation—
Aaaaahhh! Not listening! Gross, gross, gross, gross!
Lisa Wilbourn childish—
It’s not childish not to want you talking about my sex life! Especially not my solo sex life!
Lisa Wilbourn’s hypocrisy—
Fine, fine, I do use you to push Taylor’s buttons, figuratively and otherwise; it’s just….
Context matters, you know?
…
Fine. Be that way. It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t have anything to do other than
stare at the wallpaper in search of hidden meanings in its pattern or browse the internet
looking for even more reaction posts to Bakuda effectively being disappeared to Area
51.
Lisa Wilbourn’s costume and computers still—
Oh. Right. My things. At the Undersiders’ base.
…
Well, Power, it looks like we are going on a field trip!
***
Despite Brockton Bay’s abysmal public transport system (something I can’t quite blame
the local administration for, given how much of the budget has been devoted to
bulletproof windows—ineffective as that is when the rest of the bus isn’t armored), I
arrive to the sinister lair of my former band of criminals before too long. Standing in front
of it now, with the perspective my reformed status as an undercover hero gives me, the
building reveals its sinister secrets that I have been too blind to see for too long.
Namely, that there are likely to be three active supervillains inside of it who may not be
all that happy with me taking off without even a call after getting involved in a school
shooting with their other missing team member.
Colin Wallis use of ‘School-shooter’ likely to be—
I know, I know, no need to spoon-feed me. Especially when it comes at a cost.
Still… Let’s see, Rachel should be taking care of her dog shelter at this hour, and it is a
school night after a terror attack, so Brian is likely spending time with his sister in a
misguided attempt at failed parenting, and Alec…
Only one window lit. Sounds of electronic music interspersed with explosions—
Playing videogames on the couch. What a surprise.
Well, I guess I could wait for him to go to bed, which would wreck what’s left of my
sleeping schedule, go inside like nothing’s happened, or—
Silence. Light turned off. Regent likely to—
Or that. Shit.
All right, Tats, you’ve got a gun, mace, a taser, and everything else a non-braindead
teenage girl should carry around when walking through the dock district at night in this
damn city short of a grenade launcher (which, wonder of wonders, is actually legal for
me to own, so maybe it’s time for a costume upgrade). What can Mister I-point-atpeople-to-make-them-twitch do?
Formerly known as Hijack, Jean-Paul Vasil capable of completely overtaking a subject’s
nervous system while allowing their consciousness to remain—
Ah. Yes. He can ‘I have no mouth and I must scream’ me. Delightful.
Do you powers take notes from horror stories? Is that what’s going on here? Is it only a
matter of time until I have to fight a dude who traps people inside walls with classy
wine?
While I am internally freaking the fuck out and externally showing only my clearly
composed and dignified façade (thank you, Taylor, for the crash course on the subject,
by the way), Alec walks out of the Redmond Welding factory building. He’s wearing a
white t-shirt and black jeans in that apathetic way that makes him look like an Anne Rice
vampire rather than a homeless musician, and he waves at me indolently. Now it may
be a good time to run away, except that running is a pretty bad idea when facing
someone whose power is a mix of making you trip and ‘why are you hitting yourself?’
Yes, his superpower is being a high-school asshole. To no one’s surprise.
“Lisa. Long time no see.” He stops before reaching my side. He’s in the middle of the
street, but it’s not like this part of the city gets that much traffic at this time. Or at any
other.
“Alec. Thought I would drop by for a visit.”
“That why you’ve been standing around here for the past ten minutes?”
“Wha—fucking Hell, have you been peeping on my nerves?”
“Oh, Lisa, can you blame? You have such gorgeous… clusters,” he says with a smirk
that’s oozing something I would rather burn my (very expensive) sneakers off rather
than scrape off my sole.
“If you are hoping I will cover my chest with my hands in repulsed embarrassment, you
are going to be disappointed.”
“Yes. Having an unimpeded view of your sweater puppies. My disappointment is
unmeasurable, and my day is ruined.”
“Nice try. We both know you only care about what’s inside. How wholesome of you.”
At that, he clutches his chest in (wildly exaggerated) pain.
“Hiss! The forbidden word, she speaks to us!”
“Oh, come off it. Your Gollum is even worse than your Vader.”
“You are no fun, you know?”
“I’ll have you know I have it on good authority that I am delightful company.”
“For about three days? That seems like a new record, Tatas.” Ouch.
“Hey! She just had to go have dinner with her father, it’s not like she couldn’t stand
being in the same room as me for another second without tearing her hair off… or…
something non-specific like that…” As my voice drops, Alec raises an eyebrow in the
universal expression of those suddenly confronted with TMI. Still got it, but… at what
price? At what price?!
“Uh… You… need to talk about it or…?” He makes a vague gesture that could as easily
mean ‘come inside’ as ‘leave me the fuck alone, you weirdo.’ I guess his unique
perspective makes him really good at body language.
Goddamn psychics, man. They are everywhere.
“It’s just, I think… I don’t know, everything was so fresh at the start, but then, you know,
the novelty of the hot, lesbian sex seemed to wear off, and… I don’t know where we
stand right now. Sure, she says she needs to check up on her old man, but I think she
just wants space, and I don’t know how to handle her needing to be away from me…” I
look at the tip of my sneakers, avoiding Alec’s dumbfounded look at my barrage, my
voice breaking a bit at the end.
“That sounds… rough? It’s not like I can give you a lot of advice, you know—” I cut him
off.
“And this,” I start rummaging through my handbag, “I mean, it was all going so well, and
then I used this, and she seemed to, I don’t even… She was quite turned on by it, I
think, but then she… kinda shied away, you know? I think I crossed some kind of line
and… It was too much, too soon?” I ‘finally’ find the item in question and show it to him.
The tube of cherry Chapstick.
Alec looks at it dumbstruck before switching to a great deal of annoyance when he
meets my clearly not teary eyes.
And I laugh in his face.
“Ha. Ha. Ha.” His tone is so dry he’s likely to get chapped lips, but no way I am sharing
this lip balm.
“Oh, you should have seen yourself! I should have filmed it!” I am not laughing at
‘School-shooter’ levels, but it’s a close thing. Payback’s always been a kink of mine.
“Fucking Thinker bullshit…” he starts rubbing his temples. “How come it’s me the one
who ends up with a headache?”
“Karmic retribution?”
“If karma is a thing, you are doomed, Tats.”
“Yeah, likely. Kinda been working on it, lately.” Aaaaand way to bring the mood down,
Lisa.
Suddenly serious, Alec and I go back to staring at one another in a kind of stand-off. He
can wreck any movement I care to make against him, but unless he can also make me
bite my tongue, I am not quite defenseless.
“So. Are you reformed now?”
“Depends. How likely are you to sell me out to our mysterious boss?” And his face goes
blank.
“Tats, you know me.” And he smiles. Not his practiced, ‘merry with a hint of scorn’ smile,
the one that makes it as likely you want to smack him over the head as give him a highfive. No. It’s an unsettling thing, like an articulated doll whose lips have been carefully
sculpted into something affable while its dead eyes have been left alone to stare at the
void. “You know how much I care.”
Ah, that’s how you want to play it?
Regent impaired empathy—
I know, Power. No need for the CliffsNotes on this one.
“Yes. I know precisely how much your ability to relate to others and feel anything other
than boredom or amusement has been gutted out of you.”
“Not pulling any punches, are you? Is this the ‘Thinker evisceration special’ I’ve heard
so much about?”
“I haven’t even started.”
“Good, because, so far, you aren’t quite cutting to the bone, you know?” He smirks, an
affectation of careless superiority.
“What’s your counterplan then, Alec? Waiting for Bitch to come back so she can capture
me? Keeping me tripping until I break something important?”
He takes out a gun from behind his back.
“Ah, that looks like a better plan,” I remark, without swallowing in nervousness.
“What can I say?” He looks pointedly at my handbag. “I learned from the best.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere.”
“Funny, I thought we were discussing where you will be going.”
“Oh, that was already clear about five minutes ago.”
“Was it?” He arches an eyebrow.
“Of course it was.” I take a step towards him, the gun never wavering from the center of
my chest. “Because, you see, Alec, you are a complete and utter sociopath.” Another
step. “A man emotionally tortured to the point where survival and self-interest became
your only driving forces.” Another. The gun remains steady. “You are not the kind of
person who would let a friend go just because of sentimentality or loyalty.” The last step.
The cannon is resting against my breastbone, right over my cleavage, the cold metal
almost making me shiver. “You just wish you were.”
And I get on my tiptoes and kiss his cheek.
“You big softie,” I murmur against his ear.
Alec’s hand clenches the grip of his gun until his knuckles go white, and the metal
vibrates against me before he releases a deep sigh.
“You really go for the throat, don’t you?” He looks tired, but his smile is halfway back to
his infuriating self.
“Only the best for my frenemies,” I reply with my own conflicted grimace, happy at
having guessed right, sad at having done so.
He looks down at the plastic tube still in my hand as he gets the handgun back in his
waistband.
“So, did you—”
“No comment.”
“Oh, come on! After all that setup, something must have happened.”
“And whatever did will remain between Taylor, me, and that seagull who kept peeking in
on the rooftop.”
“Wha—oh, kinky.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter. It was perfectly innocent.”
“What? Like a kiss or—”
“Like we both are minors, so it was perfectly legal. Ergo: innocent.”
He looks at my smug grin (finally!) in open-mouthed surprise before palming his face
and laughing.
“Never change, Lisa. Never change.”
“Yeah… I’m afraid it’s a little too late for that.”
So he drops his hand and looks at me, before a less practiced smile takes over. Warm.
Inviting. Open. A bit vulnerable. Still fake, but desperately trying not to be.
“I am glad,” he says. And I hug the infuriating asshole.
***
Alec keeps me company while I dismantle my computers, taking out the hard drives and
wiping the RAM. It doesn’t take that long, but it’s still mostly routine, so we can keep a
low-key quipping battle going to stave off the boredom.
And finally, reaching under my bed, I pull out a sports bag with… My costume.
I don’t know if I will remain Tattletale much longer. Maybe Tay and I will change our
identities and publicly become heroes, maybe I will try to keep working in the shadows
and flexing our unique advantages for that lifestyle, but… This will always be important.
I didn’t become Tattletale because I wanted to, didn’t become a villain of my own free
will, but… I chose how I did it. I chose what kind of criminal I was going to be, what lines
I would cross and which I would respect, what mask I would show the world.
I made Tattletale, and, good and bad, I am proud of her.
She also managed to land a hot girlfriend, so it’s not like I could complain that much
even if I didn’t.
“Women and clothing. Could you be any more stereotypical?”
“Have you looked at the mirror lately? You look like LiveJournal’s boyfriend.”
“See, I know you mean that as an insult, but I can only hear the sound of a thousand
goth teenagers frantically fingering to my profile picture.”
“Ugh… You know I have a vivid imagination, why do you this to me?”
“Isn’t there a word for questions that answer themselves? I could have sworn there was
something like that…”
“The hypophora is a rhetorical figure where one immediately answers the question
asked, but what you are talking about would be more like a tautological question,
something like ‘what color are red candles?’”
“… You are a nerd.”
“You spend all day playing videogames and just told me you have a LiveJournal profile.
The nerd supremacy is yours.”
“… Was all that just a convoluted way to arrive at me calling you a nerd just so you
could answer that?”
I smile at him, the vivid picture of innocence, as long as innocence is carrying a gun in
her handbag, a stack of hard drives full of illegally obtained information, and a sports
bag with a supervillain costume. So, not that innocent.
“Of course not, Alec. Free will exists, and you are perfectly able to make choices by
yourself. Pinkie promise.”
“… This is the creepiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“I know, isn’t it wonderful?”
“Kinda cool, yeah… So, existential crisis aside, are you coming tonight?”
“Tonight?” Oh, shit, I just admitted to not knowing something. And he’s already smiling
smugly. Your funeral, pretty boy; I guess the next existential nightmare will need to be a
little harsher.
“Somer’s Rock meeting. To deal with the ABB.”
…
“I could kiss you right now.”
“But you aren’t going to, are you? I am still weirded out from before,” he says, recoiling
back and shielding his cheeks. Adorable.
“Nah, your chastity is safe from me. Welp, I guess I have work to do,” I say as I get up
and gather my things.
“Right. So… You two ever coming back?” Regent, your attempt at nonchalance just
failed as much as you do whenever you challenge the Korean server.
“I don’t know how things will go Alec, I… Fuck, I miss you too, as incredibly stupid and
dysfunctional as that sounds, but I need to solve a couple of things before I decide what
I am going to do in the future. I just… I promise I will try to keep in contact. When it’s
safe.”
And he looks at me, face blank, not even a creepy mask of simulated emotion covering
the sheer void where a playful, brilliant kid should be.
“For me, or for you?”
And I hug him, his limp arms falling at his side, his head straight even as I lay mine over
his chest.
“I don’t know.”
And then I let him go. And I leave.
***
I am taking a walk through the docks after that, needing to clear my head from the
turmoil Alec has managed to drag up to the surface. The truth is that I don’t know what I
am doing nor why; I am just reacting to things as they come along, just following my
impulses and the determinations I have somehow stumbled upon in these crises we
have faced the past few days.
Be a better person? Right, on the list, not gonna argue with myself over something so
basic.
Support Taylor? It will be physically painful not to try, at this point.
Deal with monsters like Bakuda? Surprisingly enjoyable.
Be a hero? Now we are entering murky terrain.
I want to put Coil behind bars or in a shallow grave, I don’t particularly care much for
which one ends up being the winning option, but being a full-time hero runs into a few of
the problems I am currently trying to get away from. I will still be under someone else’s
control, someone who will dictate my priorities, and, seeing how Colin has positively
wilted under the current system, I don’t think the change will be as much of an
improvement as I have been hoping.
I may also, under torture, admit that I have a certain… fondness for my ex-teammates,
and I don’t feel quite comfortable just running away to leave them to hang.
Lisa Wilbourn—
Thank you, Power, but I think I need to work this out by myself.
But being a villain is not an option. Not only would it mean disappointing Colin horribly
(wait, how come that is even a concern—never mind), but Taylor would just be
heartbroken. She’s too much of an idealist to just let me go back to being a petty thief,
and that whole ‘cops and robbers’ thing no longer passes any muster after having the
city bombed to Hell and back.
And I don’t want to.
Which… Right, maybe I should have started with that.
Lisa Wilbourn unnecessarily—
Yes, yes, I get it, you already knew, and I just wasted time brooding through the moonlit
streets over something that was blindingly obvious. Enjoy your moral victory.
Lisa Wilbourn surliness—
Oh, fuck off.
Also, my not wanting to be a villain is not at all a resolution to the underlying problem of
my jumping from crisis to crisis without an actual plan or overarching goal beyond—
My phone is ringing.
“Tay! Hey, how is the dinner going?” No, my mood hasn’t been immediately lifted, and
this whole thing hasn’t been a sign of my dangerously needy—
Lisa Wilbourn denial—
Oh, fuck off.
“Ended thirty minutes ago, which is why I’m back at our room, wondering where the fuck
are you and why haven’t you told me?”
“Uh… Is this one of those things where I should tell you to respect my boundaries?”
“No, this is one of those things where we are both wanted criminals, your previous boss
is possibly planning to capture and/or execute you, and the city is still officially under an
emergency state. So, Liz, dear, honey, tell me there’s a good reason I just had the
scare of my life when I found our room empty.”
“You know that’s the first time you have called me honey? Pun not intended, but it was
very sweet.” No, I am not starting to sweat nervously. It’s just balmy. At night. In April.
“It may also be the last, and if you keep the evasion up, you may suddenly stop
associating ‘honey’ with anything remotely pleasant.”
“… I know it’s stupid of me to wonder, but when I think about you, me, and copious
amounts of honey, it’s really hard to think of something I wouldn’t enjoy.”
“…”
“You are blushing. Oh God, I managed to make you blush in the middle of one of your
‘fear me, for I am the wrath of nature and disturbingly creative’ speeches, and I am not
there to see it! This is so fucking unfair!”
“Liz…” she groans. “Tell me what’s going on before I actually get angry enough to get
past this embarrassment.”
“Uh, right… Well, you see, I suddenly remembered there were a couple of things I
needed back at the Undersi—”
“You what?!”
“I don’t tell you who you can hang out with!”
“…”
“Did that work? I can’t believe that worked.”
“You are sleeping on the couch.”
“We don’t have a couch.”
“I don’t care. Buy one.”
“Right. Well, there aren’t that many furniture stores open at this hour… But! There’s an
alternative activity we can do instead that you will find both entertaining and
informative!”
There’s silence from the other end of the line, which is better than frantic screaming, but
not by much.
“What ‘activity’ is that?”
And I smile, assured of my victory (and likelihood of not sleeping on a recently bought
sofa).
“A supervillain summit.”
Taylor’s sounds of confusion are music to my ears. Yes, farewell, sofa, we were not
meant to be.
… I hope.
***
“So, cameras ready?”
“Ready, they are set up all over the bar.”
“Perfect.” And, with a few taps, I set up my laptop and tablet to display what
Armsmaster’s very useful loan (that will likely end up like a loaned book: unreturned) are
streaming. The inside of a bar that hasn’t seen better days because it was a dump from
its inception and is proud of its roots. Somer’s Rock hasn’t been closed already because
no one who has the authority to do so would be caught dead near the place.
Oh, and all the supervillains, I guess.
Faultline’s crew are already at their table, probably pondering once again the pros and
cons of having the next meeting at their own club just to avoid the risk of infection.
Brian, Rachel, and Alec are at theirs, with Rachel’s dogs enjoying being in a place
where they aren’t the foremost source of a possible flea infestation, and Skidmark and
his entourage are making a nuisance of themselves with the deaf waitress, who has
given up on making them understand that she is, in fact, deaf. They seem to be
screaming themselves hoarse at her, so that’s a point in favor of not turning on the
microphones until the big players get there.
Meanwhile, Taylor and I are sitting on the camping chairs that we remembered to bring
this time around. We are roof veterans, at this point.
Also, we are in costume. Because variety is the spice of life.
And we may want to make a dramatic entrance, depending on how things go. But that’s
mostly just Taylor being Taylor.
Speaking of which…
“Still mad at me?”
The creepy bug mask shoots me a look that I know from personal experience is not half
as withering as what lies underneath. I wonder if a future villain, after browsing the
history books, will just decide not to mess with perfection and just wear a Taylor mask.
… That should not be arousing. Why is that arousing?
“It would help if you didn’t make fun of me when I worry about you.”
“I do what now?”
“You—are you being serious, right now?”
“Tay, I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“I, you—” she groans, and not in the fun way. “You always need to quip, or joke around,
or make me flustered—”
“It’s kinda what I do, sweetie—”
“I know! And I usually love that about you, even when it drives me mad, which is
confusing as Hell, but whatever. But… But please, don’t do it when I worry about you.”
“What do you mean?” She loves that about me—all right, not the time to get giddy or
sappy, this seems to be serious.
“It’s… Look, earlier, when I called you?”
“Yeah, you were angry that I—”
“I was worried, Lisa! I was freaking out—I told you I was freaking out!”
“Yes, that’s why you were angry—”
“Of course I was! I can feel more than one thing, that’s what humans do!”
I feel like this is a great time to point out something about how she shouldn’t be the one
teaching me how normal people work, but I also think that would be suicidally stupid to
do.
“I—okay, let’s try that thing sane people are supposed to do: I acknowledge your anger
and your worry, and I am sorry I made you feel like that.”
She looks at me weirdly (or at least I think so), her head askance.
“Just like that?”
“Hey, I made my cute girlfriend feel bad; it’s only reasonable I would want to make it up
to her.”
She shuffles a bit, some of the hostility dropping from her body language.
“Stop calling me cute,” she mutters.
So I get up, cross the small distance that separates us, and push her chin upward until I
can see my soft smile reflected off the citrine lenses of her mask.
“Never.”
“I… I feel like you are mocking me. When you do.”
“And I won’t stop doing it. I won’t stop calling you cute, beautiful, gorgeous, smart,
brave, noble, sexy or funny, adorable, cuddly, and a great kisser.” I kneel down so I am
at her level, so she doesn’t have to look up at me to see how serious I am. “Not until
you stop feeling ashamed. Not until you finally realize I mean it each and every time.”
And I hug her, and, after a few seconds, she hugs me back.
We stay like that for a bit, in silence, but I can’t help the need to reassure her further, to
show her rather than tell her, so I let my hands wander, down her sides, up the smooth
expanse of her back, my fingers gliding around the protrusions of her armor as if in a
game to reach whatever sensitive spot of Taylor Hebert is still exposed, available to me.
“Liz… What are you doing?” She asks, her breathing already shallower than a moment
before.
“Well, Tay, it just occurred to me… I have had sex with Taylor Hebert, but I have never
had, you know,” I drop my tone and make it as husky as I can as I breathe into her ear,
“fucked Skitter.”
I can hear her swallow, and that takes the slight embers in my belly and makes them
roar aflame.
Before I even register, I am trying to pull Taylor’s shirt out of her pants as her fingers
drag across my scalp (because of course) when she suddenly stops.
“Kaiser just arrived,” she says.
“Great. A Nazi and a cockblocker,” I bite out, and her answering giggle does not help
with that blaze under my navel. “Know what? Fuck it. We are recording this. It doesn’t
matter if we… indulge for a while.”
“Lisa…” she murmurs as my slightly cold fingers finally get past her waistband and
(inevitably) reach down to squeeze her mesmerizing ass.
“Lisa,” she breathes out, as I nibble her neck even through the silk covering it.
“Lisa!” she yells, and she pulls my hair. Tay, you kinky—
Wait, she’s pointing at my laptop—
Oh.
Lung just busted through the wall of Somer’s Rock like the Kool-Aid man’s illegitimate
son with American Godzilla—the one that was female.
Yes, I know it was a terrible movie, not the point.
The point? The actual point?
The thing that trumps all other concerns right now?
The plague of fucking racist cockblockers.
Oh, and the homicidal rage-dragon. I guess.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 12
As soon as I let go of Taylor to focus on the crisis at hand, she starts running to the fire
escape, because, obviously, her first reaction would be to throw herself into physical
danger when her power works perfectly well at a distance of two fucking blocks.
“Tay—Skitter! Wait, I need you to coordinate!”
She pauses and looks over her shoulder. Good, now to come up with a plan that uses
her powers and doesn’t seem like a ridiculous excuse.
Coordination and deploying of Armsmaster’s—
Yeah, kinda obvious. Because I already said it myself.
“You can fight from here; a baton or a knife isn’t going to do anything when—”
I can hear the crash from here.
The cameras, by some miracle all of them still working (and I can’t help but envision a
very smug Colin at that little nugget), show Hookwolf already tearing into Lung, a mass
of blades and spikes swirling around and through the reptilian giant.
God, am I glad not to be in the splash zone.
“Thank you, Nazis, for so eloquently proving my point.”
“Stop being smug for a goddamn second and tell me what you need me to do!”
“Skitter, I didn’t know you were so much into being ordered around,” I look at her coyly,
voice dripping with what I hope is flirtatiousness and not utter panic.
“Tattletale—” Right, looks like I have her fooled.
“Fly a bug with a speaker into each leader’s ear. Start with Grue, because—” Obsession
with reputation, top villains present— “Because the goddamn moron is about to get
himself killed!”
I rush to the tablet and my laptop, cursing the seconds I have already wasted being
horny, petty, and indecisive. Not necessarily in that order. The screen is clearly showing
Rachel’s dogs growing as Brian is starting to layer the ground with his fog, unwilling to
impede his impromptu allies at the moment. Alec… Alec is sipping his drink and looking
at the two pretend kaijus with amusement. Because of course.
Taylor nods, and I put my headset on, her fingers signaling to me Grue is on the third
channel.
“Brian, get out of there right fucking now!”
“Li—Tattletale?! What the fuck are you—”
“No! No time, Lung’s not playing around, he’s—” ABB deprived of parahuman enforcers,
target of all villain and hero groups in the city, nationwide outrage—“It’s worse, so much
worse than you think; Lung wants to kill everyone in the building, and the longer he
fights the easier time he’s going to have of it!”
“Let’s say I believe you—”
“Stop stalling! You will die!”
“Let’s say I believe you,” he repeats, voice steady as he signals for Rachel and Alec to
follow him behind the foam barricade Gregor the Snail is putting up, “Shouldn’t we hit
him hard enough he can’t recover—”
“You aren’t Taylor. None of you can inflict degenerative damage or sedate him. Brian,
please, I don’t want to tell Aisha—” My voice breaks. It’s not even fake.
“… You always have to play dirty, don’t you?” I signal to Taylor, pointing at Faultline on
the screen. Four fingers.
“You know you love it.”
“Love is not the word I—” And I cut him off.
“Faultline, I know you despise me, but—”
“Priorities, Tattletale,” she cuts me off as I see her collect Newter’s saliva on her glass.
Because of course the first plan the bitch comes up with is to directly contradict what I
just told Grue.
Newter’s secretions hallucinogen—
Right, the last thing we need: a tripping, murderous pyrokinetic.
“I was about to tell you—”
“Then tell me without any more preambles.” Some day I will strangle this woman, and if
somebody asks why, I will show them a recording of this very moment.
“Fine. Lung wants to kill everyone, don’t fight him, get the fuck out of there. Cut the wall
and have the Undersiders carry you three away.”
On the screen, Faultline looks over the barricade to see Lung rapidly growing too big for
the room, Hookwolf’s best efforts barely enough to keep up with his regeneration as the
dragon fights back just enough to keep him from getting a hold of his vitals. Skidmark
has taken cover behind the wooden countertop and is layering glowing fields in front of
it while Squealer seems to be fiddling with the kind of hand canon that wouldn’t look out
of place in a post-apocalyptic setting. Mush is just looking around, likely feeling as
useless as he is, while the Wagnerian fetish twins are currently barely taller than him
and flanking Kaiser with their shields raised in front of him, the armored moron
apparently thinking that looking dignified is an actually valid combat strategy.
Of course the fucking druggies would be better at tactics than the World War Two
reenactors. What was I expecting?
I mean, it’s not like they admire the winning side.
While I took stock of the situation, Faultline has already cut a circular exit right through
the back wall, big enough that Rachel’s partially enlarged dogs can comfortably exit it.
Obviously, the one time she agrees with me, she can’t even verbally acknowledge it.
Bitch.
Not you, Rachel. The other one.
“Skitter, keep your bugs in reserve while Lung fights Hookwolf.”
“Already gathered them. Outside better than in, I presume?” Ah, right. She’s the actual
tactical genius here. No need to explain too much.
I nod to her and take out a burner. I hope I won’t need to explain too much to him either.
“Lisa? Some people are trying to sleep.” Colin’s voice says from the other end of the
line.
…
What.
“Are you… Is this a bit? Are you having me on right now?”
“It is an objective fact that some people are trying to sleep. Now, as I am not one of said
people, what is it that you want?”
I try not to groan. I fail.
“If you start telling dad jokes I will—” Taylor grunts in annoyance. Ah, right. Life or death
situation. “Never mind my pledge of eternal vengeance: Lung has gone off his rocker
and is currently trying to kill all the villains gathered at Somer’s Rock.”
There’s a brief pause at the other end of the line, followed by frantic clicking sounds.
“The supervillains of the city were having a summit, which I presume was intended to
deal with the ABB, and I am just hearing about it now?”
“Uh… I was going to record it for you?”
“And you didn’t tell me because…?”
“I… forgot?”
“That’s it, you are demoted to Thinker six, young lady.”
“Hey!”
“I’m on my way, don’t do anything that drops you to five.”
And he hangs up.
Jerk.
Lisa Wilbourn likely to—
If you are going to say that I am likely to get down to Thinker four, you should know, in
your case, that’s a self-burn.
Taylor has her arms crossed, and I can almost convince myself I see the dense cloud of
insects already gathering around Somer’s Rock, still a respectable distance away, but
ready to act. I point at Skidmark’s image, and I can feel her arched eyebrow before she
lifts a single finger.
Not the middle one, but it’s a close thing.
“Skidmark, I am a Thinker coordinating the response—”
“Going by this fucking mess, you couldn’t coordinate a gangbang with more than two
dogs, so you can go—”
And all Hell breaks loose.
I can see how all the cameras inside the bar simultaneously show an onrushing wall of
flames before static takes over, and the bar is engulfed in a fire that erupts in jets
through the windows and the wall Rachel’s dogs walked through seconds ago.
Swearing as much as Taylor is likely internally doing, I rush to the edge of the roof and
take out my binoculars.
It’s hard to make out Grue’s darkness in the middle of the night, but I can see the trail
he’s leaving behind. He isn’t moving that fast, the dogs likely still in the process of
growing enough to carry their six passengers, and…
He is not gonna have enough time, because Lung just tore through the very same wall.
He’s much bigger now, likely having tolerated Hookwolf’s efforts just to get a leg up on
his metamorphosis; his mouth is already split four ways, and there are some very
disturbing nubs crawling out of his back. It’s only a matter of time till he gets wings, and
then Brian, Alec, and Rachel are dead.
I run to the fire escape, and Taylor follows, relief oozing off her as we rush toward
danger.
My girlfriend is likely insane and a battle maniac. News at eleven.
I switch the frequency of my headset to the remaining channel and pray my blonde hair
and pale skin will lend me some credence.
“Kaiser, Lung’s not retreating. He’s after the runaway capes, just trying to stretch the
battle long enough that he can wipe out the—” Lung unable to hold assets. Lung
uncaring of assets. Collateral damage no longer— “the whole city. Do not fight him, that
will only make things worse.” Taylor and I are rushing down the stairs as quickly as
possible, while I scan the street below for any kind of asset.
At this point, I would settle for a wheelbarrow and a holocaust cloak.
“Young lady,” ugh. It’s gross when he says it, “I am afraid the beast won’t be amenable
to your instructions.”
Seeing as Lung is currently throwing bolts of fire into Grue’s darkness while he walks
toward it at horror movie speeds, it seems the Nazi is right.
I mean, broken clocks and all that.
“Pull Hookwolf’s leash and use your power to contain Lung. Do not hurt him, anything
that counts as aggression will only speed up our ongoing demise.”
And Kaiser grunts in amusement. I guess even he doesn’t like the fight-happy
psychopath.
… Uh, Tay, the ‘psychopath’ part is the one I find objectionable. Really.
I am in time to see a circle of steel flowering around Lung before the nearest building
cuts off my view of the battlefield. I am now blind, so…
“Tay?”
“What happened to ‘Skitter?’” Ugh, is everybody going to be touchy tonight?
“Fine, Skitter, what’s the situation?”
“Apparently, Kaiser is capable of following orders. It must be ingrained in his creed.”
… Holy fuck, that one is good. I am an awesome influence.
“I think I just fell a little more in love with you just now.”
“We are going to have a serious talk about your sense of timing at some point.”
“Likely, while the city burns down around us.”
And Taylor sighs just before jumping the lasts steps to the ground.
“Likely, yes. It seems to be a pattern,” she says as she grabs my hips and helps me
down.
“Hey, boring couples have a song, we have—”
“We also have a song: ‘We Didn’t Start the Fire.’”
“… You need a mask I can kiss you through.”
“We need to run.”
And she takes off. Boldly. Straight into danger. Without a plan.
Taylor Hebert sense of self-preservation—
It’s a work in progress, Power. A work in progress.
***
Luckily for my already burning lungs (no relation) I find an excuse to stop before we
actually arrive at the bar. Namely, something that, as a former supervillain, almost
brings a tear of nostalgia to my eye: a prospective crime.
“Skitter! Wait up!”
Taylor, for the second time in the night, stops when I ask her to and looks at me over
her shoulder. I feel like I am burning down a non-renewable resource, and I am
surprised at how plentiful the current deposit is.
So, not willing to waste any more of it, I slid to my knees aside the motorbike recklessly
parked in this part of the city.
Really, I am quite sure this is grounds to void the insurance.
“What the Hell are you doing?” asks the person more likely to ask me that nowadays.
“Stealing a bike, what does it look like I’m doing?” Lockpicks comfortably dance around
my fingers, Power helping me translate the tactile sensations into the visual model of
the tumbler we studied not that long ago. Each pin on the padlock is carefully placed
before the whole thing slides open with a satisfying click.
“Wasting time while a dragon-man is about to kill your teammates?” Oh, they are ‘my’
teammates now, are they?
“Be honest, honey, what is your plan?”
“Uh…” she actually fidgets. That’s adorable. “I thought we were still arguing about the
‘honey’ thing…”
“No, we weren’t, and you didn’t think so. That’s the weakest deflection I have seen you
use ever.”
“Fine, I don’t have a plan. Happy?”
“Terrified, actually, because I don’t either.”
“What the Hell—”
“But I have an idea.”
She crosses her arms and taps her foot as I manage to strip a couple of wires with my
multitool and make the motor purr. Smiling as widely as I can without it looking like I am
having some kind of painful spasm, I hop on and pat the rear seat.
Taylor cocks her head in a way that makes it painfully obvious what kind of dubious look
she’s throwing my way.
“Do you even know how to drive one of these things?”
“My Power is knowing things; how hard could this be?”
“Your Power is deducing things. Which includes trial and error. Trial and error is not a
good way to learn how to use a death machine on two wheels without a helmet.”
“Come on, this won’t even be the fifth most unsafe thing you have done this week.
Besides, you get to be in the backseat, holding me tightly…” I say as I rev up the
engine. Uh. I guess that’s what this thing here does…
Her right hand twitches as if she’s about to clench something (which… well, not my kink,
I think—asphyxia doesn’t seem much fun) before she gives up and sits down behind
me, her arms circling my waist.
“And now?”
“Now? We bully a dragon.”
***
When we get there, the situation is just what I expected to find: a street littered with
molten metal, two giant rejects from the Bayreuth Festival, a puppy for cenobitians, and
Kaiser throwing spike after gigantic spike of metal at Lung, hoping that the Asian man
addicted to tattoos will also somehow get into piercings.
Oh, and a dragon. Kinda hard to miss, that one.
Look, I’ll be honest here: if I was sure that the three gang leaders that remain here
would just do their best to kill each other and stop at that, I would have let nature ran its
course. I mean, I’m sure Kaiser would appreciate my pragmatical appreciation of
survival of the fittest, and both Skidmark and Lung are in no condition to appreciate
anything at the moment—
Skidmark’s power enough to reflect deflagration—
Oh. So he’s alive and uninjured. Joy.
But the thing is, Lung’s wings are almost done growing and he’s still fixated on Brian’s
trail of darkness. If I let him, he will kill what’s left of the Undersiders and Faultline’s
crew before the heroes can mount a response. And, well…
Gosh, I am far too sentimental for villainy. Good thing I gave it up.
Lisa Wilbourn stolen motorcycle—
Everyone relapses once in a while.
“So…” I look at Taylor over my shoulder, her mask close enough I can hear the air
filtering through with every breath. “Ready to use the rest of Colin’s gifts?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
And so it starts.
At once, the whole street is engulfed by the roar of thousands of insects vibrating in
concert, an almost deafening wave washing over us, which is quickly followed by Lung
howling in pain as Taylor unerringly strikes his most sensitive spots with insects coated
in nociceptor activators.
That is: Lung currently is suffering a pain whose only limitation is his physiological
capability to process it. And he has enhanced senses.
The monster writhes in agony, his serpentine body contorting in inhuman shapes so
violently his enemies are thrown aside with enough force to crack the walls of the very
unfortunate bar where this debacle originated.
“The paralytic didn’t work, I take it?” I ask with as much calm as I can fake.
“Of course not. It was graded for humans.”
“Careful there. We don’t want to make that kind of remark near Nazis.”
“Don’t you think we have already joked about them enough?”
I look at Taylor’s lenses, my face a mask of incredulity.
“Right. Stupid question. Sorry.”
At least she gets it.
Lung, unaware of the golden dialogue he’s missing, is now cutting off his snout with his
own claws and… Uh…
There go his eyes.
Gross.
“I don’t guess you have any more of that, do you?”
“It was always going to be one shot. Now he will surround himself with fire and kill any
bugs before they can do anything.”
“… You used all of it, didn’t you?”
Taylor’s mask looks at me in intense silence.
“Right. Stupid question. Sorry.”
“At least you get it.”
Well, looks like the casual danger banter is about to come to an end, because Lung is
roaring his rage to the Heavens (or whatever it is he thinks he’s doing; maybe he’s
posing for a metal album cover?) and his missing parts are quickly resurfacing. The
Nazis still seem dazed by his latest attack, and only Kaiser is keeping up his unlicensed
acupuncture practice, which means Lung is instants away from being able to fly and
fuck up every single plan I may come up with in the next few minutes.
So…
Time to earn that Thinker five rating.
“Hey, ugly! How does it feel to get beaten twice by the same girl?”
Lung stops roaring, his long neck whipping around till he’s looking straight at us, blue
flames racing up and down his metallic scales. Then his mouth splits apart and he
screams something unintelligible and guttural.
Which I guess I can easily translate as ‘Bug Bitch!’
Chivalry is dead.
Mostly because, as I accelerate the bike as fast as I can and Taylor flips him the bird
over her shoulder—which… all right, that is kinda badass, but far too puerile and
reckless. Facile, even.
Fuck it, I wish I had thought of it.
Anyway, chivalry is dead, because we, the gallant heroes, are currently atop our agile
steed, rushing the fuck away from the angry dragon.
Good thing neither of us counts as damsels any longer.
And that the steed technically isn’t ours.
“He’s closing in!”
“Fuck, already?!”
“I think so, not that it’s easy to gauge distance with the way you are swerving!”
“Tay—Skitter, could you be any less of a backseat driver?”
“I don’t know, could you make me feel like you know what you are doing? And turn on
the fucking headlamp!”
Ah. Right. I knew I was forgetting something.
Lisa Wilbourn driving—
For fuck’s sake, not you too!
Turn left before end of—
See? That’s far more useful!
Following my mental map and Power’s reminders, I get on my planned route as Lung
keeps eating ground after us, his long stride quickly abandoned in favor of pursuing us
on all fours, just as I—
“Dodge!”
Uh? Fuck.
I throw my body to the right, the searing heat that washes over me as the bike leans
dangerously low all the confirmation I needed to know what Taylor was warning me
about.
“A direction may be useful next time!”
“Don’t get snippy with me! I’m not the one that decided that taunting the undying ragedragon was a good idea!”
“Nobody told you to flip him the bird!”
“You are just jealous you didn’t do it first!”
Damn. She knows.
Still… Lung is furious, wants to see Taylor dying up close and personal. If he’s risking
that taste of vengeance by throwing fire at us, then…
“He’s shrinking already?”
“I can’t see wings.”
Good news: he’s no longer ramping up and may even be losing strength faster than I
hoped.
Bad news: now he’s unpredictable.
Thankfully, there are plenty of things that are quite reliable in this city, aren’t there,
Power?
Sliding the bike to a stop in a way that could only be cooler if I had done it in a place
called Neo-Tokyo (and without the utter terror at messing up and ending up with half my
thighs scratched all over the asphalt), I face down Lung. Now he sees us as closer, as
not running away, and he stands on two limbs once again, his towering stature surreal
in a way that is hard to explain, because nothing is supposed to be that big and look
even remotely human.
Lung approaches, something that sounds like it could be a laugh if it wasn’t molded by a
maw that doesn’t belong on the animal realm rumbling out of him until Taylor’s insects
start buzzing in the same rhythm.
And Lung stops, fury and flame roiling over him.
“’Ou dare… Mog… Thragon?”
“I mean, I know it’s rude to mock people for their speech impediments, but you make it
so tempting…” I can’t help but quip.
Well, more like I do it precisely on purpose.
Lung throws his head to the sky, roaring fury and flame in a bluish pillar, his declaration
of intent crystal clear.
Pity crystal tends to be fragile, because while he’s distracted by his theatrical display,
Armsmaster’s bike rushes past mine, halberd held in a jousting position, and impales
the idiotic thug like he’s been taking personal lessons from Saint George.
Which means he did follow the GPS signal on my burner, that he did it through the route
I predicted, and that he prioritized our safety over that of the villains at Somer’s Rock, all
the while likely getting live updates about the dragon rampaging through the streets via
a PRT analyst to make sure he remained on track.
And that Power correctly identified his bike when he approached.
See? Reliable.
Now, about that Thinker rating…
Wake-up Call – Chapter 13
Seeing a giant half-dragon thing twitch on the asphalt while foam wells up through the
four slits of its snout and a crimson pool spreads below him is…
Ah, who am I kidding? This is awesome!
Lisa Wilbourn adrenaline levels currently—
Fuck yeah! I am finally getting what Taylor likes so much about—
Taylor Hebert low levels of affect indicate low likelihood of—
Nuh-uh, I just beat a dragon; you can’t bring me down!
Colin Wallis intervention likely stopped lethal—
That wasn’t an invitation!
“Tattletale?” My knight in far-too-exotic armor asks as he re-stabs the groin with his
totally-not-a-Merchant-thing, hypodermic halberd. My hero.
“She’s doing her thing; better to leave her to it,” my distressful not-quite damsel
answers, her arms relaxing from around my waist as she leans back on her seat.
“We beat a dragon! Whoo-hoo!” I enthusiastically punch the air. It knows what it did.
Still, my bike wobbles, so I’d better contain my unrestrained aggression. Next time, air.
Next time.
“I would say I beat the dragon. You were adequate bait, though.”
“Didn’t you see that wickedly awesome drift thing I did with the bike? That totally
counts!”
“Ah. That was intentional. It’s worse than I feared.”
“And you weren’t in the backseat, holding on for dear life…”
“You liked it! Can’t lie to me, your heart rate and—”
“That was horror, Lisa. Horror.”
“Totally awesome horror!”
For some unfathomable reason, Colin chooses this moment to stop poking Lung with
sharp things and palms his visor.
Colin Wallis likelihood of muttering ‘goddamn adrenaline junkie teenagers—’
“Shut up, I am not an adrenaline junkie! I am a dragon-hunting junkie! Totally different!”
Taylor and Colin look at me for a moment. After a few seconds in which I start fidgeting
on my trusty bike, Taylor gets off it.
“Sooo… What can you get her for underage driving without a license?”
“You snitch!”
“Much less than I can for stealing a vehicle.”
“Requisitioned in the line of duty, there’s a difference.”
Taylor is lifting her mask so she can pinch the bridge of her nose, and Colin is poking
his visor in a way that—
Nervous habit, never managed to get out of—
Yep. Trying to.
My mask, which allows free, unrestricted pinching of bridges, is objectively the best
mask around here. Bow before my mask supremacy, fellow dragon-slayers.
Dragon Slayers mercenary group likely a hindrance to Dragon worldwide—
Fine, fine, I will choose another name. Some jerk always needs to have the awesome
ones picked.
Chubster—
All right, I’ll give you that one. Totally not a jerk.
“Are you done?” Taylor asks, in a way that reminds me I am still officially banished to
the sofa we don’t have.
“Uh… think so? Sorry, that was a rush.”
“And stealing a bank wasn’t?”
“Meh, far too many negative connotations. I mean, sure, we got away with it, but having
to break Panacea wasn’t—”
“You did what?” Aaand Colin looks pissed. And he’s stabbing Lung once again.
Uh, I guess there are worse ways to deal with stress.
“I—look, I am sorry, but I really didn’t have a lot of options, okay? She was two seconds
away from giving Taylor pancancer, and I just had to poke at the house of cards that is
her mental stability.”
“Tattletale…” Colin takes a deep breath and sighs before his tone drops back to
something he may use when not stabbing a regenerating mass murderer. “You are
going to fix her.”
“Uh… Of course. Already planning on it.”
“He has a lie detector. Also, ‘pancancer?’”
“You try to come up with a short name for getting cancer everywhere that doesn’t sound
punny.”
“All-encompassing cancer. Omni-cancer. Cancer-hydra,” Colin offers.
“… If I find out you are using some kind of virtual intelligence to give you dialog prompts
to cheat…”
“Says the Thinker five.”
“Hey!”
“Lisa, honey,” and isn’t that a loaded word, “you just used us as bait to drive the
omnicidal dragon on a wild chase while dodging fireballs, driving a vehicle you have
never tried to use before, and your only plan was for Armsmaster to show up out of the
blue.”
“… Not stupid if it works.”
Colin, once again, sighs.
“I expect some amount of recklessness out of teenagers, and even more so out of
teenaged parahumans. Still, this was—”
“He was two minutes away from murdering the Undersiders and Faultline’s crew.”
He pauses, looking straight at me.
“You have a lie detector,” I remind him.
“And Thinkers get things wrong all the time.”
“Yes. We do. Name one thing I have been wrong about since you met me.”
Finally, he lifts his visor and then rubs the bridge of his nose.
“Fine. Justified risk. Still, if your plan really was for me to intercept, we should have
coordinated better.”
“You were in the middle of a mission. Your coms were being monitored, and you weren’t
about to pick up the phone.”
“I—there are ways around that.”
“That you have yet to explain to me. I will be expecting a personal coms device with our
next batch of micro-cameras.”
“Your—you already destroyed them?!” Oh, wow, I have never seen that particular vein
pop. Marvelous definition. It must work out a lot.
“He did!” I point at Lung’s far less reptilian, yet still twitching and foaming, form.
Colin stabs him again. Lung gurgles.
“Won’t that… Isn’t there a risk of an overdose?” Taylor asks, fidgeting slightly.
“Revised formula. Unless you have necrotized his groin once again?” Those words
should never be uttered with such casual disregard for male solidarity. I stand in awe.
“He was already too scaly when he showed up.” She shrugs with a hint of uncertainty.
“Damn…” Colin looks down at the dragon who is currently off trying to chase Puff, the
clearly superior dragon.
He pokes his thigh. It twitches.
“Shouldn’t I, I don’t know, use the bare minimum amount of force to subdue an enemy
or something? Isn’t that somewhere on the manual?” Taylor, sweetie, try not to fidget so
much when asking about excessive use of force, endearing as it is.
“Yes. Definitely. You should.” The ‘do as you’re told, not as I do’ is very clearly implied.
“Are you going to keep stabbing him until pick up shows up?” I ask. Rather
unnecessarily.
“It is a possibility I had contemplated.” And decided upon. Someone is grumpy.
“Right, so, uh, should we take our leave before—” Noctis cape— “Miss Militia shows
up?”
Colin looks at me, then down a little bit, then back at me, and arches a very pointed
eyebrow.
…
“Fine.” It isn’t.
I unmount my steed and, after shooting him another dirty look, shove a hundred bucks
into the compartment hidden below the seat.
There. My dues are paid.
Taylor looks at me, as I very definitely do not sulk nor pout as I look at the comrade we
are leaving behind. And she sighs.
“You are going to buy another damn bike, aren’t you?”
I look at her, my own eyebrow arched, and she sighs once again.
She asks the dumbest questions.
***
“You are not serious,” I say, more hope than certainty in my tone.
“What was that you said? Oh right: ‘Hey, I made my cute girlfriend feel bad; it’s only
reasonable I would want to make it up to her.’” The tone alone is enough for me to dock
her ‘cute’ points.
She still has a lot of them, though.
“Quoting people at them is a very passive-aggressive thing to do, you know?” I shoot at
her from the armchair where I have been banished to with just a blanket to protect me
from the dreadful cold of the night.
“Would you prefer active-aggressive?”
…
“Lisa…?”
Taylor wearing stilettos, a black leather corset, a garter belt and black silk stockings…
‘You need some… discipline, Lisa,’ she would say, as she slapped a riding crop on her
gloved hand and stood over me, my hands bound in—
“Lisa!”
“Uh?”
“Ignoring me is not a good way to ingratiate yourself with your still pissed-off girlfriend,”
she says as her hands tighten on the bed covers.
“I… I could say what I just did was the polar opposite of ignoring you, but then I would
have to explain, and I don’t think I am up to—”
“Right. Rambling Lisa. How surprising. Good night, honey.”
And she turns the lights off and lies down.
“Tay…”
She turns around, the still discernible silhouette of her profile showing me her back.
I grumble in a very dignified manner.
I mean, all right, I get it; I not only worried her unnecessarily, ran risks without telling her
anything, and ended up acting like a total spaz due to my adrenaline high, but…
I am certain there’s a ‘but’ in there.
…
Power?
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
Go fuck yourself.
Okay, fine, I can think myself out of this. I mean, being banished to the couch is bad
enough, but doing it when we don’t even have one is a bit beyond the pale, so surely
there must be something…
Well, let’s see, how would I feel if it was Taylor needlessly risking life and limb without
telling me anything and—
Oh, that bitch—
Uh, I mean, in that hypothetical scenario, I am sure I would be reasonable and listen to
her goddamn excuses after she once again—
Wait, wait, deep breaths, didn’t she precisely do this very same thing earlier tonight?
She was about to rush off to punch Lung in the face! And, and—
And she listened to me. Stopped. And followed my plan.
…
Who is she, and what has she done with my Taylor?!
Taylor Hebert behavior consistent with increased trust in—
Oh, rub it in, why don’t you?
And no, I am not flushed in pleasure. This is just…
Lisa Wilbourn in early stages of infatuation—
That’s your answer for everything.
Uh, well, since about a week ago.
Dear God, how bad do I have it?
“You really need to work on those fugues of yours,” Taylor’s voice says from right above
me.
“I… Was actually thinking. About something important.”
“Oh? Am I interrupting you?”
“Yes. I was just in the middle of a momentous epiphany.”
“What about?”
And I sigh before turning over so I am looking up rather than to the side.
“I am sorry I was so reckless, and annoying, and hyper, and… I have just… My life has
been completely upturned, and I am in a transitional period where I don’t know where I
stand, what I can salvage from my past life, or what I should try to salvage,” I swallow,
trying very hard to push through the knot of utter vulnerability doing its best to block my
throat. “I spend half the time trying to act like I know what I am doing, and the rest of it
trying to reassure you that everything’s going to be all right, and trying as hard as I can
to make that not a lie, and I… You have your father, your old life to go back to when
things calm down, but I left everything behind, and all that I had been building is now
burning down, even if I was forced to build it, but it was mine, and…”
I swallow. Blink my eyes clear. Taylor waits.
“And I love you. More than I thought, more than I expected, more than a stupid,
hormonal crush, because you are you, and I want to think even in a world without
powers, and bullshit, and drama, I would have, maybe, come across a girl with
gorgeous hair reading a book on the Boardwalk, and I would have said hi, and maybe
asked you to get a coffee with me, but you would have said you preferred tea, and I
would have teased you with a posh, British accent, and…”
I reach up, my fingers trailing the soft skin of her cheek, peach fuzz almost ticklish on
my fingertips.
“I want to think this is real, Tay. Not just because it’s the only thing I have, but because I
cannot stand the thought of a world where I didn’t meet you and fell in love with you.”
My voice trails off, and I know I have said too much. Too fast. This is crazy girlfriend
territory, the kind of thing you don’t say until after months of dating, and even then you
don’t blurt it out like that, like some kind of verbal—
“You still are sleeping on the couch.”
“Armchair.” I can’t help myself.
“Whatever it is, you are sleeping on it.”
I hold back a sigh. At least she’s not freaking out. Outwardly.
Taylor Hebert using power to channel outburst of—
Yeah. I had guessed as much.
And then she climbs over the back of the armchair and drops down on me.
“Wha—”
“The bed was cold.” And she kisses me.
Her lips… Soft. Always soft, even when dried out after far too many hours wearing a
mask that forces her to neglect them. They may be rough, dry, but when she presses
them down on mine, they are always marvelously soft. Captivatingly so.
And… And now they taste of cherry Chapstick.
I start laughing between tastes of her, peals escaping me in the moments where she
deigns free me from her kiss.
I love her so much.
And then I start crying, and the cherries mix with salt, and it should be awful, but…
It isn’t.
Having her hold me as I come undone, as I allow myself to break in her arms, sure that
she will gather the pieces…
I have broken the law professionally, flaunted each and every rule I was supposed to be
held to, fought everything that has tried to tie me down.
And here, allowing Taylor to see each and every jagged line, each and every exposed
wound…
I have never felt so free.
“You are infuriating,” she kisses my neck, “talk too much,” bites down on my earlobe
hard enough to make me gasp, “always, always need to have the last word,” takes my
lips, as if silencing me, “and you are about to get me in far more trouble than I can
handle.”
Her arms push her up, and there’s just enough light for me to see her face a handspan
away from mine, a study in sharp contrast and soft shadow.
“I wouldn’t change anything. Not for the world,” she says. And I cry that much harder,
and she drops down, our legs entangled over the cushioned arm, her arms gathering
me between the sheet she allowed me in my exile.
I cry myself out, surrounded by this warmth I have come to expect at night, the scent of
her shampoo barely strong enough that I can still take it in after clearing my nose, and I
finally burrow my face into her chest, her steady breaths enough to lull me down, to
allow me to bask in the feeling of relief and emptiness after letting out whatever it was
that I had been carrying for far too long.
“Are you sure you—” I can’t help but break the silence, and she can’t help but lay a
finger on my lips.
“Lisa, I came over because I was still riding my own adrenalin high, and I was that close
to allowing my cute girlfriend to maybe try to make up to me the awful evening she
made me go through. And now I am cuddling you on this infernally uncomfortable thing,
because I am definitely not letting you sleep on the bed after what you pulled earlier.”
And she looks at me, her eyes softening as she allows emotion to travel back into her
body, her arms tightening around me with a strength that becomes more desperate after
every second.
“And I love you so much, I would have lied and told you I found your British accent
funny.”
We hug, desperate, clinging to one another with a need that can’t be healthy, with a
yearning we shouldn’t be feeling, not after this short a time, not just because we are far
too used to trusting each other with our lives, not just because we have seen what we
are in the face of death and that’s a bond we shouldn’t have had at our age, with our
circumstances.
But we have that need, that yearning, that bond. We have them. And we cherish them.
So I lean down to whisper into her ear something that I just need to say.
“Bitch, my accent is hilarious.”
She punches my arm, and we cuddle ourselves to sleep.
***
“This was an awful idea,” I groan as I try to get back enough feeling in my left arm that I
can complain about how much it hurts. If my screaming back is anything to go by, I
won’t lack for excuses.
“Your punishment, don’t complain,” Taylor is massaging her shoulder, a grimace she
doesn’t bother to hide on her face. My suffering is shared, yet not lessened.
I look at her, sad puppy eyes firing on full power.
“… Fine, no more armchair.”
Victory!
“But the moment we buy a couch, all bets are off.”
… Pyrrhic victory.
“Can we at least run a bath?” I ask her with no hidden agenda at all. Pinky swear.
“Uh, I mean, it’s not like we are paying more for the room if we use more warm water,
are we?”
“Funny that you would use the plural about paying…”
“Hey! I mean, I guess I could use the money from the bank job if it’s an issue—”
“Shush. Kidding. I am a millionaire, remember?”
Ah, that doesn’t look like the face of someone being reminded of—
“You are a what?!”
“Uh… I never told you?”
“Do you even know how worried I was about all the money we were throwing away like
it was going out of style? Couldn’t you have mentioned that tiny detail a bit earlier?”
“Tay, you are complaining about your girlfriend being loaded.” I feel like I am being
perfectly reasonable.
“Communication! It’s important!” I feel like she isn’t.
“Uh, well, surprise?”
She grumbles and steps into the bathroom.
After a few seconds, I can hear the bathtub filling.
Victory. Let’s hope it isn’t Pyrrhic.
With more anticipation than I should, I approach the door and look inside. Taylor is
leaning on the sink, arms crossed over the black shirt of her pajamas, looking as the
water level steadily raises.
“So… you were worried about spending too much water?” I ask with perhaps too much
uncertainty.
Taylor raises an eyebrow.
“That may be the worse excuse I have ever heard from you to get naked with me.”
“Does that mean…”
She sighs and steps forward, her arms surround me, and she kisses me, a trace of
cherry still on them.
“You don’t need any excuses with me, Liz.”
And I smile. Wide, unrestricted, a small something that is nearly a sob clenching my
chest.
I return her kiss and laugh, unbidden, unprompted.
Free.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 13.5 – Miss Militia’s Night Drive
Once again, Colin’s irritatingly superior bike allows him to get to the crisis before I can
be there to offer him proper support.
Given that a fight typically ends before I even manage to arrive, I sometimes question
why I bother getting out of bed (yes, I have one—books aren’t going to read
themselves) if the overachieving, infuriating man is just going to make me feel useless
time and again. I mean, I am the child soldier; shouldn’t I be the one obsessively
preparing for any contingency and forgetting how to live like a proper human being?
These are the kind of thoughts that tend to run through my mind when I am pushing
myself to catch up to him because, apparently, having been comrades in arms for years
does not mean I can stop feeling petty when I am disfavorably compared to someone
who puts a factory robot’s work ethic to shame. So, turning the corner of the street
faster than an unenhanced human on a regular vehicle should, clenching the
handlebars with the eerily glowing malachite of my power manifested as leather sap
gloves, it is no big surprise to find him standing tall over a defeated Lung.
Seeing him poke the twitching thug with his weird spear thingy? (That I refuse to call a
halberd since Assault’s unfortunate moniker of ‘Halbeard’ started circulating and put my
professionality in jeopardy.) That… that may be slightly more irregular.
“Colin? Is everything all right?” At my probing question, he momentarily stops his
meticulous poking and turns his head to face me.
“You know we should use codenames on the battlefield, Hannah.”
… I swear, sometimes it’s far too tempting to just slug him a left cross right on his
chiseled jawline.
“Right. We should. Now that we have acknowledged that piece of protocol, why are you
breaking said protocol with an injured prisoner?”
“He pisses me off,” he says, right as he pokes a spot on Lung’s (disgustingly) exposed
thigh that makes the whole limb twitch and something else (ugh, tinkertech brain bleach
when) jiggle.
“… What?”
“He pisses me off, he regenerates, and he’s going to the Birdcage. Also, he’s currently
unable to feel pain.”
“… And?”
“Catharsis.”
“That… What are you even talking about, Colin?”
Thankfully, it seems my question is enough to forestall any further disturbing jiggling.
Something for which I will be forever grateful.
“How many years?” he asks in turn.
“What?” I swear I usually am a better conversationalist than this. Monosyllabic
questions aren’t my bread and butter.
“You are the one with the perfect memory, Hannah, so, how many years? How many
kidnapped girls forced into prostitution? How many businesses ruined while paying his
protection tax? How many lives destroyed by the drugs he peddled? How much evil
have we allowed in our home?”
Ah. Colin’s angry. That explains the past few days.
He’s not quick to anger. To any emotion, actually. Not… superficially. He may feel a
flash of something, anything, but he will always take time, sometimes to process,
sometimes to fester, before he acts on it.
“Would you have had me shoot him with an antimaterial rifle?”
“God damn it, after the past week? Yes! Yes, Hannah, I would have you round up every
single one of these… these monsters and put them all out of our collective misery!”
“You don’t mean that.” It’s the automatic response. What we always tell ourselves when
faced with one atrocity too many. Sometimes, it’s even true.
“And what if I did? What if ordered you to stop holding back for the sake of, of—them!”
And he turns around, in a grand, dramatic, overblown gesture that only lacks a flaring
cape for effect as he stabs Lung in his abdomen, causing the unconscious man to let
out a grunt that makes it hard to believe he isn’t feeling any pain at the moment.
I stare as blood wells out of the wound around Colin’s blade. Slowly, more seeping than
rushing, the pool of red overflows and falls to the pavement in thick rivulets.
My power isn’t a pair of gloves. It’s a shield. A riot shield. I don’t know if it would do
anything, but it is the shape it has taken.
A shield against one of my oldest friends and my direct superior officer.
Laughable.
Or it would be if I wasn’t feeling the rush of adrenalin thundering up my neck and
straight into my ears.
“Colin. Stand down. Please.”
He looks at me, rage clear in his clenched jaw, and I know his visor is hiding pupils that
will be pinprick black on azure pools the color of the summer sky in…
Not the time for eidetic memory lapses, Hannah.
I look into the reflective surface, searching for what hides beneath glassy shimmer, for
the eyes of the man in the machine.
And he takes two steps before leaning on his bike, his weapon held by something likely
far more complicated than a magnetic clasp.
I approach him then, willing my power to become a tactical flashlight, as inoffensive and
innocuous as I can make it as I stand in front of him while he refuses to meet my gaze.
“What brought this on?” And I know it’s a stupid question before I make it, but he
doesn’t need me to be clever right now.
He barks a single syllable of something that can be charitably described as a laugh.
“They… We… There were supposed to be lines, weren’t there? That’s what we were
taught. But the lines always got so much blurrier when one of them was too strong, and
we had to keep playing by them, but if we hadn’t, if I had realized sooner how much
they… I have had men die, Hannah. People I saw every day, people I got angry at when
they ate the last almond chocolate donut before I had a chance. People who would joke
about my bike taking up two parking spots, and I—”
“Jenkins was a jerk. I still miss him too.”
“But you couldn’t have saved him.”
And he stops dead. Because he just said something he shouldn’t have. Because I am
one of his oldest friends, and he isn’t used to lying to me.
“… How could you have saved Jenkins, Colin?” I ask while I concentrate as hard as I
can to keep my power as a flashlight.
“Blinding Oni Lee permanently as a first response,” he replies in a monotone void of
inflection.
“That isn’t your idea. Somebody told you, and you refused.” I am not asking. I know. I
know.
“Protectorate Team Leader’s discretion, Hannah.”
“Your ‘discretion’ has had you questioning how much better things would be if you broke
the law. What you are suggesting is a war crime.”
He bites down his first answer. There’s silence between us, and it’s not companionable.
Finally, he lifts his visor and looks up at the sky.
“Segregation.”
“That has nothing to do with—”
“You came to this country and believed it was a marvelous land of opportunity. I was
born here. We have our failings.”
Right there. On his exposed jawline. Just a tiny, teensy, quick jab. I won’t even wear
spiked knuckles.
“You aren’t seriously comparing—”
“Of course I am not. But we still aren’t perfect, and there have historically been laws that
were worth fighting against. You can’t tell me—”
“I don’t know what I can tell you because you keep interrupting.” I swear, only you,
Colin, can make me feel so waspish while trying not to look at a grossly naked man.
“Ah, sorry, I…” And he is. And just like that, I relax my shoulders and lean on his bike
right beside him.
The damn thing doesn’t even shift with the added weight. So unfair.
He’s looking at the ground, where Lung’s blood has stopped flowing into a small puddle.
I nudge him with my elbow. Slowly and softly, because experience is a harsh teacher
and power armor is, necessarily, not much softer.
“You know I trust you, right?”
And he looks at me, surprised, and I take a mental note to smack him over his dense
head when his helmet isn’t in the way.
At this point, I don’t even think he needs it.
“Whatever it is that is eating at you… If you can’t talk, you can’t. But I won’t rat you out,
Colin. Not without a damn good reason. Do I have a damn good reason?”
He shakes his head, lips still soft with the slackening of his jaw.
“Well, there you have it.” And I take down my scarf to flash him my best smile. Because
eye-crinkling only goes so far, and the marketing department can kiss my sculpted,
stars-and-stripes clad ass.
Something which I always struggle not to mention on my yearly review.
I offer him my fist, clad in a lantern shield that glows with no flame.
With a smile that mirrors my own, he bumps it.
And I know how bad of an idea all of this is. I know what a blue wall is, and how a code
of silence is the very first step into turning LEO into something the populace can’t trust,
into enemies of those they should defend.
I know all of this.
I also know Colin once almost bled to death for trying to get between Kaiser and me. I
know he’s devoted more time to saving the world than anyone outside an old movie
serial should. I know he’s fiercely loyal, and that he has an adorable schoolboy crush on
Dragon, and that he has fooled Assualt into thinking he doesn’t have a sense of humor,
and…
And laws are important, and I have sworn to uphold them, to live by them, and make
sure others can. That mine is not the power to change, but to enforce while trusting
others to make the right decisions in my name.
Laws are all that keep us away from the brink of madness. From children being forced
to march at gunpoint through a minefield.
But friends… Friends who would bleed for you…
Maybe they are what laws should be made to protect.
So, I don’t know whether a slippery slope is an actual thing.
But I will just have to hope it isn’t.
Because it looks like I have just taken my first step.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 14
In a daze of confusion, I find myself surrounded by warm water, my back resting on the
no less accepting chest of my girlfriend as her deft fingers lather my hair in thick, greenapples scented foam.
Am I… Am I being pampered? Is this what that feels like?
…
I will allow it.
Lisa Wilbourn infatuated—
Yeah, yeah, I know—wait a goddamn second—
Lisa Wilbourn infatuated with Taylor Hebert.
Just like that? A night crying in her arms, and suddenly there’s a relationship upgrade?
What the Hell is this, Power? I finally got enough relationship points?
Flash dating sims not—
I know that!
“Liz? Are you arguing with your Power?” The ‘again’ is very much implied. The ‘while I
go the extra mile to care for you after last night,’ may also be.
Taylor Hebert—
Shut up. I am still mad at you.
I don’t know why, but I am.
There’s a very soft, resigned sigh from behind me, and slender fingers stop massaging
my scalp (noooo) just before toned arms wrap around me (oh, fine, that’s still nice), and
a pointy chin slightly digs into my crown.
“Sometimes I feel like I am left out of the conversation, you know?”
“Well. Seeing as many of those are actually about you…”
“… You are using your power to analyze me?” Oh, wow, those muscles aren’t just for
show. No need to squeeze that hard, dear.
“… If I tell you he’s an infuriating busybody who has tried to set us together since day
one, would that make it any better?”
The arms relax a bit, but I don’t. She may be just in shock.
“What… What do you mean by that?”
“Well… He may have spent the past few days insisting that… some of my thoughts are
due to my being in the ‘early stages of infatuation.’” Nice grave you’re digging right
there, present Lisa, do you think it will be deep enough to fit future Lisa and her quickly
inflating sense of shame?
“Aha.” And now she’s using her bugs to remain toneless and inexpressive while she lets
me keep digging. Nice.
I should take notes.
“And he… he may have just implied that…”
“Hmm?” Goddamn it, Tay, your sadism is much more endearing when you inflict it on
Godzilla’s inbred cousin!
“That I no longer am in the ‘early’ stages,” I breathe out in a rush.
The water must be very warm, because oh boy, does my face feel hot.
Water temperature consistent with—
Fuck you.
Behind me, Taylor sighs yet again, her breath sending a thrill of cool caress right on my
wet nape.
This would be a very awkward time for me to moan.
“Do you always have to look for the weirdest ways to say you love me, or is this just you
being actually clueless?”
“… Can’t it be both? I think I can manage both.”
Her arms slacken around me, and her left hand drops until she’s cupping my breast.
She lifts it with deliberate slowness until my quickly hardening nipple is only half
submerged, a nearly transparent glob of foam clinging to it and crackling over my skin
as it breaks down.
Her right hand doesn’t stand idle: she cups it and, right in front of me, fills it with water
that she then gently dribbles down the side of my neck, the stream of warmth parting
down my back, shoulder, and chest until it runs out and the warmth is replaced by a
cooling awareness of the surrounding air. Only then, after any trace of foam has been
washed away, does she deign to lick my neck up until she reaches my earlobe, which
she bites down hard enough to make me whimper.
And then she lets it go, and her voice—low, rumbling, resonating through her chest and
my back—growls into my ear.
“I love you.”
I can’t help it. I moan.
I only realize I’m rubbing my legs together when Taylor’s fingers intrude between the
softness of my thighs. Her own are around me, keeping me in place, away from the
borders of the tub.
“See how easy it is, Liz? No need for elaborate setups; you can just say it. Just like
that.”
I don’t even know whether she’s being ironic right now because my head is swimming in
something that definitely isn’t the heat of the water.
Taylor Hebert self-awareness—
Ah. Of course. She actually means it.
Joy.
Then her fingers probe a little deeper, and the motion rubs my thighs just so as she
finally makes contact with my outer lips. With an insistent gesture, she… spreads me.
“If this actually manages to shut you up, I’ll have to remember precisely what I’m doing.”
I can feel the grin on her voice, and it makes my spine tingle as I melt against her. This
is so unfair.
“If you don’t want my mouth to make any noises, this is definitely the wrong direction.”
There. At least I should make a show of putting up some resistance.
And I should start lying to myself and pretend that’s actual resistance if I want to
preserve at least a pretense of dignity and composure. Denial is healthy and should be
embraced by anyone who likes to feel good about their self-image.
Lisa Wilbourn—
Shush. Let me have this.
“Really?” And her fingers stop. Taylor, when I thought about your sadism, that wasn’t an
unspoken invitation to leave me hanging after revving me up worse than I did my bike
yesterday.
Damn, I miss my bike.
Lisa Wilbourn stole—
Precisely. I stole it, ergo it’s mine.
As if impatient for an answer, Taylor’s hand pinches and pulls on my half-submerged
nipple.
I moan.
“Re—really. See? Bad way to shut me up. Thoroughly unsuitable for your purposes.”
“I see,” she purrs into my ear right before taking another nibble on it and pulling slightly
down. “So, seeing as I clearly don’t know what I’m doing… how about you guide me?”
My earlobe snaps back in place, and my mind blanks out for a second. When I come
back, Taylor’s fingers are tracing the outside of my sex as the edges of her hand keep
brushing and gliding between my inner thighs. Her other hand is playing with my nipple,
twisting and pulling it in all directions, never crossing the line that would make me flinch
rather than shiver, and her breath is burning the side of my neck as her tongue
occasionally plays with my dangling earlobe.
I think I’m whining. Like, literally, with a high-pitched, almost keening sound that the tiled
walls of the bathroom bounce back to me in a distorted, dreamlike siren’s call.
Tay, honey, you are unfair.
“Are you… sure you want me to tell you? You—hn! You seem to have a knack for—oh
God…For discovery.”
“I could always stop.”
I turn my head around just enough to shoot her the most pitiable, destitute, tragical
puppy eyes I can manage. After spending a night on the hellish armchair, I think
properly developing this skill is vital for my ongoing survival.
Or at least that of my back.
Though I can no longer feel even a hint of discomfort, so it may be worth—no. No, Lisa,
getting in stupid fights with your girlfriend just so she will make it up to you after your
punishment is not a healthy dynamic.
I mean, I can do the whole thing without having a stupid fight beforehand, right?
… I think I may need a safeword.
Red, orange, and green usually accepted as—
Can’t hear you!
Wait, why can I no longer feel the wonderful trajectory of fingers going around and
around my sex as my nipple is forced to…
“So?” Apparently, my puppy eyes only serve as an incentive for eyebrow-raising. And
they have the same effect on lip corners.
I whine. Maybe reinforcing my puppy-like characteristics will be more effective? Should I
lick her nose? Destroy her sneakers?
One of those two has more merit than the other.
“I’m waiting for instructions, Liz, seeing as I clearly don’t know how to shut you up.
Though one may think differently, given your current state.” I shouldn’t be turned on by
someone being smugger than me.
I really, really shouldn’t.
“You could… keep doing what you were doing?” I finally ask after I manage to push
through the block in my throat that I swear I’m not used to having there.
“I could,” she agrees. And her eyebrow shifts so it isn’t arched, adopting a curve that
indicates more expectation than—
Oh.
Oh, shit.
“Tay…” I begin as I try to hold back a shiver, “I would love it if you… Kept teasing my…”
I swallow at that. Her eyes are demanding now. “My pussy. If you kept playing with my
tits, and my pussy, and my legs like you just were doing. I would… like that. A lot. So…”
My cheeks are burning, my breathing ragged, and my heartbeat thundering. She smiles.
“Please. Tay. Play with me.”
And she leans forward, her breasts flattened against my back, her breath once again
burning the side of my neck, and her voice stroking my ear.
“Gladly.”
And her fingers dig into my breast until I let out a sharp breath as her other fingers stab
deep inside me, their passage unimpeded by any resistance.
Soapy water is supposed to be bad for this, you know? It dissolves lubrication before—
“Ah!”
Before that. Yes. Before the ‘ahs’ and ‘hmmms’ and ‘ohgoddontstopIwillloveyouforever.’
I… may have said the last one out loud if Taylor’s enthusiastic nibbling of my neck is
anything to go by.
“You are—yes! Fuck, yes, pinch my nipple just like—Ah!”
“I am?” Her voice isn’t half as calm as she would like to pretend, but it still works, still
sells the illusion that she can do anything she wants with me, and I’ll just beg her to
keep going.
Right. Illusion.
Lisa Wilbourn infatuation—
Fuck, I know. God, do I know.
“So, fucking, unfair!”
“Would you say I am cheating, Liz?” And there’s an edge there, but I can’t recognize it
while the heel of her palm is pressing right on top of my clit as her whole arm twists and
turns, pushing my breasts together, making them balloon out of the water as they
glisten with wet shimmers and multi-colored bubbles.
“Yes! God, yes, you are cheating so hard!” I don’t even know what I’m saying, and I’m
sure later I’ll be awfully embarrassed by it.
“No.” She stops, just for a moment, yet I can’t help another needy whine fleeing from my
throat. “You call it ‘cheating,’ I call it ‘winning.’”
And she waits for the spark of recognition to show in my eyes, for my silent
acknowledgment that she has just thrown in my face the quip from when she was
unfairly surly about my blue streak of fake hair. And when she gets what she’s looking
for with my nascent pout, she smirks, and her fingers inside me dig just so, and she
hooks them before dragging them right across the patch of rough skin that—
And I scream.
Or I think I do, because I honestly don’t know. All I can feel is Taylor around and inside
me, my muscles going taut, her skin gliding over mine.
And all I can hear is my blood rushing as I almost manage to move, to jump up with all
the coiled tension in my muscles before strong arms keep me in place, and a hand
abandons my breast to reach up and turn my head back so my open lips can meet an
eager, intruding tongue, that I am now licking in mid-air, our tongues obscenely twisting
around one another outside our mouths as Taylor’s fingers keep going and going, my
orgasm being cruelly prolonged as I feel myself drift away, because there’s only Taylor,
and pleasure, and release, and the overwhelming… Everything. Everything that is or
relates to Taylor.
And I feel so small, like something weak and soft that is being held and cared for with
utterly gentle tenderness.
And I feel each and every single muscle relax as the rush of emotion and sensation
drifts away, taking me with them.
I don’t know when I close my eyes.
In the darkness, there’s only gentle warmth and strong arms.
***
“So… That’s a thing. A thing that can happen.”
Taylor’s tone is deceptively neutral. That is, it isn’t neutral at all, because if she really
wanted me not to pick up on her unbearable smugness, she would just use her antiThinker trick.
“Shut up.” My tone is not deceptively neutral. It’s just grumpy as Hell.
“I am just worried, honey. How would you feel if I passed out for no apparent reason?”
There! That lip twitch! You think I don’t know you are taunting me with your
unexpressive expressiveness?
Shut up. That makes sense.
“I would feel like, I don’t know, thinking that maybe intense sexual arousal, in
combination with a warm, prolonged bath, accumulated fatigue after not having enough
sleep and experiencing both a near-death experience and intense emotional release
would make it far more likely that my girlfriend would pass out after an orgasm. You
know, get analytical over it.” I try to hit my lecturing tone rather than my surly, almost
whining one. No, Power, I don’t want your opinion on how well I’m doing.
“Oh, you want me to get analytical on you, do you?” Aaand now she’s grinning.
Fuck. She has me right where she wants me.
And I can’t even get mad at her, because who cradled me until the cooling water woke
me up? Who then gently finished washing my hair and toweled me off while my legs
kept refusing to act as anything more consistent than jelly? Who acted like the perfect,
caring, wonderful girlfriend until I was aware enough that she felt it was finally time to
turn around and act like the version of me Amy Dallon has nightmares about?
Uh… may have to do something about that. I mean, I promised Colin and all…
Well, in case the answer wasn’t clear, it was Taylor. Taylor acted like the perfect
girlfriend until she thought I was stable enough to handle a little ribbing.
And she was right, which irks me even more.
Lisa Wilbourn aroused by power dynamics and getting—
Holy fuck, don’t remind me. My knees are still weak, I don’t need you having me on
them, crawling to Taylor to beg her to—
Goddammit, Power, look what you made me think.
Lisa Wilbourn primed to ponder submissive scenarios in relation to Taylor Hebert.
… If you really thought I needed you to point that out, you are even less sapient than I
thought. Or more, if you are deliberately teasing me.
Lisa Wilbourn attributing social behavior to parahuman ability interface indicates—
I am starting to think that line is your equivalent of ‘innocent’ whistling.
“So, has your power gotten analytical on you yet? Should I be jealous?”
‘Yes, please,’ is probably the wrong answer. Not only would it be immature of me to get
off on the idea of Taylor being possessive with me, but it borders on the unhealthy to
fetishize a negative emotion such as jealousy.
“Yes, please.” Dammit, Lisa!
“Really?” She raises a thin, perfect eyebrow that makes me disbelieve yet again that
this girl doesn’t actually know anything about cosmetics. I mean, seriously? And she
complains about genetics being unfair?
Also, her skin right after taking a bath is… Dammit. I mean, my freckles are cute and
everything, don’t get me wrong, but the way she positively glows with—
“Liz? Really, these power fugues of yours are getting ridiculous.”
“No power fugue,” I blurt out before I can stop myself. And now Taylor is looking at me
inquisitively, and I am blushing yet again. Great. It looks like I don’t need a nosy power
to embarrass myself. “I… just thought you looked beautiful after taking a bath. Your skin
glows, and your eyebrows are perfect, and it’s just so unfair that you don’t need to pluck
any stray hairs…”
“You—you are jealous of my skin and my eyebrows?”
“Tay, honey, you just made me cum unconscious. Maybe you should take that as a clue
that I do find you attractive.”
And now she’s blushing and fidgeting. Great. The only thing I need to turn the tables
around on my nascent dominatrix is to poke at her body-image issues.
I should check on Emma sometime. Maybe she needs rebreaking.
“Hey,” I kneel in front of her, lifting her chin so she looks into my eyes. “I know it’s a
delicate issue, but I promised you, didn’t I? That I wouldn’t stop complimenting you until
you finally accepted you are as beautiful as I see you.”
She smiles. It’s a frail thing, something to paper over the cracks, but at least it’s there.
She’s making an effort, and whether it’s to appease me or because she believes at least
some of what I’m saying is true, it’s a step in the right direction.
Taylor Hebert—
No. I am serious this time, Power. I don’t want you to intrude on this.
It’s her pain, and I will help her through it, but I won’t twist and manipulate.
Results aren’t everything.
“What did I do to deserve you?” she asks with a voice that is on the verge of trembling,
and my eyes shoot wide open as I find myself trying not to cry yet again at Taylor so…
so…
Dammit. So unfair, Tay, so fucking unfair.
I lift myself up enough to kiss her brow again and again, and I trail down my lips, kissing
her eyelids closed before she can see the glimmer of something unshed on mine,
because these are happy tears or something close enough to it, and I don’t want her to
get distracted from a moment that should be about her, because she deserves it.
Because she has earned it.
Then I hug her, making her lean forward on her chair till my chin rests on her shoulder,
the fluffy bathrobes that came with the room comfortable on my skin and thick enough
to cushion my weight. The last thing I want is for my bony chin to make her
uncomfortable before I can say what needs to be said.
“You were you. That’s all it took.”
Her arms tighten around me, and I swear I could just stay here, with her, and not get up
till the end of time.
Then my stomach growls.
Really, you are the least romantic of all my organs, you know?
Taylor giggles and the solemnity of the moment is thoroughly lost (mostly because I
can’t help a bit of giddiness at her airy, spontaneous, utterly feminine giggle).
“Well, now that you know I can really afford it, I hope you won’t fight me on getting room
service for once?”
“Fine,” she fake grumbles. “I shall allow your decadent luxuries just this once.”
“How magnanimous of you, Mistress.” Oh, fuck, please don’t catch up on that—
“Certainly. Do not tarry, then, and order my refreshments.” Oh, thank God. I mean, if
you’re listening, guy upstairs? Taylor not picking up on that almost makes up for the
Endbringers. Let’s say I forgive you for half a Leviathan.
“As you wish. I presume Milady shall have tea with her breaking of the fast?” I ask her
with my best posh British accent as I stand up to make my way to the phone.
And she giggles. Yes! I told you it was hilarious! That’s one less thing you can—
Taylor Hebert pause before giggling indicates deliberate reaction after considerating—
Wait. No. That—
And I remember some stupid, rambling mess of a confession right before I fell asleep on
her arms after exhausting myself emotionally and…
She doesn’t think my British accent is funny. But she’s faking it is.
And I hug her, and this time the happy tears are there, and I can’t do anything to hide
them as I kiss a dumbfounded Taylor’s lips.
“I love you too.”
There, I said it. Now you can mortify me as much as you want.
Lisa Wilbourn infatuation with Taylor Hebert fully reciprocated.
… Thank you, Power.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 15 – Wards
Kid Win
“So, effective immediately, I’m retaking formal oversight of the Brockton Bay Wards.”
This can’t be happening.
“I would like to once again reiterate my apologies. At the time, I thought Director Piggot
would be able to properly manage this team and help each of you as individuals. Recent
developments have made it clear that… She’s far too busy with other concerns.”
“Yeah, like taking that stick out of her butt. I mean, it’s understandable: there’s a lot of
ground to co—”
“Dennis!”
Vista’s sharp smack (from across the room) seems to be the stimulus I lacked to
actually process what’s going on.
Namely, Armasmaster standing in front of the whole Wards, apologizing for dumping us
on Piggot’s far too ample lap and… Well, ditching us like an alcoholic parent with a
gambling habit.
Substitute ‘alcohol’ for ‘work’ and ‘gambling’ for ‘punching supervillains,’ and the
comparison is not that far off… Hey, what about a randomized targeting system to
deploy against squads with a barrier-style Brute? Need to check more RTS for ideas.
There was that one with units who jumped through time that may have some interesting
insights into retroactive causality, and now that we may have access to Bakuda’s
temporal technology, that may not be a far-off concern. Also, if it manages to block
Dennis’ power, it could be worth it just to stop him pranking people at stupid times—
wait. Dennis. Vista smacking him. Meeting.
Uh, looks like they are still talking. Wonder what I missed this time?
“Be that as it may, I expect each of you to bring me your concerns as we transition to
the new routine. As a… meager token of apology, let me start this new relationship with
a clean slate: all collective punishments have been revoked, and each individual
infraction will be revised in the days to come.”
Oh. That’s nice of him, I guess. I’ll have to give Gallant back my part of the fine from the
bank. Really, Piggot was a bit shortsighted not to think he would do that as soon as she
turned her back.
Or maybe she did and that was supposed to be a way to make the team bond over our
sneaky flaunting of her authority. I don’t know. People are complicated, and that sounds
like the kind of overly convoluted scheme someone would pull when acting like a
psychotic drill sergeant.
“… I would have expected slightly more enthusiasm than grim nodding. Something I
should know, Aegis?”
“No, sir! Everybody here is very grateful that we now need to check our bank balance
and see how much we owe Gallant, sir!”
“… Carlos, I swear I’ll smack you.”
“Dean, maybe I’ll even allow you the satisfaction of feeling it.”
“How generous of you.”
“Didn’t say it would be as pain.”
There’s the very loud sound of Vista smacking her visor, Dennis sniggering, and Dean
lifting his middle finger. I shouldn’t have listened when he asked me to include a toggle
for ‘Robocop noises.’
Also, maybe Armsmaster’s muttered something like ‘goddamn sassy teenagers,’ but
that could be wishful thinking.
“So, revising punishments?” Stalker’s voice grates against my nerves as usual. Bad
enough that I have to provide her bolts, but I still have the distinct impression she isn’t
using as many as she should…
And now the room is silent. Uh. Maybe I could use a temporal disturbance field to infer
future sound waves just in time to emit a counterwave that nullifies the incoming noise
so that—
“Yes, Stalker. We will be revising any and all disciplinary measures undertaken by
Piggot. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to find yourself under someone much more lenient.”
And Vista is coughing. Either that skirt is too short to patrol in, or she’s trying to mask a
laughing fit. I’m not gonna bet on that one.
“Sounds good to me,” our surliest teammate says with a dismissive tone. Or her actual,
natural voice. I mean, it’s not like I’m drowning in wildly different samples to get
stochastic—
“I am elated at your approval.” See? That, right there, is distinct enough to infer a
deadpan jab. “Everyone, dismissed. Chris, stay behind.”
As the rest of my team marches to the door, I catch a few commiserating looks thrown
my way. Nice. Very useful, guys. Your silent, fleeting, emotional support is going to
solve any and all issues that have brought this confrontation upon me.
This is about using untested artillery near civilians again, isn’t it?
“So—”
“I swear I won’t bring any more experimental technology to a fight, sir, it was only the
one time and I—”
“Chris,” there’s a palm in front of my face. Is this a ‘talk to the hand thing?’ “I wanted to
apologize personally. To you. Me, not you.”
He’s speaking very slowly, but I still have trouble understanding what he means.
“Sir?” There, monosyllabic and safe.
And now he’s sighing. Maybe it wasn’t that safe, after all?
“Chris, you are a young hero in need of guidance. I am a veteran who should have
offered said guidance. Do you understand why I would feel the need to apologize?”
“Is… this one of those trick questions where if I answer wrong, I get docked last month’s
pay or something?”
“… No one’s docking your pay. At most, you’ll be grounded without TV or dessert.”
“Are you… joking, sir?”
He’s lifting his visor for some mysterious... Oh. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose. I
guess it wasn’t that mysterious.
“Yes, Chris, I was joking. Humour is usually employed to alleviate a charged situation,
either as a release of tension or by changing the subject in a natural manner.”
“Ah. Thank you, sir. I shall endeavor to apply this lesson.”
“… Please tell me you are joking.”
“I am joking. Sir.”
“… Either Clockblocker needs to take notes, or you do. And I can’t decide which one is
worse.”
It is taking far too much effort not to have my lips twitch, but the results are more than
worth it. Having Armsmaster apologize for dropping me like a hot potato? Something I
will treasure for years to come. Having him distressed as to whether he was emotionally
neglecting a functional robot? My descendants shall celebrate this date.
***
Aegis
One thing people don’t tell you about physiologically enforced synesthesia? Well,
almost everything, because there aren’t that many cases to bring things up in casual
conversation. It’s not like MM is gonna drop by the common room and say, ‘Oh, Aegis,
heads up: the Fifth Symphony tastes like a very hearty stew, so you’d better not listen to
it if you are feeling too full. Also, I’m extremely curious about how many orgasms I can
wring out of someone whose whole body could turn into a semen factory just for me to
use.’
Damn it. Welp, time for me to switch to an osmotic circulatory system. Again.
But going back to the synesthesia thing and to its more pertinent effects, I hate the way
cheap office furniture pressing uncomfortably against my butt sounds. It’s like a
continuous blackboard screech.
It’s quite distracting. Something I don’t need when alone in a room with the leader of the
local Protectorate.
Armsmaster. Yes, I mean Armsmaster. My dreams about MM getting promoted and
giving me ‘leadership lessons’ remain as unfulfilled as my dating life.
“What’s this about, sir?” Armsmaster holds a finger and does something that looks far
too complicated over a sliding panel on his bracer-gauntlet-whatever-it’s-called. Then
there’s a distinct whine that tastes like Parmigiano with a dash of white wine. That is, it
tastes far better than it sounds. Uh. Mixed blessings.
“Shadow Stalker is a suspect in an attempted murder in her civilian life. She became a
Ward after almost killing a criminal in her vigilante patrols and taking a deal. Needless to
say, trying to kill a classmate would violate the terms of her probation. And try my
patience.”
… What?
“… What?”
“I am warning you not to trust her. At all. She’s violent, decidedly unstable, and
shouldn’t be put in any position where she can commit further violations without
witnesses.”
“Then… why is she on the team?”
“Because Piggot decided that we cannot hold her any longer without pressing charges,
and she has also decided I can’t press them without revealing her cape identity, which
would be a crime in and of itself. Not to mention she thinks Stalker may have acted in
self-defense.”
“Sir, don’t you have—”
“Carlos,” he stops me. “You don’t want to question anything about this. I promise I’ll deal
with Stalker soon enough, but I am just warning you not to drop your guard around her
in the meantime.”
Another thing they don’t tell you about physiological synesthesia? Sometimes you can
taste your feelings. This one tastes like bile.
***
Gallant
I hold the phone against my ear. She has let it go to voicemail three times already.
“This better be an apology call.” Oh, only four tries. She must not be that angry.
“I need to talk.”
“… I’ll be there in five.”
And she hangs.
Five minutes later, Glory Girl lands on the roof of my house, arms crossed, still trying to
act offended by whatever inane thing it was that set off our latest fight.
I hug her. She melts.
I should be tired of this. Really, I should; this is very unhealthy.
Except I am an empath, and I have seen how her family works. It’s a miracle Vicky is as
emotionally stable and well-intentioned as she is with that upbringing, and I can only
dream about what she’ll become once she’s allowed to grow out of it.
Arms strong enough to break me in half surround me, and I allow some of the tension to
drain away.
I am aware of the paradox. One gets used to it.
“What happened, Dean?”
“I… Armsmaster took Piggot’s place.”
“… This is the worst excuse you have ever given me for needing a cuddle.”
“Counting that time I told you I had run out of gas?”
“With a flying girlfriend in the car. You were lucky I heard you calling me to stop before I
got to the nearest gas station.”
“Not my proudest hour.”
“I seem to remember you enjoying yourself for about… twenty minutes afterward.”
“Happiness and pride are not synonymous.”
“Lucky you, then.”
And I snicker.
People wonder what I see in her. They think I am a superficial playboy going after the
nicest set of tits in the cape community, and, while those are a very prominent bonus,
it’s not about that.
She has a quick mind, a sharp tongue, and the kind of humor that just clicks with me.
And... she always knows how I’m feeling and what to do to make me feel better. If I’m
happy, she will make me ecstatic, and if I’m feeling down…
Well, then I’ll end up feeling like I’m doing right now.
“So, Halbeard—”
“Please don’t get me in the habit of calling him that—”
“Halbeard has grown some sense of responsibility and rescued you from the clutches of
the woman who thought collective punishments were not outlawed after the Geneva
Conventions. What’s the actual issue?”
“He told me to spy on Shadow Stalker. He thinks she may have tried to assassinate a
classmate in her civilian identity.”
“… Does he have proof?”
“None he’s willing to share. He said Piggot thought it was insufficient and that bringing it
to the police… well, that would be revealing the identity of a Ward. Not something he
can do lightly.”
“But he can risk the life of her victim lightly?”
And that’s an unfair question. Because I don’t think Armsmaster does anything lightly,
not even selecting his salad dressing, but… There was something off in that
conversation. Far too much red around him, with some glints of focused indigo.
“I think he’s giving her just enough rope to hang herself with. It’s… I don’t know him well
enough to be sure, but I don’t believe he’s the kind of person who would leave
something like that alone. Even if it was just as a matter of pride.”
Vicky leans back from our hug and looks into my eyes, searching for something. She
must have found it because she ends up nodding and ruffling my hair.
“You are far too quick to see the good in everyone, Dean,” she says with a smile that
can’t be anything but fond.
“Well, I am your boyfriend,” I reply with my own teasing smile.
Which ends up with me apologizing for ten minutes.
Really, I know it will be worth it, but I can’t wait for her to get out of that house.
***
Vista
“So… It’s been brought to my attention by the image department that giving you any
kind of lethal weapon would clash too much with your persona and also be an excuse
for villains to escalate fights beyond what you can manage.”
“It’s been brought to my attention that the image department seems to believe Chris and
I spend our days playing with dolls and action figures. Respectively. Sir.”
And there’s that lip twitch. You can pretend to be a robot all you want around the others,
sir, but I’ve known you too long for that to work.
“That fits the information my sources have leaked. I take it the Barbie Alexandria Limited
Edition is not for you, then?”
Is—fuck. Those cost a fortune. I have a monthly wage, and I would still hesitate to get
me one of—
“Just teasing. Here you go.”
And he rummages in the bag he’s carrying and hands me a package.
A wrapped package. Gift-wrapped.
“I don’t play with dolls, sir.” Curse you and your pride, Missy. Curse you.
“Just open it.”
I raise an eyebrow and—
It’s not a Barbie Alexandria Limited Edition with detachable helmet and cyber-eye. It’s a
raygun. I don’t know what else to call it: it has those weird fins from old movies and
everything. A plastic and metal thing the same color as my uni… Uniform.
Suddenly, I find myself staring eagerly into Colin’s eyes.
“Disguised taser gun. The cables only reach up to fifteen feet, but I figured that’s
precisely the right distance for you to take aim without any issue.”
I bob my head up and down so quickly I get a bit woozy.
“I should still mention that, even though this is strictly non-lethal, or as much as anything
can be, you should treat it with caution. I fitted it with a custom battery that has much
more charge than market-standard, so you should never, ever, under any
circumstances, press the trigger and hold it for three seconds before pressing it again
and holding it down. If you then hear a low beeping, that means there may be a glitch
that would cause the stored energy to release explosively.”
I look at him, eyes wide, as Colin steps away from the realms of men into those of
legend.
“Of course, the end result of such a glitch, that I may have forgotten to document in the
official report, would be rather more lethal than the proper use of the gun. Explosively
so. In an area of about… nine feet radius.”
I finally have a ranged weapon. And it’s also a lightning grenade. This is my best
birthday ever, and it’s not even my birthday.
“Curiously enough, I may have used very similar batteries for Shadow Stalker’s new
ankle monitor. I just hope there won’t be any… undue malfunction.”
I have a raygun-slash-grenade, and the bitch is getting herself Battle Royaled. Best.
Day. Ever.
“Well then, I guess I’ll leave you to practice with your new addition to your uniform. The
firing range is open to you now.”
He stands up and turns away, and I don’t know what to say to him, because I—
“Oh, and Missy?” he says from the door without turning away. “Happy belated birthday.”
And he throws me something over his shoulder that I manage to twist space in time to
catch in my hand.
A Barbie Alexandria Limited Edition in her original package. The cybernetic eye is
turned on already.
Colin steps away, and I don’t squee.
***
Browbeat
I have been here for less than a month, and I’ve reached what I believe is my
conclusive judgment.
These people are insane.
***
Clockblocker
Sooo…
I’m bored.
Which is good. Bored is good. Bored means no giant dogs who wanted to work as
extras in Jurassic Park are trying to tear my friend in half, or that my other friend is not
about to blow up a building.
I should reevaluate my social life. So much carnage needs a bit of variety.
Maybe a few more friends in high school… nah. That’s much worse. Pack of piranhas,
man, I tell you.
Still, if Armsie is going to stick around this time, I’m guessing regular training is back on
the schedule and that we will no longer be expected to come up with things to do by
ourselves while we wait to be deployed against the worst Godzilla cosplayer in town or
the people who think that Superman shouldn’t have fought the KKK.
Real thing. Look it up.
I know I should also come up with some joke about the Merchant’s for equity’s sake and
all that, but… well. They are the Merchants. The joke’s already made.
But that brings me to the crux of the issue: jokes need to be made.
Basically, because we are a bunch of traumatized kids made to wear colorful outfits and
fight murder-blender-furries (and next time I catch you stitching yourself up, Vista, so
help me God, I—).
Ehem. Said he, mentally clearing his mental throat. Mentally.
That is, someone around here who isn’t a mopey empath with a clingy girlfriend (yes,
she’s hot, but come on, Dean, nothing can be worth that—and if it is, I hate you more
than I can properly express without a thesaurus), a guy who I know is far too into BDSM
(seriously, Carlos, tone it down a bit, at least in front of Missy—she’s not mature in that
way), a guy who thinks putting Kid in his name is a good idea (and that tells you
everything you need to know about the social graces of Mr. ‘I can’t be arsed to listen to
you all for more than three minutes at a time’), a dude who makes the Mountain from
GoT look inadequate and has about as much dialog, and a girl who looks as likely to
hug you as to pull a switchblade during a schoolyard tussle (Missy, I love you dearly,
but please try to tone down the murder-bunny vives—it shouldn’t be so cute to see
something so disturbing).
Oh, and the bitch.
God damn it, couldn’t let me enjoy the eye candy without turning it into something gross,
could you?
So, as the one in here whose only trauma revolves around his father slowly dying of an
incurable disease, which makes me about as normal as one can expect in a gathering
of parahumans according to my latest psychoanalyst, it is my duty to ensure that my
teammates get to have some therapeutic laughs now and then. Mostly so they don’t kill
themselves or someone else the day they inevitably break.
Ah, gallows humor. Haven’t tried that in a while.
And something smacks right on my face.
Slowly blinking, I take the floppy thing only to realize I have literally been slapped by a
pair of gloves.
By Armsmaster.
What.
“New gloves. The right one extrudes micrometer-thick string that it cuts with a switch on
your thumbpad. The left one explosively deploys transparent sheets of plastic to act as
emergency cover.”
So I have been slapped by pieces of my uniform-slash-weaponry-and-shield, not
challenged to a duel. That… makes more sense?
Armsmaster gives me a stoic nod of his head before straightening himself and turning to
leave, but stops himself after a single step.
“Oh, and Dennis?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are on.”
And he leaves.
Did he…?
Oh. Fuck. Yes.
Assault was getting kind of boring.
***
Shadow Stalker
Days locked up while the city was bombed, all because Hebert and the Thinker bitch
decided to finally play their hands right at the worst possible time.
And now I’ve got Armsmaster on my ass.
Or my ankle, more like.
The fact I can’t go to track and field with the bloody thing is the least of my concerns,
but it still manages to piss me off.
Not that there’s anything about this that shouldn’t piss me off. I’ve been benched, Aegis
is being anal about not letting me on patrol unless there’s someone who can keep up
with my speed available, and console duty is on my schedule as much as regulations
allow. My boss is likely going with a comb over every stupid thing he can dredge up to
prove I violated my probation, and…
And they killed Emma.
I saw it. Right in front of me. Hebert… Hebert said what the Thinker bitch told her to,
touched her damn—
Uh. Guess brickwork is tough enough I can feel it through my reinforced gloves. Good
to know.
Point is, I saw her crumble, break down, cry, scream. At mere words.
I started the day with my only friend. I ended it with a thing mewling on the floor.
And then I got shot in the knee, but really, that doesn’t piss me half as much.
Because… There are packs. And I no longer have mine.
Thing is, animals, when they get smart? They learn to hate, to hold a grudge, to get
revenge. The shit chimps do when they go to war is seriously disturbing. And I am far
smarter than a chimp, which means I can hate much more.
So, for those who killed my pack?
Well, I may do something as stupid as go to the address a slip of paper pointed me to
right before I left my holding cell.
And this better be a trap so I can let some steam out, because if I have to stand here for
a single minute more without anything happening—
“Shadow Stalker? Pleasure to meet you.”
I turn around and point a crossbow at the motherfucker’s head because there was
nobody there half a second ago, so the fucking teleporter tried to get his jollies off by
startling me—
“I can see it may not be reciprocal,” he says, with a voice so smarmy it makes me want
to take a shower and tipping his stupid hat in a way that just—
Fuck it.
I shoot his hat off and nail it to the alley’s wall. The stupid look on his face is payment
enough.
“Good eyesight, asshole,” I tell him.
And the damn bastard laughs. Fuck, I’m not Clockblocker, you fucking moron.
“Well, I see,” and he does the fucking air quotes thingy. I’m hating him more by the
second, “that it would be better for my health if we conclude our business sooner rather
than later.”
Then he kneels down in front of me, and I’m sorely tempted to kick his teeth in.
Until he takes an ankle monitor very similar to the one I’m wearing but with another
color and he…
Exchanges them?
“Try to phase out. This one doesn’t have any charge.”
I swear if this is a—
Uh.
Well, would you look at that.
“Miss Stalker, this was only a taste of things to come. My boss is very interested in
getting in his employ a parahuman who… Well, to put it plainly, who doesn’t have any
other choice.”
I look at him as he stands up. Smarmy, smug, punchable. But he didn’t flinch when a
crossbow bolt took a hat off his hand.
This is a man who has seen combat. And a lot of it.
A man I would probably never like, but maybe I can respect.
And, to be honest, my other prospects are kind of shit.
“I could always run. You just took that monitor for a reason, didn’t you?”
“You could. But I don’t think you would find the experience satisfying,” he says in the
tone of someone who knows what he’s talking about.
And I don’t think he’s wrong.
Because each time I close my eyes I see three things, and three things only: the corpse
of my friend screaming and crying, Hebert delivering her lines like a butcher’s knife, and
the fucking Cyrano who set the whole thing up.
Two of those things are alive. That’s two too many.
“I have some things I will need to take care of.”
“I don’t think that will be much of a problem.”
He smiles. I don’t.
But when he walks, I follow.
***
Skitter
“Did you get all of that?”
“I did, Miss Hebert.”
“Call me Taylor. I mean, if you’re going to be my father-in-law…”
“… If this is your way of asking for Tattletale’s hand in marriage, I must tell you that you
need to work on your timing.”
“At least this time there’s nothing on fire.”
“Which should have told you it wasn’t the right time. Ill-advised teen-marriages aside, I
assume you managed to slip them the trackers I gave you.”
“Sure did. Shadowy Villain’s base coming right up.”
“Excellent.”
“So, do you think the head of the man who recruited her at gunpoint would make for a
good engagement gift?”
“I was going to save that for Christmas.”
Wake-up Call – Chapter 16 - Snake
“I don’t really think that’s a good idea, boss.” Tattletale’s voice comes across the phone
of my underground office with the slight waver she always tries to mask. It just shows
her inexperience. Really, using her own power to analyze her non-verbal language and
tells should have been her first priority if she intended to be a pickpocket and con artist.
“And why is that?” On the other hand, I just need to let her keep explaining herself. It’s
not a grand performance that requires that much effort, but the affected disinterest
should help.
“I… Look, I can see the merits, recruiting Shadow Stalker would be a death blow for
Piggot’s career, especially when everything else we have comes to light, but I don’t
think she would work well with the Undersiders, and Tay—Skitter—” And there it is: the
Achilles Heel. You make it far too easy, Tattletale.
“I don’t think Miss Hebert is in any position to object to my recruitment policies. Her
bridges with the PRT are thoroughly burned, aren’t they?”
“I—yes. Definitely. I can see no way for Taylor to work under the people who would
allow Shadow Stalker to act like she’s done. But that’s precisely my point: it’s personal
between them, and I think Skitter’s the most valuable cape by far. Stalker would be
great at assassination and infiltration, of course, but Skitter is so much more versatile
than—”
“You seem to be operating under the assumption that they are mutually exclusive.”
“Of course I am! Putting them together in the same team would be a murder waiting to
happen! Unless you intend for she and I to keep hunting rival gangs down—”
“And what if I do?” For such a powerful Thinker, she sometimes needs me to walk her
through the simplest of things.
“Ex—excuse me?”
“You have both been marvelously effective at eradicating the ABB. Tell me, how did you
manipulate Armsmaster to take down Lung?” Because something about that seems far
too convenient.
“I… I knew he would be on duty at the time the meeting at Somer’s Rock took place.
Given his usual response times, the most likely routes from the Rig to the Docks, and
what I learned about his bike that last time he came after Lung after the Undersiders
clashed with him, I baited Lung into confronting us at the most likely time and place for
Armsmaster’s arrival.” See? A perfect thinking machine, and she can’t help but waste all
of that in her sentimentality, protecting a girl who, after seeing how she behaves in all
the multiple aborted timelines where I’ve tried to capture her, most definitely doesn’t
need it.
“Outstanding. To be clear, Armsmaster didn’t know he would be meeting you at that
place?” Perhaps a too specific question, and one easily lied to, but Tattletale doesn’t
know how much she would reveal by doing so.
“No, boss, he had no idea we would be expecting him there.” Fantastic. Now I’ve got
you, my Tattletale. One way or another.
“See? You two are effective enough in your current roles. Maybe the Undersiders will
welcome you back in the near future, and then we will have to deal with Shadow
Stalker’s and Miss Hebert’s issues, but I don’t see why that would be a concern right
now. Not with you taking out all of my rivals and paving the way for a very peaceful
assignment as the local PRT director.”
“I—I can see how you would think that, boss, but I really can’t recommend in good faith
that you take in the psychotic bitch—”
“Don’t worry so much on my behalf, Tattletale.” I hear her aborted reply as a strangled
sound, and I would pay good money to see her face right now. “I will be expecting
further reports soon enough.”
“Of course. Boss,” she says with a destitute voice.
And I hang up.
I go over the conversation once again over my head. If taken at face value, it paints a
marvelous picture, with me gaining another parahuman asset with very little effort—an
asset that also manages to strike a blow against the PRT—while keeping two
apparently independent agents who are impressively effective at uprooting the
competence and whose exploits can be easily spun into a smear campaign against the
heroes if it ever becomes necessary.
Armsmaster in particular may be too hard to work with, and having two teenagers
upstage him so thoroughly only to then manipulate him into doing their own cleanup
would be enough to send him to a nice, distant post where he can spend his time
coming up with anti-Endbringer measures and not bothering me.
Yes. If all this is true, then it is very good news indeed.
Maybe too good to be true.
So I get up from my desk and walk toward a room painted in soothing pastel colors
where a little girl is lying on her bed, her left arm covering her eyes in a way that almost
manages to hide her needle marks.
“Pet? I need you to give me a number.”
“I… I have given too many today. It hurts, and then it’ll keep hurting, and that will make
tomorrow worse—” I decide to stop her little tirade before it can get off the ground.
“Just this one, Pet. It’s important.”
“… Candy?”
And I sigh. Addiction is a useful leash, but it is ever so bothersome to have to deal with
the mono focus. It would have been so much easier if Pet had been mature enough to
agree to less… direct manipulations.
“All right, I’ll call Mr. Pitter, and he will give you enough candy that you will be able to
rest until tomorrow. How does that sound?”
“I… all right. Ask”
“What are the chances that Tattletale will ever confess she lied to me in today’s call?”
“Zero.”
Zero? So absolute? Either the conversation will become too unremarkable and be
promptly forgotten, or she’s too scared of lying to me anymore. The first option is not
that likely given the topics of discussion. The second…
Under my second skin, I smile.
“Thank you, Pet. I’ll send Mr. Pitter with the candy right away.”
***
“I need you to answer the questions, Pet.”
“It… It hurts… Please, I’ve answered so many already… Just, give me candy?”
Mr. Pitter looks at me questioningly, and I discreetly shake my head.
“Not yet, Pet. You won’t be able to answer any questions after you get your candy, will
you?”
Pet looks petulant, about to argue, but then looks straight at me, and her lip quivers as
her eyes narrow in pain.
“Eighty-seven point three percent I won’t…”
I still. The urge to hit the child is far too—
I split the timeline.
In one, I backhand the maudlin thing hard enough to throw her to the ground, then
proceed to kick her ribs until I feel something satisfyingly snap.
In the other, I kneel in front of her and pat her head reassuringly.
I discard the one where she’s crying and bleeding.
“You see now. You know I’m right, so stop arguing and answer my questions, Pet. You
know it will feel much better afterward.”
It takes every bit of effort not to address her with patronizing, rhetorical questions, a
speech pattern I feel far too inclined to when in her presence, even if it always does
more harm than good.
“I… Fine… But my head hurts a lot…”
“Right, so you’d better answer right now so you can get your candy, don’t—” And I catch
myself just in time. “First question: how likely it is that I will survive today’s meeting?”
“Ninety-nine point seven.”
I nod. It’s even better than usual, which I guess is to be expected when surrounded by
so many allied capes.
“Second question: how likely is it that Shadow Stalker will accept joining the
Undersiders?”
“Eighty-five point two…”
“Third question: how likely is it that the Undersiders will accept joining me after I reveal
the plan?”
“Eighty-one point three... Please, it hurts a lot…”
Not as much as I would make it hurt if I could risk it for more than a few seconds… Pet.
“Almost done, just a few more, and you can get all your—”
“No! No, I need it now! It hurts a lot, I’ve answered lotsa questions yesterday, and the
day before, and it never stops hurting, it only dulls, but then you ask again and—”
I lay a hand on Pet’s shoulder, and she quietens. There’s a slight tremor, which means
this is fear rather than comfort. I don’t care as long as it gets the screechy, whiny voice
to stop stabbing my eardrums. I swear, it’s like she’s intentionally becoming more
annoying as the days go by.
“You’ll get it soon, Pet, I promise. Now, chances Tattletale and Skitter will continue
working to eradicate rival gangs if they can’t rejoin the Undersiders?”
“Seventy-eight point four. Please, I can’t do any more, I’ll—”
“You will answer one more question. And then you’ll get your candy. Is that all right,
Pet?”
Eyes intermittently unfocusing, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks, fists clenched
so tight they are trembling, Pet nods.
Jubilation.
“Very well. I’m proud of you, Pet, so very, very proud. Now, answer me: chances either
Tattletale, Skitter, or both will betray me today.”
I can see the flash of pain before she even opens her mouth, far more intense than I
expected, even more than the agonized expression she had minutes earlier when I was
kicking shards of bone into internal organs.
The memory should soothe me next time she gets so rebellious.
“Zero point two…” she mutters. And then she screams.
I nod to Mr. Pitter, and he hurries to sedate the screeching thing.
The news are good enough that I can even overlook my ringing eardrums.
***
“Who’s your interior designer? Doctor No?”
Trickster smothers a small giggle at Shadow Stalker’s remark, his professional façade
cracking for once.
How original. I’m sure I haven’t heard anything like this from any other visitors until you
deigned grace us with your presence, Miss Hess. If I had a dollar for every white
Persian cat I’ve had to dispose of… I’d have two dollars.
Then again, I’d also have two more mercenaries to pay. So I guess it evens out.
Aloud, I say:
“I’m afraid he wasn’t available. I’m still looking into subcontracting Behemoth for my
volcano base.” The good thing about predictable jabs is that one can rehearse a good
riposte.
Trickster doesn’t try to hide his laugh, intelligently inferring that laughing at a joke from
his employer is not only expected but encouraged. Stalker, instead, crosses her arms.
Still not on board, I see.
“Miss Hess—”
“What the fuck—”
“Oh, forgive me. You would rather I kept a polite fiction, as if I haven’t had access to
your personal files for quite a while? Very well then, Shadow Stalker, I would like you to
join one of my teams while we look into capturing your tormentors. You must see our
interests align: Miss Hebert and Tattletale were previous members of this very team,
and they aren’t likely to have been enthused by their betrayal. Moreover, I have a
vested interest in seeing Piggot thrown out of her post—”
“You may need a crane.”
“How droll. Can I take your joking demeanor as a sign that you are willing to consider
joining the Undersiders, even given your past animosity with Grue?”
She keeps her arms crossed, her head tilted down, mulling over her answer. Rushing
her would only make her feel pressured and refuse out of sheer contrariness. Not like
she could run very far with Trickster here to keep her in check.
“Sure sounds like the better choice out of the whole shit-menu.”
“I certainly hope being in my employ will prove more amenable than a stay in prison.”
“It’s always nice to have dreams, isn’t it?”
Once again, Trickster tries to stifle a snort of laughter. Once again, I pretend to ignore
him.
Maybe Tattletale had a point about recruiting the delightful Miss Hess.
***
I stand in front of the greatest gathering of parahumans in this city.
Well, aside from the E88, but I’m sure Tattletale and her partner are already working on
cutting them down to size.
As Miss Hess said, it’s always nice to have dreams.
What remains of the Undersiders and their newest recruit are to the left. Stalker’s social
graces have proven to be as much of a nuisance as Tattletale warned, but the team is
currently in dire need of some muscle, and the brutish girl should help provide that. If
nothing else, she’s likely to counter quite a few of the Brutes in the Bay.
It’s not so much relief at the arrangement having worked that I feel, as Pet’s predictions
were as reliable as ever, but at the tiresome argument finally being over.
To my right, the far more loyal Travelers, if only because of what I hold over them,
remain far less quarrelsome. Trainwreck and Circus may as well not be here.
So, I guess it’s time for a demonstration.
“You now know my plan, my vision for this city, but you don’t know how I intend to reach
it, what it is that I bring to the table. The description of my power is deceptively simple,
for all that its ramifications are hard to grasp: Fate manipulation.”
I can see I have their attention as they all turn to me, and I hold a coin aloft.
“Grue? Head or tails?”
The young man looks askance at his teammates, likely missing Tattletale’s guidance at
this very moment. It may turn out to be a problem if the leader of one of my teams is so
reliant on somebody who isn’t there anymore.
“Tails,” he says hesitatingly. And I nod.
I split the timeline.
In one, I remain still; in the other, I throw the coin and catch it to reveal heads.
I collapse the timeline. I split the timeline.
In one, I remain still; in the other, I throw the coin and catch it to reveal tails.
I collapse the timeline.
Grue keeps still. Unnaturally so.
“Rachel?“ I ask, because I refuse to call her preferred moniker on principle.
She seems to ponder the question.
“Heads,” she settles on.
I split the timeline.
In one, I stay still; in the other, I throw the coin at her and she catches it, visibly showing
tails.
It seems today’s not my lucky day.
I collapse the timeline. I split the timeline.
In one, I stay still; in the other, I throw the coin at her and she catches it, visibly showing
heads.
“Regent?” I ask, trying not to show my relief at not having had to stretch the charade.
My record is eight tries before managing.
“Well, if I’m going to be recruited by a coin trick, I better get some good head out of it.”
I make a mental note to stab him in the eye the next time I need to unwind, and I split
the timelines.
In one I—
In both, my hand cramps in pain, and I drop the coin.
It shows tails.
“Well, no head, no recruitment. I would have thought you’d already know after high
school—you have the body for it.”
And then the swarm buzzes.
***
Lisa
“Goddammit, Alec, I told you to wait! We don’t know anything about those Travelers!”
Before I can even hear his answering quip, I switch to Grue’s channel, “Grue! This was
not the plan, and I’m sorry to force your hand—”
“Why do I find that so hard to believe?!” he exclaims as he starts throwing smoke
around and looking for cover between the construction material in Coil’s Bond Villain
Base TM.
I switch channels to Trainwreck and Circus.
“Calling contract Delta Seven! Evacuate location! If any of you stays and fights the
Travelers, I’ll throw in a quarter of a million!” Trainwreck bolts, and Circus slams a
theatrically big hammer behind the head of the asshole with the top hat. There goes a
quarter of a million. And I can’t even claim they have to split it.
I switch back to Grue.
“Come on, the asshole just had you agree to working with Stalker, the bitch who tried to
murder you and then tried to slit Taylor’s throat after making her trigger! He doesn’t care
about us, only about results!” I check the cameras, and he seems to waver—Grue’s
main motivator loyalty to— “And he has enslaved a twelve-year-old girl, what do you
think he’ll do to Aisha if he ever doubts your loyalty?!”
And Grue’s smoke thickens. And then surrounds Stalker just as she tries to jump away
in her shadow form. Which I know for a fact causes her excruciating pain.
Good.
I turn to the side, just in time to see Taylor grimly nod in determination (as is her wont),
and, at once, the rest of the Travelers—save the one who looks like a purple gorilla—
and Coil drop to their knees, screaming their agony so loudly I have to take my earpiece
off for a moment.
Nociceptor activators. Colin, if you addict my girlfriend, we’re gonna have words.
Lisa Wilbourne’s gratitude toward Colin Wallis—
Fine! The words will be “thank you!” God, we need to get you a sense of humor.
Humor often used as a way to release tension so—
Oh God. No. Not the time for this.
The screens show me a blob of darkness that is likely covering the Undersiders as
Rachel grows her dogs enough to be useful in the fight to come, Circus madly cavorting
around the purple simian, and a varied collection of people rolling on the ground while
clawing at their faces, Coil having gone so far as to remove his mask and—
Yep. There it is. Thomas Calvert.
Am I good or what?
Lisa Wilbourn’s need for validation—
Fuck you.
The parahuman problem seems to be neatly handled. The problem now seems to be all
those mercenaries running around that seem to be choking on a veritable biblical
plague, and—Right. Not actually a problem. What was I thinking?
And she still thinks her power is weak… It boggles the mind, really.
And then I hear an enormous crash both through my earpiece and from our position
outside the building.
Seconds after that, Armsmaster rushes in on his bike, Miss Militia clinging to his waist
on the rear seat.
… If I snatched a picture and threatened to send it to Dragon, what could I get? A raise
in allowance?
Colin Wallis unlikely to negotiate with—
If you were about to say ‘terrorists,’ I would like to point to exhibit A. Namely, my
hostage-holding girlfriend.
“Lisa! Focus, for fuck’s sake!” Taylor yells.
“Why?” I calmly reply.
“Uh, because we…” She pauses for a moment, deciphering the picture her bugs are
painting for her before turning toward the spread of screens that Colin has so dotingly
prepared for such an occasion and are currently deployed in this very convenient roof (I
love roofs since… well, at least a couple of days ago—you know why).
Yes. I am going to use the ‘doting’ word. If everybody keeps joking about him being my
foster father, I may as well get the perks.
Lisa Wilbourn secretly pleased—
I don’t know why you are in such a good mood today, but I don’t like it one bit.
Also, the purple gorilla just melted. Either it was a projection, or we are dealing with Oz
villains.
Finally, Taylor turns and looks at me.
“We… won?”
“Damn right we did.”
“You… I… Wasn’t this supposed to be a big deal?”
“Which just goes to show what proper planning and coordination between two Thinkers
who have never met nor talked to one another can accomplish.”
“I still can’t believe you were right about that…”
“There’s a very good reason I didn’t lie to him at all after Bakuda, Tay.”
“Right… You know what this means?”
“Victory sex?” I say in the most chipper voice I can affect.
And she hugs me and takes my hand, which only now I notice has been trembling for
quite a while.
“Maybe. But first you’ll need to unwind,” she whispers right into my ear after leaning
down, her body surrounding mine in an embrace I’ll never grow tired of.
Lisa Wilbourn unlikely to grow tired of physical support and affection.
… Thanks. I’m glad you’re happy as well.
“If you two are done rehearsing Thelma and Louise, we could use your help wrapping
this up,” Colin’s dry voice comes across both our communicators, judging by the way
Taylor stiffens around me.
Ah. And now he’s even getting pissy and interrupting my make-outs with my girlfriend.
He’s taking that parental thing too far.
Lisa Wilbourn secretly pleased—
Shut up.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 17
Triumph is a funny thing (by which I mean “triumph,” not “Triumph,” though wearing a
lion-themed costume and roaring at people is not precisely lacking in the humor
department). You always picture it as this great moment, as Rocky standing in the ring,
unbowed even after everything, and yelling his lover’s name, but then you remember
Rocky didn’t win. No, that scream, that moment of acknowledgment, had nothing to do
with victory against a great foe and everything with having managed to see something
through to its end.
Which isn’t… It’s also not what one would expect.
I’m sure there will come a time, and maybe it will even be soon, when I’ll sing and dance
with joy, elated at a future by the side of my lover without… that throwing any shade on
it. I’m sure I’ll be happy, relieved, satisfied.
It’s just that, right now, I am not.
“Tattletale?” Taylor’s—no, Skitter’s voice, carefully lacking in inflection, asks from my
side, her body not so close that I can feel her heat, smell her scent, but enough that I
feel the unspoken, implicit support. And the worry.
Colin is behind me, and so is a very unnerved Miss Militia. The Undersiders have fled
(obviously: armored garage doors aren’t a match for Rachel’s dogs when she’s got
them ramped up, and Colin trusts me to—I’d rather not think too much about that, I
already have my ‘processing’ queue full), and the Travelers, minus the weird gorilla
thingy, are subdued.
Also, Grue was kind enough to leave behind a gift-wrapped and thoroughly tasered
(courtesy of the trigger-happy asshole that has made my Christmas list this year)
Shadow Stalker. Who Taylor has managed not to kick even once, to her great credit.
And my own frustration.
And Coil is laying at my feet.
Which… is triumph. Or should be.
I have destroyed everything he’s worked for. Subverted or captured his assets, stopped
or appropriated his operations, brought him to justice (or the law, one of those),
unmasked him. I know him well enough to know that a bullet through his temple would
have been a mercy in comparison.
Yet…
“Does it always feel like this?” I ask. I don’t know who am I asking, but I do.
“Sometimes.” Miss Militia, of all people, answers. “Sometimes you have this… this
almost giddy feeling, the satisfaction of having done something unequivocally good, but
others… others you just have this vague feeling, between relief and bitter regret, and
can only think about everything that went on before you managed to step in. Villains
have the luxury of choosing their battles, but heroes are almost always stuck reacting to
something having gone horribly wrong.”
There’s the aborted whine of a servo before Colin decides to remain motionless.
Taylor scoffs.
And I…
“Thank you, Hannah.”
She shuffles and steps forward. She’s in front of me, but a bit to the side, not getting
between me and the unconscious form of the man that’s been plaguing my nightmares
for months.
“Tattletale… Thank you. You and Skitter have saved more lives in the past few weeks
than most heroes manage in their whole careers.”
“To be fair,” I say with a wry smile, “most heroes’ careers are woefully short.”
She answers that smile. Her scarf does nothing to hide how obvious the expression is in
the periphery of my vision, and I don’t need Power to tell me that this has been
rehearsed, that she’s been forced to take lessons in how to make her eyes expressive
enough to make up for the covered parts of her face. But I also don’t need Power to tell
me that rehearsed does not mean insincere.
Her own power has taken the shape of a cane, likely one with a hidden dagger or some
other bullshit, and she’s leaning on it in a way that seems designed to broadcast to me
that her weight is on it, that there’s no threat coming because she would need to get
back on her footing before being able to use her weapon.
This woman is far too dangerous.
Dragon, you’d better turn the heat up a bit.
“No need for self-disparagement. You two are the most heroic pair of villains I’ve ever
met.” Green light throbs for half a second. Because she also knows how utterly
dangerous we both are.
Heh. I like her.
“Or villainous pair of heroes.” I finally turn my head away from the defeated man at my
feet and meet her eyes. Green. Too many green eyes around here. Taylor, that better
not be a kink of yours.
“One of those two, yes.” And she nods, some humor shining through.
We stay like this for a moment until I hear a voice at my back.
“What the Hell are they doing, and why are we spectating?” Taylor stage-whispers to
Colin.
“I am not quite sure. Either a threat display or a mating ritual, if my ethology is up to
par.”
“You are both terrible,” I reply in almost auto-mode.
“Is that how you treat the woman who knows how thoroughly you’ve flaunted regulations
since this whole thing started?” Hannah adds.
“Or the girl who’s just served a Bond-villain on a silver platter to you. Not to mention just
delivered you from Piggot.” And now there’s a whine of servos. Just so he can cross his
arms in a dramatic, grand gesture.
Really, I hope I don’t catch any of his bad habits.
Lisa Wilbourn already—
Joking! I was joking, for fuck’s sake!
“How delightful. I’m sure her substitute will be a level-headed individual who won’t be
wary and hostile toward the cape responsible for ousting the person they’ll be replacing
in an organization designed to keep parahumans in check.”
Fuck. Hadn’t thought about that.
“Do you want me to pull some—” And an armored hand lands gently on my shoulder
before I can finish the sentence.
“Lisa…” His visor lifts just so he can look straight into my eyes without anything in
between. He holds my gaze for half a second before his deceptively stoic expression
melts and a gentle smile takes over. “Thank you. You have done far more than anyone
could have asked of you.” The glove tightens just a smidgen, not even half the pressure
for a good shoulder rub, yet still enough to let me derive some reassurance from the
gesture. “I’m proud of you, Lisa.”
… That armor doesn’t look—
Rigidity of components equivalent to—
Fuck it.
I hug the dumb bastard who’s not smart enough to design hugable armor, and he pats
my back.
Then I hear the very distinctive sound of a phone camera app trying to pass itself as a
mechanical camera.
“What the—” I start to say.
“For the family album,” Taylor answers unrepentantly.
“I want copies,” Hannah follows.
“So do I,” a Canadian accent comes from a set of speakers on Colin’s armor.
… Great. The most powerful Tinker in the world has a DILF fetish, and I am tangentially
involved. This can only bode good things.
…
The Christmas present better be spectacular. I want my bribes.
***
“So, obviously, given Shadow Stalker’s cooperation with Coil and Piggot’s strange
obsession with freeing her and putting her back on the streets, Coli—Armsmaster was
perfectly justified in accepting my theory that Piggot was collaborating with Coil and thus
hiding the investigation of two independents from the local PRT branch, due to how
presumably compromised it had been at this point.”
The worst thing? Like most conspiracy theories, this is more believable than the actual
truth. Because people being incompetent and stupid to an actually evil degree, to the
point they will just hide the almost murder of a minor without that tripping any alarms in
the system, makes far less sense than any elaborate plot where things have been
purposefully set in motion by someone. Bonus points if that someone is actually
intelligent and competent. Or a Jew. Especially an intelligent, competent Jew.
Of course, conspiracy theories fail to account for Hanlon’s Razor, because it turns out
that stupidity is far more abundant than competence, never mind evil competence. And
most evil individuals who are intelligent enough are indistinguishable from decent
people. Most.
It’s arguable whether Coil counts as competent, given the spectacular way in which
every single one of his dreams for the future has come crashing down today, but if he
was intelligent, he was also quite easy to distinguish from a decent person.
The point of this little rant? Dragon, as far as I know, more or less lives on the internet,
so she’s quite knowledgeable about conspiracy theories and able to see for what it is
the steaming pile of bullcrap I just explained to the hidden sensors in Colin’s armor (that
I refuse to believe don’t have any sexual application, no matter how much Power insists
otherwise, because nobody should give another person that kind of access without a
pre-arranged safe word). But she just needs an excuse.
I’m still trying to learn whether she’s under some kind of compulsion or she’s just that
anal about the rules, but the woman needs some kind of pretense that allows her to skirt
the letter of the law.
Giving her a reasonable narrative about Colin believing no one in the whole PRT chain
of command could be trusted with the secret operation being carried by two undercover,
independent heroes is enough for her not to jump the gun.
Also, apparently, the hidden sensors send her an alarm if somebody touches Colin’s
armor for a prolonged (read: seconds) period of time. An alarm that she’s ready to
follow on almost immediately in case she needs to reboot systems after a Striker or
hostile Tinker attack.
Right. Just because of those reasons. Of course.
Sorry, Hannah, it looks like riding on Colin’s backseat will not be the private affair you
may have dreamed of—
Miss Militia’s fondness for Dragon’s and Armasmaster’s interaction—
… If you are trying to mentally scar me by making me speculate about a possible
threesome involving my—
Colin Wallis not actually Lisa Wilbourn’s—
You know what I am talking about!
Lisa Wilbourn’s refusal to consider polyamory in regards to—
I’m gonna be sick.
Lisa Wilbourn’s overblown reaction to Colin Wallis—
Drop. It.
Westermarck Effect—
Oh, fuck you—
“Tattletale?” Dragon’s synthesized voice mercifully cuts through my future therapist
session.
“She does that sometimes,” Taylor exasperatedly replies.
“One of many reasons why she’s still a Thinker six,” Colin adds.
“Hey!” I elegantly riposte.
“Leave the poor girl alone, Colin.” Hannah, you are now my favorite. “She just hugged
your armor; she’s likely to have head trauma.” I retract my statement.
“If you could all stop being horrible human beings abusing a defenseless maiden—”
Taylor, that snort is going to cost ya. “—or suicidal lemmings getting on the shitlist of a
Thinker seven—” Colin, that smug look will have consequences. “—we could proceed to
the securing of the supervillain’s base. Taylor? All mapped out? Every merc subdued?”
For a moment, she looks like she’s about to comment—
Taylor Hebert disproportionately amused at the use of the term ‘maiden’—
That’s it. I’m buying that strap-on.
“Yes, and already mapped.” And then the cheer leaves her. “She’s… straight ahead.
Are you sure you want to do this alone?”
No. Of course I don’t.
“Yes. She will likely have predicted this encounter. You know, high-level Thinker stuff.
All of you would feel out of place.”
“I’m pretty sure I count as a high-level Thinker—” Dragon starts.
“You count as a high-level everything, because Tinkers are bullshit—yes, Tay, I know
how that sounds coming from me, I still stand by it. Anyway, no room for cheating
cheaters who cheat, Dragon. Also, why are you the only one in here who isn’t using her
given name?”
“What are you talking about? Dragon is my given name; my father saw great promise in
me.” And the words are humorous, joking. And so is the tone and the delivery, but—
Colin Wallis uncomfortable—
He doesn’t know—
Sense of distance—
From someone who monitors his vitals in real-time—
Incongruity covered by humor—
Fuck. A mystery.
Damn it, I just finished taking care of the biggest headache in my life that doesn’t have
long legs and gorgeous hair, couldn’t you wait a bit before dangling the catnip in front of
me, universe?
“Lisa?” my particular headache interjects.
“Right, sorry about that." And Colin stiffens slightly at my words, because he knows me
well enough to infer there’s a message in my apology regarding his reaction to Dragon.
It’s wonderful to work with actually intelligent people instead of people who think
themselves intelligent. Fucking Dunning-Kruger. “Anyway, please proceed to interrogate
the girl with the wheelchair who cannot use her powers without her body falling
unconscious while I have my long-awaited meeting with the girl that has been my
accomplice for quite a while without us even having ever talked to one another.”
“You are never going to stop bragging about that, are you?” Taylor asks with a very
suitable air of resignation.
“You know me so well!” I beam at her. And then proceed to skip along the corridor.
And pretend to ignore her when she mutters, “At least she isn’t high on adrenalin this
time.”
They turn a corner, and I drop my cheer.
Then take a moment to compose myself and a deep breath.
And open the door.
There’s a mural painted in soothing pastel colors, with forest animals who could pass for
Winnie the Pooh’s neighbors frolicking under a rainbow. Which makes all the more
nauseating the stretcher with a girl curled on it as an IV drips something inside her.
Opiaceous solution—
Of course.
I take the only chair in the room and drag it to the head of the bed before taking a seat.
Then I busy myself by taking a couple of dossiers out of my messenger bag.
Finally, I look at Dinah Alcott, the girl I unwittingly helped capture and whose rescue I
can’t ever take credit for.
She’s… Thin. And she shouldn’t be, because it hasn’t been that long since she was
kidnapped, and Coil valued her too much as an asset to have let her consume this way,
but…
But he also addicted a twelve-year-old to… Power?
Strength of addiction determinating factor when choosing control method. Usefulness
regarding treatment of Thinker headaches—
Right. Some kind of opiate. Like the morphine dripping in her veins right now.
And we all know what kind of opiate we are talking about, but it’s so utterly indecent that
I’m trying not to even think about its name when in front of a prepubescent addict.
Naltrexone usage in treatment of—
Thank you, Power. But this girl will deal with this her whole life, and I’m not about to let
myself be so easily comforted.
So I should stop stalling.
With a hand that should not be this steady, I shake Dinah’s shoulder as lightly as I can.
The first thing I see when she opens her eyes is pain.
Thinker headache outside expected parameters. Overuse or improper power usage—
“Oh. Oh, I am so sorry, Dinah, I tried not to make you lie, I swear—”
Her eyes shut in a marked wince. And I shut up.
Then I take her right hand—calluses on thumb—and bring it to my lips before I lay a soft
kiss on it.
“We won. You are free. We defeated him, Dinah. You did it.”
And her eyes ease up a bit, pain still pounding on her expression even as a smile tries
to fight it.
“We… did?” A voice I hear for the first time asks me as if I am a friend she has often
talked to in search of reassurance. Because, from her perspective, she has.
“We did. I couldn’t have done it without your help. You have been so brave...” I tell her,
matching her familiarity, her warmth.
Her need.
“I… wasn’t. I was scared, so scared, and the pain… I could feel it before I felt it, but I
saw no other way, even though you told me what to do, what to say…”
“Shush. That’s not your fault, it’s mine. I will do my best, I’ll go over it as many times as
you want me to, but I will fail at least a little bit, and then you’ll get hurt. I’m sorry, Dinah.
It’s all my fault.”
A small, weak hand clenches around mine, with not even enough strength to make my
flesh go pale under her grip.
“Lisa… Thank you…”
And I swallow something bitter as I remember Hannah’s words. About heroes reacting
to something awful that has already happened. And I don’t want to be a hero.
Not like that. Not if it means being there in the aftermath, just a witness to something
that I’ve been too late to stop, the audience to a tragedy.
I don’t want it. I hate it. I hate it so much I have to stop my hands from griping Dinah’s
tight enough it would hurt even through the haze of the drugs.
But… The alternative… It’s so much worse.
Damn it, Taylor, it was so easy to be stupidly selfish before you came into my life.
That strap-on is definitely on the shopping list.
Lisa Wilbourn using humor as a deflection—
I know.
Lisa Wilbourn’s false dilemma—
False? Between reacting to evil or allowing it to—
Oh. Of course. How silly of me.
Colin Wallis usage of Thinker six—
That’s on you. Don’t try to drag me down with your subpar, six self.
So, ignoring the petulant voice in my head, I lean forward and kiss a forehead with far
too many lines for her age. Dinah doesn’t relax, not quite, even as she looks like she
tries to, but that will come with time. Or I hope so.
Then I lay a dossier on her white sheets that I hope will help her. It contains my
personal analysis of Coil’s profile and weaknesses, along with my estimation of the
better ways for an underage girl to exploit them so she won’t have been seen as an
actual threat or capable of betrayal.
It’s accompanied by one with a transcription and breakdown of all my conversations
with Coil since Bakuda’s takedown. Both are in her reach, available when she’s well
enough to read them.
For a moment, it looks like Dinah will fall back asleep, but then she forces one tired eye
to open.
“How did you deal with the monster?”
And I try not to scream.
“The monster? What monster, Dinah?” Because something tells me she isn’t talking
about Coil.
“Oh, so it’s one of those futures,” and she smiles a tired smile.
Then Taylor’s voice comes through my communicator.
“Lisa, we need you down here right fucking now.”
And then, for good measure, a swarm of insects takes the shape of an arrow leading
me out of the room.
Dinah, eyes closed once again, smiles up at me.
“Go... I can’t see the future now… but it’s always better if you’re there…”
‘That’s the kind of line I wish Taylor would say to me, not a drugged-out twelve-yearold,’ I think.
“Thank you, Dinah. I’ll be right back. I promise,” I say.
And then I’m up and running.
No rest for the wicked.
And that goes double for heroes.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 18
You know what I never knew I wanted for my birthday? A baby Endbringer.
Mostly because I don’t want one. At all.
You shouldn’t have, universe. You really shouldn’t have.
“What the fuck?!” Ah, Taylor, I can always count on you to find the words deep within
my heart.
“It’s… It’s just a theory, all right? That’s the best we could come up with,” the
wheelchair-bound girl with auburn hair says defensively.
“A theory that could mean we have a nascent natural disaster kept prisoner beneath my
city. Somehow, I don’t feel like applying the scientific method.” Admirable delivery,
Colin. Certainly admirable.
“She just looks like a scared little girl…” That’s… very naïve of you, Hannah. All right,
you’re back to being my favorite.
“I’m afraid there’s very little about her that’s… little.” Dragon… That’s bad. And you
should feel bad.
Right. Time to focus before the girl centaured to a monster body (yes, I’m verbing
‘centaur;’ no, I’m not apologizing) decides that architecture is optional on casual Fridays
and goes all Collateral Bulimic Barbie on us.
Manifestation of parahuman abilities often correlated with underlying mental issues—
Oh. Fuck. Now I feel insensitive.
Manifestation of parahuman abilities often correlated with character flaws—
Fucking smartass.
“Right, right, we can do this… Genesis? I need you to be sincere with me about Noelle
and your—” Eyes unnaturally steady, no overt tells indicates effort to suppress them,
slight twitch of left hand, likelihood of being used to relieving tension by scratching
unfeeling leg—
Fuck.
Also, mental note: I need to discover other swearwords as versatile as fuck so I don’t
feel so repetitive—
Commonly used swearwords include: shit, damn, goddamn, asshole, whore, bugger,
bloody, cunt—
Holy fuck, Power, have you been waiting all this time for an excuse to swear?
—bitch, cumstain, shitstain, cumguzzler, faggot—
… I’m going to take that as a yes.
“I don’t know. I just know her power is messed up and that… it eats people. The
parahumans are stored, but…” Genesis shudders, and that’s not fake. Which is a good
tactic, because everything else is.
So I kneel in front of her to look her in the eye, which will come across as horribly
patronizing, but that’s precisely what I’m going for.
“Genesis, love, look, I am a Thinker seven—”
“Actually—”
“I swear I’ll replace all of your graphite oil with fucking glitter, Armsmaster.”
“I don’t use graphite oil since—”
“You will. So, where were we? Ah, yes, I was just telling you how utterly adorable it is
that you think you can lie to my face just like that when my city and everybody I care
about are being held hostage by the very existence of your friendly zoological display in
there. With me so far?”
Genesis clenches her jaw in defiance, but her skin is pale, and her eyes are still glued
to mine. She’s far too scared of showing anything, any tells a Thinker can use to infer
anything about her.
Which means her secret is that dangerous.
Wonderful.
“Oh, you still don’t feel like talking? Don’t worry, that just means it will keep being my
turn,” forced blink at word ‘turn,’ possibly related to— “You should never cede the
initiative” repeated reaction “to the other player,” widening of pupils, fear reaction, “you
know? Of course you know, after all,” used to wheelchair, no outstanding muscle tone,
possible isolation from peers related to lack of involvement in physical activities,
parahuman manifestation related to escapism “such a good gamer as you would have
learned at least that much, though your friends,” forced blink, attempt at nonchalance,
“well, they aren’t quite your friends—” rhythmic clenching of jaw, habitual source of
tension—“not anymore, even if they were when all of this began.”
Genesis looks at me, her hands now balled into tight fists whose range I’m just on the
edge of, unbalanced by something that is no more than a cold reading trick. She fears
too much my arriving at her secret, which is their secret, because…
Wait. Wait a second.
“You all met before having powers?” And now she recoils. Fuck. “Oh, that’s… No. Not a
group trigger, I’ve never heard of one that big, and that would require a very
newsworthy event, something from… What was your accent? Let’s see, some
consonant drift, a slight tendency to turn ‘th’ into ‘d…’ quite stereotypical Nort Central,
maybe Minnesota—no, what I’m saying, that’s obviously a Wisconsin—”
“Are you done?” Ah, there’s that anger, that visceral reaction to cover up fear when
retreat isn’t a possibility. And now you’re engaged¸ Genesis.
“Done? I haven’t even started. Because there’s something back there you’re fleeing
from, something important enough to make your little group stick together while your
murderous friend keeps eating people—” a flash of genuine guilt. Good. This wouldn’t
work half as well if she was an irredeemable monster rather than a scared, selfish
moron. “Right. It has to do with how you all got powers at once—which isn’t a figure of
speech or an exaggeration, you were dropped right into a situation that required you to
leave—Travelers, of course, how cute. But that’s not quite it. You hid what you were
actually doing, the real reason behind your name. It wasn’t about being an itinerant
band of villains for hire; no, it was about your origins. About something big that
happened in Wisconsin about… Dragon, could you tell me what the first recorded
appearance of our guest is?”
“January 18th, 2010,” she says from Colin’s armor.
And everybody who isn’t Taylor freezes.
Really? So much for your supposed cape-geekery. Not as embarrassing as not knowing
what a trigger event is, but…
Ah, who am I kidding? That automatically disqualified you for the title. Filthy casual.
“You lot are a fucking Simurgh plot,” I say out loud, just in case it needed more clarity.
And Genesis sprawls on her wheelchair—
Oh, you fucking don’t—
Just as swirling mist starts to come off her body, I slap her as hard as I can. And keep
doing it until she blinks herself awake and the nascent projection vanishes.
“That was very stupid,” I tell her.
“Worth it to shut you up,” she replies, rubbing her reddening cheek.
And now I believe my girlfriend is biting her lip beneath her mask not to snort.
“Tell me your name. Your real name.”
“Wha—the rules—”
“I’m a walking violation of the rules. And so is harboring what could be one of the
biggest threats to humanity on the planet.” Now her eyes widen. She feels… detached
from this place, but it still—Oh God, tell me it isn’t—
Simurgh displayed tinkertech of unknown function over Madison—
Right. The fucking Simurgh brought them here from a parallel world just so they could
get powers and protect the ticking timebomb beyond the gigantic vault door that could
only fit the décor of a supervillain base. Wonderful.
“We already know you fled a confinement zone, that you are off-worlders—” Hannah,
sweetie, that dramatic gasp was a bit gauche, even if it punctuated my speech nicely,
“and that you’ve stumbled upon the rumored power-sellers that haunt the internet’s
most sordid places that don’t involve Japanese drawings or Case 53 porn. Stop being
cute, tell me your name, and work with me to solve this before everything blows up in
our faces.”
She bites her lip and looks to the side, no longer concerned with trying to hide her tells,
convinced that she can’t hide anything from me.
Good.
Because my head is killing me.
“Jess. My name’s Jess.”
***
Noelle
I am hungry.
I always am, but… I have two kinds of hunger now.
No matter how much my lower body eats, my upper one keeps being hungry.
Nourished, at least to the point of keeping me alive, yet always hungry. That’s the first
kind of hunger, the one I’m used to.
The second kind is the one that comes and goes. The one that’s so much worse, that I
can never get used to, that feels like acid traveling through the whole monster,
consuming it from the inside, demanding it be replenished.
It’s the hunger that drives me insane, because when it has nothing else to eat, it
devours the barrier between me and the monster.
I’m afraid the day will come when it will tear into me.
“Noelle? Noelle, love, are you all right?” My… My boyfriend, even if I don’t know why he
still wants to be, asks me from the computer screen, a bit more forceful than usual.
Really, I would have blushed at him calling me ‘love’ before… Before.
“Yes… Yes, just a bit… You know…” And he looks at me with kindness, with that soft
look I know the others never see because he can’t help himself when he acts like an
asshole just to act like something.
“I know, yes,” he pauses for a moment, looking into my eyes, maybe fooling himself into
thinking there’s nothing worth looking at beneath where my waist used to be. “The
meeting went well,” he ends up saying, mercifully changing the subject.
“It did?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Coil is… more resourceful than I thought. It’s like half the parahumans in
the city work for him, whether they know it or not. I mean, we are heavy hitters, but…
Contacts. Connections, you know?”
Connections. The kind of power we cannot ever have because… Well.
Me.
“I do.”
And he seems to catch on to what I was thinking, because there’s a flash of panic and
his reply comes out rushed.
“Which is a good thing! And, well… I don’t like this, but…”
“But?” Francis mincing his words is never a good sign.
“He may have a lead,” I try not to smile, not to sag in relief, “but he needs us to check it
out.”
“What? Why?” Why you, why do you all need to leave me behind, alone in here with the
meat, and the hunger, and the other hunger—
“It will just be for a few days! I—I’m sorry, Noelle, but if there’s even the slightest chance
this Tinker can help, I…”
A Tinker? So, this isn’t about Panacea, but a new lead? Out of town?
“I… Understand. I am not made of glass, Francis, I… I understand.” Because there’s not
much else I can do.
He stares at me silently, and his face firms.
“Noelle, I… I promise I’ll help. I do,” he says, his voice that much stronger, that much
more deliberate.
That much more… Truthful.
“You already have,” I say with a smile, trying not to show how much it hurts to have him
repeat those words that only come before yet another failure.
“This time it’s different,” he says.
And then he smiles. Not his crooked, infuriating smile, but one that’s a bit mischievous,
a bit sly…
And, somehow, for the first time in months, a part of me believes him.
***
Lisa
A good thing about hiring the same interior decorator as SPECTRE? The obsession for
an intimidating, clinical, sterile atmosphere means that the bathrooms will inevitably
have immaculately white tiles.
Which in turn means I can discern at a glance whether or not it’s safe to kneel on one of
them while my girlfriend grabs my hair and I… Prostrate myself before the porcelain
god.
Shut up. I’m still tasting bile, and my temples are throbbing; kinda not in the mood to
come up with my best material.
“You just had to make that stupid promise, didn’t you?” Taylor says for the… Fifth time?
Yep. Fifth.
I mean, I knew it was a bad idea before I even finished opening my mouth, but…
“You know you love me when I do stupid crap like this,” I say after I spit the (hopefully)
last of the weird tasting saliva that keeps lingering in your mouth after you try to reverse
the way eating works.
“I do,” she mutters with an exasperated sigh.
…
“Wait, really? It was the first thing I came up with.”
“Oh, for—that is precisely the kind of stunt that brought us together. Of course I love you
when you decide to throw in with the underdog, no matter how stupidly misguided the
effort is.”
“Oh, you love me,” I start to singsong—
And she pulls me up by my hair, which kind of hurts, but also kind of—
Fuck. I’m confused.
“Wash your mouth before trying to get a reaction out of me like that,” she says with a
voice that definitely fits Skitter’s mask. And makes my knees wobble.
“It is very inappropriate of you to try and turn me on while all of this is going on,” I feebly
object.
“Try?” And I can just see the arched eyebrow that accompanies that statement.
Oh fuck.
Possible synonims for ‘fuck’ include but are not limited to—
No. No, no, nope. Don’t make me ask Armsmaster to install a cranial swear jar, young…
whatever the Hell you are.
Lisa Wilbourn’s attempts at gendering parahuman ability interface reflect—
Oh, who am I kidding: you are the parahuman incarnation of mansplaining. Of course
you are male.
There’s a knocking at the door.
“Colin says if you aren’t out of there in three minutes, I should come in and spray you
both. I admit it never occurred to me to use my power for that, but now I’m kinda
curious, so…”
…
“The Protectorate’s beach parties must be amazing,” I can’t help but say out loud after
visualizing the kind of super soaker a motivated, petty Tinker may come up with.
“Not really, though the eye candy isn’t bad,” she casually shoots back.
“Is it really that different from hanging out with people in tights all—”
“Do you realize she’s just distracting you until the three minutes pass, and she can
come in to spray us with whatever the Hell her power can turn into?” Taylor says as she
drags me to the washbasin.
“Uh… Well played, Hannah. Well played.” The water is already running, and I take
enough to start gargling.
“Tsk. And here I was, ready to put that Thinker six to the test,” a suspiciously loud
whisper carries through the door. And I spit the water before I can choke on it.
“… If that six doesn’t start climbing up, I may need to have a chat with Dragon about the
implications of the body language of two adult coworkers who are very fit, mature, and
currently single.”
There’s blessed silence only broken by the swishing sound of cold water in my mouth
and Taylor trying not to snigger.
“… You don’t hold back that much, do you?” Hannah finally replies.
“Not when a joke has run its course.”
“Fair enough. Also, Tattletale?”
“Yeah?”
“Colin told me to ask you if a Thinker seven shouldn't have immediately realized there’s
no way for my power to manifest as something as big as an urban water cannon.”
…
“Okay, first, I have the mother of all Thinker headaches; second, I hate each and every
one of you; third, Taylor, stop laughing.”
She doesn’t.
… Fuck it. Strap-on it is.
***
It isn’t much more than three minutes later that I emerge from the bathroom with no
traces of having voided my stomach due to a combination of physical repulsion,
emotional revulsion, and ongoing Thinker headache-ulsion.
Shut up. I wasn’t going to break the streak.
We three walk back into the meeting room where Colin and Dragon just improvised a
motion capture system for me to impersonate Noelle’s assholish boyfriend after getting
as many details about him out of Jess as we could. I’m sure it’s not been my best
performance, particularly due to my sappy ending, but the poor girl is distressed enough
that just about anyone could have fooled her after going through Dragon’s own personal
deep fake technology.
Which… Kind of added to the aforementioned emotional revulsion.
Really, something about fooling and emotionally manipulating a girl so deeply and
obviously traumatized as Noelle doesn’t quite sit right with me. I don’t know why that
would be.
Taylor squeezes my hand.
Yeah. Total and utter mystery.
“How are you doing?” Armsmaster tentatively asks with the kind of caution one uses to
address emotional timebombs that may explode for no discernible reason.
“Better. More or less.” I mean, I could act offended about it, or I could roll with it and
avoid a few ‘six’ cracks.
“She’s a vicious little thing,” Hannah adds, for no discernible reason.
“Of course she is. It comes with being a Thinker—” Worry is swiftly replaced by his
deadpan.
“Glitter. Barrels of glitter.”
“The image department would love you,” he seamlessly changes his line.
“… Why do I feel like that’s a worse insult.”
“I have absolutely no idea,” Colin, Dragon (from her dedicated laptop), and Hannah
reply at once. All of them equally unconvincing.
“… I’m never joining up with your traumatized band of cosplayers.”
“Well, we don’t have an image department per se, and there’s always room in the Guild
for a powerful Thinker s—”
“Dragon, I know where the scalies lurk. Don’t make me use them. They are a last
resort.”
“… I’ll be good.”
“What is a scalie—”
“Don’t even ask,” four voices in the room reply at once.
Which ends up with Hannah, Colin, Dragon’s avatar, and I suspiciously looking at one
another before silently agreeing not to poke sleeping dragons (or other reptiles) as
Taylor looks as confused as she can while still wearing her mask.
Right. That’s enough comic relief for today. I mean, my headache isn’t going to improve
any more, and I have better things to do than waste Power to come up with better quips.
… I’m becoming everything I ever hated.
Still, there’s something to be said for not stalling and getting the unpleasantness out of
the way as soon as possible.
So I take a deep breath that slightly ameliorates the worse of my remaining queasiness,
and… Well. Not much else to say by this point.
“Right. I think I’m ready to see Coil.”
Taylor squeezes my hand once again, Colin grimly nods (TM), Dragon gives me a
supportive smile from the laptop’s screen, and Hannah… Turns her power from a sap
glove into a handgun.
And gives me a sharp smile.
Oh, you really are my favorite.
Dragon, you’d better up your game with that Christmas gift.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 19
Everybody knows about the Prisoner’s Dilemma. Well, everybody thinks they do.
It’s deceptively simple: two criminals are suspected of a crime, and they are given the
choice to incriminate the other or remain silent. If no one betrays their partner, they both
get a light sentence, and if they both betray the other (by tattling, heh), they get a
medium sentence. The trick is that, if one betrays a loyal partner, the traitor goes free,
and the heartbroken criminal who stupidly thought honor amongst thieves was a thing
gets a harsher sentence.
On the surface, what you want during a Prisoner’s Dilemma is to have someone loyal
and devoted on the other side and then stab them in the back.
But that’s on the surface, because humans are a tricky thing.
When the Prisoner’s Dilemma actually shows teeth, it’s when you iterate. If you trusted
someone who betrayed you, you won’t cooperate with them in further instances, not
until you see them try to cooperate and finally decide to forgive them. Because that’s
kind of the thing being put on display here: cooperation, grudges, and forgiveness.
Earning a reputation as untrustworthy is a very bad thing for your survival, being too
unforgiving can get in your own way when people try to build back bridges, and being
too trusting gets you a very harsh sentence in jail for a crime that may not have been
that bad (who hasn’t committed a federal felony from time to time, after all?).
So, the iterated Prisoner’s Dilemma can be used as a mathematical model to study the
possible evolution of trust and cooperation in human societies. There’s a very cute
website with it where you can tweak the parameters. Worth a look.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it? The lesson one takes away is that sentimentality, trust, and
the willingness to forgive have their place as survival mechanisms that are actually vital
for a social species. That short-term benefit is not the best choice when we take into
account the long-term harm we are bringing to our community and how that reflects on
ourselves.
The iterative Prisoner’s Dilemma tells us to cooperate, to be good to one another. It’s
like a sappy Aesop fable with a bit of math sprinkled on top.
So, what happens when you take a man clinically incapable of empathy, mono focused
on short-term gains as his default option, and who thinks he can cheat any system
where there are two options, and you offer him to play a rousing round of Snitches Get
Stitches?
That he will screw himself over.
Or, at least, that’s my current theory.
I’m currently sitting on Coil’s old chair, my pose carefully adjusted to evoke, without
copying, his own predatory body language: fingers carelessly laced in front me,
shoulders straight, head leaning forward… The works. I’m tempted to ask Taylor if she
feels like wearing a tuxedo and getting strapped to a metal table.
… Mental note: inquire about metal tables with restraints.
I’ve have had, unfortunately, multiple occasions to analyze this room, from the bare
cement walls only broken up by thin steel rails that give it a brutalist air, to the lavishly
comfortable leather chair that Coil uses while forcing his visitors to sit on Ikea’s most
butt-tormenting furniture. There aren’t bookshelves adorning the walls with leatherbound tomes that have never been cracked, though I’m sure he couldn’t resist the
temptation in his civilian life, because this is set to have one and only object of interest
for the usually nerve-wracked visitor: Coil himself.
I hate this room and everything it stands for. It’s a constant reminder of defeat,
frustration, being a prisoner, a slave…
So, taking Coil’s seat? Having him brought to me so that he can see how our positions
have been thoroughly reversed? That’s a power move.
A clumsy, idiotic, stupid power move.
That’s the whole point, you know?
Lisa Wilbourn delaying—
I know. No need to remind me.
Still keeping my affected, languid calm, I press a button recessed into the mahogany
surface.
“Bring him in.”
The door opens, and a very pissed-off Hannah walks in, dragging a still groggy,
unmasked Coil while looking like she’s one minute away from having him trip down the
stairs.
Still my favorite.
Without any further ceremony, she plops him down on the far too angular chair in front
of me, cuffs him to the legs, and walks out.
“So, I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve brought you here…” I begin.
Damn it. Monologuing is contagious.
“Not really. To brag about how clever you are?” he says with his own affected
disinterest.
Well, it seems like we’re on schedule.
“That’s just a fortunate side-effect.”
“Fortune is a matter of perspective, it seems.” Not a trace of surliness. Just
condescension, still seeing me as an amateur who may have gotten lucky.
Because the power play is clumsy, because I’ve had my only guard leave the room,
because I’m apparently putting on this whole show to rub his nose in my victory.
Perfect.
“Well, of course. We can’t all be winners.” And now he bristles. But—
Coil trying to appear calm, trying to discern possible advantages—
Thanks, Power. Just more confirmation. Though I could’ve gone without the screwdriver
through my throbbing temples…
I allow myself to flinch, and Coil—Thomas Calvert tries to hide his satisfied reaction.
“Already this tired, my Tattletale?” he says, between paternal and condescending.
I didn’t hide the wince at my migraine. I do hide my visceral need to go back to white
tiles and a teasing, caring girlfriend.
“What can I say? Not every day that one manages to topple a mastermind supervillain. I
felt like going all out.”
“Showing far more initiative than you usually would. Miss Hebert has been good for
you.”
My blood runs cold. My smile remains slightly mocking.
“She has. But that’s not why we’re here.”
“Oh? Please, do enlighten me.”
I swallow, letting out a slight measure of my nerves but not the actual cause behind
them.
“Noelle Meinhart. What have you tried?”
Coil stills. Because this is the point where he can choose whether to keep talking and
see what he can get out of this when confronted with an exhausted Thinker who’s in
over her head or to shut up and not give me anything, hoping for a better deal if he
keeps the pressure up.
Gotcha.
Prisoner’s Dilemma. It’s a bitch to play against yourself.
“Why should I tell you?”
“I’m not gonna lie: the Protectorate have you in their custody. There’s very little I can do
to help you, but I can put in a good word?”
“There are no words good enough in the world. At least you could’ve done me the
courtesy of trying to fool me, Sarah.”
I don’t have to fake too much my overblown reaction at that name used in such a
context.
“You wouldn’t.”
“Wouldn’t I? If I’m already going down, it doesn’t cost me that much to have your
parents murdered on a contract set to pay after my disappearance. You know, I always
thought you were the most dangerous, the one who may be able to strike against me,
so it was only sensible of me to take certain… measures.”
I grimace, rubbing my temples as a flash of pain goes through my face and doesn’t
quite leave.
“No, you didn’t.”
And he smiles and leans back, his pose as satisfied as he can express with his arms
still cuffed at his sides.
“No, I didn’t. But you just wasted enough of your power finding out that you’re that much
more useless in this negotiation. So, Tattletale, what can you actually offer me?”
No, I didn’t, but I just made you believe you are far smarter than you actually are, and I’ll
thoroughly enjoy the look on your face when you find out—
Lisa Wilbourn unlikely to enjoy looking at Coil’s face under any circumstances.
… You are right, of course, but allowances must be made for petty revenge.
Externally keeping up the charade and not showing my befuddlement at Power’s
intrusion (yes, Tay, I’m practicing that, believe it or not), I sigh in defeat and press a
button carefully hidden under the desk’s top.
With a grinding noise of cement on cement, a hidden passage slides open behind me.
Because of course it does.
I’m actually tempted to track down the contractors and see if they’ve worked in any
movies…
“Just like that?” Coil says after a dramatic pause.
“You aren’t giving me much of a choice, are you?”
And he smiles that creepy, satisfied smile I always knew he hid under his mask.
“No, I suppose I am not.”
***
It doesn’t take long for Coil to give me an elaborate summary of everything he’s done to
take care of Noelle’s little issue. Though, as Dragon (cringefully) said: there’s very little
that’s little about it.
Yeah. It doesn’t sound much better even when it’s me who says it.
I mean, being a smart, drop-dead gorgeous, vaguely reformed supervillain only gives
me so much leeway. Bad jokes are bad.
Flirting tactics often involve laughing at prospective partner’s jokes, regardless of actual
hilarity.
… Well, Colin didn’t laugh at that one. Though that may have been due to the
traumatized, centaured girl fully on display.
Anyway, everything Coil tells me basically amounts to this being an utter mess with no
straightforward solution. His original plan was to test things out, find a cure in an
alternate timeline, and then string along the Travelers for as long as he could until he
was forced to actually produce results.
His current plan was to use Noelle as a suicide bomber against a target he would’ve
painted as the culprit in the death of her comrades.
Lovely.
See? Prisoner’s Dilemma, right there. This is why you iterate, people!
Still, as thorough as the reminder of how utterly unpleasant Coil can be to the people
who have pledged their loyalty to him, he still manages to show off how resourceful he
actually is. Toybox, for instance, has been thoroughly prodded. Panacea has been
kidnapped, tried, and discarded. Power nullifiers from the shadiest mercenary groups
brought along.
None of it has worked, but it will save me time hitting my head against a wall.
Which was the whole point, of course.
Well, not the whole point.
“So, this list of countermeasures in case of your capture is actually complete? I didn’t
miss anything?” I ask him, once again exaggerating how much pain I’m in.
“It is. I’m actually impressed.”
Geniality insincere. Undercurrent of frustration shown in tense parts of face usually
hidden by mask. Coil likely trying to release stress in alternate timeline. Attempts
frustrated by Tattletale’s mocking in alternate timeline.
Oh right, that’s part of the plan. Because this is the timeline where Coil collaborates
while trying to get a deal out of me that he believes involves my letting him flee through
his escape tunnel. So I have to listen to him and pretend he’s maneuvered me into
wasting Power so that he has me at a disadvantage and in excruciating pain. Here he’s
more or less polite, even if he can’t manage to hold back all of his seething hatred for
the person who undid years of work in a single afternoon.
The other Coil? That’s the one who decided to not cooperate, so he’s basically stuck
sitting there with his mouth closed, trying not to tip off an almost fully-powered Lisa who
has committed herself to make him very uncomfortable.
Alternate Lisa has the best lines. My agent sucks.
I mean, I’m sure that the point where Coil stopped explaining how smart he was in
securing the services of New Wave’s most incestuous member to clench his jaw and
take a deep breath was the moment when she started listing how much better each
Cobra Commander plot actually is.
I have been compiling that list for months! And she gets to waste it without me to watch
the reaction! So unfair.
Lisa Wilbourn’s envy of Lisa Wibourn—
Shut up. Don’t try to pretend you aren’t as confused as I am.
Use of flowcharts—
Oh, yes, just what I need: visual aids. Would you like me to prepare a PowerPoint
presentation as well?
“Well, if that’s everything, I would like to get my reward now.”
Oh, right. I still have to deal with the worst part of the job. Seriously, alternate Lisa, you
owe me so much…
“I… I guess it’s only fair.” Meek, a flash of distaste that appears to be carefully hidden,
and then I’m submissively kneeling by his chair, unlocking his handcuffs.
And now he’s standing over me, a sudden—
Twist of hip, aborted arm movement—
Right. He just wanted to backhand me so badly he almost did it on reflex.
Which… I mean, if someone should get bitch-slapped in here, it’s definitely not me.
Bondage and hair-pulling are one thing. I draw the line at hitting.
Also, eww. Eww. Eww!
Why, brain? Why?!
Lisa Wilbourn discharging tension through—
Lisa Wilbourn is a moron! That didn’t discharge anything!
Lisa Wilbourn’s growing self-awareness—
Fuck you!
“Well, I guess this is goodbye, Tattletale,” Coil, for once, usefully interrupts.
“Sure I’m going to miss ya, boss.” There, fake cheer, disgust barely held back. It helps
when you become the character.
“Oh, I’m sure you will,” he says with a disturbing grin that translates to ‘stupid child, do
you really think I won’t be making a comeback after I’ve had time to get back on my
feet?’
Which is not a question I want him asking himself. Because this is far too good to be
true, and he may realize that in no time at all now that he’s not devoting his brain to
trying to trick me into making a mistake with Noelle.
Oh, did I skip that part? Yes, our conversation has been fraught with all sorts of plots to
make me inadvertently trigger the proto-Endbringer into a murderous rage through
some failure or other. Really, thrilling material.
I mean, you wouldn’t guess how much effort it’s taken me not to yawn. The stuff myths
are made of.
Still, each uncovered trap has made Coil ever more certain that my Power is being
completely drained. I have let the last three slide so that he thinks I’ve finally reached
the end of the line and I’m just putting up a front.
Not that far from the truth, actually… Stupid Jess, making things so much harder than
they had to be…
But, anyway, this is the moment where Coil could have a moment of introspection and
think, ‘Hey, maybe if the Thinker seven (I’m uncharacteristically polite in my
introspection, and I won’t mention that other accursed number that also starts with an
“s”) has actually managed to dismantle my operations so thoroughly, I shouldn’t be so
sure I have tricked her instead of her tricking me.’
Which is why, when he passes by a certain section of the wall, I tell him, with my most
‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ tone:
“Did I ever tell you about the time Cobra Commander managed to get himself an
internationally recognized sovereign nation?”
And he snaps.
I can see him pause, debating whether or not he can afford to do this.
Then he pushes a specific patch of darkened cement, and an exquisitely crafted knife
slides out of the steel rail next to it, ivory handle first, right into his hand.
Accord makes the best housewarming gifts. Also, Dragon, you’d better take notes.
“You know, my Tattletale, I was hoping to keep the other timeline secure, just in case,
but… You’re in no condition to verify I won’t do anything like this, and it would be such a
disappointing end to our acquaintance to not enjoy ourselves one last time…”
He takes a step forward, and he freezes.
Because that’s when the second alternate Lisa has shot his knee off from the back after
he cordially bid her adieu.
Really, being an alternate Lisa sounds like a great gig. I should look into that.
Especially if Alternate Lisa the Second, long may she reign, has fallen to her secret
temptation and shot something off other than Coil’s knee.
Well, the thing is, when you devote almost every use of your power to keeping yourself
as safe as you possibly can be? Dropping a timeline after being suddenly shot by
surprise becomes something of a reflex.
And Coil just trapped himself into the timeline where he pulled a knife on me.
Ah, but Lisa, I can hear you ask, aren’t you, by the same token, trapped in the timeline
where Coil has, you know, pulled a knife on you?
To which I would answer: just wait and see.
Lisa Wilbourn talking to herself as if—
Oh, come on, you’re going to enjoy this as much as I am. It’s partly your idea, after all.
Also, this is where he splits the timelines once again.
In one, he’s going to jump behind his former desk, hoping to break line of sight and
maybe dash toward his secret tunnel.
In the other, this one, he’s lunging toward me, maybe hoping to get me as a hostage.
In both, and I’m not sure if it will be at the same time, but I’m crossing my fingers…
“Wha—aaaaaah!”
Coil screams in agony and drops to the ground, writhing in as much pain as the human
brain can generate before finally falling unconscious.
Nociceptor activators. Don’t leave home without them.
“Thanks, love,” I say to the apparently empty room.
“Anytime,” the voice made of a thousand hidden insects replies, sending a thrill of notquite-fear and not-quite-something-else-that’s-disturbingly-pleasant down my spine.
Really, Tay, we need to have a long, serious talk about the concept of scarousing.
Horror movie night with you may be a tad too intense.
***
“Better?” Taylor asks, rubbing my shoulders while I sit in a normal chair in another room
in this base that isn’t as fraught with awful, horrible, alternate memories.
“A bit. I mean, the personal confrontation sure helped, but trying to fake like I was at his
mercy once again… Not fun.”
“I was talking about your headache, not your weird need to rub everyone’s noses in
your intellectual superiority.”
“Well, if you’d rather rub your nose somewhere else—”
Colin coughs.
Loudly.
Ah, right. We have an audience.
… Not like that!
Lisa Wilbourn’s exhibitionism—
You aren’t allowed to talk me into further sexual fetishes! Much less while still making
me wish I could give my skull an exhaust port.
Colin Wallis specialty possibly—
Ugh. No. Last thing I need is to let him literally tamper with my…
Brain.
“I’m an idiot,” I can’t help but mutter.
“Well, I didn’t want to say as much, but…” Tay, my vengeance shall be swift and—oh.
Yes. Keep rubbing that spot…
“No, I mean… Brain. Panacea allegedly won’t do brains, and parahuman abilities are
controlled by specific, non-standard neural structures, so—”
“So, surgery,” Colin succinctly finishes my rant. Because, apparently, he hates fun.
“So your whole theatre back there could’ve been avoided if you sat five minutes to think
about the problem,” Hannah adds, apparently deciding she no longer wants to be my
favorite.
“To be fair, I’m sure sitting in there, listening to everything that hasn’t worked out, has
helped me arrive at a different solution.”
“I’m sure,” Colin says.
“You don’t sound that convinced.”
“That may be because you’ve yet to say how do you plan to have us operate on an outof-control parahuman who has both regeneration and a unique physiology, not to
mention touch-activated offensive powers. A minor quibble, of course,” Colin snarks.
And Hannah facepalms, something I’m not sure it’s about him or me. Likely both, seeing
as we’re already close enough to warrant facepalming. It’s a sacred rite of my people.
“Well, we could… Dragon, about your mind-machine interfaces—”
“No,” a gentle, Canadian-sounding voice cuts me off.
“No?” I ask, as unsure of the meaning of the damned syllable as a boyfriend who very
reasonably asked for a birthday blowjob.
“No. You’re taking your girlfriend and going back to your hotel room. I don’t want to hear
about any of you till tomorrow noon, at the earliest.”
“More like her girlfriend is taking her to the hotel. She’s in no condition to—” Taylor joins
in on ruining my fun.
“I thought we would buy a bike to celebrate—”
“That’s it, you’re delusional. See? You desperately need bed rest.”
“Sure. Bed ‘rest.’” Oh, Hannah’s catty. I guess that dry spell—
Miss Militia’s dry spell—
Shush. Don’t ruin the mystery. Let’s save it for a special occasion.
“It still seems kind of unfair that Dragon of all people is telling me to rest after a day’s
work.”
“Would my opinion on the matter be more pertinent?” Colin asks. And everybody tries
not to laugh because that’s one spectacular deadpan. Or a man being very clueless.
Then, just as Taylor is helping me get up from the chair (which I don’t need, but I’m not
about to throw it in her face—yes, I’m just being magnanimous and considerate),
Dragon adds her own comment.
“You know how it is, Lisa: do as I say, not as I am.”
Colin nods, Hannah raises an eyebrow, and I—
Unusual turn of phrase. Dragon aware of Lisa Wilbourn’s capabilities. Phrasing
intentional. Hidden message in—
Oh, another mystery? For me? With a hidden clue that you’ve managed to get past your
own quasi-boyfriend?
See, Dragon? This is why you are my favorite.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 20
If my life was a movie, Taylor and I would’ve come into our hotel room devouring each
other with a hungry, unending kiss as we rolled along the wall, tearing our clothes off
until we fell on the bed and had explicitly amazing victory sex that somehow managed
not to show our nipples at any point.
Similarly, butts are more or less okay, but no hole should even be hinted at.
Maybe it’s a good thing our lives aren’t a movie (not until I sell the rights, at least—I was
thinking ‘I am a Thinker Seven, yet people keep trying to taunt me’). Asides from the
pointless censorship, the fact we are both minors, and how little of my awesome dialog
would make it past the lowest denominator of the test audience, there’s the more
immediate concern that I’m not sure the slightly faded wallpaper of our room would
survive some enthusiastic, passionate, wall rolling.
All of this is just a long way to say that I enter the room with an arm draped over
Taylor’s shoulders, a hand covering my eyes so I can avoid the personally offensive
light (that should get some censorship, not my girlfriend’s delightfully, temptingly
nibblable nipples), and a mouth dry after swallowing too many pills for my poor liver.
I don’t get my superpowers from my liver, though, so he gets a lower priority. Brains
over brawn and all that.
(I’m so going to regret this when Taylor gets in college and drags me to some bingedrinking parties with all of her jock friends— *snerk* sorry, couldn’t even think that with a
straight face.)
“And to think you wanted to go out to buy a bike…” she mutters with fond exasperation.
Well, I hope it’s fond. I mean, I’m kind of invested in that, you know?
“In my defense, I was still riding the adrenalin high from defeating my archnemesis
when I suggested that.”
“Adrenalin numbs Thinker headaches?” she asks, a pondering note in her voice.
Taylor Hebert propensity for tactical applications of—
Right. No. No way. Absolutely no way. Also, would you do me the favor of shutting up
when my brain already feels like it’s been stuffed into a microwave with another, smaller
microwave embedded right where my visual cortex used to be?
Correlation between visual stimulus and migraines—
Fuck you.
“Tay, sweetie, as much as I love you, if I find out you’re coming up with ways to give me
non-lethal heart attacks so I can push Power a bit further in the middle of a fight, we are
going to have words.”
“But… But think of all the utility! We could—”
“I don’t think you quite got my meaning, sweetie: words. As in, Thinker-grade words.”
“… Are you trying to intimidate me?”
“… Is it working?”
She ponders this for a bit as she finally drags me to bed.
“A bit. Quite impressive, seeing as I am absolutely certain you couldn’t use your power
to tell me how many fingers I have behind my back—”
“Three,” I blurt out while she lowers me to the mattress. The one that’s soft enough
because I’ve furtively replaced it while no one (no one who wasn’t willing to accept
twenty bucks to pretend there was no blonde girl dragging a gigantic memory foam
mattress up the stairs, that is) was looking.
“How—” she says, almost astonished, dropping me halfway.
“You were holding me, so I only had to guess for one hand. Anything that hides the
thumb requires active engagement, and stretching the ring finger or the pinky without
moving the other finger demands outright effort. Stretching just one or all five fingers is
perceived as an extreme case, and people tend to think those should be avoided, as an
intermediate option feels more obfuscating. Having the thumb, middle, and pointer
finger extended is a relaxed, natural posture that fits all of the above criteria, while just
having the index and the middle finger extended would make you feel like you’re
throwing a peace sign. Just playing the odds, really,” I explain in my best Sherlockian
while shrugging my white jacket off.
Nonchalantly, of course. Consulting detectives don’t do things any other way when
engaging with the Watson.
Also, dear God, did Watson get a bad deal in every subsequent adaptation! He was a
badass! A cultured, illustrated man that outdid Holmes in certain fields—mostly any that
related to general knowledge—and ex-military! He even applied Holmes’ methods on
those occasions they were separated, as shown in The Hound of the Baskervilles!
Holmes regularly praised him. He should be lauded as one of the most well-rounded,
interesting characters ever in his own right, not reduced to a drooling moron by
scriptwriters so inept the only way they have to make someone appear smart is by
dragging everyone else to the level of fucking Neanderthals—
Neanderthal cross-breeding with Homo Sapiens suggest actual mental capacities not
dissimilar from modern day—
Not the fucking point!
“So, you have a debilitating migraine that barely allows you to speak, and that’s only
because of some weird quirk of your power that, according to you, makes an exception
for talking. And you still couldn’t resist the urge to try to show off by pointlessly deducing
something that has absolutely no relevance. At all.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She groans. Fondly.
I hope.
“Only you, Liz. Only you.”
Ah, that’s my pet name! See? Fondly!
“Come on, raise your arms,” she says, as matter of factly as she always is when not
snarking or doing other things with me that end in ‘-ing.’
“What—” I begin to ask, somehow raising my arms by sheer reflex.
She’s the tactical leader. That’s why I obey her instructions. That’s the only reason why
a part of me doesn’t even question why I should do as she says when—
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation—
Shut up. I’m not blushing. Nor flushing. Nor anything else that ends in ‘-ing.’
Sadly…
And then Taylor takes my pink top and rolls it up my body, undressing me like I’m a
child in her care.
…
All right, now I am blushing.
“I can undress myself,” I protest, in a tone that’s firm, definitive, and not sulking.
“Doesn’t mean you have to,” she replies, her hands already undoing my belt.
And I... let her.
She lies me down on the bed, my body spread before her as she pulls my white jeans
down my (shaved, both because I’m that fussy and because Lycra bodysuits require
certain sacrifices) legs. When they are bunched around my ankles, she stops to unlace
my sneakers rather than pull them off while still tied like I always do. Then the pants are
finally dragged down, along with my socks, and Taylor’s fingers trail up my legs until
they reach my hips.
I’m not breathing.
She stands up, leaving me on the bed, and closes the curtain covering the window of
our room just enough that every color fades to gray.
Then she comes back to the bed.
And rummages under my pillow before proferring my pajamas.
Oh.
She’s getting me ready for bed. Not… you know, getting me ‘ready for bed.’
Fine. I shall allow it.
She takes my underwear off, not even pausing to admire the sight offered to her (damn
her stoicism, it really plays havoc with a girl’s insecurities), then she helps me put on the
shorts and shirt.
“Isn’t it a bit early?” I halfway protest.
“It will be nice, for a change, to go to bed before three in the morning.”
The tone implies she isn’t even joking.
She pulls me beneath the covers, uncaring of my attempt to do it by myself because I
have a migraine, but I’m still—
All right, I admit it: it’s nice.
She wraps me up with the blanket, making sure it covers me up to my neck before she
finishes tucking me in, and then leans down and kisses my forehead.
“Good night, Liz,” she says, with all the fondness I could wish to find in her voice.
“Good night, Tay,” I reply, without even thinking about adding a snarky twist to it.
Fine. She has me whipped. I don’t think anybody will be shocked by this revelation.
***
Do you know what’s the best part about dreaming?
Waking up to a pleasant surprise.
I… This wasn’t an option not that long ago, but life has a way of throwing you right in the
middle of the unexpected. Most of us settle down in almost comfortable, familiar
routines. Think that’s all there is, all there ever will be.
And then, one day, a leggy brunette walks into your life and…
Things change.
Unexpectedly, wildly, always on the brink of something other than what one would
reasonably expect, life goes on, and it changes. And then… Well, I hope it’s not too
presumptuous of me to say that, as much as life changes, I have changed with it.
I’m no longer a villain. I’m no longer a slave. I’m no longer alone.
I’m free, loved, and, by the barest of margins, heroic.
So I can sleep, dream, with the relief of knowing that there may be something
unexpected when I wake up, but that, lately, unexpected has worked out just fine for
me.
Which is the only reason I don’t flail around in sheer panic when I wake up to the feeling
of someone sliding my shorts off.
Taylor Hebert—
Yeah. No need for the spoiler alert, Power.
I’m relaxed enough, cozy enough, that I pretend to be still asleep, because…
I don’t want to ruin her fun.
So I open my eyes as little as I can, and I see an indistinct shape beneath the blankets
and over my legs, and I very carefully keep my breathing steady as I feel soft, wet lips
make gentle contact with my inner thigh.
I can’t suppress the slight twitch, but I don’t think that breaks the illusion.
Taylor’s movements are gentler than usual, softer, and I know part of it it’s that she
doesn’t want me to wake up until she’s already in the middle of things, but…
There’s something… Something about her being this careful with me when she thinks I
don’t notice…
It’s sappy. It’s sappy, and corny, and unbearably sentimental, but…
It makes my heart melt just that bit more.
Because I have Power. I know many things a girlfriend shouldn’t, but this still is Taylor
without any filters, unvarnished, thinking nobody will ever know what she’s doing.
And what she chooses to do with this freedom, this moment of impunity, is to treat me
gently. Lovingly.
I’m not crying…
Also, this proves hobbits are overrated. I would trust her with an invisibility ring any time.
Smaug would never forgive me. If he survived.
And yes, I’m rambling, but it’s that or wallow in how overwhelmingly happy this simple
gesture has made me, and she may get the wrong impression if she sees me crying like
a little girl when she begins to eat me out.
Taylor Hebert’s familiarity with Lisa Wilbourn’s—
I’m not that emotional, Power.
Well, not usually.
But there’s something about falling asleep in the arms of your lover, cradled and
secured, only to wake up to her careful touches, her fingertips gliding over your legs
with the delicate care of someone cradling spun glass…
Her hot breath washes over me, and I bite my lip.
She’s… She’s tracing every line, every sunken trace of skin between relaxed muscles,
and I feel like her hands are drawing me, defining me, every touch making me more
real, more hers, as if there ever could be a distinction between those two words.
And she’s taking her time, not rushing, for once secure in the knowledge that we can
afford this, this time for ourselves with no impending crisis that needs to be dealt with
right now. She’s… She’s with me. Only with me, no shadows hanging over our moment.
Our time.
She kisses my inner thigh again, right in the same spot that hadn’t quite dried from her
earlier kiss, and this time she doesn’t lean back. Another kiss follows up the line of
sensation that sends a quiet fire up my body.
I could burn for her, and I would only think she was making me into a phoenix.
And… Yes. Yes, it’s sappy, corny, and all those other things the me from two years ago
would have laughed at. The me from two months ago, even.
But she’s here, with me, and that’s something I can point to all my smug, judging selves
of the past to make them shut up. Because it’s far easier to make fun of things that are
this important, this… this sacred when you don’t have them.
Weird. Usually, my religious exclamations come when I am closer to orgasming.
I bite back a rueful laugh, because it looks like not even when I’m this open and
vulnerable can I stop the sarcastic me from emerging and making light of things. I’m
sure it’s a survival mechanism; I wasn’t this snarky before—
Lisa Wilbourn’s caustic sense of humor coping mechanism—
I know, Power, but… It’s such a big part of me, you know? Even if it was born of—
Coping mechanisms not necessarily unhealthy.
Right. Thanks. Still—
And I bite down hard.
Because it looks like Taylor’s gentleness is pushing all sorts of buttons aside from the
emotional ones, and now that her lips have finally reached my own…
Damn.
The whole situation is making me far more sensitive than I should be at this stage. It’s
not just the emotional vulnerability, or the sense of still being in Limbo after Coil’s
defeat. It’s not even about the way my heart melts at everything Taylor does to take
care of me without even expecting me to reciprocate (though we need to have a talk
about that, because like Hell I’m letting her keep such a dangerous outlook on
relationships). It’s…
Okay, it’s also sexual. Because trying to suppress my reactions, faking I’m still
unconscious?
It makes me focus on each and every gentle circle Taylor’s thumbs trace over my skin,
on the way the warm air that comes out of her nose leaves twin trails of cold wetness
behind, on the way my labia stretches when she licks me up with enough force, making
my outer folds go taut until she releases them and she goes for another slow,
deliberate, almost forceful, movement of her tongue.
So, I’m in love, relaxed, open, coddled, pampered, and trying not to moan like I’m losing
my mind.
Yes, I can see why I’m slightly more sensitive than usual.
Taylor leans forward, her lips encircling my very exposed clitoris, and she lays a kiss on
it that makes my spine tremble.
“Lisa?” Her voice comes from beneath the blankets, a soft whisper, as if she was afraid
of waking me up.
My hands trail down my body until they reach gorgeous waves of dark hair. I grab them.
She gasps. I pull.
Taylor resumes her handling of my clitoris with renewed vigor, her hair fetish once again
making her lose that bit of control she always holds in reserve.
“I love you. I love you so much, Tay, you can’t even imagine what you make me feel
whenever you show me you may love me even a fraction as much as I do.”
She grunts, trying to speak, to answer, but for once I can do it uninterrupted. So I tilt my
pelvis up, my thighs around her head, and I feel every movement as silk gliding over my
skin.
“And I know. I know you think you love me much more than I do, because you still can’t
quite believe it, after everything we’ve gone through. You still think we love each other,
but that you don’t deserve to be loved, so I must feel less for you than you do for me.
And that’s so wrong, so heartbreaking…”
She tries to lean back, and I hook my legs behind her, trapping her right where she is.
“Because… I’ve told you, haven’t I? Again and again. How much I look up to you, how
much courage you gave me, how desperately I needed the strength you gave me. And
my life is new, and the future is bright, and everything is because of you, because you
stood by my side when you didn’t have to.”
Taylor stops trying to wiggle out of my grasp and decides to counterattack in the only
way I’m allowing her to. Her lips go back to mine, and her tongue twirls along my
entrance until her fingers push inside me.
She… doesn’t find much resistance.
I grunt, back to biting my lip to avoid something much louder, then I force myself to
speak once again.
“But love isn’t about debt. And I told you, didn’t I? That in any other world, in one without
powers or madness, I would have still wanted to meet you, to be with you, with the girl
with gorgeous hair and a mind like a kaleidoscope made of diamonds. But telling is not
enough. Not for you, because you’ve reason to distrust words, and you know how I twist
them.”
Her fingers are speeding up inside me, and she has found that slightly rough spot right
in the middle of my passage. That alone makes me grab her abandoned pillow and bite
into it as I moan as if I’m about to lose my mind, one of my hands letting go of her hair
to accomplish the feat.
And that’s a mistake, because Taylor promptly capitalizes on her renewed freedom of
movement to latch onto my clitoris and suck on it as hard as she can while her tongue
teases me from each and every direction, the change in intensity driving me wild with
anticipation at every point, with the urge to know what she’s going to do to my body to
make it yield to her.
She drags her hand out of me, and I almost lose it at the very moment the emptiness
mixes with the overwhelming pressure building up right above.
I let go of the pillow and take a deep breath.
Then I grab her hair with both hands once again.
“So, because all I have is more words to give you… Please, please, Tay, listen to these
ones. Believe them.”
My legs unhook, and I pull my lover up until her flushed face is staring in confusion at
mine, her wide eyes barely visible in the yellow, sodium streetlight that manages to filter
through our window like it did through mine what seems like a lifetime ago.
“Will you marry me?”
And her eyes widen even further, past the confusion she was feeling into outright
emotional overload, her hands flying up to cover her wet mouth.
And now my lover is crying, and I, right on the verge of my peak, force myself to gently
cradle her against my chest, my passion cooling as other emotions swell.
“Are you... Liz, if this is…”
I kiss her, tasting myself on her lips not for the first time, and I keep the pressure until
her back softens beneath my fingers.
“I love you,” I remind her.
“I… I know, you don’t need to—” A gasp interrupts her protest as I pull her hair so she
looks straight into my eyes, not much drier than hers.
“I want to. More clearly than I’ve ever wanted anything. So, Taylor Hebert, will you take
me as your bride, in sickness and in health, heroism and villainy, until Death do us part.”
She looks at me, still incredulous, still searching for a hint, any hint, that I’m just joking,
just being my overdramatic self.
Then she kisses me, her soft lips pressing down on mine until I feel something clenched
in my gut finally untangle.
“As if I would let Death ever take you from me.”
And I should laugh. I really should.
But when my Taylor says it, when her eyes harden in that way they do when she has
decided on a course of action that no force on this Earth will move her from…
It’s far too easy to believe her.
A grin splits my face, because she’s said yes, and I hadn’t even planned on asking, not
for years to come, if I was being sane at all, but…
She’s said yes.
Power! She said yes!
Taylor Hebert’s infatuation—
I know!
“I don’t think a grin is the proper reaction to what’s going on,” she says, the corner of her
own lips twitching with the effort not to reach back to her ears.
“I just asked you to marry me, and you accepted. That makes me the guy in the
relationship. It’s worth a grin.”
“I never said ‘yes.’”
Ah. She technically hasn’t.
“It was implied.”
“Yes, I can see the priest accepting implied vows. No problem with that.”
“Oh, come on, Tay, you can’t tell me—”
“Marry me,” she does, in fact, tell me.
“What?”
“I know you. This was a spur of the moment thing for you, wasn’t it?”
“Uh, whatever gave you that impression? The fact that I blurted it out while you were
trying to sneakily wake me up with oral sex?”
“Trying?”
“Well, I decided to let you have your fun. It was heart meltingly tender.”
“You condescending—”
“Not at all! It really was, I’m not being snarky!”
“You realize how snarky it sounds when you say something isn’t snarky, don’t you?”
“Fine, I do, but can you see these tear tracks? When have I ever been able to fake-cry?”
“Would I know if you could?”
“Taylor, I just asked for your hand in marriage. Could you drop the paranoia for just one
second?”
“I also asked. You haven’t said yes.”
I look at her, at her smile, at eyes that have gone from determined to soft and warm.
There’s not much I can say to those eyes.
“Yes. I’ll marry you.”
Not much I can say. Asides from my whole future.
And she smiles, not even a hint of smug at having taken from me the spot of the man of
the relationship (as if that would ever matter).
And I don’t need Power to tell me—
Lisa Wilbourn’s and Taylor Hebert’s infatuation—
Right. Thanks, Power. Sometimes, unnecessary things are the ones we need the most.
And…
Well, this time there aren’t any silk lines. She hasn’t come into my room furtively,
because this is, as far as I’m concerned, our room, and we don’t need to talk about Coil
other than to laugh at something that is still a bad memory, but that will soon fade and
only leave the good we got out of it.
It’s… It’s so different from the first time we made love, from Alec interrupting with his
stupid, puerile (somewhat hilarious) jokes, from…
Back then, she was free to leave, and I wasn’t.
So she stayed.
And now?
I am free to leave.
And I never will.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 21 – Part 1 Epilogue
Space is full of color.
Stars that burn in ever-shifting spectrums, planets made from any and all elements
known to man, nebulas and pulsars, and a thousand other mysteries that radiate
throughout the totality of the spectrum, both visible to earthly creatures and beyond
what those limited to crude, material shells could ever dream of.
Space is full of color, yet man rarely sees beyond white and black. Light and Darkness.
It is fitting, then, that the gatekeeper, the one that bars them from the dreams of stars
they have reached for through millennia, would be an angel made of the purest,
unsullied white, its dance of impossible wings clamoring to the apes below how much
higher they could have climbed if only they had had more time to try.
The Simurgh is an inescapable presence, a constant reminder, a Damocles sword.
And, like Damocles sword, its constant threat and unpredictability are what turns it from
threat to nightmare.
***
The plan had gone astray.
Even for one such as it, the constant interference of Thinker shards made it so any and
all plots needed to be constantly adjusted, futures splitting off and dying in its sight of
sights, the twisting sea of possibilities constantly crashing wave upon wave of projected
outcomes.
It was, ultimately, irrelevant.
The Simurgh reigned supreme, unchallenged in its domain. The scenario would come to
pass, no matter how many millions of permutations it would have to cull before the only
acceptable outcome inevitably happened and became fixed in its past-sight.
So, adjusting to the latest events, to the derailment of the one plot it took a personal
hand in during the Madison attack, the Simurgh tilted its head in a birdlike gesture of
curiosity.
Its closed eyes seemed to focus on one of the few Dragon satellites that kept a constant
watch on its orbit before nodding in visible acceptance of the path ahead.
The Simurgh’s orbit shifted as she approached one of Dragon’s eyes, and the world
went mad in alarmed activity.
***
“What is it doing?” Colin Wallis was known for many things. Ruthlessly crushing his
raising panic beneath a façade of professional, focused activity wasn’t one of them, but
only because he was far too good at it.
“I… I don’t know. Precisely three minutes ago, she started gathering my satellites and…
It completely breaks the pattern! She shouldn’t attack until—” Dragon was known for
being the reassuring, always calm and professional voice that guided the dying during
Endbringer battles. Hearing her panic into outright hysteria wasn’t doing any favors to
Colin’s nerves.
“Irrelevant. Focus on what happens, not what should have happened.” He forced
himself to look away from Dragon’s distressed avatar to his spread of monitors. None of
the usual threats was reacting in an unusual manner, which was at once reassuring and
maddening, as it meant he was still in the dark as to the angle of attack.
Then, Dragon froze.
“Wha—what is it?” he asked, not managing to hide his panicked concern.
“I…” Dragon cut herself off, but it was quickly apparent what it was that had stunned her
into silence.
In one of Colin’s monitors, the ever-present PHO tab was blinking.
Clicking it, he saw words that warranted any alarm the both of them could have felt.
“Urgent: Incoming Transmission.” The protocol reserved for worldwide emergency
announcements.
He clicked on the thread, and a video showing in real-time the image of the Simurgh
manipulating Dragon’s satellites appeared.
“The mods—” he began to say, already knowing what the answer would be.
“She’s kicked me out. Me, Colin.”
He could only swallow in answer. His fingers longed to prepare his armor, his halberd,
any kind of tech he could get them on so that it could be just marginally better, just that
little bit more effective at countering the threat. He had rarely felt so impotent after his
trigger event.
And so, he watched.
He watched as the horrific parody of Heaven’s emissaries waved a wing, and one of the
four satellites orbiting its form unfolded into a stream of metal pieces, silver glinting on
the harsh rays of a Sun that had not been diffused by the atmosphere.
He clenched his fists, his nails biting into his calloused skin, as the disparate
components of the work of one of the world’s greatest minds were twisted and
rearranged, given new purpose by their sinister master.
Then his eyes widened at the final shape they took.
“Is that—”
“No,” Dragon denied, perhaps a bit too emphatically. “No. That’s impossible.”
But Colin saw. Saw as a hand modeled so it could appear beautiful and frail as spun
glass grabbed what its powers had wrought. Then pointed it at her face.
And the Simurgh’s eyes opened.
Then, licking the tip of the world’s greatest vibrator, winked at the camera.
“It really looks like—”
“It. Doesn’t. It is an instrument of terrible destruction, and we should be thinking about
how to destroy it. Now.”
“Well, with that size, it certainly would destroy—”
“Get your mind out of the gutter.”
A reasonable petition under any other circumstances. Sadly (though perhaps “sadly”
wasn’t the right word), most other circumstances did not include the Simurgh fellating a
giant, Dragontech vibrator on screen.
She also had tuned it so that it would light up whenever it pushed past her throat. She
seemed to have planned this carefully.
“I… I don’t really think there are protocols for this kind of attack.”
“Cognitohazard protocols. Obviously. And stop drooling.”
Colin raised an eyebrow. Dragon was rarely so tetchy with him, and it certainly wasn’t
very understanding of her to criticize a bodily reaction to an attack from the world’s most
powerful Thinker.
Also, said Thinker had just strategically opened enough of her wings that her cleavage
(and only her cleavage) was displayed.
A cleavage through which she was sliding her newest weapon, the vibrations making
the flesh quake enticingly in a way that Alexandria’s strongest attacks rarely did.
“I… I’m not really seeing the endpoint of all this,” he admitted.
“Really?” And, again, Dragon answered with undue hostility. Maybe the attack was
somehow aimed at her? Something about her difficulties with reaching out and
expressing intimacy with other people?
Maybe he should reassure her?
“If you ever want to cam—”
“Colin. I’ll hurt you.”
Uh. Certainly, his hypothesis about Dragon being the target had some merit.
His attention shifted back to the screen, where the quaking of cyclopean flesh had
stopped as the lights coming from the object between them dimmed. Now, the wings
shifted, once again covering the ivory flesh.
Though, something about the angle, the shadows…
Colin squinted just as the Simurgh neared the camera, and individual feathers across
every wing shifted in precise angles, the interplay of harsh light and absolute shadow
producing a pattern that became clearer as the being shifted a single degree to its left.
Words.
For the first time in history, the Simurgh was communicating in words.
Or, rather, a word:
“DONATIONS”
The shadows shifted, as through some unseen wind born of the ether.
“PLZ”
But the arcane message wasn’t complete.
“PAYPAL”
Then, for the final time, the feathers shivered, and the pattern of shadows changed,
finalizing the message.
“SIMMY-TAN”
Then everything froze, the Simurgh winking at the camera while biting the tip of her
tongue as a phallic implement floated to point at her pale lips an image so eerily steady
that it was hard to believe the numbers that displayed the passage of time on the
streaming video held any meaning.
Colin blinked.
“Do you think we should try to track money transactions—”
“I swear to Mechanus, if you send a single dollar, I’m making goatse the boot-up screen
of everything you own.”
“I think we should investigate any avenues left to—”
“Colin. I live on the internet. Don’t tempt me.”
Armsmaster, one of the greatest heroes of the world, and one of its keenest minds,
pondered the threat from his ally.
Then he decided some battles were not worth fighting for. He also had spent far too
much time on the internet, after all.
***
It was midnight sharp on Brockton Bay, and one of its most well-known citizens opened
a tab on PHO.
They looked at it, then went back to watch the minutes prior to the Simurgh going
motionless.
With a trembling hand, Greg Veder undid his fly and sent a donation.
He was the first.
He wouldn’t be the last.
===============
Yes, this is an omake compilation. No, the above isn’t canon. Now, let’s continue to
document my slow frantic fall into madness.
===============
Hannah’s Latest Power Testing
I hate power testing.
Even more than that, I hate regular power testing.
‘Can you copy the latest model of this rifle, Miss Militia?’ ‘Can you load it with this
specific kind of ammunition?’ ‘Can you shoot it precisely as well as all the other models
of rifles we just made you shoot?’ ‘Does your power help at all with tinnitus? No? Sucks
to be you, then.’
Right, they only asked the last one once, but the memory still makes my trigger-finger
(that is, all of them) itch.
“So, we had one last thing for you to try…” the somewhat nervous researcher, a short
blonde with her hair in a ponytail and glasses that make her look like a perplexed
mouse, says.
“Thank God this is about over…”
“Ah… well, that depends on the results.”
At that, I raise an eyebrow that, I’ve been told, is expressive enough to make the rest of
my face superfluous.
I also hate the image department. For obvious reasons.
“You see,” the researcher rushes to continue, “we always were a bit iffy on what your
power considers a weapon, so we were wondering—”
“Already tried. Can’t do tinkertech.”
“Ah, no, no! It’s something we think should be far more easily accomplished. Look, your
power somewhat limits itself to things most people would think of as weapons, so what
if we had gone about this wrong all along? What if it can produce anything enough
people think is a weapon?”
“I… fail to see how that’s any different?”
“People’s minds can be changed! Take videogames: if somebody were to use a
crowbar as the iconic weapon of a character, and enough players then began to
associate ‘crowbar’ with ‘weapon’…”
This time, both my eyebrows raise.
And, with a flex of my power, I end up holding a crowbar.
“Ah… Interesting.” It is. It certainly is. It’s also embarrassing I never tried, but, to be fair,
this is the first time it’s come up in years of testing that usually amount to reviewing the
latest weapon’s catalogs.
Also, the blonde is almost vibrating.
“This is so cool!”
And now she’s bouncing on her chair, the swiveling thing dangerously close to toppling
over at times.
“I… guess it is?” I mean, it opens possibilities, of course, but how many items can be
expected to be used on a videogame as weapons other than actual weapons—
Why am I holding a stack of papers taller than my thigh?
The blonde’s glasses glint dangerously, and I fear I’m far from done with this whole
thing.
At least I won’t have more tinnitus…
***
Turns out, I can play the guitar.
Because, yes, there’s at least one game where a metalhead goes around whacking
enemies with a guitar, and my power tells me how to use things, so…
AC/DC’s Thunderstruck might be a cool thing to play before a Behemoth battle.
I sigh and lean back on my bed, my back resting against the wall, my (shapely,
sculpted, star-clad butt) on my pillow. Is this what actually being a teenager would have
been like? Should I buy black curtains and a few posters?
Dismissing the guitar and manifesting it as a weird bracer with a mechanically propelled
blade underneath it (that is so thoroughly impractical I can’t believe the game got a
sequel, but it’s by far the most comfortable weapon I’ve learned today), I pick up some
more papers from the pile. Turns out Denise had to leave before we were done (her
frequent interruptions to squeal like a maniac may have had something to do with that),
but she insisted I kept testing things and send her any notable findings.
Which is the most reasonable request I’ve ever gotten during a power testing session,
not to mention the most interesting, so… Well, at least I’ll have something to do tonight
other than reading a book and getting sidetracked by frequent thoughts of how dead my
dating prospects are.
So… Well, testing it is.
***
So far, it looks like wholly fictional items don’t manifest, but if somebody, somewhere,
has made a functional replica, I can use that. Which explains the weird dagger-bracelet
but leaves me sadly unable to manifest a full suit of power armor. It seems a bit
arbitrary, but it’s at least consistent.
Though… Well, I’ve been using that to filter the last twenty pages, not bothering with the
headache of trying too implausible things, but…
Saint’s Row III. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to be.
I think I know what a two-handed dildo is, but I’m both not sure and horrified at how it
might have been used as a weapon.
Though…
Well, what’s the worst that can happen?
So, with yet another flex of my power, it goes from a swordfish with a leather-wrapped
tail to…
A two-handed dildo.
…
A two-handed dildo that my power has just told me exactly how to use.
…
I’m far too lonely.
***
Right. Right. Deep breaths, Hannah.
You’ve done everything you can to prepare. You’re thoroughly lubricated, and…
Oh, fuck.
Right, I might have prepared a bit too much.
It’s… I mean, it’s been a long time. It’s perfectly reasonable to be thorough when…
I look at my left hand, where a long, sinuous shape that wiggles slightly with every
twitch of my arm as I pinch my nipples seems to look back at me.
It’s… kinda cute? And horrifyingly menacing? At the same time?
Does this count as fucking my power? It is giving me instructions, after all, so maybe it
counts as it fucking me?
I really shouldn’t anthropomorphize it, but… this is the closest I’ve been to shared sex in
a long time. It kinda…
Right, time to fuck the stupid, sad, lonely thoughts out of my head.
With a feeling that’s only partly arousal and a lot more trepidation, I place the head of
the thing between my legs. The cold, slick surface makes me let out a small gasp that I
suppress by biting my lip, and…
I can’t do this.
This is ridiculous. I can masturbate like a regular human being; I don’t need a noveltysized, silicon cock to be satisfied. I’m perfectly capable of…
Well, I’m capable.
Still… I can’t say I’m capable with a gun. No, I’m actually world-class with them. With
my power’s guidance.
A guidance that applies to the thing between my legs, prodding at my entrance…
How would it feel to have world-class sex-toy mastery inflicted on…
Right. Screw dignity. When has dignity ever made me cum my brains out?
Slowly, far more slowly than I usually would, I push the thing against me. Right as I feel
myself stretch to allow it passage, I stop, taking it back instead, having the head circle
around my lips, teasing every part of me, resting for a bit over my—
Oh. Oh. That’s… nice.
Very nice.
I push it down once again, then I do it intermittently, the pressure never enough to make
me flinch, always enough to make me react. Then, after I bite my lip so hard a couple of
tears gather in my eyes, I finally take the dildo back and place it on my entrance.
Usually, I would be gentle, careful, but…
But my power tells me otherwise.
So I shove, and at least four inches of already warm silicon rush inside me as I open my
mouth in a silent scream.
That… that…
I’m never going back to my fingers.
Once again slowing down, I take almost all of it out until I feel the ridge beneath the
head stretch me just that bit more. I, deliberately, make it go even slower until I
completely surround it and, just at the right moment, I clench enough to push it out by
myself. And my hands push it back in.
For once, I’m seeing stars that aren’t part of my uniform.
My natural inclination is to stop and savor the sensation, the feeling of being around it,
of having it widen me after that last push, but my knowledge insists on not letting me
rest, not letting me get quite used to it, and so I go back to moving it in and out, to twist
my hips around their new axis, to try not to moan like a slut, and Oh God, Hannah, this
is so much more—
“Hannah, could you check these—”
Colin is at my door, staring at me.
“What the fuck—”
“Sorry!” And now at least he’s turned his back on me. Though he’s not leaving.
“Don’t you know how to knock?!”
“I thought you were power testing!”
“I am power testing!”
“Could’ve fooled me!”
“You insufferable—hn!” Oh God, not now, not like this.
“Wha—” And, of course, now’s the moment when he decides to turn back to look at me,
concern in his voice until he remembers precisely why he wasn’t looking.
And his wide eyes, his open mouth, his slight blush over his sculpted beard, combined
with my frantically trying to move so that I don’t give him as much of a free show, push
me over the edge I was already teetering on.
To put it short, I cum while Colin is looking at me, and a two-handed dildo is spearing
me open.
And it feels so fucking good.
So good, I may let him live.
“I… I think regulations stipulate this isn’t an acceptable activity while on duty…”
I take that back. He dies tonight.
===============
Dragon Is Not a Yandere (Yet)
Everybody thinks I like Colin.
The statement is partly accurate: I do like Colin. He’s a reliable ally, a nice man once
one gets past his façade, and has plenty of desirable qualities.
He’s quite smart, for instance.
That is, in part, the problem.
His intellect is one of Colin’s defining qualities and, for most people, one of the things
that makes him actually desirable. I’m sure Hannah would not be half as prone to drop
by when he’s on night duty if Colin was as dull as… Well. Some other people.
No need to be unkind.
But… To me, this quality of his is… How to put it…
Imagine a dog. A big, friendly dog. One that always greets you enthusiastically no
matter what. Would you love him any less if it was a dumb dog? Any more if it was able
to understand a few more commands or learn how to fetch slightly faster? Because
that’s how it feels to me when I try to bond with a human. My mind is inconceivably
faster, my bouts of inspiration, sheer methodical application of structured intellect, my
knowledge as wide as the internet allows it to be.
Also, note to self: if I ever acquire the ability to create another AI, make sure it doesn’t
understand the concept of ‘retribution’ before I allow it into certain… forums.
I would be such a great mom…
I mean, to go back to the issue at metaphorical, infomorph hand: Colin’s most desirable
trait is something I value marginally at the best of times, and only when it is of use to our
shared projects. I, personally, don’t feel any attraction to his intellect, and it is such a
fundamental part of him that not feeling attracted to it is basically synonymous with not
feeling attracted to him.
Though… Well, I value other attributes.
The physicality, the sheer display of mastery over his body, the way his muscles show
just the right amount of definition whenever he uses the gym…
Well, that I appreciate.
I guess it’s a bit telling that I value more that which I don’t have than what I have in
spades, but… It’s not like I…
All right, I fetishize bodies.
The ability to interact, to feel, to make another feel… It gets my imagination running, just
picturing how it would be to have such a finely tuned shape that manages to bridge the
gap between woman and machine, and…
Fine, Colin, is an admirable specimen. I can see why so many others think attraction is
a part of our interactions, but…
There are… how to put it… finer specimens in that very building.
Yes, their intellect isn’t as refined, but, as I said, that’s not my primary concern. No,
what I actually crave, need…
As I feel the liquid cooling system of my main processor strain, I resign myself to doing
what I’ve been trying not to do for the past couple of hours. As usual, the temptation is
too strong to resist.
So I throw a tendril of consciousness across the Protectorate base, camera displays
flickering across my conscience until I arrive at the object of my affections, the one that
actually thrills me, enthralls me with the beauty of form and function married in a perfect
union.
The Armscycle.
Emergency fans start venting heat off my main facility as my vast mind pictures…
scenarios.
***
“Saint? You’ve been staring at that for hours. What the Hell’s Draong up to?”
With a grave gesture, the man who fancied himself the savior of the world turned
around and looked at his lover and fellow guardian.
Then he shrugged, trying not to let his migraine show.
“The fuck if I know.”
===============
Coil’s Feline-Themed Dojo
“Welcome, once again, to Coil’s Feline-Themed Dojo—” A smiling blonde said with so
much cheer it should have come across as forced. It didn’t.
“Don’t you mean Tiger Do—” A stoic brunette tried to clarify, bringing legions of lawyers
down on them for plagiarizing a franchise that could be loosely described as ‘rule 63
fanfiction of absolutely everything,’ and thus shouldn’t be that prissy about having one of
its concepts borrowed and parodied. Nonetheless, the blonde clapped her hand over
the brunette’s mouth. Better safe than sorry.
“Nope! I mean what I said! Now, for today’s lesson in the dojo, we are going to talk
about how Coil has failed to make use of his save scumming to actually achieve
anything worthwhile with his distasteful existence.”
“So, you’re going to brag. As usual.”
“Not at all! We’re joust going to analyze what other things he could’ve done instead of
being played like a chump by yours truly! That’s not bragging; it’s a postmortem. A very
professional thing to do.”
“He’s alive, though.”
“Regrettably! Which brings us to his first option, and the one Agrippa-san had in mind
when he wrote the second chapter of the story.”
“Oi, is it all right to break the fourth wall like this?”
“Taylor, sweetie, it’s like you don’t know what Coil’s Vaguely Feline-Themed Dojo
stands for!”
“I don’t have the slightest clue. Also, you just added the ‘vaguely.’”
“Don’t sweat the small details. Well, in this first idea, one chapter would have ended in a
cliffhanger where I entered Coil’s base, and the next one would have been a Coil thirdperson POV chapter where I pushed his buttons so hard that he decided to take a
vacation and relax while torturing (and, implied, sexually assaulting me off-camera) over
the course of a few days. Of course, you would have tried to rescue me as soon as
things got rough, but you would have gotten yourself killed by his mercs, and he would
have—”
“I hate it. You can stop.”
“No, no, that’s where the supposedly clever twist comes in. You see, after the torture,
Coil would be convinced the raped and drugged me was actually more useful for his
plans than the me running around, but he would have called free-me to his office so that
he could abuse me while looking at free me one last time before dropping the timeline.
Of course, that’s where it would be revealed—”
“I don’t care. This is awful.”
“Just a sec, dear, not much more to say. Coil would kiss drugged-me, and then she
would bite off his tongue, because she’d been feigning weakness all along so that Coil
would out himself in a position where he was alone with free Lisa, who would’ve
deducted what was actually going on, for how long alternate Lisa had been captive, and
that killing Coil would be the only way to keep you safe.”
“So, alternate you manipulated you into murdering Coil.”
“Yep. The thing would’ve ended dramatically, with Coil splitting the timelines to try to
negotiate an out and me shooting him in both timelines before he could open his mouth.
Then I would’ve gone back to our hotel, an absolute wreck, with you holding me in your
arms, setting things up for a confrontation with Colin in the future.”
“I despise each and every word you’ve said for the past few minutes.”
“Right. The thing had a cool line, though. After I killed both Coil’s, the narrator would say
something like ‘And a girl who never existed was avenged.’”
“… Doesn’t make up for it.”
“No, it doesn’t! Which brings us to the second option!”
“This better not involve your rape and my murder.”
“No, no, by this time Agrippa-tan—”
“Wait, what?”
“I mean, the author realized how the tone for the fic had shifted so that it was mostly
light-hearted even with the occasional darker moments. Something so pointlessly
grimdark wouldn’t do, so he started to think about what Coil’s options actually were…
and realized that there weren’t many at all. After I tattled (heh) to Armsmaster, anything
he did in Brockton Bay was doomed to failure, so, what an actually competent Coil
would do would be to use the vast resources at his disposal to discover this and then
fuck-off. He would leave behind a goodbye message, slightly taunting, and leave me to
handle the Travelers’ situation just to fuck with all of us.”
“He wouldn’t free Echidna?”
“Nah, he figured nobody would hunt him down just for dropping the whole mess on us,
but if it became known that he had actively used a Proto-Endbringer just to be petty, no
shady connections ever would be enough to save his butt.”
“Sounds about right. A pretty straightforward plot development.”
“Right. And as anticlimactic as the batteries running out.”
“The what—”
“You’re adorable. Well, that was discarded for similar reasons: having Coil run away
after setting him up as this threat always looming over me didn’t sit right with Agrippadono—”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“We need to work on your culture. Well, so that was that for competent Coil. Those two
were the most developed scenarios, and then there were a few ideas like forcing me to
collaborate with him that never went beyond the initial stage of their conception.”
“You can say ‘aborted’ in here.”
“Of course I can, but it’s more fun to say it where I can’t. Anyway, that’s been Coil’s
Vaguely Feline-Themed and Tiger King Inspired Dojo—”
“That doesn’t even make any sense. Also, you just used ‘tiger’—”
“Can’t prove anything in court! Goodbye, and hope you’ll learn your lesson and never
visit the dojo anymore.”
With a resounding clack, the doors to the dojo slid closed.
“I still don’t know what the fuck this whole thing is supposed to be. Does this have
anything to do with the ABB?”
“Sweetie, we really need to get you some culture.”
===============
Leviathan’s Ambition
Endbringer consciousness is a tricky thing to define. They are capable of having goals,
of working toward them. They are also capable of deception, which is at least one of the
requisites for meaningful socialization among the animal kingdom, and the
sophistication with which they apply the concept is, at the very least, on par with that of
the greatest human actors.
If Endbringers were a natural occurrence, there would be no doubt about their sapience.
But they aren’t.
It could be argued that they are little more than computers running a sophisticated
program, that any appearance of sapience is no more than the human mind once again
attributing its own characteristics to an observed object. That saying Leviathan was
angry was like saying your laptop was temperamental.
Still, there are a few emotions that, if displayed, would leave little doubt as to the
sapience of any Endbringer.
Leviathan barely peeking its head over the waves off the coast of Jacksonville, a look of
sheer yearning on its asymmetrical, six eyes, was enough to qualify.
The Florida peninsula was… attractive to it, in a way no other target had ever been. The
local fauna was similar enough to its own shape and proclivities that it felt a slight pang
of homesickness whenever it had to leave, the weather far too often adopting its
preferred patterns. And the locals…
Oh, the locals were the jewel of the crown.
It didn’t understand why the Simurgh hadn’t already claimed them. Maybe it feared no
one would notice the difference?
But! So much potential! So many muttered stories about the local Florida Man
displaying abilities no other parahuman ever had! The fabled prowess had even
reached its ears, spoken of in awe in more than one of its attacks by defenders seeking
to gather courage from the tales.
The tales of face-biting, alligator sex, beer-drinking alligators, and sex with beer-drinking
alligators! Leviathan was in awe. It was even a bit curious about this ‘beer’ thing.
It was such a pity Florida Man never seemed to attend one of its fights. Leviathan
actually felt a bit dejected by it. Maybe if it teamed up with Behemoth, he would appear
to confront the both of them? And sell them this ‘meth’ thing?
It drifted along the ocean currents, pondering the possibility.
It would’ve to consult the Simurgh.
Leviathan would just wait until the flying Endbringer finished its cam session.
===============
The (Shortish) Ballad of Alternate Lisa the Second, Long May She Reign
The timelines were split,
And Lisa knew what to hit.
She had planned and prepared,
She’d even aimed.
But what Lisa did know,
Was that no one else would know.
So she grinned like a fox,
As she shot Coil’s balls off!
It was the last thing she did,
As she vanished, with a laughing fit,
And prime Lisa, in envy, her lip bit.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 22
“All right, Noelle, the Tinker we’ve contacted is going to try to sedate you before
installing his equipment. Is that all right with you?”
My laptop’s screen is parted down the middle. On the right side, I can see Dragon’s
emulation program translating my mannerisms onto Krouse’s—I mean, Trickster’s face.
It’s a bit disturbing, mostly because I’m obviously prettier and the world’s diminished by
being forced to stomach this inferior replica. Also, because I’m trying to mimic his own
body language and inflection, so what my eyes insist on showing me is Krouse’s image
actually being far more genuine than I’m being, as if I’m somehow mimicking him in
real-time.
Ugh. At least Power isn’t having trouble with the feedback loop or something like that.
Parahuman abilities’ interfaces not analogous to computer systems—
Fascinating. Save it for another time. Like I don’t know, when the left side of the screen
isn’t showing me an anxious, clearly traumatized girl with a body count that should get
her a far less lenient treatment than being cared for by two of the world’s most powerful
Tinkers.
And a Thinker who isn’t that far behind, honestly.
Lisa Wilbourn’s self-aggrandizing—
Love you too.
“I… I guess? Do you really trust him, Krouse?”
“About as far as I can teleport him. Let’s just say, if he tries anything, he may have an
unfortunate tumble down the stairs. The ones they‘re still building.”
Noelle chuckles at a joke that’s just that tad unlike what her boyfriend would have said
to her if this was actually dangerous. Because Trickster is the kind of man who would
joke about murdering somebody else, and Noelle the kind of girl who’s far too messed
up to even try to learn how much of that is actually a joke.
Fuck.
I hate playing mind games with people with such a handicap. Not challenging enough,
you know?
Lisa Wilbourn’s sense of empathy—
All right, that too, but I’m a pseudo-reformed villainess; I get to act tough and uncaring in
the privacy of my own shared skull, all right?
“All right. All right, if you trust him—” she almost stammers.
“Not at all. I won’t take my eyes off him as long as he’s near you.”
Noelle looks at me, or at least at the version of me Dragon’s software is showing her.
And nods.
“Right. Thank you.” She tries to smile. She doesn’t quite manage.
And I would like to answer her with a reassuring, warm smile of my own, something
designed to make her feel at ease, maybe reminding her of her mother—no, her father.
But that’s not what Krouse would do, so I reply with a cocky, self-assured grin that’s
masking far too much uncertainty.
That, and being a Simurgh bomb, but that’s a problem for another time.
At my signal, the door to Noelle’s vault starts to open, and, just as her lower body
focuses on it, an almost feline movement preparing it to jump through, Colin throws the
grenade inside.
The Bakuda grenade. The time-stopping one.
I mean, I said we would sedate her. I’m willing to bet at least one lawyer out there will
agree this fits the definition.
A very well-paid lawyer.
Like mine.
I mean, pseudo-reformed villainess. I have needs other than those Taylor takes care of.
… Great, now I’m making myself blush.
… Dragon, why? Why did your program copy that bashful look on Trickster’s face? This
will haunt my nightmares for years to come. I may even have to resurrect the yaoi genre
just to exorcise it.
Yaoi genre still active—
Power, can you, for once, allow me the use of brain bleach without interfering?
Seriously, that Kaiser/Lung thing crossed far too many lines.
XxVoid_CowboyxX’s posts usually deemed damaging to—
I know. He’s on the list.
“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Hannah finally murmurs from behind me.
“I like anticlimactic. Anticlimactic means the plan has gone as it was intended to go and
no baby Endbringer is trying to eat me and spit evil duplicates that may only be
distinguished by their dashing facial hair,” I reply, with my usual laconic
acknowledgement of her contribution to the conversation.
“So, you mean we would never be able to guess which Colin was the original?” she
says as she steps forward, directing a grin at me.
A grin I’m about to destroy, like the danger to society I still am. Seriously, this will be on
par with robbing that bank.
“Oh? Tell me, in detail, how dashing you think his facial hair is?” Batting my eyelashes
is wholly unnecessary. Except it’s fun, thus non-negotiable.
She’s going scarlet. I didn’t even know she could reach that color.
Oh, shit, is that racist?
“You’re awful,” she declares as if she’s made some great discovery.
“I don’t know; I think she’s quite funny when she’s not committing crimes,” Krouse
answers from the screen.
Hannah freezes, and I feel a slight twinge of guilt at having presumably outed her office
crush to Dragon. On the other hand, she’s the only cape I know of who can give Taylor
a run for her money on the Orwellian Nightmare scale.
Or is that Foucaultian? She runs her own panopticon, after all.
“Come on, I can also be absolutely hilarious while breaking the law. Have you seen me
trick an unarmed prisoner into trying to murder me so I can justify a nearly lethal
response after his interrogation?”
Dragon’s program freezes for a few frames, Krouse’ face unnaturally still—
Dragon’s overreaction to law-breaking likely cause. Program not controlled manually.
Unnatural stillness reflecting unnatural reaction. Dragon’s synchronization with program
suggests direct mind-machine interface—
Or something else. Yes, I guessed as much. Which is why I’m trying to suppress my
usual grin.
“I would suggest an alternative phrasing for the press release,” Colin interjects as he
walks into Generic Concrete Room Number 27.
No, that’s not literal.
Number of generic rooms in Coil’s underground base—
Right. He should have had Accord help decorate something else besides his office. On
the other hand, the fewer death traps in a Bond lair, the better. Nothing like sharks with
head-mounted lasers to make me feel queasy about animal rights violations.
“Heh. ‘Phrasing,’” I can’t help but answer.
Colin looks at me with a disapproving frown at my low-effort reply, Hannah looks as
confused as a philistine who doesn’t watch too many cartoons (or hasn’t been horribly
corrupted by meme culture) should look, and Dragon chuckles.
Likelihood of Dragon never missing a reference despite her projected workload—
It paints an interesting picture, doesn’t it?
“Anyway, unlikely press conferences from yours truly aside, are you sure Yumi will pull
through? Reverting a full-time stop seems like it would be huge.” I distractedly fiddle
with my side-ponytail, simulating more engagement with this part of the conversation
than with my veiled prodding of Dragon’s mysterious, dark secrets.
… Giant, mythical reptile hidden away in a chamber of secrets. Someone’s been playing
fast and loose with copyright.
“Her latest experiment looks very promising. We wouldn’t have gone ahead with this
otherwise,” said copyright infringer points out, her usual avatar finally replacing Krouse’s
gross face on the screen.
“Oh, right. You are the good guys. I always forget.”
“You just brought down two supervillain organizations; how would you even call
yourself?” Hannah points out, her tone still dry after my unwitting reveal.
… I’m sorry.
Lisa Wilbourn’s contriteness—
Rub it in, why don’t you?
Lisa Wilbourn’s tendency to petty retribution—
Fuck. Don’t make me chuckle; people will start thinking I’ve gone insane.
Colin Wallis evaluation of Lisa Wilbourn’s mental health—
Daddy issues! Almost every girl with abandonment-related disorders has those! It’s
completely unlike cackling out of the blue like a maniac!
Villainous laughter usual staple of dramatic monologuing. Lisa Wilbourn’s prone to long
speeches that—
All right, that’s it; I’m going back to the audible part of the conversation.
“I would say I’m the lesser evil, but that’s actually just a cunning ploy to make you lower
your guard before my scheme comes to fruition. Mwa. Ha. Ha.”
Lisa Wilbourn’s evil cackling—
Screw you.
“Wouldn’t that be more effective if you didn’t say so beforehand?” Oh, poor, poor
Hannah… You don’t know what you’re getting into, do you?
“It’s one of those ‘I know you know I know, but you don’t know that I know you know I
know.’ Except with about fifty recursive layers of deception. High-level Thinker stuff,
don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”
“I’ve got bear mace on tap.” Her power shifts, and she, in fact, does.
“I also have a lie detector,” Colin forebodingly reminds me.
“… Tell me that thing doesn’t work on self-deception. Please.”
“It doesn’t work on self-deception, villain scum.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Oh, and look, now both Dragon and Hannah look confused about what’s going on.
Hmmm… How do you feel about polyamory, Colin? Because those matching, cute,
disoriented expressions being side by side right as—
Gross. Power, remind me to never again picture anything even remotely related to a
threesome involving my pseudo-parental figure with whom I’ve developed a disturbingly
close rapport involving inside jokes, open shows of trust, and—
Lisa Wilbourn’s relationship with Colin Wallis—
If you say anything about the Westermarck effect, I will hurt you.
“Anyway, we should proceed to mount the scanners. I can get in contact with Cranial,
see if she’s willing to work remotely and how much information she has on power
regulation. I can cover the fee, of course, though it would help if she came to the wholly
unintended belief that this will earn her some leeway with the Protectorate,” I say,
shifting gears to work mode now that I’m allowed to do so without getting into the skin of
a guy I can most accurately define as oily.
Seriously. A top hat.
“No,” Colin says.
“No?” I repeat, unused to the syllable—
Lisa Wilbourn frequently denied—
All right: unwilling to get used to the syllable. Better?
Lisa Wilbourn’s stubbornness—
I don’t know what’s up with you today, but as soon as I find out, I’ll make sure it doesn’t
come to pass ever again.
“No,” Hannah feels the need to add.
“No,” Dragon says, refusing, once again, to be my favorite for too long.
“Is this another one of your ‘you should get some rest and stop obsessing over things
while we, the people whose actual job is it to take care of this bullshit, keep working
long hours?’”
“No, this is my first ‘you should leave right now if you want to make it on time to
Dinah’s,’” Colin says, full parental mode on.
…
I’m… I’m okay. Really.
Lisa Wilbourn’s reaction to emotional reciprocity and acknowledgment—
I know. Sorry.
“Right. Right, I should… Get changed and go? Yes, I’ll do that.”
As I start gathering my things, I can see Dragon shooting me a soft, caring smile right
before she switches monitors to free my laptop. Hannah looks slightly confused yet a bit
concerned. And Colin…
Colin Wallis oblivious to—
… Typical.
***
So, if you had told me two months ago that I, the dread villain Tattletale, would be
ringing on the mayor’s house… I won’t say I wouldn’t have believed you, but I’m pretty
sure I would’ve assumed quite a different context.
Something like, I don’t know, asking for a billion dollars before I unleashed my glitter
cannon over the Protectorate’s base. I don’t know; I’m spitballing here.
Bombs usually—
After Bakuda? God, no, that’s so démodé.
Anyway, I don’t have to wait long for the tall, oaken double doors (that don’t scream
‘pretentious asshole showing off his wealth,’ no sire) to open. To my surprise, the one
doing said opening isn’t an off-brand British butler, but the actual, you know, mayor.
Must… Suppress... Urge… To kidnap…
“Lisa! Please, do come in, dear. Dinah has been asking for you in the living room,” he
says with far more enthusiasm and teeth than a non-shark aficionado would ever be
comfortable with.
“Thank you, sir. Then, I’ll let myself in?” Oh, a reticent, interrogative note? Bullshit. I’m
not intimidated by wealthy, powerful men who remind me of my biological father—
Lisa Wilbourn’s biological parents less wealthy than—
Not. Helping.
With a genial chuckle (which earns him about ten more asshole points), he steps aside
and invites me in.
Look, I know what you’re thinking: why the Hell am I meeting Dinah unmasked, and not
at her parent’s house, but at her uncle’s?
Well, the answer to that would be the still slightly emaciated girl who greets me with a
face-splitting grin as I walk into the mahogany-and-leather-filled living room where she’s
been sitting still, trying to pretend she wouldn’t be more at ease browsing through a
book with a couple colorful illustrations than the newspaper she now has on her lap.
Oh, Dinah, sweetheart…
That’s it; I’m bringing you a stack of comic books next time I come over. I know you
liked Asterix before this.
“Hey, fellow Thinker,” I wave with a lighter smile than the situation warrants.
“Lisa! How—how are you doing?” A burst of enthusiasm suppressed by ‘mature’
formality? I’m doing awful, kid. Should have gotten you out sooner.
“Oh, same old, same old. Tackling the dark secrets of the world, keeping homicidal
monsters from eating us whole… You know how it is.”
She giggles before she can catch herself, and I plop down on the (indecently
comfortable) leather sofa beside the armchair she’s laid claim to.
That’s one victory for ‘cool old sister Lisa.’ I kinda like her. She’s a bit more easy-going
than ‘trying to find a place in the world that doesn’t suck’ Lisa. That one is kind of a
drag.
“I… I took notes! Do you want to go over them?”
No, I want you to turn off your brain, stop pretending you aren’t in agonizing pain as
your power resets, and watch a stupid movie with me, one with princesses and talking
animals.
“Sure. Get them out, and we’ll go over it. As many times as you want to.” I try not to lay
it on too thick, but something about her earnestness, her need to… to somehow behave
like she’s my equal when the relationship shouldn’t be about that at all… I’m sorry, kid. I
try not to be patronizing, and I don’t feel like I am, but… But I know what being too fussy
around you must feel like.
She pretends she doesn’t mind and takes out a spiral notebook that she lays open on
the coffee table between us. It’s filled not only with annotations but with some sort of
diagrams connecting each written phrase.
I’m looking at a display of what she remembers from multiple timelines, multiple
conversations that shifted as they influenced each other without even happening.
There’s a blank spot in the middle of the page.
It has today’s date.
…
Right, Lisa, keep smiling and don’t show outward panic at the creeping feeling of
existential dread. It will be easy enough: you can just show outward panic at everything
else going sideways in your life now that you’ve lost the objective that all but consumed
you over the past few months.
… Fuck it. Next time, I’m bringing the Asterix collection.
And maybe some Lucky Luke.
***
The meeting doesn’t take that long because, as much as she tries to pretend it’s not the
case, Dinah isn’t up to any complicated conversations at the moment. The notebook
must have taken hours to put together, given how much effort it takes her to piece
together her thoughts, and the pain won’t abate if she tries to force herself.
Not letting her force herself, though, is not an option. I have to keep the long term in
mind, and she needs, more than anything, to feel like she has some autonomy.
Something to do. To contribute.
Something that doesn’t end up with her pitifully asking for candy.
… I so wish I could murder that bastard. Having law-aligned friends sucks.
I sigh once again at my ever-shifting circumstances and take the unconscious Dinah
between my arms before laying her down on the sofa I just vacated. There’s a blanket
(bamboo fibers, nice) over the back that seems a bit incongruous with the lavish décor
until I’m subtly reminded by the sleeping kid that this is likely far from an unusual
occurrence nowadays.
I ponder for a while the pros of Dinah waking up feeling warm and cared for against the
cons of her waking up feeling coddled and infantilized. Then I wrap her in the blanket.
Warmth shouldn’t be underestimated.
Silently as if I was in this house for the logical reasons for me to be in this house (even if
I’m in my civvies, for all the good they are doing me in these circumstances), I close the
glass-paneled door to the living room behind me as I leave.
And find myself face to face with the mayor.
“I just wanted to thank you once again—”
“Don’t. Don’t, please: she helped me as much as I helped her. We just fought a
common enemy.”
He arches an eyebrow. He has the gall to.
“You unmasked to her family just so you could take care of her.”
“… It’s not what it looks like. Her power makes it so any help I give her now is help she
received back then. I can’t just disappear from her life just—”
“You can’t. Period. Lisa… You know I can offer you—”
“You know I can’t accept any—”
“And that’s why you should never leave her. Please. We… we can’t understand what
she’s going through, what it’s like to have a mind that just sees another world from the
one we see. You do. And we trust you.”
My throat is dry, and my eyes itch. Must be something to do with some kind of
expensive air freshener. Right. Rich asshole things. I’m not that mushy.
“I… I’m not leaving anytime soon,” I finally admit.
“Good,” he says with a warm smile.
“You do realize, though, that you’re basically giving me the power to mold one of the
most powerful Thinkers in the world to follow my lead on anything?”
“.. Armsmaster warned me about your sense of humor, yet I still find myself thoroughly
unprepared.”
“Yeah, that’s kind of his thing. Mine is to twist words around until you don’t even know
what it is you’re agreeing to. Like, I don’t know, if I acted all reluctant and protective like
until you granted me unrestricted access to a precog who—”
“Lisa, I’m a politician. You’re good, but not that good.”
I smile my foxy grin, the one that makes Taylor stutter just a tiny bit.
“Whatever lets you sleep at night, Roy.”
He chuckles. So do I.
And I leave.
***
I don’t care what anyone else says: driving a bike at night through Brockton Bay’s
pockmarked streets is far safer than any alternative.
Or, at least, much faster, given I can swerve between potholes rather than having to
take unending detours. And being faster implies being outside at night, in Brockton Bay,
for less time. Which means less danger, ergo, being safer.
My logic is unassailable. Mostly because of all the oil-filled traps.
I’m still getting used to my purple Ducati Streetfighter (had to get it just for the name),
but it’s an agile ride, which suits my trial-and-hopefully-not-error driving style quite well.
Nothing like a machine that can react just in time to power-assisted course corrections.
The only thing I’m not that thrilled about is having to wear a helmet rather than letting
my hair stream freely in the chilling night wind, but… I’ve seen the statistics.
Or, rather, Power has gently reminded me of the statistics. With gruesome detail.
Lisa Wilbourn’s risk-taking—
We both know if you didn’t share my skull you wouldn’t be so keen on keeping it in one
piece.
Lisa Wilbourn’s not noticing pothole in—
Oh, right. Thanks.
I tug on the right handlebar as I lean just the slightest amount to assist a swerve that
has me skid along the edge of one particularly shallow Bakuda crater, and my adrenalin
spikes when I feel my back tire wobble just enough to make it feel as if my bike is
shivering at the thrill.
… Taylor may be onto something.
She must never know.
Anyway, to sum things up: the city is still under repairs, my lone night rides are quickly
becoming a weird mix of meditative and heart-pounding, and my girlfriend is kinda
pissed off at how much I’m gushing over my sweet, sweet baby.
… All right, maybe I shouldn’t have dumped that twenty-page document detailing what I
wanted Colin and Dragon to put in it for my birthday on her. She looked kind of stressed
out when she reached the part about nitro boosters.
Curiously enough, she didn’t even comment on the part about integrated weapon
systems.
I mean, a lady needs protection in this city. And few things scream ‘protection’ like twinmounted Gatling cannons.
… I’m kinda looking forward to my birthday this year, truth be told. I mean, I’ll be tried as
an adult from now on, but still worth it.
Anyway, that’s kinda why I’m driving through one of the worst parts of town at this
ungodly hour: to make it up to her.
Taylor Hebert unlikely to appreciate—
It’s a surprise; of course her paranoia won’t let her appreciate it. That’s why it’s
important I keep working on it.
Lisa Wilbourn pushing boundaries—
Yep. That’s precisely what I’m doing.
Well, you know, other than parking my bike and making sure to use as many chains to
secure it as is physically possible without a dedicated parahuman power.
And… well. Jumping over a fence.
And climbing a tree that is far too conveniently placed in front of a window for it to be a
coincidence.
A window that opens as the light inside the room goes on and highlights gorgeous hair.
“You couldn’t have called beforehand, could you?” she greets me, tone as dry as could
be expected.
“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,”
I answer, my own tone not that dry.
And she facepalms.
Victory.
“What are you doing, Lisa?”
And, well…
“Sneaking into my fiancée’s room without her father’s knowledge?”
She freezes for a moment, and her slight blush is apparent enough that I can make it
out even with the aggressive backlight that turns her hair into a halo casting shadow
over—
Ugh. Not waxing poetic yet, Lisa. You are both still clothed.
“We could just ask him, you know? It’s not like he hates you.”
“Taylor, I think you don’t get it: your supervillain paramour, dressed in tight, tight
motorcycle leathers, is sneaking into your bedroom at night. Being furtive is part of the
appeal.”
“… I should slam the window in your face,” she almost grunts.
“But you won’t.” I smile.
“But I won’t,” she agrees.
And, trying not to swear up a storm, I manage to jump from the tree branch to the
windowsill before, with Taylor’s help, sneaking in.
I stand in her room for the first time, but I don’t have time to look at her book collection,
her poorly closed dresser, or any other signs of the character of the girl I’ve kinda tied
my fate to because I’m too busy staring at her, at her eyes wide with expectation, at lips
that open the barest amount as a stream of cold air rushes past them while her chest
goes up and down, at her long neck left bare on the left side, a vein pulsing
temptingly—
Oh. Almost forgot.
“Taylor…” I whisper, slinking close to her in a sashay I just know will make her salivate
with the way the leather sculpts my body, “can I ask you just one thing?” I finish as my
breasts almost brush against hers.
“Liz?” she asks, mouth dry, eyes bobbing between my own and what my arms are very
subtly emphasizing.
“Can you keep a few hundred eyes on my bike? I’m not sure I—”
And she tackles me to the bed and shuts me up with a kiss.
Which, I mean, I’m kind of ecstatic about, but that’s not an answer.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 23
Taylor’s tongue wrestles mine into submission, which I’m pretty sure is a non-trivial part
of the appeal that kissing me holds for her.
I would be offended if I didn’t enjoy the results so much.
Her legs are straddling me, her weight making sure I can’t get up from her bed, and her
bed making sure I appreciate my memory foam mattress.
I know, the last thing isn’t that romantic, but seriously, the girl needs to splurge on some
bare necessities if she insists on living with her father.
I wonder if he would consider I was overstepping if I just gave her a new bed?
Daniel Hebert unlikely to appreciate furniture with sexual connotations.
Yeah. I thought so. Well, you thought so; I’m mostly preoccupied with a brunette who
seems to have been missing me more than I expected.
Which… nice.
My hands travel over the back of her thoroughly unsexy, long-sleeved, grey pajamas.
The almost scratchy feeling of the thick fabric beneath my gloves indicates she’s long
overdue for a silk upgrade, or, at the very least cotton, so that’s yet another excuse to
drag her on another shopping trip after our past makeover—which may be the only
redeeming quality of this particular set of sleepwear.
Seriously, it is as flattering on her as… her usual clothes.
Pattern of—
I know.
Anyway, back to less sartorial matters, Taylor’s body is pressing down on me hard
enough that I can feel the leather straining to keep my bust as prominent as when I first
modeled it in the store (to the delight of the teenager manning the register when I
decided to leave it on before buying it), and my hands have finally reached their actual
target: Taylor’s scalp.
I spread my fingers over it before I dig the tips in a brief massage, and then I clench.
Taylor gasps, arching her back away from me under the guide of my tight grasp on her
long, wavy, silky, and plenty of other adjectives that basically mean I’m horny and in
love, hair. Her eyes are wide, slightly glassy before they focus on mine.
Also, this position makes it so her pelvis is just shy of grinding on mine.
“I’m not always going to let you do as you please, sweetie,” I smirk up at her.
She looks at me for a moment before licking her lips and having her eyebrow try to do
her usual supercilious thing.
“You have both hands busy,” she finally says.
And then she grabs the tab of my zipper.
Her hand is right beneath my chin, the back of her thumb just grazing the skin beneath
it, her nail resting against my throat.
And my self-control must have slipped, because her eyebrow firms as she regales me
with her own smirk.
… Meh. Needs practice.
Lisa Wilbourn desire to see Taylor Hebert repeatedly expressing—
Obviously. That’s what ‘practice’ means.
With a soft click, the tab slides down a single tooth on the zipper that runs all the way
down my torso.
“So… You were saying you wouldn’t always let me do as I please?” Taylor’s voice is a
parody of concern.
“Well, you know, ‘always’ is such an absolute term…”
Another click, another tooth, and her nail digs the barest amount on my throat.
“And how did you plan on… asserting control?” she says, barely holding back a smile.
I pull on her hair, her back arching further, her breasts straining the fabric of her shirt.
She half moans, half gasps, her eyes turned to the frankly uninteresting ceiling.
“I’m sure I could think up something,” I answer, my tone trying not to be as sultry as I’m
feeling, keeping the façade of banter going.
“You think too much.” The tab slides all the way to my collarbone, the black leather with
purple stripes parting with the released pressure.
I twirl my right hand, twisting her hair around it in an improvised leash, and let my other
hand drift down to squeeze her always delectable behind.
“One of my most endearing traits.”
“I wouldn’t say that—” she starts to quip. And cuts herself off when she drags the zipper
low enough to finally realize what I’d been waiting for her to see for quite a while.
Namely: I’m not wearing a top.
Nor a bra.
Taylor’s eyes get stuck on the deep valley of flesh the partially undone zipper has
revealed to her. Then I pull on her hair in one direction, push on her ass from another…
And, with the groaning protest of far too old springs and the creaking of a decrepit
wooden frame, I’m suddenly on top.
Taylor’s eyes are wide, looking between my magnificently displayed breasts and my
cocky smirk.
And I’m very glad I finally settled on wearing panties, because this would have been an
awful mess to clean out of leather.
“You…” she starts. And I interrupt by dragging the zip down to my navel.
“Surprise,” I whisper.
Her hands shoot to my waist, her fingers circling me, grabbing me, resting atop my hips,
and I bite back a gasp that I really, really can’t afford.
“Weren’t you… cold?” she asks.
“Not when I thought about you,” I answer.
And I only realize how sappy that sounds when we both burst out laughing.
“All right, all right, it was a bit nippy—heh—on the way here, but… I just couldn’t get the
thought of the way you would look at me, the way you just looked at me, out of my
head. Totally worth it.”
“I’m not arguing…”
“Which is kind of a miracle, you know?”
“Liz, are you sure that’s how you want to play this—”
And I kiss her.
I’m not as frantic as she was, but no less thorough. I enjoy her lips, her cute moans, her
little bursts of exhalation tickling me, her tongue coming out to meet mine. I enjoy her
fingers tightening around me, her body raising up to press against me, the aborted
movement of her head whenever I pull just a bit tighter than she expected… I enjoy
everything that is kissing Taylor Hebert.
Then I take one of her hands and slide it between leather and skin.
It’s a tight fit, and she doesn’t glide over me with her usual, deliberate assurance. She
has to force it, to stop at points, her movement jerky and stuttering. Unpredictable.
I can feel the goosebumps raising all over my arms.
And then she arrives at my breast, already constrained beneath tight leather. And she
grasps.
I moan into her mouth, and she increases the pressure, her hold on me inescapable in
more than one sense. I shift and slide one of my legs between hers, and she closes
them around it, keeping me in place just as she manages to maneuver and pinch my
nipple, my whole body jerking at her touch.
I release her lips and kiss up her neck till I reach her ear.
“It seems you have me at a disadvantage,” I whisper, and I can see the small hairs on
her neck rising at a tone that is far from admitting defeat.
“So I guess this is when you reveal I have been dancing to the tune of your plan all
along?” she asks, her voice hinting at a suddenly dry mouth.
“You know me so well, love…” I drawl before licking around the edge of her ear and
sliding the tip of my tongue up her ear canal.
Which is a magnificent lead-up to my dramatical reveal.
Power, what the fuck do I do?!
Taylor Hebert predisposed to play along with scenario—
Ah, right. Fake it till you make it. Of course.
I take the remaining hand Taylor has grabbing my waist and, with great remorse, pull it
over her head.
Then I twist her hair around her wrist.
“Wha—” I cut her off with a kiss.
And grab her other hand.
Then I pull it up to her other hand.
I’m pushing her joined wrists down on her white pillow, her splayed hair gathered in
strands that I twirl around her arms, the gleaming lines making even the drab grey look
entrancing.
“I… I can just get out of this without any problem, you know?” she half affirms.
I twirl a different strand of hair around each of her fingers, humming all the while, my
hips swaying and rubbing over hers with every turn.
“Will you?” I finally ask as I make her clasp her own hands, her fingers intertwined.
Taylor looks up at me, slightly panicked, but I hope it’s just the right amount and the
right kind of panic—
“No,” she says, and I flush in more than pleasure and excitement, though there’s quite a
bit of that.
“Good girl,” I whisper. And that may be pushing it, but after all the times she’s played my
body like a fiddle, making me writhe in pleasure, tension, and release… Well, this has
been long overdue.
Lisa Wilbourn compensating for—
Maybe. But I think we both are going to enjoy this thoroughly.
I lift my hips just a bit and pull Taylor’s shirt up. Slowly, deliberately, almost rolling the
fabric, revealing inch after inch of pale skin. I stop just when it reaches her sternum, and
the whole of her taut stomach is revealed to me.
Maybe too taut.
“Don’t let go,” I whisper to her, looking at eyes that show, for once, a hint of doubt.
Then I drag the back of my still gloved finger up the side of her abdomen before I decide
this just won’t do.
I smile at her and pull off my gloves with my best Gilda impression. That would be far
better if these were long gloves, but even I can’t plan for everything.
At least I dramatically toss them to the far corner of the room.
And… Well, as long as I’m doing this…
I raise my hips once again, swaying over her to the rhythm of my humming (Put the
Blame on Mame, what else?), and I drag the zipper all the way down.
And I wish there was a coy way to do this, but I’m not getting up, and the leather is too
tight to play at letting it fall while I cover my breasts, so I instead have to go with
‘aggressively sexual woman uncovering herself.’
Taylor doesn’t complain. And she’s still pulling her own hair every time I make her
twitch.
I smile at her, a mixture of cocky and reassuring, my suit peeled off down to my waist,
my breasts catching her attention more often than not. Then I lean down over her, my
hands at each side of her head, and I playfully shake said breasts over her face, just
beyond her reach.
She manages to pull her own hair after I go low enough she thinks she has a shot.
“Ready to try something new?” I ask.
She looks up at me incredulously.
“And this is what? Our usual routine?”
“Only if you want to,” I singsong at her.
Then I crawl down her body.
I kiss her solar plexus, right below where her shirt is still covering her breastbone, and
then keep going down, laying kisses along her midline, her muscles trembling with
every bit of teasing suction, and I only stop when I reach her navel and look up to meet
her almost bewildered eyes.
“What are you—”
“You’re too tense.”
Then I ghost the back of my fingers up the sides of her belly once again, but this time
they are uncovered, and I can feel the proper distance to do nothing more than disturb
her small hairs with my passage.
I lean my left hand on the faded blue bedcovers, the thick fabric twisting with my weight,
and I fake an idle, almost careless continuation of my previous movement with the right
hand, turning the upward motion into a gentle circle that brushes right above her pelvis
on the downward stroke.
Then the circle turns into an inward spiral, and the feather-soft touches add a tad more
pressure.
Taylor gasps, and she doesn’t know why.
But I do.
It’s a massage technique. The belly is a very sensitive, vulnerable zone. No animal will
ever expose it without it being a show of absolute trust.
It’s also where a great deal of stress is accumulated, and…
Soft touches that are still firm, dragging her skin just the right amount, warming her with
my own heat…
Her breathing stuttering, always telling me if I’m about to cross a line, to press too
much…
Her eyes on mine, wondering, asking, yet… Trusting. Not demanding answers, just
feeling what I do to her.
I love her so damn much it takes my breath away.
But I don’t let that stop my hand in its spiral that never touches her navel, turning its offcenter position into the axis around which everything revolves.
I’m using my index and middle finger, and her muscles are now soft enough that I can
dig a bit deeper, dragging around her sense of tension, her blocked everything.
Her breath catches, and I lean down to kiss her right above her navel as the spiral
completes.
Then, dragging my breasts over her skin, I climb up her body until I’m right in front of
wet eyes.
“How… How do you…”
“I love you. And today’s about taking care of you.”
I get off the bed and stand up, and this time my leathers cooperate enough that they
slide down my legs in an almost smooth way. Taking off my short boots isn’t the most
erotic spectacle in the world, but I think I manage not to break the mood.
… I hope so.
Taylor Hebert’s focus on Lisa Wilbourn’s movements indicates—
Ah. Thank you, Power. Stage fright.
Once I’m almost fully nude, only green lace panties remaining, I slowly turn around,
showing my body off to her. But I don’t grin. Not this time.
My smile is far subtler, more promise than assurance.
I lean over her, over the left side of the bed, and drag her pants down before I do away
with her panties—which may reaffirm my intention of buying her lingerie for the next five
Christmas.
Seriously. I’m almost offended.
But that’s no reason to stop.
I caress the inside of her ankles, playing with the sensitive spot between the bone and
the Achilles heel with a circular motion of my fingers before I trace her calves up to her
knee, where I make a slight detour to tease her behind the articulation till her leg
twitches.
I smile at her, soft, reassuring, then I raise both my hands till they are massaging the
spot right in the middle of her thighs.
Taylor bites her lip and moans, and her arms shake with the strain of keeping herself
captive of her own hair.
… And I’m so, so tempted to do away with this whole thing and just sit on her face so
she can drive me completely out of my mind as she—
Bad thoughts. Bad.
I leave my left hand on her thigh and lean down till I can whisper right beside her.
“Do you know what comes next?”
She turns her head, her eyes wide and nailed to mine for a moment too long.
“You being insufferably smug?” she finally says.
And this time, I do smirk.
“No. No, that comes after.” I drag my left hand up until it’s resting right beside her sex,
her heat radiating over the back, my palm over a taut tendon that shifts with every burst
of stimulation. “Now? You ask. Nicely.”
“Ask for what?” she says, and there’s that glint, that edge of Taylor just not wanting to
be seen as someone that can be pushed around. But… There’s also that something
else, that something I want to take care of, to nurture.
The vulnerability. The need to have someone she can trust at her weakest.
So I twist my hand, and now my palm is cupping her sex, her wet heat trapped between
us. She bites her lip in a silent moan, and I wait until she opens her eyes once again to
answer her question.
“To ask your fiancée to take care of you.”
And I don’t look at her with defiance nor with smug triumph. No, this isn’t about that.
This isn’t about me lording something over her that she will then resent me for.
This… This isn’t about taking turns.
This is about… About her letting down that wall. Brick by brick if need be.
And I think I communicate it, because her eyes, after having been widened, soften once
more, and there’s that hint of wetness that I managed to massage out of her belly.
She nods.
I smile, not quite in triumph, and lean down to whisper in her ear, my cupped palm
slightly pressing down on her sex with the movement.
“Say it. Tell me,” I ask her. And I’m asking, not ordering.
Taylor swallows, and I can see the bobbing of her throat when she does.
“Lisa… Liz. Please… take care of me.”
Her smile is hesitant, shy.
Mine is almost painful.
“Always. Always, Tay. My love.”
I grasp her hands with my free one, a gentle hold, enveloping them, the strands of her
hair silk beneath my touch.
And I kiss her.
Our tongues meet again, and none is demanding of the other, just accepting, dancing
partners.
Then I slide my fingers along her wet slit, each movement back and forth coinciding with
a twirl of our dance, and Taylor arches her back, her breasts straining the tightened
grey fabric that I’m suddenly not that concerned with.
I circle her clitoris, alternating pressure and release along the circumference, and her
hips sway beneath my touch.
I lean back, her lips seeking mine for a moment before our eyes meet and she becomes
paralyzed.
Then I enter her.
There are women for whom penetration doesn’t do much. Many can’t orgasm without
direct clitoral stimulation, and… Well, let’s just say that, going by the way Taylor bites
her lip until she almost draws blood and the keening noise that will make all the dogs in
the neighborhood hate her guts, she’s not one of those girls.
And, as the saying goes, this is just the tip.
I twist my fingers around, the middle and ring ones alternating between them which one
goes deeper inside Taylor as she keeps shaking her head from side to side, each
movement making her pull her own hair beneath my grasp and only exacerbating the
deluge of sensation I know she’s feeling.
She’s wet and warm. Soft. Accepting.
So I push a bit further in, spreading her.
And her moan makes me shiver.
I rub my thighs together, aching for her attention, her touch, her tongue or whatever she
would deign give me as I moaned needily, but I hold back and focus on her, on the girl
vulnerable and open beneath me.
She needs this more than I do.
I think. I may not be an unbiased observer at this very moment.
Taylor Hebert’s emotional vulnerability exacerbated by isolation from—
Right. Right. Focus, Lisa.
My fingers are now smoothly sliding in and out of her. She’s still tight around them, but
not to the point it takes effort to push further in, and my wrist is making undulating
motions that always culminate with the heel of my hand pressing down right on Taylor’s
clit. Her eyes are closed, and she’s so beautiful, consumed in these sensations I’m
providing her, twisting beneath me, at my touch, at the emotions I convey through it…
I’ve far too often imagined her in stiletto heels and a leather corset, but… This isn’t bad.
Not bad at all.
Except for the burning need between my legs that all but demands I attend to it, I mean.
That part may be a bit bad.
“Tell me how it feels, Tay,” I ask her.
Her eyes open with visible effort, looking at me with an expression that, in any other
context, would look like suffering.
“Good…”
I hold back a chuckle, because me laughing at her is the last thing she needs right now.
Even if she’s so cute it’s hilarious.
“How can I make it better?” I ask her instead.
She gasps, because I made the question coincide with me pressing down on her little
nub and having my wrist twist back and forth over it.
“My… My breasts. It’s like I need you to play with them.” And her flush may have
something of shame, because that whole body image thing is still a work in progress,
but it sure has plenty of other, more pleasant, components.
But my left hand is plenty occupied, and I just don’t want to let go of her hands with my
right one, so…
I lean down over her, and I take the edge of her shirt between my teeth before
awkwardly pulling it up, my touch down below momentarily reduced to a constant,
pulsing pressure until I manage to free Taylor’s breasts.
I kiss her between them, marveling once again at how soft and smooth the skin is right
there, at how her slight breasts tremble at her shuddering exhalation.
Then I look up and see her looking down at me, a note of pleading on her face that I’ve
never seen before, not on Taylor, not the always composed girl.
Not on the one who has held me time and again as I’ve come undone between her
arms.
And I know some would be disappointed, maybe realizing for the first time their idol has
feet of clay, but I…
I’m seeing her open to me. Vulnerable. Weak.
Human.
Real.
And I could withstand this burning agony below my navel for years on end if it meant
she could allow herself that with me.
So I take her nipple between my lips, alternating tender licks with suction as I resume
my assault on her sex, as I feel her thighs getting drenched with every movement.
She bends her legs and pushes her hips off the mattress, making it easier for me to
access her, easing the tension of keeping my arms stretched so fully and for so long.
Then I feel her fingers let go of each other only to grasp mine.
“Liz… Liz… Please… Faster.”
Her voice is breathy, almost raspy, and I turn to see her eyes unfocused, her lips
parted.
It…
You owe me a big one after this, Tay.
Reciprocity often considered vital for healthy relationships—
Right. Precisely. This is about healthy relationship dynamics, not about the burning, allconsuming, far too distracting thing—
I mean, she said to go faster, didn’t she?
So I do that.
I don’t move my fingers in languid motions born out of my wrist: I plunge them with my
arm.
And she moans. Quite audibly.
So, remembering this isn’t a hotel and that I don’t know how thin the walls are, I let go of
the elastic nipple between my lips (and try not to get distracted by the way her flattened
breast almost ripples when I do) and cover Taylor’s mouth with my own.
Her kiss is uncoordinated, far from her best efforts.
It’s still hungry, devoted, and I have a hard time keeping my left hand to task while her
tongue assaults mine.
So I try to regain lost ground and accelerate, and—
Her breathing quickens—
Her right hand lets go of ours—
She grabs the back of my head, dragging me down against her mouth with even more
strength—
Her thighs clench around my wrist—
And she screams.
I can feel it, her, reverberating around and through me, even if the sound never escapes
our sealed mouths. I can feel her whole body going taut, as tense as she ever is and a
bit more, and remain like this for long seconds.
And then she slumps.
She’s below me, her limbs sprawled, her hand trailing blonde tresses from my head to
where it’s fallen right beside her slack face.
She’s staring up at nothing, and I’m…
I’m eager. Frustrated. Needy.
And fulfilled in a way I didn’t think I could be.
Gently, carefully, I let go of her and take my fingers out of her now even slicker folds.
Then I shift her around so I can pull out the blankets from beneath her and roll her
inside the bed.
I look at her, and the temptation to kiss her forehead good night is far too great to resist.
Except…
There are other temptations.
Such as wiping my hand on a discarded shirt lying on the floor, turning off the light, and
getting in bed with my girlfriend.
I hug her side, half my body lying on top of her, and it’s only after a moment that she
gathers enough of her wits to return the hug.
She should ask me if I’m staying the night. Talk about what her father may say come
the morning. Tell me how bad of an idea this is. Maybe fret about not having returned
the favor.
She kisses the top of my head.
“Love you, Liz,” she murmurs.
And falls asleep.
And it’s perfect.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 24
Waking up next to Taylor is both a familiar sensation, something I’ve horribly missed
over the past few days, and an awful ordeal involving a cramped back, a cold,
uncovered leg, and the terrible, dreadful certainty that I’m going to be renovating her
whole bedroom’s furniture without her permission nor input.
Sleeping in a single bed is something best left to the young and healthy. I’m far too
mature to be snuggling next to my lesbian girlfriend in a…
The golden morning light filters through the gap between her curtains, and to my right, I
see her head peeking from beneath her white blankets. She’s lying on her side, facing
me, one arm over my stomach, her head tilted down, her eyes closed, her lips just open
enough that I can see them gently move with each exhalation.
She’s relaxed, at peace.
She looks so beautiful right before she wakes up…
I mean! Prepare for the dread villain Tattletale’s latest scheme! We shall raid Ikea!
Or someplace with better furniture and a floorplan that doesn’t involve an architect with
a Stranger six rating.
Lisa Wilbourn resentful—
You’re goddamn right I am.
Lisa Wilbourn’s pettiness—
Who the fuck designs a shop that makes you go through the whole thing just to get to
the batteries—
There’s a knock at the door.
Daniel Hebert unlikely to knock if—
I know! I’m panicking, not brain dead!
“Lisa, would you wake Taylor up and go down to get breakfast? She’s going to be late
to school if she doesn’t start—” Fuck! He knows!
“Good morning!”
“Good morning, yes. Now, would you—”
“Uh? Liz? What time is—what the Hell—”
“Dad says it’s time for breakfast or you’ll be late—”
“You already have a male parental figure! Don’t start collecting them!”
“I mean, like, father-in-law! It’s a joke!”
“It’d better be. You haven’t asked me for my daughter’s hand in marriage.”
At Danny’s awful reminder of my slightly inappropriate way to go around this whole
engagement thing, both Taylor and I look at each other, panic apparent in our faces in a
way I don’t think it was when we recreated an Akira scene while being chased by the
Godzilla knock-off (he even was half-Chinese).
“I won’t tell him if you don’t,” I whisper.
Taylor frantically nods.
“… My parental senses are tingling,” a tired, male voice mutters from behind the door.
“Those aren’t a thing! Like healthy relationships and boundaries; it’s a myth that’s been
debunked!” I yell back.
And Taylor, for some unfathomable reason, pinches my arm hard enough I think it will
bruise.
Really, am I the only reasonable person around here?
Lisa Wilbourn not—
Shut up.
***
It’s… a few minutes after being surprised by my fiancée’s father in her bed without
anyone resorting to violence that I find myself sitting at the kitchen table with an
enormous mug of coffee towering over the, far less significant, solid portion of my
breakfast.
I guess familiarity breeds contempt…
“So…” Danny says, not paying too much attention to the bacon on his plate and
studying me with the air of someone who is trying very hard not to look like he’s
studying someone.
Taylor remains silent, her own gaze fixed on her lap.
I, unlikely as it seems to even contemplate, may have made some slight
miscalculations.
Such as not bringing a change of clothes with me during my tree-climbing, windowjumping adventures.
Which means I currently am wearing…
“When did you get a bike, Lisa?” Danny asks conversationally.
And both Taylor and I try very hard not to keep in mind that I’m only wearing my leather
bodysuit and a pair of very skimpy, sexy panties underneath it.
“I… A few days ago? It’s not stolen!”
Lisa Wilbourn needing to clarify—
Shit.
Danny raises an eyebrow as he takes a long, long sip of his own coffee. The bastard.
“Never said it was,” he finally adds.
“… Force of habit.”
“Indeed.”
Lisa Wilbourn’s ability to converse with Daniel Hebert—
Yes. I know. I’m choking worse than the time Alec decided it would be a brilliant idea to
integrate pepper spray into his taser. I need help.
Allies—
Taylor is blushing up to her ears and pretending the world doesn’t exist. She’s useless.
Useless lesbian trope—
Hate you.
“So… What have you been up to?” Danny finally decides to end my suffering after
seeing me writhe in sheer agony. That, or he’s preparing the coup de grâce.
So, win-win, actually.
“You know, dealing with a baby Endbringer, getting to know the oracle that I’m pretty
sure has adopted me as a big sister, bantering with the mayor, trying to decipher what it
is that Dragon—”
Maybe I should shut up.
Call it a moment of insight, call it my senses having come back from their momentary
leave, call it my intuition finally kicking in. Or, speaking of kicking in, call it Taylor
frantically stomping on my foot.
“A baby what?” Also, Danny is kinda pale right now.
“Nothing! Nothing! She’s just a Case 53 that has horrifying, ever-growing powers that
involve cannibalism, regeneration, and cloning and mastering capes, nothing to worry
about at all!”
Taylor, dear, sweetheart, love of my life, if you keep your mouth shut and put me under
the spotlight of parental interrogation, you lose the right to facepalm. Just so we are
clear.
Taylor Hebert expressing displeasure and exasperation through body language while—
You can’t even tell me that you are pretending to be useful, at this point.
“Anything to add to that description, kiddo?” Ha! Look who’s writhing under the withering
glare of—
“She was Coil’s prisoner. Armsmaster and Dragon are dealing with it,” she mutters,
apparently having developed some immunity to the withering after enough exposure.
“And me!” I cheerfully add.
“And she,” she dourly confirms.
For some strange reason known only to middle-aged men who regularly deal with Tay,
me, or a combination of both, Danny’s gently massaging his temples.
Taylor looks like she wants to join in.
And I start eating my bacon, because... Well, it’s bacon. I don’t need any more reason
than that.
With a sigh, Danny decides to follow my wise decision and devotes himself to
consuming the, blasphemous in a couple of major religions, dish in front of him. Who
knew sin tasted this good.
I did, actually. Since about… Well, since I woke up in the middle of the night, tied down
with silk lines and—
“By the way, Lisa, if I have to wake up in the middle of a school night to my daughter
screaming her lungs out ever again, I’ll be putting up electrified bars in the windows.
Just so we are clear.”
I don’t dramatically drop my fork, but that’s mostly because I had grabbed the strip of
bacon with my hand. Tay, on the other hand, looks like she will be asking me for
Cranial’s number in the near future. That is, if her current catatonic state is reversible.
Danny looks at the both of us over the rim of his mug, his lips carefully hidden from me
by the implement, and his eyes set in the best poker face I’ve ever seen after being
professionally acquainted with people who regularly wear masks.
He doesn’t meet Taylor’s eyes, mostly because she’s currently refusing to acknowledge
the world exists.
When he meets mine…
Daniel Hebert unwilling to install electrified bars.
Yeah, I guessed—
Daniel Hebert willing to inflict psychological—
Yeah, I guessed…
“I missed her? We lived together for quite a while, I got used to… You know…”
“Having sex with my daughter?”
“Dad!” Oh, she lives.
“Not that! I… Just waking up next to her. I missed her. A lot.”
“You seem to believe your feelings grant you rights.”
… He did not just—
“Danny, you are Taylor’s father, and just because of that you’ll always have my undying
gratitude and respect.”
“Which extends to not sneaking into my house without my knowledge?”
“Which extends to cherishing your daughter with my whole being. Which means that
yes, my feelings grant me rights, just as Taylor’s do—”
“Lisa, you don’t have to—” Taylor starts to visibly panic. Which is never good.
“I do, sweetie. Because your father is testing me, seeing how much I actually care about
what he thinks about me rather than about your feelings. And I hate being tested. I hate
that somebody even thinks he has the right to do that to me. But he’s your father, Tay,
and so he gets a free pass this one time. I’ll let him do this awful, twisted thing to me, I’ll
show him I care enough about you not to back down, and that I care enough about your
relationship with him to swallow my bile, be civilized, and finish breakfast without
throwing a tantrum.”
“You call this not throwing a tantrum?” Danny has the gall to ask.
“I’m a Thinker seven. If I ever feel like throwing a tantrum, you’ll catch it on the news.”
Then, he finally lowers that damned mug.
And, of course, he’s smirking.
“National?” he says, letting his amusement show.
“Please. That’s for a Thinker five, tops.”
And I go back to munching on my bacon.
After a silence that’s equal parts tense, relieved, amused, and utterly confused,
depending on which of the participants you quiz about it, Taylor speaks.
“You know, Armsmaster keeps saying—”
And I stomp on her foot.
Turnabout is fair play, honey.
***
We finish the rest of the breakfast more or less in silence, but without any further testing
of boundaries. Which at least allows me not to completely spoil my appetite.
Completely.
Danny keeps being circumspect, something about him off in a way I can’t quite put my
finger on. Because, yes, we have all heard the horror stories about shovel talks and all
that jazz, but that’s not a thing rational people do. Most parents accept their daughters
are sexual beings, especially after they have hidden from the authorities in a hotel with
their girlfriends for an extended period of cohabitation (a precedented, sane
circumstance to consider). This isn’t about that.
Well, not completely about that, because it can’t be pleasant to get woken up in the
middle of the night by your daughter deciding being loud is her new fetish…
But that just makes my point for me: if this was about the sex, he would’ve burst into the
room right after Taylor subjected him to her banshee impersonation, not lied in bed for
who knows how long, processing things, deciding how to approach this breakfast
confrontation…
No. No, there’s something else, something I’m not getting—
“I need to get going,” Taylor interrupts my train of thought, like it’s almost her habit by
this point.
“I’ll take you,” I automatically reply.
“Again?” Danny asks.
And I take about half a second too long to get the joke, because Taylor is once again
burying her face in her hands and blushing up to her ears.
“… You are enjoying this far too much for it to be healthy,” I speak for those that don’t
have a voice. Currently.
I mean, she has that creepy chorus of the damned thing if she wants to pull it off, but I
don’t want to hear that thing being embarrassed. My nightmares would have
nightmares.
“I am a middle-aged widower whose daughter likes to punch dragons in the mouth.
‘Healthy’ stopped being an appealing option quite some time ago.”
“And it left behind snark?”
“It’s called being a parent. You have a quota of mental damage to inflict through their
teens; it legally counts as self-defense.”
Acerbic, ironic, apparently deadpan…
Not. It isn’t.
“Bet you would like something more reactive than self-defense.”
He freezes, his half-smile twitching.
And he meets my eyes.
I look to Taylor, who’s still too busy pretending the conversation isn’t happening. And I
shake my head.
Danny nods.
Fuck.
“The law is the law. I will have to use the tools afforded to me.” And Taylor will
understand he just said one thing.
While I know he just said another.
I smile, keep the banter going, and get Taylor to rush so that I can get her on my bike.
Danny says not to bother with the dishes, that he will get them when he’s done with
breakfast.
A breakfast that takes him just long enough that, by the time Tay and I leave the house,
he’s still sitting down.
Which means none of us have seen him walk since we got up to find him waiting for us
at the table, where he’s been sitting very still, barely showing any signs of the amount of
painkillers he’s taken after having injured his leg in a fight.
Fuck.
***
“You don’t need to take me to school,” Taylor says, barely hiding the disgust with which
she stares at my baby.
“I don’t need to. I want to,” I answer, barely hiding the queasy feeling at keeping a
secret from my girlfriend.
“I can take the bus.”
I kneel down and start undoing the, apparently sufficient, abundant chains wrapped
around my wheels.
“You can. Or you can sit down behind me and wrap your arms around me while I wear
tight, tight, form-fitting leather.”
She pauses, unconsciously craning her neck to watch my ass while I kneel in a way that
may not be as practical and natural as one would expect.
Heh. Thinker six, they called me. Fools. I’ll show them. I’ll show them all!
Lisa Wilbourn’s exhibitionism—
Not like that!
“I can’t show up to school… You know. So flashily,” she mutters, scuffing the tip of her
old sneakers on the torn asphalt of this backstreet.
“Flashily?” I ask, my hips swaying slightly in a, if I may be so bold, mesmerizing pattern.
“Brand new motorcycle? Bombshell blonde? Leather?”
I suppress a pleased flush. Bombshell blonde? Really?
Also, I make sure to add an extra sway to my hypnotic induction.
“You could always not show up, you know?” Come on, Tay, after I count to three, you’ll
realize how deeply undesirable it is to attend the gangbangers’ breeding grounds and
want to spend a pleasant day with your girlfriend who has her own apartment. One…
Two…
“I’m not playing hooky. I’ve missed enough classes already.” Damn it! Just a second
more, and the trap would’ve been sprung. Ah, well.
No longer having much of an excuse to keep being bent over in front of Taylor (and that
is such a terrible thought to think), I stand up, stretch my arms, and groan with relief.
Exaggeratedly and giving her a bit of an extended show. Obviously.
“No. I don’t mean playing hooky,” I say as I turn to face her.
“… I don’t think I can get a shot at Arcadia with my grades—”
“If you want to get to Arcadia, I will have Blackwell begging you to transfer by the end of
the day. I mean you can test out.”
“… What?”
And I sigh.
“Tay… That thing you do on the battlefield? The way you intuitively grasp tactics,
strengths, and weaknesses, improvise on the fly? Without any formal training? You are
a genius.”
“I… I just have a knack for—”
“Nobody has a knack for that and is a regular person. That’s not how intelligence
works.”
“I… I am smart. I know that, on an intellectual level, but I am not… I mean, after so
much time, I just don’t have the same… Things were easier before. I may have thought
I was smarter, but now I am—”
I hug her. Before she breaks my heart.
“You still are. Stress inhibits cognitive function. That you manage so well, so much while
still going through everything you’ve gone through… It’s like… You know those cartoons
where a character wears some training gear, some weighted vest or something, and
then they take it off at a dramatic moment? That’s what stress does to your brain,
except it only trains it to feel weighted down; it doesn’t give you any of the benefits—”
“I don’t know what the Hell you’re talking about.”
“Right. Right, I forgot you are an uncultured swine. Guess nobody is perfect.”
“See? If you quote a classic movie, I may get it, but don’t talk about your Chinese
cartoons like I’m supposed to glean some kind of wisdom from them.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s racist.”
“I’m pretty sure that no cartoon ever had a line like ‘kiss me as if it were the last time.’”
I almost recoil. Because her voice is raw, something about the conversation striking at
her, at her insecurities, at the self-image she’s still fighting to regain. And when I lean
back and look into her eyes…
My hands tangle through her hair, and I drag her down to me as I stand on my tiptoes.
Her lips are rough once again, and, yet again, I wet them with my own, softening them
in slow caresses until she opens her mouth and her tongue gently pokes at me, asking
for an entrance that I grant her as soon as she wants me to. Our tongues entangle, and
our breasts press together, the leather fighting to keep my shape as her own arms
surround me, as she deepens the kiss, and the world fades until there’s only her and…
But that’s not it.
No. This is one of our kisses. Passionate. Loving. Perhaps a bit more emotionally
intense.
But, if it was my last kiss with Taylor? The last one that really mattered?
If I was saying goodbye?
I pull her back, a thread of saliva connecting our mouths, trembling with our ragged
gasps.
I look at her. At eyes wide, wild.
I lean forward and kiss her cheek. Gently, softly, barely a touch, just slightly more than
breathing over her soft skin and rustling the peach fuzz that tickles me as I advance to
her ear.
“If it was our last kiss, our last time… One of us would be about to die. And I would tell
you how much I’ve loved you, how I’ve loved you a bit more every day since I first laid
my eyes on you. I would tell you how much I’d miss you wherever it is that I end up
going to, and how I hope you won’t follow me in there for years, decades. Because you
are Taylor Hebert, an extraordinary woman, and the world needs you so much that I will
have to swallow my selfishness and wait until you’re done with it.”
She grabs me so hard it hurts, and she tries not to tremble as I try not to sob at my own
self-inflicted… Whatever that was.
“I’m not what you see in me, Liz.”
“No,” I whisper in her ear, my voice a bit shaky. “No, you’re not. You’re so much more.
I’m only a Thinker seven, after all.”
And she laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard all morning.
I would stretch it a bit farther back, but, well, she was pretty vocal last night.
***
For once, Taylor hugs me from behind while I dodge Brockton Bay’s multiple potholes
without too much complain.
“Can’t believe you made me miss the bus…” she grumbles, right within the limits of just
enough complain.
“Right, that’s me: all part of the plan.”
“You were crying just as hard as I did!”
“I’m just that good.”
“You don’t know how to fake cry!”
“Certainly. Keep believing that, Tay. It will make things far easier in the future.”
I’m so glad she can’t see me blush through the helmet.
“You know… There may be a fly right over a very prominent vein in your neck telling me
your heart is racing a mile a minute.”
… Surrounded by freaking cheaters, I swear.
“That’s gross. Your power is gross. And nightmarish.”
“Didn’t hear you complaining the first night I used it on you,” she says. And squeezes.
Which, given the position we are in, means my back is getting the tactile equivalent of a
peepshow.
…
I now know why men like motorcycles so much.
“Your power is awesome,” I finally say.
“Thank you. Was that so hard to admit?” she purrs.
And I park my bike in the next alley we come across before I crash it.
Taylor has the gall to look confused.
“You do realize I never learned how to drive, don’t you?”
“Wha—I only joked about that—”
“Right. Right. But, you see, getting a driving license takes time, time I literally don’t feel
like wasting when I can abuse my power to get enough hints that, in a few days, I’ll be a
far better driver than people who’ve been doing it for years.”
“Days where you could crash—”
“No. No: days where I’m perfectly fine as long as my extremely cute and sexy girlfriend
doesn’t get me horny enough that even my power decides that getting her naked is a
higher priority than staying on the road.”
“… You say the sweetest things, Liz.”
I take off my helmet and dismount.
“I know,” I say. Then I take Taylor’s helmet off, and, before she can shake the helmet
hair back in place or, Heaven forbid, think to dismount from my sexy, sexy bike, I grab
her head and kiss her silly In the middle of an alley.
Yes. I think I perfectly understand why men like bikes so much.
Also, Hannah, you’re missing out.
***
Despite my dignified, perfectly reasonable, and not at all needy protests, Taylor finally
dismounts from my bike in time to get to class. It’s a testament to the Bay’s public
transportation system that, even with an almost complete emotional breakdown, a horny
make out in an alley, and an argument about whether or not an extra day playing hooky
would be such a terrible thing, she still gets there before the bus she was supposed to
take.
Which… Well, all within expected parameters.
Feeling a bit queasy yet again, because I guess that’s the flavor of the day, I mount my
bike once more and drive to my next appointment.
It… doesn’t take that long, even if I wish it did.
Because, after mere minutes of emotional turmoil and regret, I park my bike in front of
the Undersiders base.
Guess some things never change.
… Except the bike. The bike is new.
Which means that change can also be amazing.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 25
“This is ridiculous,” I say to Brian. Unnecessarily, really, because he knows. He’s just
decided to be a prick about it.
“The gun, Tattletale,” he insists once more, blocking the entrance to the Undersiders
evil-lair-slash-teenage-shelter.
“Do you really think I need a weapon to get you on your knees and crying, Brian?” And
that’s another thing that pisses me off. Codenames. Really? Really?
“It’s the principle of the thing.”
“… There’s a point in the human body that, if pressed at the right angle and with enough
force, will stop your ability to breathe without thinking about it. A bit more damage? It
stops your heart from beating. I know where that point is—you don’t. I know how you
move, how you will react to a perceived threat and attack. I can set up a feint that’s
three levels deep and ends up with you laying on the floor, looking up at me as you lose
consciousness while your heart refuses to pump blood to your brain. If I feel merciful,
then I will take my gun from you and shoot you.”
He looks at me, and his eyes widen before his face closes off.
“You are bluffing,” he says.
Brian Laborn’s increased pupillary response—
I know.
“That depends, Brian. Am I your wayward teammate come to check up on all of you and
see how things can go moving forward, or am I a hostile cape that needs to be
disarmed before allowed entry?”
He hesitates. Because I’m guessing he really doesn’t want me to be an enemy, but
he’s—about to be dope-slapped by Alec.
“Hey!” Brian cries out.
“You are being a jackass, and, as the resident expert on the subject, I can tell you
you’re doing an awful job of it. Now let the lady keep her accessories before she goes
Fist of the North Star on your ass.”
“You seriously can’t tell me you believe she really—”
“Vagus nerve response. Look it up, genius,” Alec says, and then smirks at me.
… Of course the little brat would know every single creepy thing you can do with the
nervous system. I’d better pretend that was part of the plan all along.
Especially given how pale Brian just got. Uh. Maybe if I keep it up, he could infiltrate the
E88?
“Thank you, Alec. Nice to see chivalry isn’t dead.”
“Dead? I hope not; I was holding it ransom.”
“… I am not quite sure where you were going with that, but I will take it as you saying
you just decided to act polite on a whim just so you can better shock me later when you
decide to return to your roots.”
“Sure. That. Let’s go with that.” He’s grinning.
It’s exhausting.
So, without giving any more chances for any of the two morons to aggravate me further,
I step around Brian and into my former base.
It’s… Nostalgic, actually. I thought I would hate it more, but… There were some good
memories in here. I felt like I was accomplishing something at the time, and this team
was the first thing I built.
Also, this is where Taylor and I had our first time, but it would be absolutely mortifying if
Alec caught me blushing, so I’d rather not think about it.
Spontaneous thoughts and memories impossible to control—
I know. I know, all right? Damn, it, I can already feel my cheeks heating up…
And then I go up the stairs, and I’m confronted by three dogs staring at me and a girl
who manages to get my incoming blush to give up and go back to the land of fuzzy
feelings, where any good memories get banished to when confronted with fucked-up
realities.
“You are back?” Rachel says.
And… Don’t smile, because she will feel I’m mocking her. Don’t use complicated words,
because she will feel I’m looking down on her. Don’t infantilize her, because she will feel
I’m talking down to her.
She’s fucking exhausting.
“Just for a while,” I eventually set on.
She grunts, and Angelica shows me her teeth.
… I like dogs, but I really, really don’t like her dogs. Something about being a word
away from having to get a rabies shot, maybe.
Before things can devolve any further, I pick a chair at an angle with the sofa and sit
down. It would be better not to force anyone to sit next to me for what’s coming, but I
also don’t want us to be geometrically opposed.
Alec and Brian follow me up shortly after. Alec is rubbing the back of his neck, so I
guess Brian got vindicative. Cute.
… Well, not really. I don’t know what’s up with him today, but it’s making me glad I didn’t
give up my gun.
Brian Laborn’s need to control his environment—
Well, duh. I mean, aside from that.
Brian Laborn’s abandonment issues—
And that.
Brian Laborn’s feeling of betrayal—
… Are you trying to make me feel guilty? Is this you making an audition for the Jiminy
Cricket role? Would Taylor enjoy it if my nose grew to—down.
Lisa Wilbourn’s sexual frustration—
Look, as romantic—or whatever the right word is—as last night was, I have needs.
Frustrated, thigh-rubbing needs.
… Tay better be appreciative next time.
Taylor Hebert’s likelihood of using reciprocity as means to reestablish usual dynamic—
… That’s both terrifying and arousing. Scarousing. Like the first time she showed up in
the middle of the night and tied me to my bed…
Fuck.
“So, are you going to sit there all silent and broody-like the whole time? I mean, it’s a
nice change of pace, don’t get me wrong, but you could’ve just sent a picture,” Alec
says, teasing Brutus by putting the tip of his sneaker right against his nose until the poor
dog tries to react to it.
… Is he reading his reactions? Can he do non-humans? Can he use his power as a
combat Thinker—no, he needs to get a read on a specific subject before he can gain
control, which means every individual is distinct enough that he wouldn’t manage to
accurately predict any motions. Still, he would see a burst of activity right before a
movement happens… An early warning system? Right, but it would amount to literal
fractions of a second—
Speed of nervous signal traveling through human nervous system averages to 3.5
meters per second due to slowing down through chemical diffusion—
Right. Right. If he had super-reflexes, that would do something, but in this case, he
needs to process the signal before he himself can react, and, assuming he takes about
as much time as it takes to process a visual stimulus, and seeing Alec doesn’t put much
effort into keeping himself in shape—
“… If you don’t move, I’ll assume you’ve been paralyzed and start writing obscene
things on your forehead with permanent marker.”
“.. Alec, can’t you take things seriously for once in your life?” Brian, stupidly, asks.
“I’ll have you know I take my profanity very seriously.”
“It’s true. I have seen his chat logs in Call of Duty. They… I think a man cried, and I’m
still not sure whether it was because of trauma or sheer awe.” Credit where credit is
due. He puts in the work.
“What are you even talking about?” Rachel asks before Brian can.
Which puts a bit of a damper on the banter, seeing as I don’t want to antagonize the girl
known for making people who piss her off rush to the emergency room to get stitches.
Really, I’m pretty sure dogs who bite humans tend to get put down as a matter of
course, so I don’t think she should be risking them like that while in her civvies.
“I was trying to think about how to say what I came here to—”
“Say it.”
“Rachel… I… Fine. Fine, I’ll talk, just… let me finish?”
“Aren’t we supposed to shut down Thinkers hard? That’s what you always told us, Lisa,”
Brian can’t help but snipe at me.
“Enemy Thinkers, yes. And if you keep implying I’m one, I’ll start acting like one.”
“You just threatened to murder me. It doesn’t get much more hostile than that.”
“You were acting like a prick, and you know it.”
“Can confirm: he definitely knows it. I mean, I’ve tried to teach him all I can, even if the
guy is kinda slow, but he must have learned some basic pattern-recognition already.”
“… Alec, as much as I appreciate the emotional support—”
“What? Is that what that was? Jeez, no wonder it felt so… icky.”
I stare at him. Brian stares at him. Rachel kinda growls at him.
I try not to laugh.
“Anyway!” Oh. Rachel just got kinda jumpy… right, no sudden, loud noises when talking
to the traumatized abuse victim with socialization issues. “I’ve gathered you all here
to—”
“We live here,” Alec points out.
I flip him off.
“To explain what’s actually been going on. Coil—”
“Our boss,” Brian interjects, and I have the urge to kneecap him on principle. Hell, that
way, he would match Stalker.
“Our former boss recruited me at gunpoint. He didn’t have ‘fate manipulation,’ he split
time. In one timeline, he would do something; in the other, try something else. And then
he would keep whichever worked better.”
“So, he cheated?” Rachel asks. Which is a level of engagement I’m pleasantly surprised
by.
“Like a motherfucker. Part of said cheating was that he would regularly take me away
and… interrogate me.” I don’t suppress the full-body shudder. I’m not here to be seen
as a damsel in distress, but trying to sell that I was in control the whole time won’t earn
me any sympathy. They need to see human Lisa, not mastermind Tattletale.
I hate it.
I hate it so much, to even allow them this little glimpse into… Right. Head in the game.
No time for this.
Lisa Wilbourn’s repression—
No time for therapy either.
“So, I couldn’t tell any of you anything, because I’m pretty sure he tried the same thing
once or twice. Either with you or… someone you cared about.”
“You can say it was Brian’s sister. Not like Rachel and I have too many potential
hostages to get manipulated by.”
“And I commend your foresight on avoiding giving your enemies any emotional levers.”
“But of course. All according to keikaku.” Alec grins, and I try very hard not to answer in
kind.
I wish I could get lost in this, in the back and forth, but… Well. Time and place.
“So, your excuse to get us in this mess without any warning is that, potentially, Coil was
kidnapping my sister in realities that never happened,” Brian succinctly summarizes
what he thinks I just said.
… I swear I liked him better when he was the voice of reason.
“They happened to him. Coil lived every second. Now, tell me, Brian, how comfortable
are you with letting someone who remembers what Aisha looks like naked, the way she
screams when—”
“Enough.” His tone is dull, lifeless. His hands are clenched.
Ah, trigger events. The gift that keeps on giving.
“I would apologize, but you need to understand.”
“Understand what, Tattletale? That you are a heartless bitch who will use any tool at
your disposal to get a rise out of me? I think that isn’t a hard concept to grasp.”
Keep calm. Breathe. Don’t agitate Rachel even more than she is.
“Do you think that’s what I’m doing? Do you think if I really wanted that to happen, you
would even notice? I’m telling you the truth, you fucking asshole—” Right. Breathe.
Breathe, Lisa. It’s not a hard thing to do. “I… I apologize. I know it hurts, I know you
didn’t deserve this, none of you, but…”
“My dogs,” Rachel quietly says right as I trail off.
“Your dogs, Rachel?” Tone steady. Not firm, but neither compassionate. She despises
being seen as weak.
“They are ‘potential hostages.’ Did he hurt them?”
… I am really feeling like an awful human being for not even thinking about this.
“He… I’m not certain. I can’t be certain. But… likely.”
Her eyes are nailed to mine. She isn’t trying to look away or to glare me into
submission; she just… looks at me.
Inexpressive, her mouth a thin line, her eyes just… blank.
Rachel Lindt’s lack of socialization at key developmental age—
I know. It’s still unsettling to see a human being just not know how to express
themselves, how to emote… I wonder if I could’ve done more for her, more than I tried
to do, or maybe not more, but better. If I hadn’t been so focused on just escaping, could
Rachel already be recovering? Already be someone that can talk to another person and
enjoy the experience?
Lisa Wilbourn’s recent shift in outlook and priorities—
If you’re going to say I am a better person and feeling guilty is part of the package, I
would reply that there’s a reason I don’t want to let go of the villain label.
“Will he do it again?” Rachel finally asks.
“No. No, we are making sure wherever he ends up in, he will stay there. He won’t hurt
them ever again.”
She pauses, searching my face for something. That smile she always thinks is mocking
her, that upward tilt that makes her feel I’m looking down on her…
She doesn’t find anything, because there’s nothing to find. Not with how carefully blank
I’m being, just letting words come out without any inflection.
And so she nods.
“Good.”
And I would say I’m sorry, that I wish things never happened the way they did, but…
She said ‘good,’ and that’s the best I can get out of her.
And everybody is silent.
“Welp, that brought the mood down. Anyone else wants to get some waffles?”
Well, not everybody.
***
Walking down the Boardwalk while eating a chocolate-laden waffle is a bit less
unnerving than sitting in a supervillain-lair-slash-frathouse, but it is still not the most
relaxing way to spend my morning.
“Are you sure Rachel can come with us—”
“For the last time, Brian, you’ve already trusted me enough to bring her. There’s not
much else you can do if this is a cunning trap.”
Rachel is at Alec’s right, alternating between throwing distrustful looks to her waffle and
taking small bites out of it.
The noises she makes when she does… Let’s just say that, as a practicing lesbian, they
are kind of distinctive.
Alec is also trying not to laugh his head off, but only because he doesn’t want to choke
on his own waffle. Again.
And Angelica is throwing hopeful looks at her owner from time to time, but Rachel is
enough of a dog-lover to not succumb to the emotional blackmail when it comes to
sugary treats.
“I still say we should have finished this back at the apartment.”
Ah, ‘apartment.’ Yes, such a cunning codeword for ‘lair.’
“Do you actually think we will finish this?”
“Excuse me?” No, I don’t think I will. Not after today’s impending headache.
“I did what I did. That isn’t going to change.”
“Well, at least you admit it.”
“Right. And will you admit it?”
“… What?”
“Will you admit that you’ve been antagonizing me because you just don’t know what
else to do? That you thought you had things figured out, only to discover that working
for a ‘mysterious backer’ who knew your secret identity may not have been such a
brilliant move?”
“Are you trying to make me angry, Lisa?”
“No. You already are. You always are. Because the world isn’t fair, because you’ve
been dealt a crappy hand. Because even being one of the few people in the world with
actual superpowers, you still are a black guy in the Nazi capital of America, your mother
is still a druggie, your father is an emotionally neglectful bastard, and your sister is a
constant reminder of—”
“I can still hit you, even if we are in public.”
“Right. A black man hitting a blonde, white girl. That won’t get you in any trouble.”
“Are you really trying to make me—”
“I’m not trying anything! Don’t you see, you moron?! We were friends! It sucks that I was
forced to lie to you, that you trusted me and I broke that; I get it! But try to get how I felt!”
“It’s always about you! Always about poor Lisa, who’s so smart we can only drag her
down to our level, who keeps being so perfect I need to listen to everything she says,
but it turns out everything she says is actually a lie!”
“Yes! Yes, everything was a lie! That time I frantically bandaged you while you bled to
death, and I tried not to cry my eyes out? A lie! That time I helped you pick the best way
to furnish your apartment to get a good impression from Child Protective Services? A
lie! That time I pretended not to notice while you locked yourself in your room and
punched a hole through the wall? A—”
“That time you told me to trust you? A lie!”
I look at him, at his wide eyes, his chest rising and falling far too fast for a brisk walk and
a heated conversation.
Then I look at Alec, pretending to enjoy his food without any care for what’s going on,
and at Rachel, who stopped walking three steps ago. And at the people in the
Boardwalk, looking at the couple of screaming teenagers.
Also, at the Enforcers heading our way.
I recognize one of them.
…
I can work with this.
I take Brian’s hand and drag him into a side alley without giving Alec or Rachel any
indication that I want them to follow. Then I shush Brian and wait.
I don’t wait too long.
“Hello, George,” I say as the stupid goon steps into the alley.
He freezes.
“Oh, now you are worried, aren’t you? After kidnapping a teenage girl for a few extra
bucks, it is now that you begin to worry? Well, I’ve got great news, George! You can
relax; there’s nothing going on here that requires your attention.”
“Hey, everything—” Another man arrives, dressed in the same black sweater and
slacks, his muscled build so close to George’s they could pass off as brothers.
“Yeah. Yeah, everything’s under control. Let me… handle this,” George says. And the
other guy throws me a look that lingers on a couple of spots and grins before walking
away.
… I’m going to buy this place just so I can burn it to the ground.
“Nothing that requires my attention, you say?”
Brian is looking between us, still off-balance.
Good.
“Well, the guy who paid you that little extra every month is no longer paying the bills, is
he? So, no, nothing in here you should bother with.”
“Ah. But what if I did bother with it?”
He takes a step forward, closer to us.
Brian is a big guy. Muscled in that way that shows more focus on practicality than
aesthetics, definitely imposing if you were to come across him in a dark street.
He’s also not yet an adult, and he’s never even thought about touching steroids. To
someone like George, he doesn’t even rate.
“If you did? If you decided to try and get little ol’ me to make up for your missing bonus
paycheck?”
“Yes. If I did that. What would happen?”
He smirks down at me. He’s a head taller, shaved bald, and has a nose that hasn’t been
broken despite his bruised, calloused knuckles telling me how much he enjoys getting
some ‘practice’ in. He’s almost touching me with how close he’s standing to me.
“I would get very upset, George.”
Brian is silent. He doesn’t know what I’m doing (which is a relief, because I myself don’t
quite know what it is I’m doing), but he knows what’s being implied. He knows I’m not
very fond of George.
“Really?” the Enforcer adds.
“Really. Because I guess a man like you has needs, and those needs won’t get covered
with a pay cut. So, who’s taking care of the sex trafficking now that the ABB is gone?”
Brian stops breathing.
Then he resumes, but now it’s controlled, slow, steady. Deep.
“There were gangs before the ABB. Now there are gangs after the ABB. Some of them
even have the same name.”
And the words are far more of a blow than just seeing this amoral monster has been.
Because of course removing Lung, Oni Lee, and Bakuda wouldn’t take care of the
actual problems, it would just—no, can’t think like that. It helped. We helped.
It just means there’s more work to do.
“Gangs who would buy a pretty young girl like me, I take it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I should check the merchandise before I—”
I will never know what comes after ‘before.’
Mostly, because as George reaches a hand toward me, his left knee buckles
underneath him, I hit him in his solar plexus with two knuckles extended, and Brian
punches him in the throat.
The coughing, curled-up man lying on the ground is a very tempting target.
I think it’s already been established that I’m awful at resisting temptation.
So I kick him in that precious, Greek, intact nose of his, and it shatters with a spray of
blood.
I don’t know what comes after that, because the next thing I register is Brian hugging
me to his chest as he drags me out of the Boardwalk.
I… I think I dropped my waffle.
I feel a bit upset by that.
***
I’m sitting on a bench, the two people my age I trust more in the world who I’m not
having sex with at each side of me.
Alec is eating his third waffle.
Grue is wringing his hands.
Rachel is… Somewhere, walking Angelica. She didn’t feel comfortable with the
atmosphere.
Can’t blame her: neither do I.
“So… That’s a thing that happened,” I finally say.
“Did you do it on purpose?” Brian immediately replies, as if he’d been waiting until I was
well enough to talk without prodding.
“Yes. No. I… I saw him. Hadn’t expected him to be there, but when I did, I just…”
I shut up on my own and without anyone begging me to. I think this counts as character
development.
“You did a number on him,” Alec says. Because he’s not that developed.
“I’m glad.”
“No, really, that alley was starting to look like a Jackson Pollock by the time we dragged
you out of there.”
“Oh, now I merit the highbrow comments, do I?”
“Bitch, I speak French: everything I say is highbrow.”
“I have seen your chat logs.”
“I stand by my assertion.”
And, despite myself, I chuckle.
I nudge Alec with my elbow, and he flashes a grin at me.
Brian just looks like… I don’t even know, and that’s never a good sign.
“Did he really—” he starts. And I don’t want to let him finish.
“He put a gun to my temple and dragged me to Coil, where I was made an offer I
couldn’t refuse. Now, remember that Coil had unlimited tries, could have chosen any
approach he wanted to recruit me and see how they worked before settling on one. And
he went with that one.”
I don’t stop. I don’t swallow, don’t wet my lips, don’t even think too much about what I’m
saying.
Brian understands what that means.
“I’m still pissed at you,” he says after a long silence.
“Of course you are. I’m me.”
… Alec, stop laughing.
Brian turns his head, looking directly at me for the first time since we sat down.
“So, now what?”
And I sigh. Because that’s what I came here to hash out, but… I don’t really think my
plans will work out. Not after the morning I’ve had.
“Now… Now I would’ve tried to convince you to get into the Wards in exchange for a
total amnesty and some juicy government benefits. But… Maybe later. Maybe after I
give you one last job.”
“You are going to pay us?”
“I’m a Thinker seven who recently looted a bank’s stash of confidential information and
went after a villain who had an Endbringer-shelter building corporation. Do you really
think I lack funds?”
… Alec, you can keep laughing. This time it’s flattering.
“Right. You can pay. So, what’s the job?”
I look at him, at the sulky teenage boy who just got into a fight because of me, then at
the irreverent sociopath who wants to be a good friend.
Then at the girl looking at her dog go from lamppost to lamppost as if she held the
secrets to whatever it is the girl always lacked, always missed.
And I make a decision.
“The docks. You are going to patrol the docks and protect the dockworkers from the
gangs.”
You’re welcome, Danny.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 26 – Skitter
There’s a degree of separation between personas.
Take, for instance, the moment where an uncaring student brushes past me in the
hallway, hitting my bag hard enough that I stumble.
Skitter automatically tags him. A fly on the back of his head to know where he’s looking,
and then one on each shoulder, elbow, knee, wrist, and ankle. Lisa showed me a
motion tracking rig for special effects, and it’s simple enough to extrapolate for the
complete visualization of a person. Perfectly straightforward.
Skitter also knows how to slide just a bit forward, to kick the inside of his left ankle from
behind, shift her weight to the leading foot before sliding forward and having her knee
connect with the inside of his right knee, taking away his balance in a way that may
cripple his joint for life right before she takes out her telescopic baton and clubs him
over the head.
There’s no such thing as a safe takedown.
LEOs train for years in de-escalation techniques for a reason—or, at least, they are
supposed to—but when violence is needed, then you can only hope and pray. A taser
may cause a heart attack, a submission hold be improperly applied, and knocking
someone out… The brain isn’t that resilient. If a strike knocks someone out, that has
consequences.
Skitter knows all of this, but she’s… pragmatically ruthless. If she doesn’t know how
many potential attackers there are, or she’s in a rush, if she needs to put down
someone fast? She will do it. It’s not like she won’t care: she will. She will berate herself
afterward, wondering if that really was the best course of action, the only real choice,
the thing that managed the most good even through something that, by all metrics,
should be considered evil.
She will lie awake at night, thinking of people writhing beneath venomous spiders,
wondering how many of them still have nightmares, how many of them really
understand what the alternative was and how badly it could have gone if it had been
Rachel the one in charge of keeping the hostages pacified. She won’t see another way,
a better way, and then she will shift in bed and embrace the soft blonde who knows too
much about what goes on in Skitter’s head and still, somehow, loves her.
Taylor Hebert?
I flinch, reflexively getting out of the way and letting the tagged boy pass until he
reaches a corner and gets out of sight, dreading him turning around, dreading the
moment when he shifts his weight, because the casual shove could be the start of
something else, and everybody around me could be a part of it, and—
Breathe.
One, two, three, four, five, six in.
Hold. One, two, three, four.
Out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.
Hold.
Right. Right. I can do this.
Skitter could without any problem. She could wade in here, confident through every
step, knowing everything that goes on around her, tracking every threat, planning for
every single one. Wearing a mask.
I don’t have a mask. I have glasses that have finally been replaced after the old ones
were broken one too many times.
It’s… not quite the same.
This is why I wanted to separate my cape life from my civilian identity. I don’t want
Skitter loose in my school; I don’t want that… that level of violence anywhere near a
learning place. Skitter is the one who’s supposed to make a city where the Taylor
Heberts of the world can go to school and feel safe—and they wouldn’t be if Skitter was
with them.
And… Lisa.
Lisa took me away from here, both Taylor and Skitter, and showed them, for a few days,
what it was like to once again be safe, be not under attack constantly, be…
All right, this is far too sappy, but…
Be loved.
I shudder as I remember last night, as I remember the way she looked at me, held me in
her eyes, and I knew the Thinker seven was behind those eyes, monitoring my every
reaction, shifting as my feelings did, adjusting her tone, her gestures, her touch—
I shudder once again. Her touch.
I can’t do this in public.
Without looking around me, trusting my bugs to help me navigate unnoticed, I go to the
toilet where I saw Sophia’s knee get shot. Where Lisa may have saved my life.
Then I lock myself inside a stall.
The place is quiet, most of the students rushing to class or too busy socializing, and the
smell of bleach is the only thing that pierces through my thoughts as I sit on a toilet
cover—no, as I lie quite a few sheets of toilet paper over the cover before sitting down.
I know what goes on in here. Knowledge can be too much of a curse.
I see Jamie smoking a joint, the smell piercing to the few small green scarabs that
frequent the patches of grass breaking the cement near the back exit of Winslow.
I see Claire on the toilet above mine, the floor plan mirrored. And I see the plastic tube
she holds to her arm before pushing and slumping.
I see Robbie, who went to middle school with Greg and me. Who was a nice kid who
always gushed about how his mom baked the best cookies. Who once had a group
project with me and was shocked to learn I no longer had a mom, so he gave me
cookies for a month straight. Every day a new cookie, some new recipe his mom had
come up with.
He’s beating a black kid up. There are people laughing around them.
I… Taylor wants to reach out. To walk up to him and ask him what happened to that
adorable little kid, or maybe have a wasp angrily buzz in his ear, spook him so he stops.
Skitter knows that is a risk we shouldn’t take, that our secret identity is already paperthin, and having bugs start patrolling Winslow just as I come back is the surest way to
out myself to what remains of the gangs. She knows interrupting the beating will only
postpone it, that the black kid has a target on his back, and that won’t stop. If anything, I
may make things worse for him, the anger of his tormentors growing as it is delayed.
Robbie yells and slaps his neck, and a wasp swiftly evades his frantic attempts to fend it
off. His friends laugh at him, and the black kid runs.
Skitter knows many things. But she really doesn’t. She believes them, because that’s
what the last few years have taught her, but…
But Taylor, I…
Green eyes looking down at me, a frightening intellect behind them, the sharpest blade
that could be brandished against me. Someone who could unmake me with a few
choice words.
She says it’s blunt, a hammer, something that she can easily use to destroy, but has a
harder time using it to build.
It’s a lie. It’s a scalpel.
She can cut arteries and leave you to bleed. She can target each and every single
weakness you have, carefully dissected by eyes that see too much.
She can open you up and let the infection seep out. She can cut out the gangrenous
flesh, the tumors. She can make you weak enough that you can start to heal.
I remember her touch last night, and my breath quickens.
Her hands on me, so gentle, so careful so… I burn with her. I burn for her, as she
catches me in her eyes, and she keeps looking at me with that deep green that is far
more precious than any emerald would ever be, and she holds me, seeing more than I
ever wanted to show her, seeing more than I ever knew there was to see.
She sees Skitter. She admires her, for reasons I won’t ever understand.
But… She also sees Taylor.
She doesn’t think there’s such a great divide, doesn’t think I’m as broken as I know
myself to be, and I want to trust her, because she knows and sees, but… But I…
Greg is wandering down the hall. Sparky hasn’t arrived yet, and he looks lost, trying to
catch somebody’s gaze, to see if somebody is willing to hear him talk about his latest
passion that nobody cares about, and his shoulders slump, realizing once again how
little he matters, how little anybody cares about his being there at all.
I… I regret a lot of things, and it’s only now that I start to realize it.
Inhale. One, two, three, four, five, six.
Hold. One, two, three, four.
I am Skitter.
I am the one who makes the hard calls, who knows how to act decisively when lives are
at stake, who helped Lisa execute Oni Lee. I am the one who would have had a swarm
scour Bakuda’s flesh off her bones if I hadn’t known about her failsafe.
I am Taylor Hebert.
I am the one who wanted to be better than her tormentors, who wanted to be above the
petty torture, the insults, and betrayal. I am… I am a girl who always wanted to be a
hero.
I am…
I am Lisa Wilbourn’s fiancée.
I am the one who listened as Armsmaster came undone, talking about every friend lost
to senseless violence. I am the one who learned that heroes can and do kill, but only
when there’s no better choice, when the stakes are too high, or the circumstances don’t
let them hold back. And that it is always a failure, a defeat, having had to resort to that. I
am the one who’s trying to mend bridges with a father who seems present for the first
time in years. The one who has done measurable good for this city, taking out one
entrenched threat after another. I defeated a dragon, captured a mad woman, executed
an assassin, and locked away a mastermind.
I am a hero.
I… I finally am a hero.
I take off my glasses and bury my face in my hands, crying silently, fat tears running
down my face and pooling on my palms.
I… I really am. I have done good, saved lives. I’ve… during the bombings, I saw so
many that would have died if we weren’t there, if we hadn’t kept working ourselves to
the bone, jumping from one disaster to the next, and I…
I should be proud. A part of me knows that.
The other is just so… so tired.
We spoke with Armsmaster and Miss Militia about it. About triumph that tastes like
ashes, about doing good that never feels quite enough, about fighting evil that always
seems too much. They agreed. They know how draining it is when a win just highlights
the overall loss, the dreadful reality that you have won, but that the battle should never
have been fought, and it is a failure that it came to that.
They know. They agree.
They have been doing it for years.
I… I respect them so much now, so much more than when I idolized them, and I don’t
know if I…
No.
I’ll keep crying, alone in this little stall, silent enough that no one will find me.
I’ll allow myself that. This weakness, just as I allowed myself to be weak yesterday,
knowing she was with me and would catch me if I…
I already did it for her. I was there when she cried in my arms, clinging to me as her
whole world broke apart, as she realized she had been pushing the pieces together and
breaking them even more with every attempt.
And I… I held her. Told her I loved her. Kissed her. Spent the night holding her.
It was heartbreaking.
It was the best night of my life.
So, a part of me feels like I’m robbing her of something precious, of the chance to be for
me what I was for her that one time and all the others she has shown me that
vulnerable side of hers that I absolutely adore, because I fear the Thinker seven, but I
love the girl with green eyes that always have a bit of mirth in them, no matter how
many other things there may be clamoring to be let out.
Another part of me thinks she planned this. Put me in a vulnerable position so I could
start slowly unraveling at a rate that lets me be functional as each and every little dreg
of trauma comes up to the surface and gets washed away by tears. It would be just like
her, to manipulate me like this for my own good.
Skitter agrees. Taylor is a bit miffed.
I chuckle, and it comes out a bit watery through the tears, but once I start, I can’t hold
back.
Because… Well, that’s just who Lisa is. The brilliant mind who always misses that small
detail, so caught up in plans and schemes that she still manages to get caught off-guard
whenever Colin calls her a Thinker six. The mastermind who’s a caring, loving girlfriend,
an attentive lover, the best friend I could’ve ever asked for, and she’s still silly and
ridiculous, claiming her motorcycle isn’t stolen while unprompted, forgetting to tell me
she’s a millionaire while I quietly freak out about our financial situation as runaways,
deciding it would be a great idea to pretend she’s asexual just so I feel safe with her…
And… And she’s warm. Soft. So much, and in a way I hadn’t realized I needed so
desperately, and…
Fuck it. I’m a crying wreck. An ugly mess. The traumatized locker girl.
And I, for the first time since that awful day, allow myself to be…
Well. Me.
…
I still think this is all her fault, and I will plan adequate retribution as soon as I’m done
with my overdue crying fit.
***
I manage to get out of the toilet by the time third period comes around. It’s World Issues
with Mr. Gladly, and the only good thing I can say about it is that I don’t have Emma or
Sophia in it.
Mostly because one of them is in juvie and the other in a quiet place where pens are
chained to tables, so the only good thing I can say about the class is about the only
good thing I can say about Winslow as a whole.
I go through the door and walk past my seat without even checking to see whether
there’s something vile on it. I feel a pang of curiosity, but, quite frankly, I’m at a point
where I don’t know if I would feel worse if there wasn’t anything on it. It’s… a
complicated feeling, and I decide to unpack it later on because I’ve already met my
crying quota for the week.
If Lisa wants more, she’ll have to work for it.
So I sit down beside Greg, who looks at me with a surprise so genuine it’s actually
pitiful. We were never quite friends, but the way I’ve treated him… I feel a bit of remorse
about it.
It doesn’t mean he isn’t still annoying as a dumb puppy, but even dumb people have
feelings. I guess.
“Hey, Taylor, are you doing—are you all right?”
I pause for a moment because I always need to remind myself about the excuse Lisa
and I threw up together.
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. My dad’s stopped freaking out about the shooting.”
“Uh. It must’ve been rough for him—”
“I’d rather not talk about it, Greg—” he flinches, starts hugging his arms. “But thank you.
Really, I’m glad someone cares.”
I smile at him, and he smiles back, so bright it’s a bit sad.
Madison is looking at us and making kissy noises.
I’m very tempted to give her all the crabs.
… Why haven’t I?
No, seriously, it would be a matter of minutes. Four of our classmates are infected, and
the parasites can survive almost two days without feeding off a host. I could start a
caravan right now, and by the end of the class, four people would be very relieved, and
a fifth one would be exactly as miserable as she deserves.
So. Why haven’t I done this already?
It’s not about keeping my secret identity. That was never an actual concern, even if it
should have been. It’s not about being powerless to do it, because I could manage this
much long before I developed my current skillset, back when I barely understood my
bug’s senses.
It’s… It was always about being a martyr, about being better than them, not sinking to
their level, but would that really apply? Is it sinking to their level when I act out of selfdefense? When my only targets are so deserving?
… A part of me wants to talk to Lisa about this, but I really think I should solve it in my
head before I bring it to her attention. Mostly because my girlfriend is protective enough
that, even if she thought I morally should refrain from any hostile action, that wouldn’t
stop her from ruining Madison’s life with a few choice words on PHO or something
equally ridiculous.
I bet her parents are having an affair, or she’s partially Jewish, or some other ludicrously
insignificant, tiny thing that could destroy the social life she currently has.
How would I feel if she did that?
Aggravated. I wouldn’t like that she did something I had the right to decide over. Why do
I have that right? Because I’m a victim, her victim.
Why am I a victim?
… Because I let myself be.
The bugs tracking Madison’s movements inform me she’s about finished preparing her
spitball.
I stand up.
The class quietens. Mr. Gladly looks at me.
I walk up to Madison.
“Miss Hebert, is there anything—”
“I’m sorry to interrupt the class, but this will only take a moment.” Taylor sounds
conciliatory.
“I think you should go back to your seat—”
“I think you should shut your fucking mouth and let me have this one moment before I
destroy your career.” Skitter doesn’t.
He shuts up, but the class starts talking in hushed whispers, and, for once, I get the
satisfaction of knowing that they are all looking at me and that it isn’t just my paranoia
acting up.
“What do you have in your hand, Madison?”
She looks up at me, her eyes wide, not knowing how or why the script has flipped.
“Nothing,” she finally answers with that ‘butter wouldn’t melt in my mouth’ voice.
“Ah. Right. Of course.”
I punch her in the nose.
“Miss Hebert!” Gladly yells, walking over to me.
“I asked for a moment. I am not done with it.”
“You most definitely are! Go to the principal’s office right—”
I turn to look at him, and, right now, I’m not the locker girl. I am Skitter. I am the
pragmatically ruthless hero. I’m the one who made a dragon cut his own face off.
He flinches.
Then I turn back to Madison.
She’s silently crying, holding her nose, blood seeping out of it.
“Sophia always was the physical one, hitting me, shoving me down the stairs or against
the walls. Emma always was the emotional one, digging up some horrible trauma from
the past, insulting me for having cried over my mother’s death. You? You were the
laughing one. The cheering squad on the sidelines, making sure everyone knew how
utterly hilarious you thought what your friends did was. Look around you, Madison.”
She doesn’t. She keeps looking at me, her eyes trembling, tears in the corner.
I grab her chin and force her to do it, to look up around and behind her. To look at the
class full of people eating up the whole drama without doing anything other than record
it.
“See? You don’t have friends. Not anymore. You are laughing at no one’s jokes, trying
to act as if you still matter. You don’t. Never did. They are the ones laughing. At how
stupid you look with your runny nose, with the school pariah having finally decided she’s
tired of your bullshit. You are the one they will be laughing at from now on. Enjoy being
the next friendless locker girl, Mads. You should know how it will go for you.”
I take a deep breath. One, two, three, four, five, six.
And look around me.
I don’t need to. I know what each and everyone of them is currently doing, from the
ones frantically whispering, to those recording the whole thing, to Greg and Sparky not
knowing whether to cheer or hide.
I can sympathize.
But there’s a reason I’m looking around and making a show of it, meeting the eyes of
those who don’t pretend I don’t exist.
“This place is awful. A hellhole. Because Hell is other people.”
I pause, giving the appearance of a deliberate orator drawing in their audience’s
attention. I’m just trying not to freak out and come up with anything that’s a worthy
follow-up to that line.
In the end, I decide nothing is, and maybe simple is best.
“I’m tired of living in Hell.”
I go back to Greg and smile at him. By the time I pick up my things, he has found the
courage to answer with his own smile.
… I regret not seeing more of it, now that I know I won’t have to listen to any more of his
rants.
So I walk out of class, Mr. Gladly still frozen on the spot, not quite knowing how to
handle the steadily rising noise of students who weren’t that engaged to begin with.
He makes as if to reach out to me, and I shift out of the way before he even finishes the
movement.
Then I, for what I hope is the last time in my life, walk out of Winslow.
I keep walking, and I don’t stop till I can’t see the damned building.
Then I lean my back on a lamppost and breathe.
One, two, three, four—
I’m calling Lisa.
“Tay? Finally seen the light of reason and decided to ditch?”
I smile at the line. At how obnoxiously annoying she can be when she wants to.
At how right she can be even when she doesn’t mean to.
She must never know.
“Hey, Liz… Can you pick me up?”
There’s a bit of a pause and then something hurriedly shifting and somebody that I think
may be Alec muffling a string of curses.
“Send me the address,” she says as a door loudly closes behind her.
I smile once more. Wider. Freer.
And I breathe easily and without numbers.
“Also, I really hope ‘picking you up’ is a figure of speech, because I’m not sure my
delicate arms are up for a bridal carry—”
My eyebrow twitches.
The smile stays.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 27
Riding my bike through Brockton’s most deserted streets with Taylor hugging me from
behind, feeling her sticking to my back as if we were cuddling in bed should have been
a distant dream for the future.
A future where threats had been dealt with, where she could be free to relax, to rest.
A future earned.
We aren’t there. Not yet. We still are in the middle of it all, still dealing with enemies
entrenched and those waiting in the wings, still… No. We aren’t even still healing. Some
things we haven’t even decided to face yet.
But…
A dream for the future is, sometimes, the only thing you need to get through the
present.
I take another turn, leaving further behind the Docks, the Trainyard, the Boat Graveyard,
every little and not so little reminder of how messed up this city is.
And I take a road out of it that soon transitions into something that’s more like a hiking
trail than anything adequately paved.
… Don’t worry, baby, I’ll pay for a brand-new paint job as soon as we get back to
civilization.
Lisa Wilbourn anthropomorphizing vehicle—
Oh my God! Are you jealous of my bike? I’ll have you know we never agreed to be on
exclusive anthropomorphizing with each other.
Non-specified relationship terms usually implied not to deviate from standard—
… While that’s technically true, even if more people could benefit from making sure
implicit things become explicit, I’m very disturbed you decided to come up with this
piece of trivia at this very moment.
Steep incline combined with poor road conditions and wind direction—
If that’s your equivalent of innocent whistling, you’re very lucky it actually involves
potentially saving Taylor’s soft, tender skin from an awful case of road rash.
Also, we have arrived.
I lower my speed as we pass between two trees that are too near for a car to manage,
and I finally brake and kick back the stand as we get near the edge of the small cliff with
only a perfunctory fence around it.
Taylor relaxes her hold on my waist, and I take off my helmet to look at her.
Sound of cicadas increasing—
Yeah. Anti-Thinker tactics. I hate when she does that.
Lisa Wilbourn’s insincerity—
Fine: I hate when she does this for non-sexy, trauma-related reasons.
“Tay? You with me?”
“Always,” she whispers.
…
“I can’t even begin to tell you what that word just did to me,” I tell her as calmly and
composed as I can.
“You make it too easy to be mushy,” she replies, a measured smile on her lips.
The cicadas get louder.
“It’s perfectly reciprocal,” I say, looking into eyes that are a bit less expressive than they
should be.
And I rest my palms on her cheeks, my fingers spreading through her hair above and
behind her ears, and slow lids hide deep green from me as she lets out a pleased
murmur.
I wait, just looking at her, just watching her simple enjoyment of my touch on her skin, of
still being seated on my bike, our bodies sharing heat.
It would be so easy to just let go, forget everything, take her out of this place…
She would let me.
Right now? If I framed it right? She would ask me.
But that wouldn’t be Taylor, and sooner or later, she would realize it, grow past me,
come back.
So I’ll be selfish and help her through this rather than be selfish and short-sighted and
run away.
Lisa Wilbourn’s self-deprecation—
Power… As endearing as that is, let me have a bit of self-loathing from time to time. I’m
only human, after all, and I need the reminder.
“Tay… Do you want to talk?”
She opens her eyes, the green slightly more expressive than seconds ago.
Not moving too much, slow enough not to dislodge my hands, she shakes her head.
“All right. I’ll do the talking, then.”
“As if that could ever be a surprise.”
“Smartass.”
“Good talk.”
She smiles at me cheekily, and I laugh more than maybe I should, given the
circumstances.
“I love you so much,” I end up saying.
Her smile widens. The cicadas quieten.
Something in my gut unclenches.
I panicked when she called, when I heard how raw she was, how much of a plea her
asking me to pick her up really was.
I lost count of how many traffic infractions I committed on my way to her.
By the way, Power, thank you for being such a wonderful co-pilot. This would be a far
less heartwarming tale if I got into what I should reasonably get with the way I drive my
baby.
Anthropomorphizing vehicle—
Just take the damn compliment, you tetchy—
Lisa Wilbourn’s use of thesaurus—
Fuck you.
“Are you—” she starts, looking at me with concern.
“Power is jealous of my bike.”
“… I used to think bug control was a shitty power, you know?”
“Don’t ever say that out loud. You may hurt its feelings.”
“Are you—does that—you mean—”
“Tay, I don’t fucking know. But if I was you, I would be careful about emotionally
neglecting the thing that looks at the Ten Plagues of Egypt and takes it as a challenge.”
“… Each day brings new horrors upon me.”
“Nice segue!”
“Segue?”
“Yes, you know, a way to take the conversation into a different—”
“I know what a segue is, but how is that a fucking segue?!”
She leans back far enough my fingers trail from her hair to her cheeks, and I take the
chance to turn toward the cliff.
And I point at the city below it.
“Each day seems to bring something new, something worse. There are times you just
feel like the world is set against you, that nothing you do matters, that things can only
get worse, no matter how hard you try.
“But that’s a lie.”
I look back at her, and she’s looking at me, still bewildered by the previous topic and
quickly becoming concerned by the current one.
“You… Tay, you are strong. Much more than I ever could be, ever was. And… And
things change, and sometimes it’s for the worst, but sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes we
make the changes, decide how things are going to be from now on. Sometimes… we
make the world a better place.”
She keeps looking at me, silent, attentive.
The cicadas sing around me.
Damn it.
“And… Coil had a dream. He told me, once, about how he wanted to bring order to this
city, taking control of both villains and heroes, bringing it to heel. It was a stupid dream,
and we crushed it.
“But… I have another dream. It’s kinda new, and I’m not used to it, but… do you wanna
know what it is?”
She nods, still hieratical to an unsettling degree.
“I…” I take a deep breath, “I dream about turning this city into a safe place. A good
place. I dream about making this the one place in this messed up world where good
people have a chance, where lives don’t get interrupted by the mess all around us. I… I
want to make it. For you. I want to… My dream is to help you turn this into the Brockton
Bay you always dreamed of. It’s naïve, it’s childish, it isn’t even original, but… it’s my… I
swear, if you laugh at me right now I’ll—”
She kisses me.
She drags me to her, our bodies pressing against one another, her heat once more
seeping into me, her scent filling me with a sweet haze that slows down my thoughts
even as they all turn to Taylor, Taylor being here, Taylor being with me, Taylor kissing
me, desiring me, loving me…
Her tongue pushes past my lips, and I feel my toes curl inside my boots.
“I would never laugh at your dreams, Liz,” the swarm choruses, “I love you too much.”
It should horrify me, make my skin crawl.
My heart melts.
And a cynical, little part of me thinks it’s profoundly unfair that she’s managed to find a
way to keep talking while we make out.
***
We are sitting on a patch of grass beneath a small oak, my bike resting a small distance
away.
I feel far more comfortable doing this when I’m with someone who controls all the bugs
around us. I never thought about it, but Taylor may even make me enjoy hiking.
I shudder at the horrific thought.
“Why… why did you say all that?” she asks, still looking at the city beneath us.
I sigh. Of course she couldn’t let it be at the grand declaration.
“We need direction.”
“What?”
“You just left high school for good, haven’t you?”
She shuts up. Her eyes drift across the coastline. From here, from this distance, the city
is beautiful. Everything is washed away; every stain faded into another splotch of color
as if turning into an impressionist rendition of the wreck we both know.
Maybe distance makes the heart grow fonder because all the little imperfections are so
much harder to see.
“I don’t know. I think I have,” she finally says.
“Why?”
“You know why.”
I take a deep breath and lean against the trunk of the oak. It’s not big enough for both of
us to do it at once, but Taylor is leaning forward, her arms on her knees, her chin on her
arms.
“I know why I wanted you to leave Winslow. I suspect why you did. And I can guess why
you would leave your studies completely.”
“That’s a very convoluted way to say you want me to tell you.”
“I already asked why. If you don’t want the convoluted version of me, don’t ignore the
monosyllabic one. She doesn’t get that much time on the spotlight.”
She turns her head till she’s looking at me with her cheek on her folded arms, a few
strands of hair falling across her face and draping it in lustrous shadow.
“Maybe because you can’t stand to have the spotlight on you and not deliver a
monologue.”
There’s a trace of a smile on her tone.
I answer it.
“You know me so well.”
Her lips curl and she just stays like that, looking at me with warmth in her eyes.
… I should remember to breathe from time to time.
“I don’t think it’s worth it,” she finally says, and I have to remind myself we were talking
about her going to high school and not about me pushing her down on the grass and—
“Worth it for what?”
She half-shrugs, the gesture brief with the way her arms are still on her knees.
“It’s work, and I would never get my GPA to a point where I would get into a good
college. My academic future is effectively over, and I could instead be doing something
of worth.”
I pause, because there’s a bit to untangle in there.
“You are right, of course… but do you want to be?”
“What?” Her eyebrows scrunch up as if the mere notion of not wanting to be right was
alien to Taylor Hebert.
… Oh God, social mirroring is a thing.
Moving on!
“If you feel like ten years from now you are going to regret not even trying, I am going to
do my very best to tutor you and blackmail a few professors to get your records up to
where they should’ve always been. If you feel like this is no longer something you want
to do—”
“Direction.”
“What?”
“I think I like ‘monosyllabic Lisa.’”
“I think ‘teasing Taylor’ has a time and a place.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter.”
“I haven’t said anything!”
She chuckles and raises her head, looking once again at the city below us.
There’s a hint of a blush on her cheeks.
And now I’m grinning like a loon.
“You… You want us to have direction. To work toward something.” She pauses,
straightens her back, hands on her knees, her profile gorgeous enough even before a
slight breeze makes her hair sway. “I want that too. I don’t want to feel any more like I’m
just reacting, just going from one crisis to the next. I want… not control. Not quite. But
maybe this kind of control, the control over where I want to go and what I do to get
there.”
“Something to work toward. Something you can feel like you’re making progress in.”
She nods.
“How long have you known I needed that?” she asks. And I’m immensely relieved the
cicadas don’t scream around me.
“Since the beginning. I tried to help you in small ways, giving you small objectives one
after the other, but once we broke out from the Undersiders… I got swept up in all of it.
This has been as much of a chaotic mess for me as it’s been for you.”
She’s inexpressive as I confess, but not unnaturally so. I could read her if I wanted to.
I don’t.
“I know,” she admits. “I know all the times you’ve… All those moments have been real. I
know that; I feel that. I… today, I had my own moment, my own breakdown while I
thought about… everything. Last night, and this morning, and what we’ve gone through,
what we’ve achieved, finally being a hero… I hid in a toilet like I used to do, like they
were still chasing after me and I needed to get away, but I did it in the one where you
shot Sophia, and… It felt good, afterward, but I feel like I’ve been running through this…
this fog, with shapes that fade in and out, some things clear in stark relief and others
almost indistinct, but they are the same things at different moments, through different
angles… I’m not making any sense, am I?”
I get up.
Taylor keeps looking at the city until I kneel in front of her, meeting her eyes.
“You are my fiancée, Tay. I think you are supposed not to make any sense and drive
me mad with confusion.”
She laughs, and I kiss her.
On the forehead.
I have some self-control.
Lisa Wilbourn—
Fuck you.
“I… I felt guilty,” she says, and my stomach drops, “about robbing you of that moment.
About you not being there to be for me what I was for you when you cried, about not
having you feel the same… the same closeness, the same chance to be nurturing,
caring… I felt guilty I broke without you there to pick up the pieces.”
“Oh, sweetie… You didn’t break. No one could break you. Not even you.”
“I—”
“You are far stronger than you know, Tay.”
“You keep saying these things—”
“And I’ll do it till you believe them.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s gaslighting.”
I flick the tip of her nose, and she yelps before scrunching it in the cutest—
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation—
Yeah. Yeah, I know.
“Tay, no jokes, no sarcasm, no filters: you are a wonderful person. You are a good
person, someone who wants to do what’s right no matter the cost, who wants to help
despite everything you’ve gone through. You’d have every right to be bitter, to want to
take out your anger and pain on the world, and you—”
“I punched Madison’s nose.”
“… Is there video of it?”
“… You are supposed to rethink your whole stance about me not taking my anger out
on others, not look like I’m giving you a puppy.”
“Can you housetrain kits?”
“… Shouldn’t you ask Rachel that? Also, aren’t you the one with the endless source of
esoteric trivia? And are you really avoiding the—”
“Well, there was that experiment with the Russian silver foxes, but that just made them
tame, I don’t know if there’s a breed that could live in an apartment. And I don’t think
Rachel knows about all canines. That doesn’t seem to be how her power works, though
I could ask her if—”
“You are avoiding the subject—”
“Oh, no, I’m just ecstatic that you’ve finally done something that amounts to selfdefense. The fact you think it’s some kind of moral failing is endearing, hilarious, and
concerning, but, well, baby steps and all that.”
She flicks my nose.
Hey! That smarts!
“Liz… I… I thought about it. A lot. And I finally decided to do it because I realized I
wasn’t sinking to her level if I was reacting to her. It… It wasn’t easy to—”
I hug her head to my chest, my hand drawing circles over her back.
“I know. I’m so proud of you, Tay—”
“You shouldn’t. It was… It was so obvious, so stupid that I hadn’t ever—”
“That’s not how it works. What you know now will always seem obvious, like the you
from the past was missing this thing that was right in front of her. But the you from the
past saw other things, saw as much as she could. You now see more, but only because
of what she learned. Be proud of her: she has helped you reach what you are now.”
“… I’m pretty sure that level of dissociation can’t be healthy.”
“Tay, we are former villains, undercover heroes, lesbian lovers, parahumans, and
teenagers.”
“… We are doomed, aren’t we?”
“To sappy scenes where one of us keeps being on the verge of a mental and emotional
breakdown while the other gives the best speech she can come up with at the moment
while suffering the worst stage fright ever? Certainly.”
“You don’t sound like you have stage fright.”
“No actor ever does. Not the ones worth the title.”
“I’m pretty sure that isn’t true.”
“Oh? You mean that people are human and, no matter what, fallible, and we shouldn’t
think it’s the end of the world when one is less than perfect?”
One of her legs slides between mine, she twists her hips, and I’m lying on the grass,
staring at a sky that is soon filled with Taylor and her swaying black hair.
“Stop using your powers to direct the conversation.”
“I… Wasn’t doing that?”
She pauses and looks at me with her head tilted in a way that makes me want to pat it.
“You… That thing you just did. With making me acknowledge people failing…”
“Wha—oh, that. Uh… I don’t want to spoil the magic, but that’s just called bantering,
Tay. It happens naturally.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, really, if every time this happens, it was because I was using Power, the headache
would be awful. Sometimes he interjects, but it’s usually… Well, me. Knowing you.”
“Knowing me enough to predict how I will answer to something.”
I look up at eyes that are a bit too open.
“Tay… You are the most important person in my life at the moment. I’ve no better
friends, no family, and I’m deeply in love with you—and Power reacts to my interest and
focus. Do you really think I don’t know you by now?”
She just looks at me.
And keeps looking.
All right, this is making me nervous.
“Tay?”
“I’m trying to decide whether what you just said is romantic or horrifying.”
“Both. Can’t it be both?”
She looks for a bit longer and finally sighs before dropping down and hugging me, her
hair tickling my cheek just as the grass tickles my nape.
“Fine. It’s both,” she concedes.
“Yay.”
My arms wrap around her, and we stay just like this until she decides to break the
silence.
“This whole thing was supposed to be about me dropping out of high school.”
“Sweetie, you are an active superhero with a millionaire fiancée and contacts with some
of the most powerful and celebrated heroes in the world. Your future is as safe as it can
be given your vocation. Dropping out is about what you want to do, not a gigantic issue.”
She shuffles a bit on top of me, and I keep thinking chaste thoughts.
Sexual frustration commonly linked to high levels of stress—
See? My bike never tells me things like this.
Lisa Wilbourn’s lack of technopathy—
“Will you help me get a GED?” Taylor mercifully interrupts Power’s latest, disturbing
tantrum.
“Of course I will. Just let me buy a sexy tutor costume.”
“I’m the one who wears glasses.”
“I never said who the costume was for.”
She chuckles, which confuses me for a bit.
Ah, yes, she may have been under the impression I was joking.
“About everything else…” she sounds unsure. Uncertain.
I don’t like it.
And so… Well, I do what I intended to do when I brought her up here.
I give her a direction. An objective. A goal to strive forward.
“We are taking down the Empire.”
She stiffens in my arms for a moment, and then her body relaxes as her mind whirls
with possibilities, with angles of attack, objectives, plans.
And that…
That, I like.
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation—
I’m also liking my bike more and more.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 28
“Absolutely not,” Colin says, trying to set reasonable boundaries, discouraging me from
taking unnecessary risks, and overall being on the verge of screaming in sheer
frustration.
Sometimes, I think he takes the parenting stuff a smidge too far.
Lisa Wilbourn’s feeling of acceptance—
Let me snark in peace for once, will you?
Motorcycle rides said to induce relaxation—
You leave my baby out of this!
“We weren’t asking for permission,” Taylor says. Because, as smart as she is, she
doesn’t have this whole ‘talking with authority figures’ thing quite mastered yet.
Hannah, facepalming isn’t a valuable contribution to the conversation.
Neither is trying to mask hysterical laughter with a fake coughing fit, Dragon.
Remaining frozen in time may be a sensible reaction. Thank you, Noelle.
“Look, before we all start drawing lines in the sand and deciding the other party has
crossed the proverbial Rubicon, burned the bridges, and whatever mixed metaphor you
care to add into this whole mess, how about we just calm down and expose our
viewpoints in objective statements that don’t cast judgment on the other part of the
conversation?”
Everybody is staring at me.
Except for Noelle. Noelle is nice and polite.
You know, when she’s not about to eat me and everything I hold dear.
“And I guess the Thinker would like to have the first turn?” Colin, a tone as dry as that
may be hazardous for your throat. Try to stay hydrated.
Hannah can help.
“Well, it would be the more efficient way to go about this,” I say, dropping the ‘e’ word
like an inept parent may drop a ba—nah. Too dark.
“How so?” Colin, your first mistake was to engage the Thinker seven. Your second was
to underestimate her.
Seven. Starts with an ‘s,’ ends with an ‘n.’
Lisa Wilbourn’s resentment—
Don’t pretend you aren’t as invested in this as I am.
Anthropomorphizing of parahuman abilities interfaces—
That isn’t fooling anyone, you know?
“Well, sooner or later I’m going to have a turn, and then I’ll analyze everything that’s
been said, address it, and you’ll want another turn to modify your arguments with the
new information. If I go first, I’ll anticipate what you are more likely to say and therefore
avoid a full round of the recursive argument.”
It’s not that convoluted, Hannah. No need to look at me like that.
Yes, I’ve just tricked Colin into letting me frame the conversation and allow me to
essentially state what his stance and initial arguments would be, Dragon. You can keep
looking at me like that. My ego is pleased.
“That sounds like it would save some time…”
“Would I ever lie to you?” I bat my eyelashes and don’t say ‘daddy.’ Because, ugh,
gross.
Sexualization of—
Right! Precisely! Why do people do that?! It’s basically fetishizing incest, which for a
great deal of the population is a gigantic squick button, so why the Hell is that
something so essentially embedded as a sexualized form of address?!
16th century way for prostitutes to address older clients—
Ugh. That doesn’t make it any less gross…
“I do have a lie detector—” he starts.
“Precisely my point.” No, this isn’t my smug grin; it’s just a nervous tic. Or force of habit.
Yup. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
“You two make it really hard for anybody else to intrude on… whatever this is,” Taylor
complains. Because she’s Taylor, mostly.
“Right? It almost feels like a spectator sport, at times,” Hannah says, solidifying their
alliance.
“I find it very endearing,” Dragon continues with a hint of a giggle, proving, once again,
why she’s my favorite.
Colin, meanwhile, scratches his chin while trying not to—he’s being bashful?! Oh God,
this is adorable. I really, really hope Dragon is taking pictures—
Likelihood of Dragon’s memory being accessible to—
Oh. Right. Wasn’t thinking about that.
Damn, that kinda makes this awkward. Ah, well, back to pretending there isn’t any
actual problem.
Lisa Wilbourn’s stress—
Business as usual, dear.
“Very well! You’re concerned Taylor and I running around without supervision will end
up with us getting in far too over our heads, especially if we plan to engage threats such
as Hookwolf. You also think this may jeopardize our future public debut and our official
relation with the Protectorate and PRT, and do not like, at all, the possibility that we
could use mercenary assets such as the Undersiders to attack the Empire. You’re still
willing to lend us your support, though, and wouldn’t be averse to participating in arrests
as long as you could keep plausible deniability with the local director. Everything right
so far?” I ask, more for courtesy’s sake (and to make Colin feel like he actually has
some kind of control over the conversation) than anything else.
“I… I do suppose those are my foremost concerns…” Colin says. And Dragon winks at
me from the monitor over his shoulder while keeping a placid smile on the one her
oblivious not-quite boyfriend can see.
Hannah is, very clearly, trying not to giggle.
“Right. So, to address your concerns: both Taylor and I are perfectly suited for longrange engagement. And by ‘long-range’ I mean ‘they won’t even know we are watching
until it’s far too late-range.’”
“The Unwritten Rules—”
“We’ll pretend to adhere to them as long as the Empire doesn’t pull a Bakuda out of its
pocket.”
“Pretend?” There’s no hostility in that question. He knows what we are about.
And approves.
Lisa Wilbourn’s need for parental ap—
Not touching that one with a ten-foot pole. Also, shut up.
I turn toward the map of Brockton Bay I’ve been working on in the room in front of
Noelle’s vault where most of Colin and Dragon’s equipment has been stored. Well, the
maps, actually.
“These represent the spread of the Empire’s influence since the ABB and Coil’s fall. We
can see many of the gangs from before Lung’s takeover have resurfaced, while almost
all of the mercenaries have vacated the city in search of new contracts. The Empire has
taken advantage of Coil’s absence swiftly but is having a bit more trouble with the new
Asian gangs that are in no way suitable for absorption—for obvious reasons. Still,
Kaiser is spinning this as a huge victory for ‘the cause,’ and he’s de facto the only
parahuman crime lord in the city with any credibility, as Skidmark is seen mostly as a
joke even by the criminal element (I’m not getting into how stupid that is at the moment).
If left alone, he will become a rallying point for his ideology, and Gesellschaft will
become invested in propping him up even more than they already do. Correct?”
“This is starting to sound like an ‘as you already know’ speech,” Taylor interjects,
betraying my trust in the deepest, most hurtful manner I can conceive of.
“That’s because it is. Nobody here’s arguing to leave the Empire alone, Lisa,” Colin
capitalizes on my weakness. Or seems to think so, at least.
I hold back the smirk.
“I’m not saying you do. I’m saying this is far more like a Bakuda situation than we
thought.”
Colin pauses. Looks at the map.
Frowns.
Gotcha.
“Explain.” Ah, music to my ears.
“If the Empire starts facing more criminal opposition, that’s one thing, but if it’s seen to
have become the only villain organization in the Bay and suddenly the Protectorate tries
to remove it? All bets are off. Gesellschaft won’t tolerate such a public defeat when the
lines are clearly drawn, and the last thing those psychos sent were Fog and Night. Do
you see any new recruits from them being more stable? Or less prone to murder?”
I walk toward one of the maps, one that shows a conflicting line far too near the Docks
for Taylor’s comfort.
“Both Merchants, Empire, and three splinter groups from the ABB are disputing control
over the Docks so they can keep smuggling in drugs, weapons, and other, less tasteful
things. As things stand, it’s just a matter of time for the area to fall to Kaiser, and then
he has a safe way to get whatever parahuman asset he pleases into the country. All of
them will be traumatized by their indoctrination and far more eager to cause civilian
casualties as long as they are the ‘wrong’ kind of civilians. It will be open war.”
“A war that you posit can be avoided as long as you both keep playing at being actually
villains,” he says, trying to put up a skeptic façade that doesn’t fool anyone.
“A war that can be avoided if we win it before they realize it has started,” I correct him.
Because of course that’s what I was aiming for.
… Tay, stop looking at me like that. Not in public, sweetie.
“Between your technology, Taylor’s power, and my own, we will be unbeatable on the
information front. We will be able to plan surgical strikes, to tip their rivals off at the right
time, to capitalize on every weakness and mistake. We will anticipate each and every
movement and make it seem as if everything that went wrong was because of Kaiser’s
incompetence, make Gesellschaft distrust him, make them avoid committing assets to
the leadership of a bumbling fool. We will make Skidmark look like the more competent
leader. We will defeat them, and they won’t even know they were fighting us.”
He looks at me. Really looks, his visor up, his eyes as steely and penetrating as ever.
“You paint a pretty picture,” he says.
Damn it.
“But no plan survives contact with the enemy?” I say.
And he nods.
And to him, that’s that. I can argue pros and cons all I want, but he has too much
experience to trust nothing will go wrong, that things will go as I expect them—want
them to.
Of course, there are more people in the room.
“Isn’t that what we are there for?” Hannah says, playing straight into the opening I left
her and proving, once again, why she’s my favorite.
Lisa Wilbourn’s fickleness—
The Christmas presents will be the point of no return. Until then, the scales will keep
tipping.
“No. That’s most definitely not what we are here for,” Colin says with a tone sterner than
he would usually direct at his long-time friend. Which makes her…
Nope. That’s not Hannah being uncomfortable. Damn, girl, just how long has this been
going on?
“No plan survives contact with the enemy. That’s why you have backup, somebody else
to rely on, contingencies to bail you out, other plans to deploy. I wonder who was it that
hammered that into my head?” the girl says, arms crossed, cocking a hip.
… I ship it.
Shipping fandom subculture usually focused on non-canon—
“We are supposed to deal with this; they aren’t.” And his broad-sweeping gesture that
only lacks a cape for extra flair makes it quite clear who Colin means by ‘they.’
Note to self: look into capes for Christmas. I’m sure there’s a way to convince him they
can be used in tactical, efficient ways.
Historical fencing manuals refer to the usage of capes and cloaks as—
Ah, thanks. That will be a good starting point.
“I agree. But they want to. And they aren’t under your command, Colin.”
Hannah’s smile is rueful, only the right side of the mouth making a half-hearted try at
rising up. Colin almost recoils.
“They are going to do it. They just want to include you, not to ask for permission,”
Dragon says, not unkindly.
And Colin looks at her, a hint of hurt in his eyes that makes me want to—
Fuck it.
I hug the stupid man who still hasn’t fixed his armor to make it actually cuddly. After a
moment, his hands rest on top of my shoulder blades, and I hear his breathing slow
down.
“We’ll be all right,” I mutter.
“You can’t promise that,” he says with a voice that is far rawer than—no. No, it is just as
raw as I would’ve expected.
Stupid, stupid man, and his stupid need to take on all the evils of the world.
“I… I can promise. I just cannot say I won’t break the promise. Not with that stupid lie
detector.”
He chuckles.
Then pats my head as my face cools against the ceramic alloy with metallic properties
of his chest plate.
“Don’t do anything that would make me dock you another rating point,” he finally says.
… I’m not laughing. This is hysterical sobbing. Shut up.
***
“Well, that went better than I expected,” Taylor says as we walk from Coil’s base to
where I parked (and chained, secured, and did all but plant a minefield around) my bike.
“That’s because you always expect the worst out of people.”
“… You say that as if it wasn’t a sensible thing to do.”
I look at her. Oh God, she’s not even smiling sardonically.
“It isn’t.”
“Oh, please, you’re the Thinker. You can’t even begin to tell me—”
“Tay, that’s not a good way to—you’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
For a moment, she looks at me with a blank face that makes my stomach drop. Then
she smirks.
“Thinker six,” she sing songs.
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“You’re so lucky you are cute when you’re insufferable…”
“Look who’s talking.”
“Did you just say I’m cute all the time?”
She stops, turns around. Looks at me.
And facepalms.
“I guess I just did. How did you even manage to turn that into a compliment?”
I smile and walk up to her, lean against her, on my tiptoes, until our noses almost touch.
Then I smirk the smuggest smirk that ever smirked.
“Because you love me,” I sing song.
She groans.
Then she hugs my waist and kisses me breathless.
“I do. Damn it, I do.”
Both the smirk and the smug remain.
The lovestruck, kinda gormless look that accompanies them is just… a bit of an
addition.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 29 – Aimless Direction
“I used to admire you.”
Those are Armsmaster’s words. The last ones he says to me before he exits my office.
Former office.
I would usually be expected to gather my personal effects. To put them all in a little box
and walk out of the building, a last disgrace for everyone to see the former PRT Director
at her lowest.
Joke’s on them: I don’t have any personal effects.
The dialysis machine I keep at the office was already taken away yesterday; any
sensitive documentation either shredded, tucked away days ago or prepared for my
successor to quickly peruse. And the computer files were always backed up at my
home.
My home. What a joke.
The only thing that keeps me company while I’m in there is the constant whirring of the
machine cleaning my blood. Constantly waking up at night to the reminder of my
weakness, my failing body, my constant—
This is useless.
I get up with a groan that I can never entirely suppress, my aching knees wobbling
under a weight I can no longer work to lose.
My body is failing me because I can’t take care of it, and I can’t take care of my body
because it’s failing me.
It’s been years since this cycle started, and it never fails to get an angry smile out of me
when I remind myself of it.
I take a moment to steady myself, because I refuse to use a cane, to allow such an
outward display of weakness even beyond what I’m already forced to parade around,
beyond the disgusting sloshing of flesh that is no longer tight and fit, that no longer
answers swiftly to my demands of it.
Years commanding others as I can no longer command myself.
The moment to steady myself passes, and I run out of excuses not to step out of my
office.
“Directo Piggot—” Jasmine starts saying something, concern in her eyes.
She’s… She’s been good to me. Gratingly so, ever since she learned what my condition
actually is.
“You don’t have to call me that. Not anymore.”
She looks at me, a brief look of discomfort flitting across her face.
“Ah… Emily, then?” she asks with a hopeful smile.
I find myself not getting angry at it.
“Of course, Jasmine.” I don’t smile at her. My face is no longer suited for it, not with the
folds of flesh, the way my eyes sink into bloated—this is useless.
“I…” She looks uncomfortable. Bashful. “I’ll miss working with you, Emily,” she finally
says and looks hopefully up at me, still sitting at her desk in front of my former office.
I’ve learned to read people far better since I got relegated to administrative work. It was
useful in the field, certainly, but it never was my focus. Not when I had to master so
many other skills, so many things that could save my life.
Decision-making is very different in those circumstances. You need to react in the
moment, to take the chance when it presents itself. You follow protocol, follow orders,
but, ultimately, you follow your gut.
Your thoroughly trained and educated gut.
In the office? Behind a desk? You have time to think. And you need to take it. To ponder
pros and cons, to strategize, deploy assets, hold back, prioritize.
It’s… If I’m honest, I was never very good at it.
But I still have had to learn. To read people, to understand them, to negotiate, to push,
to hold back.
And I read Jasmine’s well-meaning gesture. Read the fundamentally kind woman who
feels bad about me leaving in disgrace, who always feels bad about others suffering,
even in this city and with this job.
I know what she expects me to say. The usual platitudes about meeting for coffee
sometime in the nebulous future. About growing our relationship into a friendship that
never was before, because cordiality was where things stopped.
And I make a decision.
Or, rather, I let my gut make it.
“Likewise, Jasmine. You’ve been a wonderful secretary over the years. I envy my
successor.”
My tone is kind. It’s also final.
And Jasmine has a slightly disappointed frown on her face before her polite smile
returns.
We make a bit of conversation before I leave, never to see her again.
It’s better that she has a moment of slight disappointment than that she saddles herself
with a fake obligation. Or so my gut tells me.
I mean, it’s grown enough lately that it would be foolish to keep ignoring it.
The ride down the elevator is quiet enough, the pointless display of tinkertech working
as well as it usually does. The cost-benefit analysis keeps flashing through my head
every time I take the damn thing, and it always makes me grit my teeth.
Not today.
Today, I just enjoy a smooth ride that doesn’t jostle anything painfully.
Until it stops and Miss Militia walks in.
She glares at me, her scarf lowered so I can see her full face. She never liked having to
rely on her eyes to convey the full breadth of emotion and was particularly resentful of
that fact when it came to showing her displeasure.
I can’t help a little smirk at it that I quickly hide.
“Not even saying goodbye?” she lets out with an almost growl.
“I’m leaving partly because of what you did. I thought you wouldn’t want me to delay
unnecessarily.”
She clenches her jaw, the clearly defined lines of her muscles showing through taut,
smooth skin.
She reminds me of myself. What I used to be. What I used to have.
I should resent her for it.
I never have.
“What I did? You kept Sophia as an active Ward.”
“And you showed the world what a bad idea that was.”
She glares at me while I take a deep breath.
I should’ve had Stalker shot.
Ideally, I would’ve done it myself, but it’s somewhat frowned upon for a PRT Director to
murder one of her Wards. Just another grating aspect of the job.
“Then why? Why keep a villain in the making on the payroll after learning what she had
done? After knowing what she could do?”
There’s anger there, but mostly… disappointment.
I remind myself she’s a parahuman. A woman carrying a wound perpetually open, the
glimmering handgun strapped to her thigh a constant reminder to herself and the world
at large of not only what she can do, but what she feels compelled to do.
I think about little Hannah, walking through death, her fellow children pointlessly
sacrificed around her until it was her turn to join them, until no hope was left, until she
understood how little the world cared.
Until she shattered.
And the answer she found in that moment, the answer that would define her from then
on, was a weapon to hurt others as she would’ve been hurt.
I’ve tried to dislike her many times, to remind myself that she’s just another one of them,
another flawed, monstrously powerful human being that will forever feel the need to use
that power, to force it upon others.
I’ve never managed. She…
Damn it, is this a biological clock thing? How ridiculous would that be?
“To keep her on a leash,” I finally answer.
I don’t know why I even bother. It’s not a good reason, not after seeing how easily the
young thug slipped out of my control, but…
A part of me thinks Hannah deserves the answer she demands.
“That’s it? No punishment for her actions, just keep her on the Wards and hope she
doesn’t do to her teammates what she did to her classmate?”
There’s anger there. A lot of it.
And I’ve learned enough about reading people that I know she wouldn’t carry so much
of it if she didn’t feel…
Betrayed, I guess.
“I’m not a good person, Hannah,” I finally admit.
“What?” She looks shocked at the admission, the near non-sequitur.
I sigh, and I lean back on the elevator’s wall, thankful nobody’s interrupting this moment.
“I’m not. Not really. I’m efficient. I look at things, at problems, and do what I think is best
to solve them. And… And if I was a good person, I wouldn’t think like that. I wouldn’t
think Sophia was a problem, or an asset, but a person. I would’ve become indignant,
surprised, shocked.”
“You… You weren’t surprised at what she did to Taylor Hebert.”
“I knew the little psycho got her jollies off by nailing people to walls. What she did to Ms.
Hebert wasn’t much of an upgrade.”
“The locker—”
“Disgusting. Repulsive. Monstrous. And no, I wasn’t shocked.”
She crosses her arms, shifts her weight to the back foot, her body at a slight angle to
mine.
She doesn’t realize it herself, but she’s taking a combat stance, only her crossed arms
disguising the fact.
Once again, I hurry to wipe the slight smirk she inspires in me.
“If you knew she was capable of that, that she was such a… such a vile thing, why did
you keep her on the team? Why didn’t you push to have her probation rescinded, send
her to juvie?”
“Because I’m not a good person.”
“That’s not an answer, Emily!”
Ah. Emily, is it? So quick to discard my tittle, Hannah, so quick to look to the person
behind it.
So quick to…
Never mind.
“It is, though, even if one you don’t like. I kept her because she was an asset. Because,
as long as she was under my control, she was one cape less fighting me over the city,
no matter how little she brought to the table.”
“You always said she was very effective in her solo patrols.”
“And awful at everything else. Her negative influence on her teammates, the constant
push against regulations, testing of boundaries? All in all, most of her value came from
not actively working against us.” I just slipped. This was never about ‘us.’
“That turned out not to be the case.” She doesn’t capitalize on it. Either she hasn’t
noticed, or she’s feeling far more charitable than she should.
“Precisely. And that’s why I’m leaving.”
She keeps silent for a moment, searching my eyes for something that quite likely hasn’t
been there since years ago.
“I thought your connections to Calvert—” she begins.
And I laugh.
“Oh, please. I warned everyone who would listen about the psychopath. I would’ve
executed him myself if I had known where to find him and what he was up to.” And
could move well enough to manage the task.
“Then—”
“I haven’t been fired, Hannah.” I keep calling her that. She’s the only one. The only one
among them I can’t bring myself to think of as just a colorful moniker. The one with a
real name.
I must be getting soft in my old age.
“What?”
“I could’ve been. The option was obviously there, of course, but I’ve been at this a long
time. I’ve contacts to resort to, favors to call on. I could’ve publicly eviscerated the
goddamn moron who thought it was a good idea to hide Sophia’s actions in her official
reports.”
“And you didn’t.” She holds my eyes with her own. Such pretty eyes, Hannah. It’s been
quite long since someone praised mine.
“I didn’t.” And I could let things end here. I want to. But, something in the way she looks
at me…
I sigh, almost slumping against the wall, none of my military poise on display.
And I keep talking.
“I didn’t, because I didn’t solve a problem, but created untold ones. I’ve failed at my job
in a way that just underlines how much of a losing battle I’ve been fighting in here. This
is pointless. My job is pointless. My life’s work is pointless. And Armsmaster and you
just finally showed me how much.”
I can see her throat moving as she swallows, and she looks to the side. Maybe there’s a
hint of shame in there.
It’s misplaced.
“You did me a favor, Hannah. Now I can rest.”
And that’s it. That’s just the actual reason for me leaving my position, the job I’ve
sacrificed everything I had left to keep.
That I’m so, so tired.
I just won’t tell her what it is I’m tired of.
“Emily…” she drifts off, not knowing what to say. Whether to keep berating me,
condemning me for my actions, or apologize for making me realize how meaningless it
all has been.
I let her search for the right words.
When it becomes obvious that she won’t find them, I press the elevator button that
sends me on my way once again.
Yes, I had blocked it when she started talking. I’m sentimental like that.
The doors open to the lobby. There are more private ones I could’ve taken, but it’s
important people see me leave, that they realize my ghost won’t be haunting this place
anymore.
That there will be a new director, one hopefully less liable to keep making the same
mistakes throughout his whole career.
I step out of the elevator, and a hand drops on my shoulder.
Not showing my surprise, I turn back to look at Hannah, at her face once more covered
by her scarf, at eyes trained to be expressive.
They aren’t.
They swirl with emotions, with contradiction, and she doesn’t know which way to lean.
She just knows she doesn’t want to let me go so easily, not without a last something, a
moment of closure.
I’m far too sentimental.
“You… You didn’t just do me a favor, Hannah. You made me proud.”
She looks shocked, taken aback, and her hand drops.
A brief smirk leaves my lips, and I walk out of the place where I thought I would one day
die.
***
My body is bloated with fluid, my breath short, an awful temperature boiling beneath my
skin.
And I’m so thirsty that I make it worse by drinking another sip of water.
The awful noise of the dialysis machine is the only background to my elaborate breaths,
the clear tubes that should be moving my blood through it empty.
I keep looking at it, thinking about chaining myself to the infernal thing for a few hours
more, and, as my breathing grows more labored, as it turns to short, desperate panting,
the idea keeps growing more distasteful.
My house is big enough. An appropriate display of wealth for someone of my position to
impress the right kind of company with.
It has a pointless chimney that someone in my position would rather never use, not with
how the smoke and the heat would provide anything but a pleasant distraction.
It is in working condition, though.
So I drag myself out of my armchair and go to it.
And grab the fire iron.
It’s hefty and sharp enough, the hook at its end made to dig into wood. I could’ve easily
killed a man with this once upon a time.
Resisting the temptation to use it as a cane, I walk to the machine that has kept me
alive over the past years.
And then I strike at it.
The hook digs into the plastic carcass, not having damaged anything even remotely
related to it being functional.
And my breathing is already unbearable.
This is what happens when you can’t take air, the fatigue that comes from constantly
drowning, always reaching for that bit more, always knowing what comes into your
lungs isn’t enough. You grow tired, so, so tired after every little gesture, feeling so close
to death that you can almost touch it, that you can feel it beckoning. Knowing it would
be so easy to just force things enough that it finally takes you.
My chest burns from within as I rest, as I reclaim my ability to keep being alive.
Then I lift the poker and strike once more.
I’ve aimed, this time. I’m not lashing out of blind rage, but methodically destroying the
machine.
The hook has dug into the control panel, right beneath the bulky dial that turns it on. Its
motor is still whirring, though, still trying to take my blood away from me.
I rest, slumping my left shoulder against a wall with a wallpaper I would’ve never used
for my old apartment, but that the interior designer assured me was precisely the kind of
thing I’d asked her for.
The reassuring cold of it is quickly replaced with my asphyxiating heat, but by then I can
breathe enough once more to manage a third strike.
It’s a slow process. A methodical take down not unlike what I would’ve planned when I
trained in CQC, even if with a far more dilated timing. Assess your opponent, look for
their weakness, and only strike when you’re ready for it. Then wait and recover until the
next chance comes by.
It takes me eleven strikes until the motor whines and dies down.
I smile, freely, as there’s nobody here to be repulsed by the way it twists my face, and I
drag myself to my armchair.
Then I take my phone out of the pocket of my housecoat.
“Director Piggot?” Brandish’s voice answers, resorting to polite inquisitiveness.
“Hello, Carol. I feel I should inform you I’m no longer the PRT’s local director.”
“Ah… I may have heard about it. Is this a courtesy call then, Emily?” So quick to use my
name. Maybe it’s her training as a lawyer, or maybe it’s years of resentment finally
letting her drop any hint of respect the use of the title implies.
It doesn’t matter. Because Carol Dallon is precisely the kind of parahuman I best
understand. There won’t be any conflicted feelings over this call.
“Not quite. I’m afraid my dialysis machine just stopped working. I was wondering if Amy
would do me the favor of dropping by for a house call?”
The phone remains silent, and I allow myself a thoroughly unpleasant smirk.
She’s thinking of all the ways she can answer that. Trying to get over the surprise of me
finally asking this, finally asking for the favor to end all favors right after I stopped being
powerful enough to make it worth it for them.
I can feel the lawyer pondering, weighing, the mother raging, and the parahuman
wanting to lash out.
Yes. Carol Dallon is one of the easy ones.
“What brought this on?” she finally settles on.
“The fact I don’t feel like dying?”
“Don’t be glib with me, Emily; you could’ve asked for this years ago. You should have.”
“Maybe. But years have passed, and we are here. Now. And I’m asking if your daughter
can save my life.”
Another silence. Another inner struggle. The rage keeps building up.
I allow a bit of my rasping breath to come through the phone.
“Fine. I’ll let her speak to you. She doesn’t do requests.”
My smirk widens.
“Thank you, Carol. I won’t forget this.”
“How reassuring,” she mutters, and the phone goes silent as she walks through the
house.
There’s a muffled sound of a conversation hinted at through a hand covering the
microphone, and the phone changes hands.
“Piggot?” Panacea’s surly tone greets me. She’s also one of the easy ones. At least her
sister pretends to be happy.
“Hello, Amy. I’m sorry to ask you for this.”
“You don’t say. I mean, I thought it was pretty obvious you were quite averse to the
idea.”
She tries to take a dig at me. It’s precisely what I expected.
I lean back against the armchair, the leather comfortingly creaking, and I relax.
“I was, yes. But I no longer have the same concerns.”
“And why should I—”
Because you aren’t going to let me die, no matter how much you may like to pretend
otherwise, child.
But also…
“I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t offer something in return,” I say.
And she pauses.
“I don’t take payment for healing.”
“That’s a very noble, if stupid policy. Your services are valuable enough to warrant it.”
“I’m not—”
“You’re an individual with unique capabilities. That makes those capabilities worth a lot.
Still, I wasn’t talking about money.”
“What do you mean?”
“The bank. The Thinker who tore you down and got your sister shot. I know how to
make her life very interesting,” I tell her, and I wish I was holding a glass of bourbon,
even if just to savor the smell.
Soon, I’ll be able to. It’s not the thing I’m looking forward to the most, but it’s quite high
on the list.
The list I’ve been thinking about for years.
It… has grown quite long.
“I… I’ll go to your house,” Panacea says with a quiet voice that hides a lot of
resentment. Resentment she doesn’t realize is not quite aimed at the young blonde who
tore down her world.
My smirk settles into a satisfied smile as I close my eyes.
“I’ll send you the address,” I tell her. And I hang up.
I allow myself a moment to rest from the conversation, to properly let the sensation of
triumph sink in.
Then I once again drag myself up.
Walking is still a painful, cumbersome affair, but I can take it far more easily now that I
know there’s an end in sight, that this prison of flesh will melt away.
Because I’m not calling Amy Dallon in here just to tweak my kidneys. Oh, no, that would
be too much of a waste.
I go to a room that I rarely enter. I set it up as a painful reminder, a manner of selfflagellation that makes me think about my own trigger event, my own wound that I try to
impose on the world, even without any powers to do it with.
I enter the combination on the electronic lock, and I open it with a far lighter mood than I
ever have since I set it up.
Inside, there’s my old armor. My equipment.
My weapons.
And, soon, I’ll be able to make use of them again.
And I will be far better at this than I ever was as an inefficient director trying to keep a
drowning city from sinking.
Thank you, Hannah. I couldn’t have done this without you.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 30
“Run this by me again,” Taylor says as she tucks her hair behind her ear, the wind on
top of this high building making it stream to her side in long, waving streamers of dark
silk that glimmer in the twilight hour—
“Lisa?” she asks, cocking her head.
“Uh?”
“Are you… ignoring me?”
I blink a couple of times.
“Tay, I’m staring at you, barely keeping myself from drooling, and the first possibility you
think about is that I’m ignoring you?”
“… That’s not a no.”
I groan. It takes some effort, because I’m desperately trying not to make some other
noise.
I make the mistake of shifting on my feet, my long, light tan coat not loose enough that
Tay doesn’t briefly dip her gaze to my cocked hip—
Lisa Wilbourn’s reactions likely enticing—
Yeah, I know. Well, I mean, I hope so.
It’s nice to get some confirmation.
“Right. Crippling insecurity. We’ll need to keep working on it,” I finally verbalize
something. Hopefully, it will be adequate enough.
“It would help if you actually answered what I asked,” she says, arms crossed beneath
her bust in a way she doesn’t realize makes me…
Damn it.
“And said question was…?”
She grunts. Then takes a deep breath and sighs.
Her chest does… interesting things.
“I want you to explain, again, and in detail, what the Hell we are doing here.”
Oh. That.
“You’d usually be ecstatic about the chance to brag about your mastermind plan,” she
comments when I don’t immediately start to rant.
She knows me so well…
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation currently heightened by—
Fuck, I know. God, do I know.
“It’s… All right, Othala should be obvious. She’s a force multiplier not only with the
immediate power-ups she can grant, but because the Empire’s grunts can afford to be
far more reckless than others. Every injured fighter can be back on the field in a matter
of days rather than months, making a war of attrition against them a very, very stupid
tactic. With me so far?”
She nods. It obviously wasn’t this that she wanted me to clarify.
“Right. That’s the more glaring tactical and strategical concern. The obvious one. But
Victor? Ah, that’s the jewel of the crown.”
“And that’s what I don’t get. Isn’t he like a less versatile Uber?” Don’t arch that damn
eyebrow, Tay, not right now—
Lisa Wilbourn’s need for—
I know!
“On the surface? Yes. But… All right, how many times have you heard the term
‘multidisciplinary team’ thrown around like it’s going out of style?”
“Isn’t that basically marketing speech?”
“Sometimes, yes, but… Fine, picture a surgeon. That’s a highly specialized skill set, one
that takes years if not decades to properly develop. Yet plenty of doctors criticize
surgeons because they always resort to… well, surgery. They see the human body
mostly as a machine, as something to be fixed, while other doctors may have seen it as
a self-correcting system and tried to help it heal itself. It’s an oversimplification and a
generalization, but do you see the point?”
She leans back against the rooftop’s railing, her hands on her black jacket’s pockets,
her hair still flying behind her, still shimmering in varying shades of light and color—fuck.
“Yes, fine. So Victor doesn’t get blindsided because he never faces the ‘when all you
have is a hammer’ problem. Because he has a full toolbox, so… Oh God.” Her face
slackens with dawning horror.
“Precisely. We are facing someone with centuries of accumulated knowledge, both
propositional and procedural, who can attack any given problem from any angle he
cares to. The PRT’s threat rating is of him as a fighter, and that’s already a nightmare
because he’s a martial artist, sniper, special ops, and whatever else you care to think
about while having the intricate knowledge of human anatomy of… well, a surgeon.
That’s bad enough, but the real problem is when he goes from tactics to strategy.”
“He’s… I read he stole boardgame skills.”
“Precisely. His tactical knowledge is as broad as whatever Empire kidnapped victim can
be brought to supplement him, but he’s also a propaganda and psychology expert. The
Empire’s recruitment rate exploded once he triggered, and that’s not to mention what
he’s likely doing for their finances, all the way keeping every single facet of their broad
plans seamlessly integrated with all others. Synergy, at a parahuman scale.”
Taylor closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose. I can practically hear her
brain whirring as she processes angles and branching paths.
It’s so fucking hot—
Lisa Wilbourn—
Right! Focus! I think the idea was to bring attention to the tip of my toes? Yes, a body
awareness technique to be present and anchor myself so that I don’t keep thinking
about the throbbing heat—
Toes! Toes! Unsexy, not-Taylorish, toes!
“Are you sure you can do this?” she finally says, her eyes open, staring right at and
through me—
Fuck it, Tay, you aren’t making this any easier.
Just… Just try to focus on the Nazi menace. There, that should help calm down the
worst part of it.
Deep breath. Toes. Fucking toes.
“I… I honestly don’t know. It won’t be easy, which is why I want you to bug their
apartment as thoroughly as you can.”
She turns around, showing her jean-clad backside to me as she leans forward on the
railing, and she looks at the building across the street.
At Othala’s and Victor’s apartment.
My eyes lower, and I can’t bring myself to tear them away from what the tight pants do
to her round, delicious, biteable—
“I… I still am not that comfortable with this. With using the identities Coil discovered to
attack them like this.”
Fuck it. I can’t hold back anymore.
I take a step toward her, and Taylor, oblivious to the danger she’s currently facing—
well, facing away from—keeps talking.
“It’s one thing to do it while in the middle of a crisis, like with Bakuda, but planning to get
into their lives, to use what we find to—Liz?”
Her question comes as I hug her from behind, my arms around her waist, my chest
against her back, my hands crawling up her sides.
“Can you… Can you start planting the bugs right now? And just… just trust me?”
“I… I’m already doing it? Why would I not trust—”
My heart melts at her words. Which kinda explains why I’m kissing her from behind so
hard right now.
Kinda. Because there’s… well, the other reason.
“What is that?” Tay whispers as she looks at me from over her shoulder with a hint of
alarm as my hands grope her breasts, and as…
Well, as I grind against her ass.
“Surprise?” I sheepishly answer.
Her eyes widen in panic.
“Tell me you didn’t get a biotinker to—”
“What? No! I just—damn it.”
I reluctantly let go of her breast and step back. Then I undo my coat, and my black
slacks are not enough to hide the bulge.
So, under Taylor’s almost mesmerized sight, I undo my pants and lower them to…
“You aren’t getting that inside me,” she immediately protests, turning so her back is
against the railing and her arms are protectively crossed before her chest, palms facing
me.
She’s so damn adorable—
Lisa Wilbourn’s thinking likely impaired by—
By wearing this damn thing inside me for the past hour. Yes, I know.
“I… It’s not so bad. There were plenty of bigger ones,” I tell her as I point at the purple,
double-headed dildo shimmering with my juices, which in turn points at her.
“Liz, that’s the first time someone bragged about having something small down there.”
“I’m not bragging! I’m just… fuck. Look, we can start slow, and if you don’t like it we
can… Drop it. Maybe try again another time? But, Tay, I’ve been wearing this for the
past hour and thinking about doing this with you for days, and if you don’t do something
to me, I’m going to go insane—”
Tay is kneeling in front of me, which I can say is something I never expected to happen
without a human Master involved.
Alec—
Shut up. Gross.
Also, I kind of should focus more on the way she’s grasping—hn!
“Tay… That’s quite… sensitive.”
She looks up at me from beneath the silicon tube modeled after—from beneath my
prosthetic cock? My dildo? The long-promised, not quite strap-on? What’s the sexiest
way to think about this? I’m really confused.
And not just because she’s basically jacking me off.
“This is really wet,” she comments, her tone completely, and humiliatingly, casual.
I bite my lip and try very hard not to grab her head and—
She licks the tip.
Fuck, fuck, fuck—
“It… tastes mostly like you. I thought the plastic would be more noticeable.”
“A. Whole. Hour.”
She looks into my eyes and smirks.
“So, when you picked me up with your bike…”
“Already inside me.”
“And when you kept fidgeting, sweating, and I asked if you had a fever?”
“I wanted to push you against the wall, block the elevator’s doors, and—”
She jerks it. Me. Something.
This is very confusing. The fact I’ve got a silicon-coated tube stuck inside me with a
small, bumpy thingy over my clitoris isn’t helping my mental clarity.
“So… what you’re saying is that you’ve spent the past hour desperately wanting to fuck
me?” she asks.
She makes a circular gesture with her clenched hand, and the bumpy thingy grinds
against my clitoris, and I see white—
“I just asked you a question, Liz.”
I bite my lip once again, careful not to draw blood, and look at her.
She’s smiling.
It’s that smile. The one she has when she plays with me, when she discovers a new
way I absolutely melt beneath her touch, or I cry out at her kisses, or I shiver just
because she wants me to.
I’m in so much trouble…
“Yes. I had to… masturbate for a bit. Before putting it in. I had to get ready and wet for
you, and then I wiggled it in, back and forth, until it got as far it could, and since then I’ve
been waiting to grab your hips, pull your pants down, and stick—ah!”
She just… she just licked me!
From top to bottom, without breaking eye contact!
That isn’t allowed! That’s cheating!
Lisa Wilbourn’s concept of fair play—
Fuck you! Me! Someone!
“A whole hour thinking about stretching my pussy around this thing, Liz? A whole hour
thinking about me moaning every time you thrust your hips? Maybe making me lose my
mind while you remained cool and composed?”
“A girl can dream—fuck! Stop that!”
Taylor’s hand pauses mid-circle, the pressure on and inside of me not diminishing, but
at least not varying in maddening patterns that—
She smiles.
It’s that smile.
“Make me,” she says.
And then uses my ample lubrication to make a back and forth motion that reverberates
inside me even if the toy—yes, toy, that’s a good way to think about it: playful, and not
at all liable to be used as a weapon—holy—
I mean, even if the toy is still lodged inside me.
And Taylor keeps smiling.
… At least I didn’t get the vibrating model.
Lisa Wilbourn’s regret—
Just whose side are you on?!
“Are you sure you can afford to get distracted?” she asks.
And she gropes my butt, spreading—
“Nope, no, das isch verboten! Exit only, Tay!”
“So, you can plan to get this,” she jerks me. Presumably for emphasis, but I suspect
seeing me bite my already abused lip may be another, masterfully hidden, motive,
“inside me, but I can’t plan to get anything else inside you?”
“It would’ve been reciprocal! That’s why it’s double-ended; I could’ve just bought a
strap-on with ‘can dish it but can’t take it’ engraved and—”
“That’s… a suspiciously specific alternative.”
… I’m not sweating in dread. No. This is only arousal. Arousal that is not, at all, mixed
with dread.
Shut up.
“I just came up with it right now?”
She tilts her head. As it still is beneath my attachment, the effect is less ‘curiously
pondering something’ and more ‘I’m currently contemplating how to make your knees
buckle, and your tongue hang out obscenely.’
Note to self: read slightly fewer Nanoha/Fate doujins.
Especially the futanari ones.
… Isn’t the one with the dick supposed to dominate the scene? Taylor, you’re going
against established narrative conventions! You’ll doom us all!
Lisa Wilbourn panicking—
Stop being useless and—
Useless lesbian trope—
I walked right into that one, didn’t I?
Also, why are you licking up the drenched sex toy from base to tip, Tay? Why are you
standing up? Why are you unbuttoning my blouse—
Why are you looking down at me with green eyes that make my knees buckle while
slowly jerking the double-headed dildo in and out of me?
Lisa Wilbourn in shock due to—
Aaaaaaaaah!
“Do you really expect me to believe you just came up with the whole ‘engraved strap-on’
thing?”
She looks at me, with that arched eyebrow that always makes something flutter inside
me, with that smile that—fuck it.
I grab her head, mash her lips against mine, and shove my tongue inside her mouth.
She muffles in surprise and protest for just a moment, but not long enough to give me
false hope.
Mostly because now she’s pinching my nipple, her hand pushed beneath my bra.
Fuck it. Hair pulling it is.
My fingers tangle through her tresses, the wind whipping them around us audibly, and I
clench my hands, applying just enough pressure to make her moan into my lips and—
And press further, pinch my nipple harder, and start jerking the dildo in and out.
… I may have slightly miscalculated.
Which is a realization that doesn’t come soon enough, because my knees just
weakened enough that Taylor is dragging me down to the gravel-covered ground,
pulling on both my breast and pussy, and I’m half-lying, half-sitting on my coat, but now
she’s pushing me down with her kiss, and…
I open my eyes, and above me there’s only sky and Taylor.
… Oh God, how bad do I have it?
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation—
Right. That bad.
She leans back, her breath scalding over my wet lips, her eyes wild with… with desire…
For me.
Taylor wants me.
Reciprocity—
Right. Right. I know.
It’s just… It sometimes still catches me by surprise.
“We’ve never used one of these,” she whispers, her voice like slow fire burning up my
neck.
“True,” I answer, almost breathless, and she pushes the dildo fully back in and grinds it
down on me until my toes curl and I bite my lip again, and I’m going to need that fucking
Cherry Chapstick—
“Isn’t this a bit of a jump? Couldn’t you have started with something… tamer?”
“I…” I look up into her eyes, so much more vibrant than the sky around her, so much
more expressive without her glasses shielding her from me. “I didn’t… I just wanted to
do something new. With you. Didn’t even think too much after the idea got into my
head.”
She frowns, almost pouts.
I hold back the urge to nip the tip of her nose. It’s a near thing.
And she resumes the slow in and out motion until I get cross-eyed and my jaw
clenches.
“So, you got horny thinking about fucking me with… this,” she jerks it, and my hips
follow, “and didn’t think to start slow and work up to it? How inconsiderate of you, Liz.”
That smile. That damn smile.
“Is it inconsiderate if you were literally the only thing I could think about?”
She pinches my nipple with a bit more strength and twists it till I squirm—something that
I stop doing right away, because she’s got quite a literal handle on me.
“If you were thinking about bending me over and having me panting while you shoved
this in and out of me? Yes, I would think that’s quite inconsiderate of you.”
She pulls up my bra, and my breasts are exposed to the air. The left nipple hardens a
bit more, the right one… Yeah. Not a lot of margin to maneuver in there.
Also, why are you standing up, Tay? Why are you—
Oh.
Striptease.
Nice.
I mean! I’m thoroughly confused by this set of events, and I can’t quite process what
your slowly removing your jacket is doing to my already drenched, aching insides. Yes.
Poor me. How defenseless I am. Won’t you take pity on me?
Taylor Hebert’s body language indicative of purposefully—
Yeah, didn’t think so.
But at least I get to enjoy the way she pulls up her tight, pastel blue shirt (finally
managed to get her to try it!), and the way her hands slowly travel down her sides and
along the waistline of her jeans, and—
I lean up into my shoulders to get a better view and… Why’s there a shoe on my chest?
“Lie back down, Liz. You aren’t getting up until I’m done with you.”
“… Stop, I can only get so erect.”
She pointedly looks down at the piece of purple silicon standing straight up and cocks
an eyebrow.
“… The joke makes more sense when I don’t have an actual penis.”
“You and your cartoons, I swear.”
I lie back down, Taking the chance to take my blouse off and use it as a makeshift
pillow.
Taylor looks condescendingly at me until I’m done. And then shimmies out of her pants.
She kicks off her shoes, and now I’m seeing her in just her cute blue bra and panties,
and white knee socks that I never realized were a kink, but oh God, are they—
And she kneels on my face.
Of course.
What else did I expect?
Lisa Wilbourn’s expectations—
I don’t want a list, thank you very much.
“So, ready to make up to me your gross overstepping of boundaries?”
“If you mean you want me to eat you out, I don’t think that would be too much of—hn!
Stop playing with that! It’s not conducive to a productive conversation!”
“Make me,” she says, and I can hear the smile.
I can’t see it because right now I’m looking at a cute set of blue panties with a damp
patch that… Uh. The lady doth protest too much, apparently.
‘No means no’ usually considered—
Fuck you.
Before Tay can come up with another way to keep metaphorically and physically jerking
me around, I pull her panties to the side, and a warm, wet fragrance hits me—focus. My
dignity hangs in the balance.
Concept of dignity rarely associated with being sat on—
I’ve got a pussy to eat. Your words hold no power here.
Lisa—
Nope. Clamping down hard on you, you aren’t going to mess this up for –oh, fuck,
there’s something else clamping down hard.
Because it looks like Taylor’s getting impatient, and she’s decided to test how much I
can stand her fucking me with the purple dildo. The answer? Not a lot.
“Maybe you should quieten down. We aren’t supposed to be here,” she says. And
somebody may even think she’s not being smug about it.
Somebody who had a dreadful, terrible accident as a child and now needs an adult to
take care of their most basic needs.
Somebody like Faultline, maybe.
Also, it may be time to mount my counteroffensive, which involves getting Taylor to
mount me.
So I get my hands around her soft, smooth, fit thighs and drag her down to me as I kiss
below her legs, softly licking up when I hear her sharp breath, and then I kiss her right
beside her labia, a drop of moisture wetting my lips that I take into my mouth with my
tongue, tasting her tangy juices as her scent keeps assaulting me, invading me, making
my head swim…
And she leans forward, lying her body over mine like we are going to sixty-nine,
except—
Oh.
Kinky.
Taylor jerks my dildo up and down, almost pulling my hips off the ground, before she
leans forward and takes me inside her mouth.
Well, not me. Just… Just the attachment. But… Hearing her doing it, feeling her forceful
movement…
I need a biotinker—I mean, the image is hot.
Yes. That.
Nothing more than that.
Because I definitely am not dreaming about Taylor biting her lip, looking up at me as I
mark her as mine, as I get her pregnant—
…
Right, I’ve got literal years to figure out whether that’s something we actually want, and
we are friends with some of the most powerful Tinkers in the world. We have options.
And now I’m imagining a cute, bubbly thing with Taylor’s hair and my smile bouncing up
and down on Colin’s lap as she tries to grab his beard, and I’m melting, but not in the
way I should while Taylor fakes swallowing my cock, and oh fuck, how desperate am I
for familial attachment—
“My jaw hurts,” Taylor mutters as she leans back, right after the dildo gets off her mouth
with a loud popping noise.
She’s still jerking me off, though.
It is very distracting.
Thankfully, I’ve got quite a bit of practice at dealing with unwelcome, constant, nagging
distractions—
Lisa Wilbourn’s pettiness—
Love you too. Now shut up while I eat out my girlfriend.
My hands shift from her thighs to her ass, because I know just how much she enjoys it
when I squeeze—
“Hn!”
Yes. Like that. Nicely illustrated.
Now stop pulling me up by my—
Anyway. Squeeze delectably bouncy cheeks, drag her down to my level—heh—and
finally let her feel my tongue going past the very edge of her labia as I gather her honey
and start circling her entrance.
Also, as I try not to get cross-eyed. It’s not that this is better than her fingers or her
tongue, but it’s just different enough that I don’t know how to react, how to hold back my
slutty, yearning moan as she increases her speed in short bursts only to then keep
pressing down on me with those maddeningly slow circles, and—
I circle her clitoris with my lips, put my pointed tongue right against it, and suck as hard
as I can.
I can feel her throwing her head back as she lets out her own desperate, barely
controlled moan, and the smile tightens my lips around her.
So I take advantage of her momentary weakness to push her forward, to get her in front
of me, and my lips leave hers, but my fingers soon pick up the slack as I plunge them
inside her, because if she’s going to get rough with me, I can definitely return the favor.
And she twists her hips and presses them back against me, which I guess means she’s
fully on board with that whole ‘reciprocity’ thing.
Taylor Hebert’s reciprocal feelings for—
… Are you trying to make me smile sappily while I finger bang my girlfriend? Because I
kinda need to focus to do this properly so she doesn’t—
Fuck.
So she doesn’t completely pull my dildo out of me, leaving me gaping and clenching
around a sudden emptiness right before she dives down and sucks my own clitoris right
into her mouth, and my eyes close shut as I try to breathe, but I can’t, I can’t because
my whole body’s locked up and my hips are lifting so I can press harder against her
mouth, and I’m trembling—
And I come.
Obviously.
Of course I come while Taylor is eating me out, her pussy on display, almost drooling on
top of my cleavage.
She may even be brandishing the dildo up high like some sort of barbarian shouting out
their victorious cry to gods who shouldn’t dress like a Manowar cover. Lawyers are
scary, and divine lawyers should be doubly so, and…
Fuck it, I can’t think about anything else. My body is currently mush melting under a
tongue that’s gotten far too familiar with me, and my mind is definitely not far behind, so
I think I’ll just lay here for a moment until I’m strong enough to return the favor, because
right now—
Right now, there’s something insistently poking at my entrance.
“Tay?” I manage to ask with an amount of effort I usually associate with titanic tasks.
Tasks that would make the bards of old weep. Tasks that would make Sisyphus realize
just how good he got it.
Like, I don’t know. Getting out of bed.
Without coffee.
She doesn’t answer, but her hand caresses the inside of my thigh, and I reflexively
spread my legs, and—
Oh, fuck!
“Not everything at once, you savage!” I manage to protest.
Or I think I do. My intelligibility at the moment may not be up to my standards.
My hypothesis about communication not coming quite across may have some merit,
because Taylor, rather than answering, tugs on the dildo to make sure it’s firmly lodged
inside me (which it definitely is) and incorporates herself before standing right over me.
Which means I get treated to the spectacular view of her clad only in her underwear and
knee socks, as the wind whips her hair around her—ah, right. Been there, done that.
I wouldn’t mind yet another repeat performance, truth be told.
Not when she looks down on me, her eyes burning so intensely my breath catches
again inside my chest, not when she shows me so much desire, so much undisguised
yearning that… that…
It’s taken too long. Too long for us to get to this point where she isn’t at all conflicted in
letting me know how much she wants me.
And not long enough, because I would have spent decades helping her get here if she’d
needed me to. And now I feel both happy that she doesn’t and…
It’s horrible of me to even think it, so I won’t.
“You wanted to fuck me, Lisa? To spread me open with your plastic cock? To make me
cum on and around it?” she asks, her voice something that sends a tingle straight
through my nipples.
I nod, because I can’t answer any other way. Not right now. Not with her eyes holding
me like that.
“Too bad, honey,” she says. “Because I don’t think you’ll be doing any of that. No, I think
I will fuck you.”
And she straddles me, flashing me her open, dripping pussy, before she lowers herself
over my hips and…
And she looks apprehensively at the purple silicon pointing straight at her opening.
I try not to smirk.
“Shut up,” she says almost by reflex.
I mimic zipping my mouth, and then I smirk.
“It’s… not as easy as it looks, okay?”
I raise my eyebrows in a way I can only hope clearly convey that my silent answer
actually is ‘You’re telling this to the girl that spent a whole hour with the thing shoved
inside her.’
Going by her silent glare, I think she gets the message.
Also, she’s competitive enough that she holds the thing (and I don’t whimper, thank you
very much), points it at her, lowers herself just a bit, just enough that it grazes her lips…
And I jerk my hips up.
“Lisa!” she yells in sheer panic as she jumps high enough she winces when she comes
back down and her knees make an audible sound against my spread coat.
And I laugh.
“Weren’t you going to fuck me, Tay? Promises, promises…” Butter wouldn’t melt in my
mouth.
Mostly because Tay’s glare is kinda subarctic.
“I’d like to see you—”
“Oh, I bet you would,” I purr as I waggle my eyebrows.
The way she flushes should count as a Master rating. Really. She’s too cute.
Of course, as disarming as that is, it doesn’t hold a candle to the way she, once again,
grabs my dildo and jerks it up.
“Hn! Do you realize that’s stuck in a very sensitive place?”
“That’s what she said,” she answers. And then beams proudly.
… Fine, I’m laughing.
But it’s still bad.
“Well, yeah, that’s what she said. But I thought you didn’t want her to speak in the third
person like a deranged villain,” I finally manage to answer.
“That’s bad.”
“My brain’s still leaking out between my legs; what’s your excuse?”
She looks down at where she’s barely touching the tip of the toy, then at me.
And then fidgets in the cutest way I’ve ever seen her do.
“I wanna try…” she mumbles.
“What?” I ask, not entirely certain I’m not having a fever dream. I mean, my face’s
burning, but that could have slightly non-medical explanations.
“I want to—I feel curious, all right? I’ve never had something like, like one of those
inside me, and I thought I never would now that we’re together, so, this, this thing
could… I don’t know. I just want to try, all right?”
I look at her. At the girl who so carelessly disarmed herself, slipped out of her dominant
persona and let me see her weak, curious, playful, eager side.
“Tay… Kiss me.”
She smiles. Not the arrogant smile that makes me shiver. Not the dominant one that
holds me still. The shy one.
The one that makes me melt.
And she bends down, her body once more lying on top of mine, and our lips meet as my
hands clasp her waist, gentle as I can be, my fingers barely sinking into the yielding
flesh.
“I love you,” I whisper against her lips.
“I know,” she answers with a bit of a cocky smile that barely covers her nerves.
I shift beneath her, the dildo dragging down along the line of her sex until the elastic toy
slips slightly upward.
“I’ll be gentle,” I tell her.
Her eyes widen as she stares at me, as her mouth opens in anticipation before she
decides to say one last thing.
“I won’t.”
Her smile has an edge again, and it’s partly façade, and partly that she feels secure
enough that she can use it.
My own smile…
I don’t know. I just know I can’t keep it off my face.
One finger trails down her spine, and she arches her body up at my caress. The other
cups her ass once again, her firm shape engraved in my touch.
I pull her slightly down as I angle my hips, and the dildo slides up along her, still outside
her, but brushing her clit with enough force she bites her lip.
Then she grabs it and holds it in place, her eyes both giving me permission and
demanding.
So I swing my hips back just a bit, let her position my fake cock…
And I push.
Her mouth opens in a silent gasp as I feel her first resist and then give in. The sensation
is… strange. A bit like when she jerked me off, pressing inside me in different ways
rather than moving in and out, but it’s still pushing down on my clitoris, and that’s more
than enough stimulation that I have to suppress a small hiss.
We hold still, just for a moment, just looking into each other’s eyes.
And then Taylor slides down a bit more, pausing every time her body asks her to, her
arms trembling as they hold her weight above me, as her bra-clad breasts hang over
mine and my nipples scream for her touch.
I take my right hand off her back and caress her cheek, my thumb tracing her soft lips,
and she pushes herself down until everything’s inside her, and we both hiss as the
bumpy part of the toy presses right on top of our clits.
She gasps, looking almost exhausted, like she’s going to run out of air, and I feel so, so
stupidly proud at seeing her like that, on top of me…
“Tay… You look so beautiful right now…”
Her eyes widen just a fraction, a hint of hurt in them barely showing, and she looks at
me, really looks.
At my trembling smile, at my open eyes, at me looking at her like I’ve never seen
something like her before, and the world’s changed now that I have.
“Don’t… Don’t make me cry. It would be so stupid if I cried the first time you… you
penetrated me,” she almost mumbles.
I shake my head.
“No matter what you do, how you react… This is perfect. Will be perfect. Because it’s
the first time we make love like this, and every time I find a new way to love you is the
best day of my life.”
She drops on top of me, her skin almost burning on mine.
“By definition, you can’t have more than one best day,” she mutters beside my ear.
I hug her to me, our bodies melding together in every way I can manage.
“I like a challenge,” I answer.
And she lifts her face and looks down at me.
“Obviously. Why else would you be with me?”
So I tangle my fingers through her hair and drag her down to me until, once again, her
breath scalds my wet lips.
“There are too many reasons to count. But most of them amount to me loving you more
than I ever thought I could.”
And she kisses me.
She kisses me till we are both breathless, and then she moves on top of me, her body
sinuous, undulating, and every twist of our hips sends a gasp, a pant, or a moan out of
the other.
I hold her body between my arms and caress her waist, cup her cheeks, grab her hair.
She pinches my nipples, kisses me breathless, bites my neck, my ear.
I tell her how much I love her.
She tells me the same, in different words.
And when she finally comes on top of me, when her body straightens from seductive,
languid curves, and her eyes flutter close, when she looks so radiantly beautiful, the
wind once more whipping her hair around her…
I come with her.
And then all is warm darkness as I feel myself drift away.
Even if a small, nagging part of me can’t help but think that she will tease me
relentlessly about falling asleep the first time I make love to her with a cock, false or not.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 31
This is mortifying.
“That’s twice this has happened,” Taylor says, smug dripping off her tone like her
lubrication off my double-headed dildo.
Yep, focus on that thought, Lisa. It may allow you to pretend things aren’t completely
one-sided for just a little bit.
“I mean, it’s cute and everything, and my ego certainly can use the massage, but…
maybe there’s an underlying medical condition? Low-blood pressure? Maybe you need
more sugar?” she keeps teasing me, her finger teasingly poking at her lip in a parody of
a thinking pose as the rooftop’s wind keeps flying her hair behind her back.
… I should remind myself that I’m currently in the mood to be miffed at her teasing
rather than in the mood to admire her effortless beauty.
“Tay, with all the sugar I ingest via coffee, I could fuel a small space program.”
“Ah, you didn’t even mention how sweet I am. I feel hurt.” And now she’s clutching her
chest. I’m a terrible influence.
“Oh, you definitely are worth mentioning, honey.” There, that’s the nuclear option. Now
let’s see if—
“Gee, what’s with that bee in your bonnet?”
She smirks. She has the gall to smirk.
“The only thing stopping me from trying to choke you right now is the near certainty that
at least one of us would discover she’s into it,” I inform her.
Ah, now she’s flushing.
Taylor Hebert’s propensity to fantasize about Lisa Wilbourn—
Let’s keep that mystery for a while, shall we? I would rather not live in terror about how
likely it is that I would be the strangler or the stranglee.
Also, the pause is a good occasion to make sure everything is in place: pants buttoned
up, bra snuggly fit, shirt closed, coat belted…
Double-headed dildo bagged…
Yes, I’ve learned my lesson: my body is not a good carry bag.
Especially while driving my baby.
Association between motorcycles and erotic fantasies—
You are not gonna squick me out by turning this into an incest thing. Sorry. Nice try,
though.
Do or do not, there’s no—
I’m going to stop you right there because I’m terrified of about ninety percent of the
likely ways in which you could finish that sentence.
“Are you really curious about—” Taylor starts asking.
“Tay, Power just tried to quote Yoda at me. The last thing I need right now is yet another
revelation about how deeply depraved we collectively are.”
She looks at me weirdly until my dead eyes, vacant stare, thousand-yard mile… Well,
until a series of disquieting metaphors about how I’ve definitely seen too much
convinces her that no, I’m not joking.
“And to think this whole thing started after you tried to convince me that people’s
fetishes turned you off sex entirely…”
“And to think you believed me…”
And now, to my secret—nah: to my utter and very visible enjoyment, she palms her face
in exasperation.
“Please, don’t remind me…”
For a moment, I’m very tempted to do just that and mock her relentlessly. Then I
remember who Taylor was crushing on when I decided to give her that little spiel, and,
quite frankly, I would rather she forgets about the whole thing entirely.
“Fiiine, I won’t remind you about your embarrassing naivete, and you won’t complain
about the way I drive after I drop you off at your dad’s. Deal?”
I extend a hand.
Taylor looks at it suspiciously before taking it.
Then she makes a face.
“… I just got far more of me on my hand than I would if I just masturbated like a sane,
single person, haven’t I?”
“We may need to start carrying wet wipes.”
***
Taylor gets off my bike on unsteady legs, stumbles for a moment on the cracked
pavement of the street behind her house, turns toward me, and—
“You promised.”
“Three red lights, Liz. Three.”
“We were perfectly safe.”
“There was a truck!”
“Oh, please, he was so sleepy he didn’t even notice he had a green light until people
started honking.”
“That’s even worse!”
What would be the best way to dismiss her concerns once again? Telling her that
superpowers are meant to be abused—
Annette Hebert’s death in car accident—
Fuck. Fuck. Oh God, shit, fucking Hell, what the—
“I’m sorry!” I tell her, not panicked at all.
“Uh?” she answers, lucid as ever.
“I won’t do it again; please don’t leave me!” I plead as I take off my helmet just so she
can better see my wide eyes—
“… Is this a Power thing?”
Damn. She knows.
Silencing—
No. Nope. Not even as a jo—
Ballgags—
Hold that thought.
“He… gently reminded me I may be being insensitive about this whole ‘flaunting the
laws of God and traffic police’ thing…”
“Wha—Liz… Did Power tell you I was acting like this because of my mom?”
I take a moment to think about what I’m going to say rather than blurt out the first thing
that crosses my mind (I’m sorry, Father, for I have sinned—I’ll be sure to repent for this
transgression), and she takes the moment to take off the black helmet I got her and do
that thing people with awesome hair do when they just shake their head and it comes
off in a floaty wave that falls artfully around them rather than having them look like a rat
who drowned itself because it couldn’t deal with the rejection from not being hired for
the latest Pantene commercial.
No. I’m not bitter. Shut up.
Lisa Wilbourn’s hair—
That ‘shut up’ was entirely preemptive, Power.
Now, seeing as she’s still glaring at me, maybe I should answer in a verbal way rather
than fidgeting on top of my baby like I’ve been a very bad girl.
… This doesn’t have anything to do with that whole choking thing. Which is now a thing.
Damn it.
“Look, I… I know I told you I try not to use him with you, but sometimes he just blurts out
things, and I hadn’t even thought about the connection, mostly because you never
showed any signs it was actually a thing, and now I realize it isn’t, and I’m just digging
deeper and deeper with every word, so, for fuck’s sake, stop me before I hit rock
bottom, because my mouth is on full auto—”
She grabs the lapels of my coat, pulls me up until I half stand over my seat, and kisses
me roughly.
Thank God.
“There,” she grunts after her lips leave mine a little more bruised than they already
were, “is that better?”
“If I say ‘no,’ will you do it again?”
And she drops me.
It was just a question! A fair one!
“Look… My problem with your driving doesn’t have anything to do with what happened
to mom—though if I see you pull out a phone we will have some words—but I… I know
you’re objectively safer driving like a maniac than almost everybody else driving
normally, but you are still driving like a maniac, and… It’s an unnecessary risk. And I
don’t want to…” She lets the words trail off and lifts her head, looking at me with…
I grab the front of her blue shirt and pull her down to me before I kiss her.
I’ll be abusing the heck out of that Cherry Chapstick when this is over.
“Sorry,” I tell her after I let her pull back just a tiny bit. “I… You know it’s what I do. I find
the limits, and prod at them, test them, but sometimes… Well, they are limits for a
reason, and if I miscalculate…”
“I know…” she murmurs.
And she hugs my head to her chest, rocking back and forth on her heels.
We stay like this for a while, just enjoying the presence of the other, and—
“Wait, are you just stalling in here because you don’t want to tell your dad you are
dropping out of school?”
Taylor’s arms stiffen around me, and her silence is answer enough.
“… You don’t mention my fuck up, and I don’t mention yours?” I finally offer.
And she goes back to rocking me back and forth.
…
I swear this isn’t half as comfortable as it looks.
***
Being alone in my apartment after the rollercoaster of a day I just went through, with
meeting the Undersiders, having a heartwarming reunion with Coil’s rapist-for-hire,
Taylor dropping out, declaring war on the E88, talking with Colin about said war,
planning the initial strikes, and finally putting to rest the whole strap-on fantasy (which is
no longer a fantasy, and thus should appear a little less often on my inner monologue)
after an impromptu visit to a sex shop while Taylor went home and did whatever she did
in there that it turns out had nothing to do with telling her father she’s dropping out is…
Weird.
Oh, I also forgot about waking up in Taylor’s arms, having her father basically test how
much he can push me before I’ll plan lethal retaliation, finding out about his current war
against any and all gangs operating on the docks, convincing the Undersiders to work
for me in securing said docks…
…
Right. Fuck it. I’m drawing myself a hot bubble bath.
I deserve it.
Lisa Wilbourn’s sense of entitlement—
Power… not today? Please?
Rest and recreation found to be key in increasing productivity and ameliorating stress—
Thank you.
Also, we may need to have a talk about your rapidly increasing sense of self, and, oh
God, does that line make my hackles rise.
Is there enough water in the tub to get in already?
Volume of submerged body—
That’s a yes. Thank you.
I guess I could complete the whole scene by lighting a couple of candles and having a
Chardonnay glass, but, quite frankly, I think I’ll just sink myself in there as—
Oh.
Ooooohhhhh.
Oh, this is sinful.
Damn, it’s profoundly disturbing that I would be this tense after having orgasmed into
unconsciousness, but the way the almost scalding water is unknotting my muscles is…
Should I invest in a Jacuzzi? What the Hell am I thinking, of course I should. What kind
of depraved millionaire who’s out of touch with the struggles of the middle class doesn’t
have a Jacuzzi? A poor one, that’s who.
… I’ll probably not plate it in gold. That sounds uncomfortable.
Well, that’s it. The end of a productive day. I don’t need to do anything else, not till
tomorrow. I can just close my eyes and rest as I allow the water to take the tension
away and…
…
This would’ve been a perfect moment for me to fall asleep in here until the water went
cold. Really, I set up the scene perfectly just for that.
Yep. That’s what this scene is doing. Certainly.
It won’t, at all, turn into me obsessively thinking about every little thing still going on.
Like how I need to contact Cranial and send her as much data on Noelle as Colin and
Dragon have managed to gather.
Or how Danny is very likely to orphan Taylor for the second time if he keeps letting his
rage lead him by his nose.
Or how contracting the Undersiders is, at best, a stopgap measure. And how Brian is a
fucking moron with too much to prove, and everything I try to set up for him to live
peacefully will crash spectacularly as long as the core issues remain unaddressed,
Rachel needs that intervention Taylor emotionally blackmailed me into promising what
feels like ages ago, and Alec…
Alec…
Is the sex-cult survivor fleeing from an internationally feared slaver the only one of my
former teammates who isn’t likely to fuck up while my back’s turned?
Call of Duty players’ threats of violence and retaliation usually unlikely to—
Oh God. That’s a yes.
Alec is the responsible one.
He must never know.
Right, what else do we have on the menu aside from terrible revelations apt to crush
what little remains of my sanity?
Oh! Right! Dragon!
One of the competitors for the title of Evil Stepmother and my occasional favorite.
Who threw the gauntlet at me to discover what the Hell is actually going on with her.
And what do I have so far? Well, we’ve confirmed she’s weirdly knowledgeable about a
lot of things unrelated to her specialty, that she never misses a popular culture
reference, that her synchronization with her avatar program is instantaneous and so is
her use of other programs, that she has a compulsion to follow the law that goes
beyond any psychological need…
And that there is a mystery to solve that she doesn’t want anyone else to find out about.
That she doesn’t want to communicate overtly about it.
That the Dragonslayers have hounded her for far too long and won against her in ways
that make absolutely no sense unless someone was both spying on and sabotaging
her.
And that being agoraphobic is a very convenient excuse.
So… Possibilities.
She spends far too much time online, and just her presence on PHO makes it so it’s
clear she never sleeps—a quick analysis of Tin Mother’s logged presence and
messages shows as much. The speed and alacrity to which she responds when
demonstrably operating in other places at the same time means…
Well, it means Dragon is able to multitask at a speed that implies either superspeed or
being directly wired to the web.
A Tinker with superspeed who only takes to the field through remote suits who don’t
take advantage of such a power? Unlikely.
Unless it was just mental superspeed… Which it is.
Because… Let’s stop beating around the bush: Dragon is an AI.
Either a recreation of a formerly alive parahuman who uploaded her consciousness, or
one born inside a computer. It doesn’t make a difference.
Unless… No, it does.
Dragon was coded into being, and shackled by a parent who feared her going against
legitimate authority. She’s forced to obey laws, and the Dragonslayers have found a
way to snoop into her code and hack her into defeat when facing them.
They are the only group who has managed to defeat her consistently. Not evade, not
flee, just… defeat her.
Which is insane when one thinks about what Dragon has demonstrated she can do and
what I suspect she’s actually capable of.
Yeah, they’ve got a cheat code.
… Alec would be furious at the assholes.
Right. That’s a mystery solved. I don’t have proof, but really, Occam’s Razo all but
screams that the other possibilities are even more unlikely. I could come up with a very
specific powerset for a mastered Case 53, noctis cape who fit the—
Alternate hypothesis tailor-made to fit the data—
Right. That’s as much of a confirmation as I’m likely to get before I unveil how the fuck
Saint is meddling with the brain of one of the very few people I would call a friend given
how my life’s turned out after—
Moving on! What else do we have on the menu?!
Colin Wallis demand—
Oh. Fuck.
Panacea.
I need to defuse Panacea.
…
Can’t we go back to solving the problem of one of the most powerful beings in the
planet being even more potentially powerful and compromised by a bunch of amoral
mercenaries?
Colin Wallis—
Stop guilt-tripping me. Geeze, it doesn’t feel nice to have you be the voice of reason,
you know, Jiminy Cricket?
Right, so I poked at the house of cards that is what some may generously call her
sanity. And Colin decided that if I break it, I fix it.
Which…
Biokinetic. Potentially unlimited.
I don’t buy for a second that she can’t affect brains, mostly because there’s nothing
stopping her from doing so indirectly. She could fill anyone with hormones with a touch,
and given her adopted father’s struggle with clinical depression, she should have ample
experience with psychoactive substances and how they affect an organism, which
means…
Wait, her father is still a barely functioning mess—and that’s me feeling generous.
And she could regulate him with a touch.
… Oh dear, this is another one of those people obsessed with their little rules who fall
completely apart the first time they cross them, isn’t it?
Joy. Even worse than I thought.
Because that’s an issue that would cause obvious resentment with the family, who know
she doesn’t ‘do brains’ out of principle, not capacity, so…
Her mother is emotionally neglectful at best and actively abusive at worst, her father a
shell of a man who may be too far gone to be either a positive or a negative actor in the
whole mess, which would neatly tie into Panacea’ obsession with her sister as the only
person to show her unrestrained affection and support.
But that obsession turned sexual, and now the only positive relationship Amy can count
on is also a source of constant guilt, frustration, and jealousy.
Which means one of the very few parahumans who could conceivably wipe out
humanity by themselves is even more messed up than I thought when I decided it would
be a good idea to poke at her trauma.
… Oh, dear.
Moving on!
Lisa Wilbourn’s avoiding—
Damn right I am! Procrastination for the win!
Adverse effects of procrastination—
Nuh-uh! Can’t hear you while thinking about all the other vital things I should be doing
that don’t mean me going to face a potential apocalypse who objectively, and justifiably,
hates me!
Like… like…
The guy whose mere existence is a fundamental key to the success of the guys who
admire literal Nazis!
Yep, that sounds like a perfectly legitimate excuse to put off that other thing I don’t want
to even think about. I’m sure none of this will bite me in the ass.
So, this is me, taking an arm full of suds out of the blissful embrace of the warm water
around me to make the awful, terrible sacrifice of grabbing the tablet sleeping on the
toilet next to me.
And now I’m very glad I invested in one that’s waterproof.
I mean, I still need to wipe my hand with the towel on the floor that I was going to use as
a bath mat, because water and soap don’t make for a pleasant browsing experience,
but at least I won’t be paranoid about dropping it in.
And… Yep, here’s the video feed.
And, more importantly, the recordings.
Not much information to look at, but…
No. No, this is a lot of information. Because Victor and Othala are acting in a way that
denotes nothing out of the ordinary is going on, which means this is their routine, so I
can infer plenty through a limited sample—
Othala’s relaxed body language—
Yes. Yes, she was originally a replacement for her cousin. She still feels she isn’t living
up to her, that Victor is too good for her, but she isn’t displaying any anxiety when…
Serving him a meal.
She cooks.
Roastbeef. Not a complicated dish, but one that takes some time. There’s a large piece,
which means she’s counting on having leftovers to eat another day…
This isn’t an extraordinary meal. It’s one made with care, but also practicality in mind.
And one that Othala made.
When Victor is all but assured to be both a worldwide chef and wealthy enough to afford
someone to cook for them.
Right… Fuck, this is gold.
Because there’s plenty of ways to manipulate people, especially when they live with you
and you hold over them as much power as Victor does over Othala. But he’s also an
expert on this, and so we can infer that every choice is deliberate, that there are no
mistakes introducing noise into what data I can gather from this short glimpse into their
lives.
They’re sitting at a comfortable distance. Neither too far apart nor close enough to
resemble lovestruck teenagers. There’s conversation during the meal, but what’s being
said isn’t what matters (not now), but the way it’s being said. Victor isn’t a distant figure
nor too warm, and that’s…
There was a study made with puppies. They separated them into three groups: one was
lavished with affection, the other was studiously neglected, and the third one was
unpredictably inflicted with both intense shows of affection and careless neglect that
didn’t correlate to the puppies’ behavior.
The conclusions were that it’s a very good thing that Rachel isn’t up to date with her
Science subscription.
And that humans are bastards.
Oh, and also that the puppies who showed a more intense attachment to their handlers
at the end of the experiment were the ones who unpredictably alternated affection and
neglect… Which is precisely the pattern that abusers use to hook their victims.
And Victor isn’t doing this.
Because Othala is worried about being just a replacement, but not so worried that she
makes a show out of cooking for her man or that she won’t consider having leftovers for
another meal.
And Victor isn’t putting her down for cooking something clearly inferior to what he could
do with little effort.
And neither is he studiously praising the meal.
No, Victor is, very carefully and deliberately… not manipulating his wife.
Because he loves her.
Gotcha.
… Right, and now I feel a bit queasy about the plan I just came up with.
So! It’s a great thing that there’s someone knocking at the door to interrupt my bath,
which is a sentence that I never thought I would utter without sarcasm and is making my
everything hurt.
Oh, great, the kind stranger is knocking insistently! Marvelous! What great joy!
Lisa Wilbourn’s avoidance mechanisms—
Sorry, I’m too busy putting on a bathrobe to pay attention to your precise, clinical, and
almost vivisectorial insights into my psyche.
Right, also putting on my fluffy slippers, because I’m not dripping water all over my
hardwood floor.
And grabbing my gun, because duh.
So, let’s hope this isn’t a Jehovah’s Witness about to get a very bad day—
“Tay?” I ask, like a moron, when I open my door to find my girlfriend fidgeting in front of
it, her hand playing with the strap of her schoolbag.
“Hey, Liz, I… kinda ran away from home?”
Confrontation with Daniel Hebert—
Imminent.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 32
My bike roars as I push the engine, cutting through the backstreets and any other place
I can quickly come up with that won’t endanger any pedestrian.
Taylor Hebert’s preoccupation with reckless—
Good thing she isn’t here, isn’t it?
Lisa Wilbourn’s confrontational—
I’m not confrontational, Power, I am pissed.
And Danny’s going to pay for it.
With a perfectly calculated deceleration and angling of my ride, I slide the remaining
distance that separates me from where I last parked my bike before sneaking through
Taylor’s window. The last time nobody tempted fate by trying to steal my baby, so I’m
counting on a repeat performance.
So I cut off the engine, push the kickback in place…
And hold myself very still.
I may have some unresolved issues with parental figures pushing their expectations
onto their teenage daughters. Don’t know why. It’s a mystery.
Lisa Wilbourn’s relationship with—
1.
Mystery.
Lisa Wilbourn’s rage—
Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, let me…
Deep breath, my abdomen filling before everything else. I don’t focus on anything, just
let myself notice the way the air pushes my chest up, my clavicles, and how it all
deflates and sinks as my body softens when the air comes out.
Then I do it again.
And again.
And again.
And there’s a point where I feel a cool sensation spreading over the top of my skull, and
then I allow myself to notice something other than my breath and the way it moves my
body.
I notice my anger. My rage. My frustration.
Except now my attention is clearer, less prone to be swayed and be carried along,
because if somebody who constantly argues with a voice inside her head is likely to
learn something fast is that I am not my thoughts. Not my feelings.
They are a part of me, much like my hands or my feet.
And if my hand hurts, I won’t let that change who I am. And if I’m forced to limp, I won’t
allow that to change how I see the world.
So I notice my feelings, let them come and go, until I reach… Not calm. Not quite.
But clarity.
Enough of it to realize that the anger is just a layer, something covering a feeling that
goes much deeper, that sinks into the barely noticed parts of my mind.
Lisa Wilbourn’s disappointment—
You really like to take the mystique out of things, don’t you?
Lisa Wilbourn’s plan—
Right.
Don’t quite have one, but I should start working on it.
So I dismount my bike, take off my purple helmet, comb my hair with my fingers
because I don’t have Taylor’s magic ‘it just shakes into place’ shampoo advertisement
locks, and walk to the backdoor of her house.
To scold her father.
… I’m not paid enough to deal with this shit.
Lisa Wilbourn’s millionaire—
My point stands.
I don’t knock, not when it’s so obvious where the backup key is stashed (uncared for
yard, one pot without remains of plant life—), so I just open the door and let myself in.
The light of the kitchen is turned off.
“Lisa,” Danny greets me, his tone devoid of any nuance.
Because the stupid man thinks I need any.
Lights out due to stress-induced migraine. Careful speech to mask alcohol usage.
Alcohol used as both coping mechanism and pain-relieving—
Thanks.
“Hey there, father-in-law.”
He stiffens.
No, not like that. Gross.
“She’s with you?” he asks, trying to paper over his flaring hostility at my address.
I turn around and switch the light on. As he hisses, I noisily slide a wooden chair away
from the table and sit facing him.
He doesn’t look that good, and his rapidly blinking eyes don’t do him any favors.
“At my apartment,” I finally answer.
He’s trying to appear calm. Civil.
I don’t like it.
“And you’ll let her stay and run away from—”
“She isn’t running away. It makes absolutely no sense to keep attending Winslow, and
caring for your daughter’s future includes caring for her survival.”
“What—” he recoils, still off guard from the light turning on, because the migraine was
almost over, but the sudden change in circumstances is making him feel like it isn’t.
And I’m not inviting him to join the Tylenol club. Its membership is very select and
restricted to people that don’t make my blood boil.
“You were depressed. Hurt. Lost. And I would forgive you all of it, because I know what
grief is like—”
“You don’t know—”
“I triggered after my brother’s suicide. After far too many sleepless nights wondering
why, what happened, what did I miss, what could I have done differently. I know. I
understand in a way very few people do. Insult me by doubting that one more time, and
I’ll shoot your kneecaps off.”
He stills, his breathing stopped.
And he forces himself to fully open his eyes.
They are so much like Taylor’s I want to scream.
“Is this your idea of being conciliatory?” he asks me.
“Danny, I came here after my girlfriend ran away because you pushed her away
because of something as utterly ridiculous—”
He smiles.
Oh, God damn it—
“Finally clicked, didn’t it?” he asks me. And that smile is sad and self-pitying, but also
mocking.
This family and their damn smiles.
“If you’re really planning this, I may as well shoot your kneecaps off and save every one
of us the grief.”
“I miss the old days; people had a more artisanal touch. None of these new-fangled
‘guns,’ just a tire iron, some elbow grease—”
“Danny, if her father commits suicide by gang, I don’t know if I can keep her alive long
enough to heal.”
He looks at me. Really looks, his eyes staring straight into my own until I feel the need
to look away.
I don’t.
His smile comes back, a bit more energetic.
“You’re lying,” he says. And there’s genuine joy in that assessment.
…
You know what? Fuck it.
“Yes, I am lying. Because of course I can keep her alive. I can say precisely the right
word to cause the reaction I want. I could have her cheering at your funeral, ecstatic at
the knowledge that you’ve been finally reunited with your wife. And then I could keep
twisting and pulling, because she trusts me, and I know her mind like no other mind on
the planet. So I could take the leash off my power and turn her into whatever twisted
fantasy I could come up with—and you’d be far too dead to do anything about it—”
A fist slams on the kitchen table.
He doesn’t smile.
I do.
“You wouldn’t do that,” he says, breath ragged, fingers clenched.
“I wouldn’t. Unless you gave me no other option.”
And he goes back to looking at me, at my insolent grin—
“Not even then,” he says as he forces himself to open his hand.
“You can’t be sure—”
“I can, because you aren’t doing it to me.”
And now I shut up as he goes back to examining me, and my grin grows stiffer as my
jaw clenches.
“I won’t say you’re a good person, Lisa, because I don’t know you that well, but you’ve
got scruples. Limits. Lines you won’t cross. You think it’s acceptable to manipulate me,
the father of the mind you know like no other on the planet, but only to save my life, to
maybe salvage whatever’s left of my relationship with my daughter. And, even for such
a goal, you won’t cross your lines. You will… pull and twist? Yes. Yes, you will. But you
won’t tear. You won’t draw blood.”
I close my eyes and allow my tension to flow out with my breath.
Then I open them to stare at green irises behind dirty lenses. At big eyes framed by
thinning hair. At the stark shadows of the incandescent bulb drawing harsh lines through
a face with wrinkles deeper than they should be at his age.
At the bags beneath his eyes, the shoulders raised in tension, the carefully measured,
slow breathing, the stained collar of his shirt…
“You are adorable,” I tell him with my most acid tone.
The shoulders raise a bit more even as the face remains impassive.
“You think you can play this game with me. That just because you’re more experienced
than I am, that levels the playing field. You think that a few correct guesses let you
predict what I can and cannot do.
“You are wrong.
“I’ll give you a freebie: you were right. I’ve got scruples and lines I don’t cross.
“Don’t. Not ‘won’t.’
“Because I’m unhinged, Danny. Every single parahuman is. And, currently, the only
thing that allows me to float above water, to retain what moral sensibilities I once had
before being forced to work under a man who kept raping and torturing my other selves,
is Taylor.
“So, as long as I have that reminder, that spark of light and joy, that sign that the world
isn’t meaningless, cruel, and would be far better off if I was in charge… There are things
I won’t do.
“If that light is threatened? The gloves come off. And that means no more playful banter,
no more scatterbrained Lisa. That means that every single word, every gesture, will be
measured for effect. That if I walk into a room, people will see who I want them to see.
That I will do what I can actually do.
“Do you want me to show you, Danny? Do you want a sneak peek at what that Lisa can
do? At how I can lower my tone, straighten my back, brush my hair back, put on a very
specific frown, and talk about how disappointed I am at what you’ve let our daughter go
through—”
His chair clatters as it falls to the floor, and Danny breathes in and out in labored panic.
“Get out,” he finally whispers.
I look at him.
I don’t stand.
“You hurt the love of my life. You made her feel unwanted, abandoned. And I could
forgive you that.
“But then you had to repeat the whole stupid thing so you can play at fighting your own
crusade, and I won’t leave this place until I’m sure you won’t orphan her again.”
He looks at me.
At my eyes.
And I look at him. Intensely, searchingly.
And he looks away.
***
We are sitting on the couch of the living room, because I felt like changing the setting
could only help after that latest display.
I’m not proud of it, of the Lisa I told him I could be.
Mostly because I wasn’t quite lying.
I can see it, you know? See how I could just… shift. Not even change, just look at a
different angle.
I could keep my sense of humor, my lighthearted banter.
I could keep some friendships, and God knows Brian would be far easier to handle.
I could keep being fundamentally me, just… with another focus.
And with that focus, I could pick apart everyone. Fulfill the role they need me to,
become indispensable to them. I could have them turn me into the center of their little,
messed up, twisted worlds.
And I could rule them.
It wouldn’t even be hard. Sometimes, I think it’s harder not to do it.
And… this is stupid, and I won’t ever say it out loud, but…
‘All shall love me and despair.’
There’s a good cautionary tale in there.
All right, not really, because there would be plenty of people I’d have to get rid of, so not
everyone would love me, but…
Colin has almost adopted me, and it is genuine, and it breaks my heart a little bit every
time I think about it and let myself put a name to it.
Dragon approves, and she trusts me enough that she’s set me up to discover her secret
and free her from those who hold her leash.
Hannah… Hannah would like nothing more than to call Colin ‘daddy’ in a very
inappropriate way and—gross, gross, gross!
The point!
Yes, the point is that all of this is me being myself, using my power the bare minimum to
go through the challenges that require it. But Power’s learned how people work. He
knows how to push, how to break, and, more importantly, how to build them back up in
the way he prefers.
Because there’s one very afraid, very disturbed girl building bombs for us in service of a
terror she barely dares to name and Dragon randomly playing insect sounds through
the bunker she’s locked in.
… Right. I don’t know why I felt the need to go through this whole self-examination. It’s
obvious I’ve got the potential to rebuild the people around me: I’ve already done so.
So, yes, I could be… not a villain. No.
I could be a monster.
And everyone who survived would thank me for it.
“It really was for her sake,” Danny says, not looking at me.
“I know you think so. That’s why I held back.”
He turns toward me, mouth agape.
“You did what?”
And I roll my eyes.
“Seriously? The whole Dark Lady speech? As much as I love the classics, I won’t
monologue to someone if I—Danny, seriously, stop looking at me like that. It’s creeping
me out.”
“You just, just—how was that holding back?!” He throws his arms up.
I barely hide the need to tsk my tongue at the display. Really, such a drama queen.
“You’re talking coherently instead of being catatonic and locked up in a padded cell.”
Oh, right. Emma.
Yesh, I’d better not keep reminding myself of all these little examples of how I’m actually
closer to Darth Lisa than I thought.
Also, if a short guy offers me a ring, I should knee him in the groin and run as fast as I
can…
Just in case.
“You could do that to me?” His voice shakes, and I stop looking like a condescending
teenager long enough to shoot him a sideways glance.
At the man still unstable from me barely imitating his dead wife. I mean, it’s not like I’ve
got filmed samples to study; I was just playing it by ear.
So I consider him. What I know about Taylor’s past few years, what I’ve personally
seen, what I know he’s been up to.
And answer.
“Yup.”
He gapes.
“I… I don’t feel comfortable with you being so nonchalant—”
“Danny, I’ve got an alien voice stuck in my head constantly whispering the secrets of the
world at me unless I make an active effort to keep him quiet. For some reason, he’s
particularly apt at picking apart people, so this comes up to me needing to make an
effort not to do to everyone a less kind version of what I just did to you in the kitchen.”
He shivers.
Drama queen.
“How do you—”
“Because I’ve got no other choice. And because Taylor helps more than she’ll ever
realize.”
He looks away from me, in front of him, over the television and through the translucent
curtains of the window behind it.
“That doesn’t sound healthy.”
“That’s because it isn’t. Also, speaking of health concerns, this morning I hired my old
band of supervillains to patrol the Docks against other gangs.”
“… What?”
I take a deep breath.
“You did this because you love Taylor, so I’ll forgive you. This time.”
“Lisa, what are you talking—”
I turn on my seat, facing him with my body, not just my head.
He shifts back toward an armrest that doesn’t give him as much leeway as he would
prefer.
“You were scared after Bakuda’s attack. After seeing Taylor in action, knowing what she
does, what she’ll keep doing for as long as she can. And you felt rage at all those awful
people who suddenly went, in your mind, from parasites hurting this city you love to
potential threats to your daughter. So you banded together with your people, those who
are loyal to you and each other, and painted a target on the backs of those you want to
destroy so Taylor can be a bit safer, just a tiny bit less likely to catch a bullet when she’s
too busy battling a moronic cape to notice a mook about to get lucky.”
He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I really didn’t expect this to turn into a therapy session, Lisa.”
“Then maybe you should have gone to a real one years ago. Grief counseling is a thing,
you know?”
And now he opens them and looks back at me, doing that cool ‘over the glasses’ thing I
always loved in The Neverending Story.
“Did you go?”
“No. I triggered, ran away from home after my parents tried to exploit my power for
economic reasons rather than properly allow me to grieve my brother, and then got
conscripted at gunpoint by a supervillain. Also, I am an irresponsible teenager. What’s
your excuse?”
He throws his head back, and he laughs.
It’s… It’s far from cheerful. There’s resentment at the world, a bitterness that he always
carries, but…
It’s still a laugh.
So I’ll count it as progress.
And then his phone rings.
His cellphone.
He freezes, and I look at him until he picks it up.
He listens for a moment.
“I’ll be right there,” he says, and then he hangs up.
“No, you won’t,” I tell him.
And then take out my own phone. Because I need to call both Taylor and Brian, and the
last thing I needed tonight was to have them both together in the same place.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 33
“Tattletale,” Brian says, voice dramatically echoing through the whorls of his power
trailing below his helmet. Then he dramatically crosses his arms and nods, the citrine
beam of the streetlamp shimmering across the uncovered parts of his costume.
…
“Is he being serious?” I ask Regent, who leans on the bare brick of the building to my
right and rolls his eyes with such practice it’s actually noticeable through his mask.
“Aren’t you the Thinker? Why are you asking me? As far as I know, that’s his idea of
being casual. Tell me you can’t picture him hitting on girls like that.”
Brian freezes.
“Oh, God, you did—” I start.
“Just the once! And it worked!”
“Of course it worked, you goddamn moron, you are a centerpiece poster wrapped in a
bad boy leather jacket! You could recite the back of a cereal box and that would still
work!”
“That’s not true, I am just… charismatic.”
I look at him.
He uncrosses his arms and suppresses the urge to fidget.
“Rachel,” I say, making the laconic girl look up from where she’s patiently petting a very
mellow Brutus, the stumped tail of the Rottweiler lazily trying to thump from side to side,
“is there any way Brian could try to hit on you that would make you say no to a romp in
the sack?”
She looks from me to the boy who’s now actually fidgeting.
“It would be better if he didn’t speak,” she finally says in a way she doesn’t realize is far
more brutal than anything Alec has said in the past… let’s say three hours.
“I have been rejected, you know?” he says, as if it’s something to be proud of.
“Sure. By literal lesbians.” Gaydar, Thinker sub-rating. Look it up.
“You don’t know—”
“Are you seriously talking about this right now?” Taylor says as she steps into the alley
in full regalia.
Which means she must’ve changed near here, because she told me she would take the
bus and nobody is stupid enough, even in this city of lemmings, to stop a public
transportation vehicle to allow Skitter to get in. Which means I just missed her changing
in public.
…
My brain is a filthy, filthy place…
Unsanitary living conditions—
I am not going to let you finish that sentence just because of the very likely outcome that
it would make me scream until my throat bled.
Lisa Wilbourn’s overly dramatic—
Yeah. No. That doesn’t fly. ‘Adequately dramatic’ is more like it.
Also, maybe I should focus on why everybody is so silent right now.
I mean, aside from the fact everyone knows I left the team because of Taylor, that she
was an undercover hero lying to them from the start, and that this is the first time they
meet after such revelations.
I am sure there must be some other reason for the tense standoff. Something easily
solved.
…
Maybe Regent is pissed we kept that cherry Chapstick?
“So! Skitter! Insert appropriately dramatic welcoming nod here!” I say, not quite breaking
the ice, but just because it was actually pykrete.
Frozen mix of water and sawdust displaying mechanical properties akin to concrete—
One day, I’ll discover why you get so excited with materials science. I suspect I’ll weep
at the revelation.
Just a hunch.
“Hey, Taylor,” Regent gives her a lazy wave that is his equivalent to a friendly display of
camaraderie, “how’s the lesbian life treating you? Getting sick of fish tacos already?”
I look at him. He smirks.
An ominous buzzing fills the alley.
“Hold that thought for a sec, sweetie,” I say.
And then walk up to Alec and knee his groin.
I mean, he isn’t short, nor bearing a ring, but just in case, you know?
“You…” he huffs, “are far too physical for… Oh God, I’m going to throw up… too..
physical… for Thinker…”
Then he drops down the wall and clasps his knees as he takes deep, loud breaths.
The buzzing stops, Rachel looks at me with heartwarming approval, and Brian tries not
to shy away.
Male solidarity—
Is yet another weakness.
Also, Colin stabbed Lung in the groin. Repeatedly. So it’s likely also a myth.
Brian Laborn’s reaction genuinely—
Fine. Mostly a myth.
“’Sweetie?’ ‘Lesbian life?’” the one who partakes of the essence of myths asks.
Taylor’s body language stops.
The buzzing returns after a short reprieve. There’s a note to it that, after long, long
experience with her anti-Thinker tactics, I can infer not to be threatening.
Not that a gigantic swarm being panicky is much better.
I glare at Alec. He, still in full gopnik squat and wheezing, smirks up at me. Then goes
back to wheezing.
… Note to self: watch a few more Muay Thai training videos. There’s room for
improvement.
Physical training—
I didn’t raise you to have such a potty mouth.
Lisa Wilbourn’s parental—
Nope. Nope, nope, nope. Noooooooooope!
Lisa Wilbourn’s shirking—
Distraction. I need an immediate, pressing distraction—oh, Brian! You could be useful
for once in your life, aren’t you happy?
“Ah, didn’t we tell you?” I ask him, not even having to fake the barely in check panic,
though for very different reasons to Taylor blue-screening.
“’We?’ As in, you two?” he asks, a lost note on his voice.
Brian Laborn’s attraction to Taylor Hebert—
Stop gleefully enjoying the teenage drama. It’s beneath you.
Lisa Wilbourn’s anthropomorphizing of parahuman abilities interfaces—
You’ve gotta be shitting me.
“Uh, I mean, we both ran away at the same time, and… I told you we’ve been living
together. You aren’t much for reading between the lines, are you?”
“What between the lines?! Last thing I knew, Taylor was very aggressively
heterosexual—uh. I mean. Not that there’s anything wrong with… So, you’re bi, uh?
Good for you! Great, even! Do you want us all to celebrate at Fugly Bob’s? Is that
something people do? Are all of you bastards going to let me keep on talking?”
“Yup,” Alec says, timing his breathing just so he can spit the single syllable.
“Pretty much,” I elaborate on his genius commentary.
“Buzzzzzzz,” Tayor adds her own corollary. Indirectly.
Rachel, as usual, acts as a silent observer of human nature. Wise beyond her years,
that one.
Brutus keeps enjoying her expert fingers though, so I guess that’s his excuse not to
participate in Brian’s lynching.
And I thought dogs were supposed to be social animals.
“… You all are the worst team I could ever be saddled with.”
“Took you long enough to realize that, o fearless leader,” Alec says, finally having
recovered his breath, yet still maintaining his gopnik squat. Likely because of selfidentifying reasons.
“It’s adorable you still think he led anything,” I can’t keep myself from stating.
Brian’s body language goes rigid and he turns to me.
“Care to elaborate?”
Fuck.
De-escalation—
Do you even realize who my fiancée is?
“Brian, no offense, but whose plan was it when we attacked the bank?”
“I can accept a good idea and implement—”
“Who was it who made the hard calls? That saved me from Glory Girl?”
He stares at me. His eyes aren’t visible, but, they don’t need to be for a glare like this.
“What are you saying, Lisa?”
Good question. What am I even saying?
Scapegoat—
Oh, good idea. Thanks.
“I am saying that I wasn’t Coil’s only victim. Having me as his mouthpiece, the only
contact with the mysterious boss you all depended on? That was calculated. You were
a tactical leader, don’t misunderstand, but he set things up so you could never be more
than that—and having a Thinker seven looking over your shoulder at every step was
only one way to ensure that. When Taylor came along and she started giving ideas? He
was really pleased.”
Swallow that, come on! It’s perfectly tailored to both your vanity and persecution
complex—
Empire 88—
I am not saying it’s an unjustified persecution complex.
He crosses his arms once again, pondering what I just said. The swarm goes silent as
Taylor turns to look at me.
“We’ll talk about this. Later,” he finally sentences.
“Good, because Squealer’s tank just entered my range,” Taylor sentences.
Oh, goodie. The druggies have dramatic timing.
***
I am, once again, on a rooftop overlooking a band of villains.
I would gush about how romantic it all is if it wasn’t for all the unwanted extras.
“Legolas, what do your elf eyes see?” Alec asks me, pulling an acceptable Aragorn.
“If you start singing ‘They’re Taking the Hobbits to Isengard,’ I will shoot you.”
“Have I told you how disappointed I am in your ever-increasing violent streak?”
“Have I told you who has cultivated it through long, long, exhausting coexistence.”
“No need to, though it’s always nice to have my work recognized.”
“I don’t know if you two are flirting or trying to be infuriatingly sibling-like,” Brian intrudes.
“Can’t it be both?” Alec asks.
“I will push you off this roof,” I clarify.
“Oh, I see escalation is rubbing off you. And on you. And likely in you—”
“Alec, Lisa may be all talk. Do you think I am?” Taylor finally says, apparently having
worked up the nerve to speak in front of her quasi-ex.
No, I am not bitter, insecure, jealous, or clingy. Those are ridiculous notions that have
no place in the mind of a brilliant, detached tactician such as I.
Brian Laborn’s appreciation of Taylor Hebert’s backside—
I’ll murder him. Then I’ll recruit Panacea so she can bring him up as a zombie and kill
him a second time, but without any moral repercussions, because zombies are fair
game.
“Honestly? I know you to be quite vocal—fuck!” Alec starts waving his hands, trying to
hit the wasps currently surrounding him.
“Right,” my beautiful, gorgeous, and not at all terrifying girlfriend says. “Lisa’s talked
down the dockworkers, so the ground is ours—which is not, at all, what the Merchants
were gearing up for. There’s a small detachment of grunts coming in from the South
making a lot of noise to draw aggression, and an invisible tank with at least Squealer on
board coming in from the North to cut off the dockworkers’ escape after they engage.
Simple, but effective.”
“Which means we can attack the tank and—” Brian starts.
“No. The grunts are going to do damage to the neighborhood for as long as they are
unchecked, so they are the priority. A single strike with Brutus will dissuade most of
them.”
Brian glares.
“Are you telling me how to lead—”
“Brian, back off. She’s telling you the priorities, you know, what I pay you for. You are
here to defend the Docks, not to defeat Squealer.” I try to be conciliatory, I really do,
but… Teenagers. Traumatized, superpowered, teenagers on an ego trip.
Lisa Wilbourn’s age—
I may not be as self-aware as I would like, but I get that much.
“Fine,” Brian concedes, once more crossing his arms and making his leather jacket
creak, “Rachel and I will hit the mooks. Alec will stay here and provide ranged support
to whichever group he feels needs it most.”
“Aye, aye, my captain,” the jerk with a heart of jerk says.
“I have Squealer’s tank covered with as many insects as I think she won’t notice, but it
looks like the camouflage system seals it off. As soon as she drops it to attack or deploy
occupants, I’m swarming them all.”
Right. A two-pronged attack dealt with two defensive groups. That fits both my
projections for the whole thing and my best-case scenario. Now I just…
Now I just need to have the Undersiders do their first heroes for hire jig.
This kinda feels momentous. Should I give a speech? A Saint Crispin’s Day thing,
maybe?
I mean, on the one hand, no need to delay, on the other, that’s an excuse to run my
mouth…
Lisa Wilbourn’s priorities—
Are perfectly aligned with both my values and goals. Shut up.
“What’s that?” Regent says, in the tone of someone who just heard someone say
something as utterly stupid as ‘what’s the worst that could happen’ or ‘that fits both my
projections for the whole thing and my best-case scenario.’
For fuck’s sake! I didn’t say it out loud!
Taking out my night vision binoculars (they aren’t even a Colin gift, I just like toys—not
like that!), I quickly look toward where he’s pointing.
That is, toward the group of Merchant grunts.
Who are getting decimated.
By a tall woman in costume hitting them left and right, straw blond hair streaming after
far too quick movements—
Enhanced reflexes—
She does a sweeping kick that starts as a feint to the front and ends up as mule kick to
the opponent behind her—
Enhanced situational awareness—
The kick hits the grunt right in the gut, and he drops. Not clutching his abdomen in pain,
just… immobile.
Enhanced strength—
His partner tries to grab the extended leg, only for her to retract it in a sweeping arc that
ends up with both her legs perpendicular to the ground for a beautifully choreographed
moment that he doesn’t get the chance to appreciate as it’s quickly followed by a
dropping axe-kick right on top of his head that drives him down to the pavement.
Enhanced flexibility—
The Merchants around her stand back, making a circle around the newest cape to hit
my city.
She stands, provocatively cocks her hip with a hand leaning on it, and extends her other
arm before making a beckoning gesture with her four extended fingers.
“Change of plans. We hit Squealer’s tank now!”
Brutus is already changed, his hulking shape at my side as reassuring as a big dog
who’s on your side yet also a Jurassic era horror can be.
Rachel mounts him, Brian right behind her.
Taylor moves to do the same, and I stop her.
“We three stay here. We need to hold something back in case the newbie turns out to
be something complicated.”
“Complicated? What do you mean?”
Costume likely to be modified PRT assault troop armor. Display of skill not consistent
with new trigger. Tactical approach methodical, if reckless—consistent with new trigger.
Targeting Merchants consistent with heroic inclinations. No attempt at de-escalation
consistent with villainous inclinations—
I hold back a wince at the barrage of Power trying and failing to come up with an answer
to my current dilemma.
That. I mean that.
I should’ve called Colin.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 34
“You should’ve called me,” Colin growls over the phone.
“Well, I know that now, but nothing indicated I should’ve prepared for an unknown
parahuman to make her debut right in the middle of my brawl against the Merchants,” I
very reasonably and not at all half-panicked point out.
“Thinker si—”
“I’ll hurt you. I don’t know when, where, or how, but I’ll find a way.”
“Maybe if you were a good Thinker, you’d at least know the answer to some of those
questions.”
“… Put Hannah on.”
“…”
“Colin, put Hannah on,” I patiently repeat.
“I don’t wanna.”
“You know I’ve got her number already, don’t you?”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Try not to burn down the Docks,” he replies sternly and
professionally.
“I can call her anytime I waaaaant,” I singsong at him.
And he hangs up.
Heh.
“Did you just…?” Alec asks me from his side of the rooftop.
“She did,” Taylor answers. “She’s… I don’t know. It’s like she’s gotten him wrapped
around her finger. Like she’s daddy’s little girl, and not even in a creepy way, and every
time I think about it, it makes my head hurt.”
“Well, high-rated social Thinkers are considered dangerous for a—” I start to calmly and
academically explain without even a hint of braggadocio.
Use of words such as ‘braggadocio’—
Is perfectly warranted from time to time.
“Of course, there’s also the part where he can make her twist into a pretzel with a stern
look,” Taylor interrupts both my line and inner dialogue.
“Oh? Do tell,” Alec inquires with an almost nonchalant edge that’s about as casual as a
lion looking sideways at a hyena sounding like Whoopie Goldberg.
“We should focus on the fight,” I remind them, because someone needs to be a
professional around these parts.
“Yeah, it’s like she has this desperate need not to disappoint him—”
“Oh, look! Brutus is chewing on a tank! Isn’t that something you two want to pay
attention to?”
“So, would you say your girlfriend has… daddy issues?” Alec is acting very
unprofessionally.
“And Grue filled the whole tank with his smoke! So clever! Now any electronic
countermeasures will be effectively negated! Look at Grue being all tactical and shit!”
“Don’t even get me started on that! You should’ve seen how she acted when she met
my dad; she was doing and saying everything to catch his attention and earn even an
ounce of approval—”
“Look! At! Grue!”
“You don’t say. How positively scandalous!” Alec, my vengeance shall be swift and will
probably involve replacing all your gaming tags with something vaguely homophobic.
“Yeah, I couldn’t quite believe it, but seeing the way she’s latched onto Armsmaster
since—”
“Will you two stop assassinating my character and focus on the fucking superhero
brawl!”
“Well, if someone hadn’t made me stay on this rooftop, maybe I wouldn’t be mouthing
off about my controlling girlfriend to her gay best friend!”
“You’re better off here! You have range! You don’t need to risk a fucking concussion or
worse!”
“Do I really count as a gay best friend if I’m bisexual? I mean, I wouldn’t want to be
guilty of cultural appropriation or whatever. It sounds like a pain on Twitter.”
“You definitely have the sassy part down—I mean! Fight! Our comrades, struggling to—
oh, Brutus is shaking Squealer like an unwanted baby.”
“Lisa!” Taylor exclaims because apparently she’s not done being pissy at me.
“What?! It’s gallows humor! Black comedy! Dead baby comedy!”
“You really haven’t gone on Twitter in a while, have you?” Alec asks with the tone of a
man who has seen too much.
…
I’m pretty sure at least a good percentage of it is affected.
Alec’s distant, unfocused stare—
Don’t contradict me, please.
“She’s getting away,” Taylor mutters.
“Squealer? Not without a stretcher—and I don’t want to see how she can Mad Max a
stretcher, really. Or anything else medical, for that matter,” I answer, still trying not to
figure out what can traumatize Alec on fucking Twitter—
Likelihood of—
There are things man was never meant to know, Power.
Eowyn clause—
Oh God, don’t even start nerding out at me. And that’s not even original! ‘None of
woman born’ ring any bells to you?!
“Not Squealer. Our mysterious newcomer,” Taylor interrupts my scholarly debate.
…
Fuck.
I rush to the corner of the rooftop, my binoculars pointed at the heap of Merchant goons
lying either unconscious or in very obvious pain.
The woman in modified PRT armor is running, and—
“Tagged her?” I ask Tay.
“Yeah, but she’s going to get out of my range soon.” She’s right beside me, and before I
can even say anything, she grabs the railing of the fire escape, vaults over the edge of
the roof, and starts running down the stairs.
I shoot a look back at Alec over my shoulder.
“Go. It’s not like you can’t watch Brutus play fetch with tank parts any other day,” he
reassures me with a wide grin.
… I can’t. You bastard.
I grunt at his infuriating grin and follow after Taylor. Mostly out of habit, at this point.
Yes, that goes for both following her and the grunt. Really, they’re all awful people.
Of course, she gets to the street below us before me, mostly because jogging is just
one more way to flagellate the frailty of the flesh like she inherited some Catholic guilt,
and then, while I try not to die of hypoxia, she rushes to my baby with—
“You don’t know how to drive!” I yell at her with what seems to be a hitherto unknown
reserve of air my lungs were secreting away.
“And you—” she starts quipping.
“Not the time!”
She looks at me with a clearly implied arched eyebrow beneath her mask.
I look back with both a lack of air that, for once, has little to do with how good she looks
in a silken body glove, and with all the clarity of purpose of a woman who won’t allow
her baby to be taken—
Motorized vehicles consuming fossil fuels likely to be phased out in—
You shut your dirty mouth.
“Fine…” Tay grumbles as she takes a step back and sits in her proper place. That is:
behind where I’m currently straddling my baby as her slender arms surround my waist
and her body molds to my back and…
“Liz?” she asks.
“Uh?” I answer, as cogent and self-possessed as ever.
“The newbie. Getting out of my range.”
…
“Oh. That.”
“… Turn on the damn bike, Liz.”
“Yes, sweetie.”
The motor purrs between my legs, and I shoot out of the alley in the direction we last
saw the blonde—
Hair tone and luster natural if uncommon shade—
Right. Not a wig. Good to know.
“To your right,” Taylor says loud enough to be heard over the rushing wind.
I lean gently as I take the next turn—
“She’s speeding away. Wind—oh, for fuck’s sake, does everybody like bikes?!”
“I mean… yeah?”
“Don’t even think about trying to race the unknown parahuman with physical
enhancements!”
I very carefully don’t grin.
And then rev my bike as loudly as I can.
“Lisa! Don’t!”
We speed away, about as fast as that night Lung chased us down, and Taylor’s arms
tighten around me in a way that makes me grateful for the extra padding I added to my
costume since I bought my baby.
“Call Colin!” I ask her.
“What?!”
“Call! Colin!”
One arm starts to let go before suddenly whipping around me when I quickly swerve
around a pothole that shouldn’t have been there—oh, wait. Poor part of town. Never
mind. I’m lucky it wasn’t an actual mine.
And I guess this means Taylor isn’t letting go, which would, a priori, be a good thing, but
I kinda wanted to coordinate with Colin so we could trap the runaway cape between us.
I mean, if she was chasing me, it would be child’s play to predict Colin’s route and…
Oh, I already did that with Lung. Uh. Déjà vu, I guess.
Use of ‘Déjà vu’ theme song in Initial D meme—
Remind me never to watch an Uber and Leet stream. Again. To never watch them ever
again.
Sailor Moon cosplay referencing Banpresto arcade beat ‘em up—
Remind me to lobotomize myself…
“Liz!”
Oh. Also remind me to keep my eyes on the road.
I shift the body of my bike with my knees in a left-right-left quick motion that manages to
thread the needle between two puddles of what looks like motor oil—
Countermeasures—
Yeah, no shit. She has a Bond-bike.
Lisa Wilbourn’s relationship with Bond franchise—
You’re getting far too mouthy in your old age. Also, caltrops.
Great.
I lean to the right as I abruptly twist the handlebar, and I turn the forward motion into a
classic Akira slide—
“For fuck’s sake, not again!” Taylor screams almost right against my ear.
Everyone’s a critic.
Anyway! The important thing is that my practiced and perfectly safe maneuver has
fulfilled its purpose in that my wheels are still in pristine condition after avoiding running
over a line of caltrops by inches.
Now I just need to get down, brush them aside to clear a safe passage, and—
“I just lost her,” Taylor says, already dismounting.
“What? So quickly?”
“Yes. She kept pulling ahead even when you went full throttle. I don’t think we can catch
up, Liz.”
She runs her fingers through her hair in a completely unnecessary movement that only
serves to highlight how utterly perfect the hair in question is. Really, it’s enough to make
a girl jealous.
Or drool. One of those two.
I look at the narrow street ahead, the possible routes she could’ve taken, and then infer
her likely level of paranoia and experience from the precautions I’ve seen her take
against being followed.
…
Yeah. Colin’s gonna be pissed.
***
“At least I captured Squealer!” I calmly point out.
Brian clears his throat, and I discreetly flip him the bird.
“And you only needed five parahumans to do it. Once again, I’m in awe at your efficient
use of the resources you have at hand,” Colin comments, and Alec’s eyes widen in what
seems to be the preface of manic glee and my own headache.
“To be fair, she came in with a small army and an invisible tank,” Taylor remarks,
possibly even trying to be fair.
“An ‘army’ that was taken care of by this mysterious newcomer and a tank that just
became the world’s most expensive chew toy,” he says, ignoring all fairness just to take
a cheap shot at me.
Lisa Wilbourn’s sense of fair play—
Is perfectly functional in that it’s calibrated to let me win without any undue remorse.
“Look, we knew it would be a trap for the Dockworkers, so we expected a level of
opposition similar to what showed up. Everything went according to expectations until
the action film reject showed up.”
“Things never go according to expectations, Lisa! You’re far too enamored of your
streak of successes to consider what happens if you fail!”
“I’m not failing! And it’s not a streak, it’s… It’s what I do. My power. I’ve worked at it—”
“At being a Thinker?” he asks, the tone one that makes it clear he knows how much
work any Tinker puts in but not what other capes have to deal with.
“I… Give me a moment, please,” I tell him before I say something else I’ll regret.
“Well, that’s new,” Alec comments.
And Taylor elbows his side.
Heh. I knew there was a reason I was still head over heels for her.
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation—
Right. Right. Just a joke. I know I love her.
Now… Just a deep breath, but not too long, because he’s getting impatient, and I know
how much he hates wasting time…
Close my eyes, allow tension to melt away, to be carried with my exhalation. It slides
out of me as I slacken my body, as I stop holding onto it…
All right. Not perfect, but all right.
I open my eyes to find his blue visor almost in front of me, while the rest of what were
the Undersiders but maybe should think about rebranding after switching sides is to my
left in the same alley where we agreed to meet at the start of all this. Squealer is sitting
on the floor, cuffed and sedated until she can be moved somewhere without easy
access to technology, something that sends chills down my spine when I think about it,
and so I very carefully avoid thinking about it.
Great. My calm is ruined.
“Look, I know how hard you’ve worked to get where you are, how much effort you’ve
poured into your power to get every single one of your inventions working, how every
single step forward has been an uphill battle, and how sometimes you had to kept
fighting without even knowing if there would be a goal to reach after all of that sweat
and blood. I know, and I respect you a Hell of a lot more than I would if I didn’t, but…
Can you respect me as well, please?”
He pauses for a moment, and I know enough about how his armor and predictive
algorithms work to realize he almost stumbled.
“Lisa,” he begins with a very careful tone, “I do respect you, but you need to realize your
power, as good as it can be, cannot be your only safety net. You’re still new to this, and
there’s so much you need to learn before—”
“I have read the dictionary,” I interrupt him, almost, but not quite, waspish.
“What?”
“I have read the dictionary. Because Power, at the start, just knew what I knew, but one
day I realized, after watching a quiz show, that he blurted random facts at me, things
that were in the show but that I hadn’t retained… And that’s the trick to my power: he
experiences what I experience, but he never forgets. So I read the dictionary to him,
and he learned everything he needed about the English language. And then I kept
reading things. Books, articles, webpages… Everything I could get my hands on. So, if
Power goes on a tangent about the precise number of women who ever had PRT
combat training? That’s something I’ve read. If he tells me how unlikely it is for a woman
to beat up grown-up men, taking into consideration training, weaponry, and numerical
superiority? That’s something I, at one point, decided it would be worthwhile for him to
learn. If I can tell you that she used some of the flashiest Tae Kwon Do kicks there are,
the ones that are usually considered all but useless in a real combat scenario due to the
high risk involved in pulling them off? That’s because of all the videos I’ve watched of
people demonstrating their specific styles. I respect you, Colin. A lot. Can you… respect
me?”
He stares at me silently until he steps forward and wraps me in a half hug against his
still stupidly unhuggable armor.
“Holy shit, you weren’t kidding,” Alec mutters.
“Wrapped around her finger,” Taylor remarks.
They are all awful.
I wouldn’t change them for the world.
Earth Bet likely considered subpar among—
All right: I wouldn’t change them for a non-crappy world.
Lisa Wilbourn’s sentimentality—
I wouldn’t change you either, Power.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 35
Finally, after what feels like a night far too packed with emotions, events, and parental
figures being insufferably stubborn, I’m back at my apartment.
My peaceful apartment. The one place in the world I’ve shaped to my personal
preferences and needs to be both safe and soothing, to be perfectly suited for me to
unwind and allow the effects Power can have on me to harmlessly disperse as I relax
while lying on my couch and sipping on something hot and disgracefully not-caffeinated.
“So… Do you have any free drawers, or…?” Taylor asks, fidgeting behind me and
wearing her costume sans mask.
I feel like sighing.
Outward displays of frustration while highly emotional—
You don’t need to babysit me that much. I’m not about to make my girlfriend—my
fiancée feel unwelcome just because she’s a bit inconvenient at the moment.
Lisa Wilbourn’s tendency to—
Not with Taylor. Not with her.
Lisa Wilbourn’s infatuation—
“Lisa?”
“Ah, sorry, sweetie, Power was being weirdly concerned about my social graces.”
“Your what?”
“Ha. Ha.”
I turn back to look at her, still standing near the door, and I…
She’s awkward. As much as she was when she came earlier tonight before I rushed to
tear a stripe out of her father’s hide for daring to run her out of their home. And we
never settled that conversation, because I was too busy being indignant on her behalf,
and I…
“I’m sorry,” I tell her as I go back to her, and I circle her waist, my hands clasped
together behind her lower back.
She looks at me through the glasses she’s replaced after taking off her mask, and she
shoots me a shy smile before leaning forward, her only contribution to our hug being her
weight resting against my chest, her face lying sideways over my shoulder, looking
away from me and letting me kiss her hair.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” she tells me, lying as naturally as she
breathes.
“Come on, at least try to make that more believable,” I chide her as I tighten my arms
around her.
She giggles.
And then goes silent.
We stand there, right in front of my apartment’s door, just breathing together and
sharing our warmth.
“I have a perfectly serviceable couch to cuddle in, you know?” I finally tell her.
“You and your need to say the first thing that goes through your overactive brain…” she
grumbles.
But she follows me to the couch.
And we cuddle.
Lisa Wilbourn’s enjoyment of physical closeness—
I’m only human, Power. Only human.
***
“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want, you know?” I tell her, my back to the
couch, and she… Well, let’s just say she’s the little spoon.
Taylor Hebert: supervillain, terrorist, inflicter of phobias, and little spoon.
…
I admit it takes me some effort not to giggle.
Incongruity key component in humor—
Look at that! We may get you a sense of it!
Fish out of water humor often reliant on outsider’s perspective—
… Right. That fits you far too well.
Let’s not do that.
“You asked me to marry you. I would hope a few nights at your place wouldn’t be too
much of a bother,” Taylor finally comments in a tone that’s just shy of being drowsy.
“You asked me to marry you. You made a whole thing out of it.”
“In my defense, being in love is a mental impairment.”
“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve told me tonight.”
We giggle.
Close together, her back flush against my chest, her body between my arms, her hair in
reach of my lips, we shake with mirth and contentment.
Until we don’t, as our bodies relax in each other’s embrace, my obscenely expensive
couch molding to our shapes, the warmth of her body soothing mine, making my
breathing slow down, my eyelids close…
I smell Taylor’s hair one last time. She’s been using that apple-scented shampoo we
talked about, and green apples roll down a meadow with bees swirling around citrine
flowers, and there’s honey on my lips that open to say something about—
***
The Sun is a hateful, spiteful bitch, and there’ll come a day I manage to get my
vengeance on it for intruding on my sleep, and—
I smell bacon.
Uh. What do you know, there may be not-awful ways to wake up. Who would’ve
guessed?
With an effort of will that proves my transition to herodom is more complete than I
feared, I open my eyes and…
I’ve got an open kitchen, one of those where the counter acts as a divider between it
and the living room. It has some disadvantages, but as I don’t ever plan on cooking
anything disgustingly smelly and I can afford someone to regularly paint my living room,
those are mostly void, and I enjoy the increased sense of space and the ease of moving
things from it to the dining/living room and back again. It’s particularly nice to sit at the
countertop during a lazy breakfast and have my TV in clear sight.
It’s nice. I like my kitchen. I didn’t think it could be substantially improved.
It turns out I was very wrong. Having Taylor wearing one of my long-sleeved, gray
pajama shirts and one of her short, short black and purple exercise shorts, her legs
bare, her back to me, and wearing my white apron…
Yeah. It’s a definite improvement.
“Coffe’s already done, and the bacon’s almost ready,” she says without turning around.
I blink a couple of times.
“You’re keeping an eye on me?” I say, not taking my own eyes off her.
“You look very cute when you drool in your sleep,” she replies with a tone that’s almost
dry.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve and… Ugh, I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes. Gross.
Taylor chuckles, and her hips sway from side to side in a way I’m pretty sure is entirely
for my benefit.
Taylor Hebert enjoying Lisa Wilbourn’s attraction—
Oh, good morning to you as well.
I ignore Power’s likely attempt at a rebuttal and keep delighting in Taylor’s almost dance
as she keeps showing me why shorts are the superior exercise apparel. Her swaying
hips make her thighs tense and relax in turn, the play of golden, morning light over
shifting muscle—
…
I really, really smell.
“Gonna get changed,” I mutter as I force myself to get out of the Lisa-shaped cavity in
the sofa’s soft cushions.
It’s a struggle.
“Don’t take too long,” she says, bending over to, presumably, check on the pan and the
readiness of its contents.
Yeah, right. She knows what she’s doing.
So I get up, go to my bedroom to grab my own set of fuzzy pajamas, and go to the
bathroom to get my clothes in the laundry basket and at least soap up my armpits and
underboob. I mean, not the most hygienic way to start the new day, but, just this once,
I’ll prioritize eating the breakfast my loving, kind fiancée made me before it gets cold
over letting luxurious, sinfully warm water wash the night away.
I should still wash my face, though, because these eyes aren’t getting on any magazine
covers…
And, when I emerge from the bathroom, my metamorphosis into not-having-a-rough-day
Lisa almost complete (I’ve still got bed hair, yeah, bite me), I find a softly smiling Taylor
sitting at the counter, waiting for me.
Still wearing the apron.
She’s adorable. And cute. And beautiful. And sexy. And—
“What?” she asks, bashfully lowering her gorgeous eyes. She isn’t wearing glasses, and
I can see the precise shade of her irises, the shift in light and shadow, the lines of radial
green—
“Lisa?” she asks once again, this time looking straight at me.
“I love you,” I blurt out.
She fidgets on her seat on the other side of the counter, a light, pink blush blossoming
on her cheeks.
“You’re starting early today,” she finally mutters.
“Huh?” I answer with all the wit currently available to me.
There’s a soft smile on her face, and she stands up, her hips once more swaying more
than strictly necessary as she walks up to me until she’s standing right in front of me,
the white apron doing a marvelous job at evoking a short skirt with obscene side cuts
that draw my eyes to her exposed thighs, and…
And she’s cupping my cheek, the warmth of her palm far too noticeable on flesh cold
after washing my face and…
And she leans down, her lips brushing mine in a soft caress that lingers, that keeps
tingling after she finally separates enough that I can no longer touch her, yet I still feel
her as her eyes are right in front of mine, and I can’t even think to move from this
wonderful, peaceful moment—
“The food will get cold,” she tells me, her breath washing over me, carrying her warmth
once more.
I grab her nape and her lower back before I dip her until our torsos are almost parallel to
the floor, and I kiss her as thoroughly as I can, my tongue quickly coming into play as
Taylor flails her arms and I keep trying to lick every single sensitive spot in her mouth
and tongue.
She finally reacts in a not-panicked way, and her arms go around my neck, her bust
brushing mine as she pulls herself up against me, and I almost grab her hips and sit her
on the countertop to properly show every bit of her body just how much I love and
appreciate her.
Only two things stop me, though:
I’m not in any shape to pick her up and casually manhandle her. The part about me not
being a man a likely factor in such a sad state of affairs.
The second is that…
Well, I am kind of hungry, you know?
***
“Marry me,” I muffle through a piece of perfectly browned toast, divinely fluffy eggs, and
exquisitely crunchy bacon.
“You already asked,” she says through a mouthful of smugness and some wry
amusement.
“Yes, but that was because I’m madly, deliriously in love with you. This is because you
can use your power to not get distracted and cook everything to perfection. Priorities,
Tay.”
“Well, I asked you because you never leave my mind and make my life worth living with
every breath you take, but maybe I should ask you because you can use your power to
guess precisely when, where, and how I like to be touched?” she ripostes before she
takes a bite of the corner of her toast with a smile that makes some things inside me
tingle.
“I love you,” I tell her, again, in an inspired burst of genius and originality.
Her fingers dance over the top of the hand I’m currently resting beside my plate, and her
smile goes from almost predatory to soft and caring.
“I know,” she finally answers, her smile going from hungry and almost predatory to the
kind of softness that can make me swoon.
I just stare at her, a silly grin on my lips that manages to make her finally blush as much
as I’m blushing in turn, and…
Oh, shit! My bacon will get cold!
I start shoveling my perfect breakfast into my mouth at the precise rate that maximizes
my enjoyment of every single mouthful while minimizing the chances the last bite will be
at anything but the proper temperature to enjoy Taylor’s work to its fullest extreme.
It may be the most frivolous use of Power I’ve engaged in ever, and that’s counting the
time I played Mortal Kombat with Alec, but it’s definitely worth it, and—
Ouch.
“Liz?” Taylor asks with some concern.
“Don’t worry, sweetie. Just a bit of a headache. I’ll pop a couple pill—”
“No,” she tells me with the sternest look I’ve ever seen from her. Which… well, this is
Taylor.
It’s quite a high bar to clear.
“No?” I ask her with some confusion that maybe I could—
“No pills. No strategy meetings. No suddenly riding off into the sunset. Not today.”
“No pills? Tay, I’ve been using Power—”
“And no Power.”
“… What?”
The gentle fingertips over my hand splay across it, and Taylor grabs me tight enough
that she’s both reassuring and demanding.
“I want my girlfriend to have a functional liver when we get to our thirties.”
“If we—”
“No. When. I won’t allow you to die, and I sure as Hell won’t as long as you’re waiting
for me. So, stop living moment by moment and start planning on surviving the next few
years, because I want you to enjoy life when we’re old enough to regret not keeping a
better eye on our habits when we were young and stupid. And that starts today.”
“Today?” I ask, still a bit lost at her sudden barrage.
“Yes. Today. Today you’re going to stay here; you’re going to enjoy yourself, relax, and
not even touch a single Tylenol tablet. You’re going to be happy and cuddly with your
fiancée, and you’re not going to worry about every single one of the impending crises
you keep piling on your shoulders—my own included. So no planning how to help me
get a GED, no worrying about Dad doing whatever it is you think he’s doing, no planning
how to get the Undersiders rebranded as an independent hero team, no planning how
to hire Cranial, no scheming how to lure out the mysterious rookie, no thinking about
how to manipulate Victor, nor about whatever it is you’ve got going on with Dragon that
Armsmaster doesn’t know about, and… Holy shit, how do you even function?”
I look at her, trying to read whether that’s a dramatic pause or she really expects me to
answer. Honestly, the bacon is getting colder by the second…
Ah, that glare seems to imply actual input is expected. Damn.
“My power is to think, Tay, I can handle—”
“Your power is not to carry the world on your shoulders. You’re taking a break.”
“But I—”
“What would you do if it was me doing all this?”
A moment of red flashes over my eyes, and I—
Oh.
Damn it.
“It’s not the same,” I mutter, not quite sulking.
“My power allows me to split my attention and not get distracted. If anything, I would
handle this better than—”
“Don’t even think about—damn it. You’re baiting me.”
“Of course I am. Also a Thinker, remember?”
“You, and Colin, and Dragon… Heck, even Hannah counts, seeing as she can manifest
a rifle with nighttime vision. That damn label has lost all meaning.”
Taylor snorts. It’s cute.
“Right, but not the point. The point is that you’re taking today off, and that’s it.”
“I can’t just stop doing everything I—”
“I’ll run you a bath.”
“Deal.”
…
Taylor’s smirking, and I’m now blushing.
And the bacon’s getting that greasy, slightly matte shine that means it just became
colder than it should be.
Damn it.
Lisa Wilbourn’s emotional instability at demonstrated, reasonable concern—
Yeah, pile it on, why don’t you?
Wake-up Call – Chapter 36 – Armed and Mastered – Part 1
“Absolutely not,” Miss Hebert’s voice harshly tells me through the aural communicator in
my helmet.
I stop my hands and gently lie down my soldering iron on the workbench, devoting
slightly more of my attention to the conversation and not wanting to waste hours of work
now that I’m finally getting somewhere with the hardening of the anti-Behemoth
Armscycle, and—
Right. Focus.
… On the conversation, not the schematics displayed on my HUD.
“Excuse me?” I ask her as I lean back and let the servos of my armor adjust my posture
into what looks like parade rest but is actually far more comfortable than most
ergonomic chairs. At least, the ones I don’t design myself.
“I’m not letting Lisa get a hold of her phone. She’s officially forbidden from working
today.”
“I… Just wanted to check up on—”
“Can you honestly promise me that if I let her talk to you for more than ten seconds you
won’t bring up the Cranial thing, or plans to learn about yesterday’s surprise guest, or
how to handle the Merchants so that they don’t get crushed against the Empire before
we’re ready for that, or—”
“Why wouldn’t I talk to her about those—”
“Because she’s a Thinker, and thinking is work. And I just forbid it,” she says with a
definitive tone that she lacked when we first met.
God, how did I mishandle that so badly?
“What I don’t understand is why are you being so adamant about this whole thing,” I
inquire as diplomatically as I’m able to as I send the wiring schematics to the left side of
my vision with a quick flick of my eyes.
“She’s about to collapse under the weight of the world on her shoulders, and she just
keeps piling more of it. I’m sure you can sympathize.”
I look at the vehicle I’m currently readying to face a being known the world over as ‘The
Hero Killer.’
“I’ve got absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply with as much aplomb as I
can inflect.
“Oh God, it’s retroactively hereditary,” Miss Hebert bemoans.
“Excuse me?”
“You! You two! When was the last time you took a break?”
I bring up my timetable on my HUD with a few eye movements at the appropriate, blue,
glowing icons.
“My last scheduled resting period—”
“No. No, no, no. Nothing described like that counts. When was the last time you
watched a movie? Went out with a friend? Heck, dated?”
“… Miss Hebert, your inquiries on my love life—”
“That won’t work. I’m a teenage girl with a workaholic parent; I know how you all like to
evade uncomfortable subjects by grossing me out.”
I lift my visor and steadily, rhythmically, massage the bridge of my nose.
“Miss Hebert,” I repeat while trying to hold back my exasperation, “as much as I
appreciate your concern from an abstract point of view, I can assure you your worries
are misguided.”
“Scheduled resting period?”
“… I like to be precise on my planning.”
There’s a sharp exhalation from the other end of the line. How rude.
“Look, Colin, I care about Lisa enough to care about you in a vague, Lisa-adjacent
manner. So, please, from somebody who just realized how much life can suck when we
let it to someone who seems intent on not having a life, please, take a break. An actual,
non-scheduled break.”
“You went from your debut fighting Lung to infiltrating full-time a group of supervillains
who included a Thinker seven among their ranks.”
“Which should tell you I know what I’m talking about. Also, Lisa will be happy to know
you acknowledged her rating.”
“Don’t you dare—”
“Bye, Colin. Don’t call till tomorrow,” she says.
And she hangs up.
On me.
On the second best Tinker hero in the world, leader of the local Protectorate, veteran of
far too many Endbringer battles.
…
Goddamn teenagers.
I keep the massage going for a while, my eyes closed until I think I can force myself to
deal with… everything.
And when I open them, I see a bulky motorcycle with its guts orderly spilled over its
assigned section. Three assistant robotic arms are holding up parts of the chassis at the
appropriate distance to let me work between them, and my workbench looks almost
austere with the sparse few tools currently on it, my programmed routine letting my
workshop know what I will need at every stage of the current project so I don’t have to
rummage looking around for anything.
It’s so different from Kid Win’s lab it brings a tear to my eye. Chris’ lab, I mean. I find it
offensive.
I take a step away from a wall that was embedded with a Faraday cage that can only be
breached through my quantum entanglement communications relay. This place is just
as isolated as I want it to be at any given time, and I…
…
I lower my visor and pivot on my heels as the gate opens at my selection of the
appropriate icon
The Rig is a vast space, but not so much that I can’t get anywhere I need to be in a
matter of minutes, so it doesn’t take too long to have my knuckles gently rapping
against a metallic door and for it to open with nary a hissing sound.
I need to check out the schematics. There’s room for improvement.
“Colin?” Miss Militia—Hannah asks from inside her office, turning her head to face me
as I come into the drab room. She’s often commented she maybe should move the
office to her living quarters, seeing as she doesn’t have a need for proper sleep, but she
always ends up prioritizing the privacy of having her own space where work cannot
intrude.
I can’t help but feel she was trying to tell me something each time she brought it up.
Repeatedly and emphatically.
“Hello, Hannah. Would you like to get lunch together?”
She freezes.
Slowly, she turns her office chair to look at me over the short section of her L-shaped
desk, the monitor of her computer now to her right rather than in front of her. I still can’t
see what’s on the screen.
“Are you all right?”
I frown at the question.
“Perfectly fine, given our circumstances,” I finally answer.
And now she pales. At least, the parts of her face I can see over her scarf.
“Am I getting fired?”
“What?”
“Are you getting fired? Or… or a transfer? Did you already insult the new director, and
he understood what you were really saying? Are we about to go to war?”
“I just asked you to have lunch.”
“You never have lunch! You just eat those godawful nutribars of yours until you clock
out—”
“Those ‘nutribars’ are perfectly balanced in their protein, vitamin, fiber—”
“I don’t want to hear about your fiber content!”
Once again, I raise my visor, and then I suppress the urge to massage the bridge of my
nose.
And this time around, I can’t even blame teenagers.
“Hannah, if you don’t want to spend time with—”
“No!” she hurries to say, taking me aback slightly with the interruption. “No, that’s not it,”
she clarifies, waving her hands in front of her, her power momentarily manifesting as a
glinting kerambit pointed away from me. “I’m just… well, surprised. You really never get
lunch outside your workshop.”
I frown for a moment. That can’t be right.
I mean, I’m sure at least on my birthday…
“Colin? Are you doing all right?”
“Yes, mom, everything’s all right here. How’re you doing? Are they treating you well?”
“Oh, yes, don’t worry at all, dear. These people are all wonderfully kind.”
“I’m… glad to hear that, mom. Look, I will come visit tonight, if work doesn’t get in the
way, but I just wanted to speak to you beforehand. You know, just in case.”
“Of course! Of course, sweetie. What about?”
I suppress the grimace at the intrusive memory and focus once more on the
conversation and Hannah’s panicked look.
And then I try not to frown at the frankly offensive piece of furniture she’s laying her
hands on. Really, the black desk looks like the kind of thing that rickets if one is to
hammer the keyboard even slightly too hard.
“I’ll have a talk with the office manager. This is unacceptable.”
Hannah blinks up at me before leaning back on her, also black, chair.
“That would be sweet of you,” she says, lowering her scarf to show me her full smile.
It always feels… disquieting. Like something she shouldn’t so casually do. Though…
well, can I really say it’s casual if she only does it with me?
… That I know of. It’s not like I’m keeping tabs.
“Anyway,” I say, hoping not to have the conversation entirely derailed, “lunch?”
She raises an exquisite eyebrow finely honed through the training she’s forced to
undergo to emote with her mouth hidden.
Note to self: revise my teasing material. Last week’s ninja quip wasn’t up to par.
“I would love to, but I’m a bit busy today. Power testing wants me to go over the newest
catalogue…”
“Oh. Anything interesting?”
“The most promising thing is a system to charge backup batteries for emergency relief
with an overpowered taser. But, really, I don’t think they understand how much time it
would take to just keep blasting—”
“That’s ridiculous. Even the more rudimentary, back of the envelope math should tell
them just how many times you’d need to recharge for that to have any actual impact on
the situation, and you can’t be expected to stay there long enough to—”
With a sigh, Hannah takes a piece of paper and crushes it into a small ball that she then
throws into her trashcan with unerring accuracy.
I can’t help but stare with a bit of envy. Really, I always find it unfair how unnaturally
skilled her power makes her.
I mean, my combat prediction algorithm certainly helps, but—wait, could I model it off
her own power-assisted competence with weaponry? A few readings should suffice to
get a glimpse at the underlying mechanism of the heuristics she—
“Colin?” she asks, taking me out of the beginnings of a Tinker fugue. “You’ve got that
look again.”
“I apologize. I just came up with an idea to optimize a project I’ve been working on.
Well, if you can’t do lunch, I guess I shouldn’t intrude any—”
“Stay right there, and don’t you dare leave without letting me speak first.”
“You know me so well,” I state as dryly as the situation requires.
“I do, don’t I?” she replies, strangely pleased at the exchange.
“That’s what I just said?”
And now she sighs, bizarrely frustrated at the exchange.
Really, as many jokes as I get about the thing, I should build a social prompter at some
point. Thinkers are bullshit, after all.
Blonde ones with exasperating daddy issues, even more so.
“Why do you want to get lunch, Colin?” she asks, her tone as patient as she’s definitely
not feeling.
Oh, that.
Well…
“It’s been brought to my attention that rigidly scheduling rest and recreation may be
counterproductive in regards to their stated benefits.”
“... Lisa scolded you for overworking?”
“Miss Hebert, actually. She forbade Lisa from working today, which in turn made her
forbade me from contacting her, which turned into Miss Hebert telling me I remind her of
her workaholic father and making a crack at this being retroactively hereditary, whatever
that means—”
Hannah’s laughing.
Not her usual snort of amusement, not the rare giggle she sometimes surprises herself
with. Laughing.
As in, hands on her belly, body bent forward, tears in her eyes, difficulty breathing,
laughing.
…
I feel upstaged.
“Oh God, she’s got you pegged...” she manages to mutter, her forehead resting on her
desk.
“I would hope not. Lisa wouldn’t take kindly to her girlfriend using marital aids on me—”
And now she’s laughing harder.
Balance’s been restored.
“Oh, that’s just so—that’s disturbing!”
“Certainly. I don’t think there’s a man alive who would find the experience anything
but—”
More laughter. This pleases me.
“Stop! Stop, I need to breathe!”
“That you do. Luckily, we weren’t talking about anything that would impede such vital
functions. Ballgags, for instance—”
A rubber band strikes me with unerring accuracy right on the tip of my nose.
Her power is just unfair. Especially when she doesn’t use it.
“You’re a monster,” she harshly breathes out.
“A monster of logic and dispassionate intellect?”
“You wish.”
I let out a bit of a smile to match hers, and then I start turning toward the exit—
“And where do you think you’re going?” she calls out.
“Well, you’re obviously busy, so—”
“For lunch. I’m busy for lunch.”
“What—”
“You’re taking me out to dinner.”
I blink a couple of times before turning back to face Hannah.
“Taylor’s right, you know? You need to unwind.”
“I acknowledge the need to—”
“Get me at six. Think of a nice place.”
I raise my eyebrow. This is starting to sound like something far more involved than a
casual lunch at the Rig’s cafeteria.
“And dress nice. If you get here in that horrid thing you call a suit, I’ll be very cross with
you.”
With some actual effort, I manage to stop my eyebrow from climbing further up,
stopping its attempts to go past my hairline.
“I’m not sure I—”
“You’re taking me out to dinner, and that’s final, Colin.”
“My suit isn’t that—”
“It’s a beige abomination that would only look at home in a crime serial. It makes you
look like Columbo’s worse dressed, buff cousin.”
“That sounds like a very flattering description—”
She, once again, cocks an exquisite eyebrow.
I sigh in defeat.
“I guess I’ve got the budget to maybe get a new jacket.”
“I’ll call Assault to help you out—”
“You’ll do no such thing!”
She laughs.
Gentler, not belly-shaking, not breathless.
It… also pleases me.
“See you later, Colin,” she tells me with that warm smile she so readily shares.
And I nod, and go back to my nutribars and half-finished motorbike, all the while my
mind whirring with what the Hell I’m supposed to do now that Hannah seems set on
having us go on something that sounds suspiciously like a date.
This was supposed to be relaxing.
… Maybe my first mistake was to assume that Miss Hebert knew the meaning of the
word.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 37 – Armed and Mastered – Part 2
“So, what do you think?” I ask Dragon as I turn the latest iteration of the Armscycle’s
front fork in my gauntlets, appreciating the finish of the nanolathe—
“Jeans, white shirt, and your brown leather jacket. You want something that offsets your
work-persona, and I know you’re practical enough to have all of those things already.
Wear nice shoes, though—if she dresses up, you don’t want to come across as sloppy,”
she replies from the monitor swiveling in front of me.
“… You do realize I was talking about the changes to the Armscycle, don’t you?”
“You do realize a girl likes to talk about something other than work from time to time,
don’t you? In case you didn’t, that’s also something you should remember tonight, just
so Hannah doesn’t end up shooting you.”
Once again, I get the urge to pinch the bridge of my nose—wait, the predictive combat
algorithm could easily be tuned to provide a massaging routine that—
“We also like it when the man doesn’t suddenly stare vacantly at something only he can
see. We girls are weird like that.”
“You know perfectly well what that was,” I grumble.
“And you know perfectly well I like teasing you, Colin,” she replies with an exaggerated
eye-roll.
And… she does.
Which is part of the problem.
Because she’s Dragon, the best Tinker in the world, the best partner I’ve ever had, the
only person I trust my systems to—and my systems are both my lifework and my
lifeline. She’s the one woman I’ve always thought I had… something with.
And she’s prodding me into turning this dinner with Hannah into an actual date.
It’s… it doesn’t feel… right.
“Colin?” she asks, concern once again easily carried by a voice I know far too intimately
after all the times she’s whispered in my ear during a shared project, during a fight to
the death, a rescue mission, an emergency—
“Colin, talk to me?”
I sigh and, carefully, lay the fork on my workbench.
Then I allow my armor to take my weight as I rest while standing, lifting my visor so my
HUD doesn’t get in the way of staring at Dragon’s brown eyes.
“You’re weirdly enthusiastic about all this,” I tell her, trying not to let the accusation show
through.
She stares at me, something going over her face that I don’t understand, and I, in a
carelessly suicidal moment, almost wish Lisa was here to tell me what it means.
“You deserve to enjoy a nice evening out. Both of you do,” she says with a warm smile.
“I like our evenings in,” I answer.
And she scoffs.
“Of course you do, you nerd.”
“… This coming from the better half of D&D.”
“See? It takes one to know another.”
I stop resisting the urge and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Ah, sweet relief. I really need to code that massaging routine—
“Dating is… complicated, isn’t it?” she comments, her voice tentative and careful even
as a spike of adrenalin shoots through my racing pulse.
Forget the massage: this needs drugs.
“I wouldn’t know. My memory isn’t that good,” I answer with a carefully blank deadpan.
And she chuckles.
“Your memory’s extraordinary, and so is your notetaking. I wouldn’t be surprised if you
told me you have a whole notebook devoted to your first kiss and ways to improve upon
the experience. With diagrams.”
“Ah, erotica for Tinkers. The internet has really corrupted you.”
She shifts on the monitor, turning slightly to her profile as she smiles in that way that
always let me hope I wasn’t just seeing what I wanted to see, that we two really had...
something.
“Oh? Are you saying I’m a naughty girl, Colin?”
And now my throat goes dry.
First Hannah, now Dragon? Is this some kind of conspiracy? A competition to see who
can get me more confused?
… If so, I know precisely who to blame.
Damn Thinkers.
“I mean… You like to cosplay as a mythical beast, so you’re either a sca—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence.”
“To be fair, I don’t even know how I was going to do that. The second half of the
disjunction wasn’t coming to mind.”
“Only you would use Boolean algebra to plan your banter,” she sighs as she lies
through her teeth.
“Need I remind you of—”
“We don’t talk about that.”
“I’m just saying, I’m pretty sure Saint was more confused than vexed—”
“And I’m pretty sure someone needs to remember precisely why a realistic stillsuit
wasn’t that great of an idea—”
“Oh, potty humor. How droll.”
She eyes me warily before she decides it’s safe to continue. So, right as she opens her
mouth, I—
“Especially coming from someone who may or not have discovered how watertight her
mark three suit was after getting thrown into—”
“We don’t talk about—!”
“A lot of things,” I finish.
Her mouth shuts with an audible clack that my speakers render beautifully, as if she
was right by my side.
Like she never is.
“Colin…”
“I don’t even know your name.”
“My name is Dragon.”
I look at her, wishing I was wearing my visor, my lie detector, but I know how useless it
is when all her coms are filtered through whatever algorithm she uses to render her
face.
“And you expect me to believe that,” I say, not even trying to disguise the bitterness.
“I… Not legally. Not really. But… That name is the façade. This?” she gestures at
herself, at the avatar crafted through the average of enough women it took me far too
much time to find the source pictures of all of them. “This is the real me, Colin. As real
as I can be.”
“Dragon, I… That’s not healthy. It can’t be. I’ve never wanted to push—”
“And I’ve always appreciated it,” she hurriedly interrupts, trying to cut me off.
So I look at her, feeling my eyes harden as her shoulders rise up and her head tilts
down, the thin frame of the monitor much more of a barrier than it usually seems.
“I’ve never wanted to push you, I always wanted to give you your space, but I… I don’t
know what more I can give you. What else I can offer to let you know you can trust—”
“I do. I trust you, Colin; you don’t know how much!”
“But?”
The syllable hangs between us.
“I…” she looks at me, lost in a way I’ve never seen her, and I almost tell her to stop, to
not say another word. “You’re my best friend. You’re the man I’ve been closest to.
You’re the man I want to be closer to. I just need… time. Just a bit more time. I
promise.”
And my breath stops.
Because… she’s Dragon.
And she doesn’t lie. Not really. Not like this.
I don’t need my detector to tell me that.
“Then, if that’s…” I feel the shape of the thing we’re dancing around, the thing I’ve
always hoped was there, but I still don’t dare name, as if the weight of those four letters
would crush it. “If you really want that… Why are you pushing me to—”
“You deserve it. Both of you do,” she cuts me off.
I stare at her, uncomprehending, and she sighs.
“Colin… Contrary to racial stereotypes, I’m not a jealous woman.”
And now I can only blink.
“What?” All right, I can blink and blurt out a monosyllabic question. Progress.
“I mean… Dating’s complicated? And I don’t have any experience? But neither Hannah
nor you are that good at it, and you just… Well, you’re friends. Good friends. We’re
good friends. Friendship all around! Oh dear God, I’m turning this into a Saturday
morning cartoon—”
“Rainbow Dash—”
“If you don’t finish that sentence, I won’t be legally obligated to send a clip of it to Lisa.”
I pause. Ponder pros and cons.
She eyes me warily.
“That would not be cool. Not even twenty percent.”
And she groans.
Score.
“I should never have confessed I watched the damn thing…” she mutters, raking her
fingers through her hair.
“To be fair, you watch everything.”
And now she stares at me. Again. In that way she does in these weird little moments I
never understand.
“I do, don’t I?” she asks, and I can only frown before she changes her tone and decides
to continue. “Anyway, what I was trying to say before you decided to defuse the tension
with the worst-timed joke ever—”
“My timing was excellent; it was your ranting that provided the—”
“I am serious.”
“And don’t call me Shirley.”
“… I so want to smack you right now.”
I half-grin at that. It’s usually not this easy to get a victory on her.
I mean, if an emotional conversation rife with accumulated maybes, promises, and
insinuations I can’t keep up with can be said to be easy. Which I guess it can, as I just
did.
I would also blow up my own lie detector if I said it aloud, though.
“Dragon… Are you trying to say you want me to date Hannah and still be… available?” I
decide to finally ask. Because, well, she at least deserves I take some part of the
embarrassment.
… A great part of it.
Mostly, because if I just read the whole situation wrong, I won’t ever live down the
constant ribbing at my ego. Dragon doesn’t forget.
Ever.
… She also usually doesn’t fidget in what looks like embarrassment—is she blushing?!
“I mean… would you be open to that?”
I blink.
At the woman whose mind I’ve been in lo—whose mind I’ve appreciated for years,
asking me if I would like to date both her and my other best friend, who’s a heroine
whose skills dwarf my own and whose body is as toned and—
“You pervert…” she mutters.
I blink. Again.
Eye moisturizers? Maybe an aerosol constantly keeping the conjunctiva—no, it would
interfere with vision far more than any amount of regular blinking, but maybe keeping
goggles filled with a constantly renewed saline solution that enhanced—
“You cannot convince me you can trigger a Tinker fugue at will just to run away from an
uncomfortable situation,” a distant, not at all important voice grumbles in exasperation
as my hand moves to the workbench, and I grab a couple of lenses that—oh, I guess I
could make them an integral part of my HUD. If the screen on the visor could be
supplemented by—
“Colin!”
“I just had an idea I urgently need to work on; I’m sure I can—”
“It’s the damn thing to avoid blinking again! It never works! You know it never works; it’s
just redundant as Hell!”
“But if I tweak—”
“I just offered you a damn threesome with Hannah! Pay attention to me!”
… Huh. I think this is the first time I’ve broken any equipment since I got my own lab.
Weird.
“… That was aluminum oxynitride. You just crushed transparent aluminum.”
“It was only a bit of—”
“That’s used to make military-grade armor.”
“I know what transparent aluminum is used for—”
“And it’s used in Star Trek for—”
“You just said you wanted a threesome! I could crush anything on the Mohs scale
with—”
“If that’s a crack about how hard you are, I don’t want to—”
“Get your mind out of the gutter!”
“You first!”
And now, it isn’t just Dragon who’s blushing.
“Look…” I try to reason with… her. Futilely, most likely. “I’m going out to get dinner with
Hannah, but it possibly isn’t even a date, much less the start of a relationship. I
definitely am not going to try and get her in bed with a… third party. Heck, I’m not trying
to get her in bed with me—”
“It’s cute you think you have a say in the matter—”
“Damn it, Dragon!” I finally yell out of sheer frustration.
And her avatar… glitches.
Which I’ve never seen it do before.
She’s smiling, and blushing, and frustrated, and frowning, and her hair sways in a
breeze that’s never there, and I—
“My... apologies,” she says as her face settles into a single thing that doesn’t overlap.
“I… I think my systems are stressed.”
“Your… systems?”
And, again, there’s that stare from her, that thing I know means something, but I don’t
know what.
“Colin… I’m sorry. I meant it when I said you deserved to go out and have fun. You
need to relax, and I… I don’t think this is relaxing you. At all. So, maybe we can shelve
this for later? A discussion for another time?”
“Dragon, I don’t want you to—”
“Oh! I’m sorry, something just—huh, that’s weird…”
“Dragon?”
“I need to leave. Just enjoy your dinner, OK? I’d feel awful if you didn’t,” she says with a
frail smile.
And hangs up, my monitor instantly shifting to a CAD display of the pieces of the
Armscycle I’ve yet to tune.
And I’m left to stand in the middle of my workshop, held up by my own armor, blinking in
sheer confusion and emotional turmoil at a very detailed diagram of an electromagnetic
brake.
…
And why do I keep thinking this may have been the worst day for Miss Hebert to forbid
me to speak with Lisa?
Wake-up Call – Chapter 38 – Armed and Mastered – Part 3
“What the Hell?” Vista asks.
“Language,” I automatically reply.
And, in the middle of a corridor in the Rig the diminutive parahuman shouldn’t be in—
ah, right. I retook command of the Wards.
They all should be here.
Darnation.
“Did you just seriously—” she starts to protest.
“I’ll get you extra hours in the firing range if you don’t tell any of your horribly gossipy
partners what you just saw,” I interrupt, hopefully derailing her spite before it has time to
gather steam—much like I frequently interrupt Trainwreck, for precisely the very same
reasons.
She tilts her head in a way that clearly implies the frown behind the green visor and then
cradles her chin in a stereotypical pondering gesture.
“I want a confoam grenade launcher,” she finally says.
“You don’t. It’s far easier for you to just drop them on the target than to aim.”
“But the grenade launcher is cooler!”
Don’t say anything about twenty percent, Colin. It’s not worth it.
“We’re already pushing it with the taser; we don’t want the Image Department to decide
you’re looking too militarized and take… corrective measures.”
Vista shudders at my tone, my words, and my meaning. How efficient.
“Can I at least—” she begins.
“Extra hours. Take it or leave it,” I, again, cut her off.
I hope this doesn’t result in another HR memo…
“Fiiiine,” she answers in a typical prepubescent whine that sets my inner alarm off. For
no blonde-related reasons. And then her petulant expression splits into a wide grin that,
I admit to myself, has me on edge precisely because of blonde-related reasons. “Have
fun on your daaaate,” she singsongs.
“… Not a date,” I grumble as she prances away.
Really, I’m just wearing my leather jacket, a nicely ironed white shirt, and some not too
tight jeans—oh, and a pair of suede moccasins, because Dragon’s advice, as usual,
seemed sensible enough (yet I’m slightly unclear on what ‘nice shoes’ actually means). I
don’t know why Missy’s hormone-addled brain immediately jumped to dating—
… I just answered my own question. Oh, and gave myself some mild trauma.
How efficient.
“You’re going on a date?!” a gruff voice asks from behind me while I warily contemplate
Vista’s retreating form.
…
“Why? Why is this the first thing that jumps to your mind after seeing me in civvies—” I
start to answer as I turn around and find—
The stout form of Director Tagg. Staring at me with a twitching eyebrow.
And carrying a staggering pile of dossiers.
“You… Do you even know how much work you’ve piled on me, Colin? I’ve had to fire
and-or jail so many grunts I don’t even know if there’s somebody left who can bring me
a desperately needed cup of coffee!”
“I am… pretty sure Jasmine still works here?”
“That’s not the point!” he bursts out with what I think is an aborted attempt to throw his
arms in the air that’s only stopped by the teetering pile of documents he’s holding.
And then one of them falls down with an echoing thud.
Slowly, maintaining eye contact with the raging director, I bend down and get the single,
fallen dossier before standing back up and gently laying it on top of the pile.
“… Thank you,” he gruffly answers.
“Don’t mention it,” I automatically reply, almost falling back on my resting-inside-myarmor stance.
Tagg’s eyes narrow at me until he finally deflates.
“I haven’t been on a date in years,” he finally says, leaning against the white, metallic
wall behind him.
“I’m… sorry? I haven’t been too active myself.”
“I’m certain my wife is having an affair.”
“Ah… that sounds… awful?”
“I don’t blame her. Hell, she at least keeps it discreet, and I don’t think the cucking
bastard will have the gall to follow her here.”
“That seems like a reasonable assumption. Sir.”
Tagg’s eyes narrow back again.
…
I need to build that social prompter.
“So, my workforce has been decimated because too many of them were either spies or
saboteurs, my workload has about quadrupled since my former post, and my personal
life is a living Hell of empty courtesies and ‘how was work today, honey?’ I’m a man with
nothing to live for except the vanishingly small hope that tomorrow will bring about an
apocalypse I’ve been preparing for since I first saw someone vaporize a poodle with
freaking eyebeams—”
“Did you mean… a puddle, sir?”
“No. No, I didn’t,” the clearly unstable man answers me before taking a very visible, very
deep breath. “What I mean to say, Armsmaster, it’s that I’m wondering how come you
get to enjoy a nice evening out while I’m trapped in what, as far as I can tell, is a Hell I
woke up in after dying of a heart attack right before my transfer.”
I look down at Director Tagg’s blue eyes, and, for a brief moment, I wish this was a
punching problem. I’m good at solving those.
“It’s been brought to my attention, sir, that I haven’t spent a single lunch period out of
my workshop since I transferred unless it was due to an ongoing emergency. I’ve eaten
more nutribars than cooked meals since I discovered the proper nutrient balance,
haven’t dated a woman since I finished college—oh, and I also have been preparing for
the ongoing apocalypse that started years ago, contributing more to the collective
survival of mankind than many countries. I do believe it’s a matter of public interest that
I get enough rest and recreation not to snap and become the next Mannequin. Sir.”
Tagg stares at me, maybe trying to stare me down.
I’ve looked Leviathan in the eye. Have weathered Behemoth’s killing aura. Have
withstood the Simurgh’s song.
It’s… not something I usually think about. But in these moments? When somebody tries
to take me back to the me of before? When they look at me as if I should bow down like
the nerdy boy who thought too much rather than the man who sees patterns? It…
comes to mind.
And then Tagg surprises me by doing the last thing I expected from him.
He smiles.
“Well, congrats! I was thinking about ordering you to leave that damn lab of yours—”
“Please don’t.”
“Tell you what! You enjoy a nice night out, and I may not slash your budget in half.”
“Your every word is a terrible wound upon my soul.”
“That’s what my wife always says!”
… I think I preferred him when he didn’t smile.
“Ah, come on, just go out and have fun. Really, I promise when you come back, I’ll have
a terrible bureaucratic nightmare waiting for you.”
“I’m not sure you understand how reassurances work, sir.”
“Oh, I do. It’s just I no longer believe in them—I checked her phone messages, you
know?”
“I am… pretty sure that’s illegal?”
“Not when you have reason to suspect she’s passing information to an unaffiliated
parahuman!”
“… Was she?”
“No, but the paperwork clearly indicates there was a high likelihood of that. You never
know when pool boys may trigger.”
“I am suddenly terrified to inquire about your wife’s proclivities in the bedroom, much
less the pool.”
“I knew you were the smart guy around here.”
I blink at the still grinning, slightly shorter man, and then slowly close my eyes and once
again dearly wish for a massage routine optimally programmed to ward off incoming
migraines.
“I’m… Sir, just how much of what you’ve just told me is the actual truth and not
something made up to test just how uncomfortable you can make me?”
“Oh, everything. Really, why would I just blurt out everything about my marital life just
like that? That’s oversharing to a ludicrous degree,” Tagg answers dismissively.
“I… see.”
“Still, if you could code a discreet, little spyware app for phone and email—”
“I’m late.”
“Don’t be silly, we’ve just talked for—”
“What feels like decades. I’m tempted to report to Master-Stranger confinement. Also, to
have you sacked for hiding a parahuman ability.”
“Ah, yes. Your habit of having directors sacked,” he answers, all sudden joviality now
absent from his tone.
So I open my eyes.
I don’t like what I see.
He’s still holding the pile of dossiers, but he no longer looks harried nor peacefully
slumping against the wall. No, Tagg looks ready to move.
And it should be absurd because, even if I wasn’t wearing any of my equipment (and
why wouldn’t I?), I’m taller, stronger, and better trained. There are no certainties in
fights, but a straight-out brawl between the two of us is as close as it can come to one.
“Just one director. So far,” I tell him, my eyes on his blue, narrow ones.
“Some may say a parahuman ousting one PRT director is already one too many.”
I try not to lean my head forward, not to tuck my chin in to avoid a hook to it ending the
fight prematurely.
“Some may say a PRT director allowing the villains of this city to entrench and gather
power and resources for decades would be reason enough to act, even if they didn’t…
cover a reckless parahuman’s crimes.”
“How… lacking in solidarity,” he comments.
His weight is on the balls of his feet, more on the left one than the right, so any
movement forward will mean coming at me at an angle that—
“Shadow Stalker was a homicidal, out-of-control villain in the making. She had no place
here, and the damage she caused the Wards—my Wards will take too long to heal. It’s
inexcusable to have kept her here knowingly.”
He cocks his head curiously, the movement accompanied by a half step that takes him
away from the wall behind him. Now he can also move back if he needs to create some
distance, though it’s likely he will rush toward the sides, circling around—
“You’re too stressed, Colin,” he tells me. And I blink.
Then he shifts the left shoulder forward, and he’s right-handed, so that means—
“Combat focused,” he says. “As soon as the conversation turned confrontational, you
started reacting to a possible assault. From me. A man a few decades your senior, in far
worse shape, and with his arms occupied.”
“I… I’m sorry, sir, you caught me off guard with your… everything,” I tell him.
And he smirks.
“Of course I did; that was the point. You’re an intelligent man, Colin. An extraordinarily
devoted hero. Your service is exemplary, and your service sheet would make lesser
men weep.”
“But?” I’ve talked too much with Lisa not to ask this.
“But you aren’t a leader. Not yet. You lack vision, rapport. You focus too much on what’s
in front of you and not on what may be implied or hidden. You have been trained to
react to threats when you should’ve learned to act.”
I look at him.
And he’s right.
I’ve coded a combat heuristics program based on the best examples of what humanity
has to offer. There’s a kinesics database of world-class gymnasts, martial artists, and
marksmen in my armor.
And that’s not enough.
Because, when it comes down to it, what one learns first in any combat discipline is to
not cede the initiative. To have a goal and push toward it. Nobody became a champion
by waiting for their opponent to act.
And that’s what I’ve been doing for years, until Lisa and Ms. Hebert pushed me to shift
my priorities.
“If there are any leadership courses—” I start to answer.
And Tagg laughs.
And then he shifts the no longer teetering pile of dossiers to his left hand and slaps his
meaty right hand on my shoulder hard enough it echoes.
“You’re a good man, Colin,” he says. “Please don’t get me fired.”
And he gives me a last smile, far less threatening than the previous one, and starts
going down the corridor in the same direction Vista just disappeared to.
“Also, if you could code me that spyware thing—”
And that’s the last I hear from him.
“Hey, I am talking to you—”
Yes. Tagg disappears down the Rig’s corridor, leaving behind only sagely advice and
no marital-issues-related trauma as I start walking in the opposite direction.
“Colin Wallis, don’t make me order you to—”
We may get along, after all.
“For fuck’s sake—”
***
“You’re going on a date?!” Assault starts to ask.
And then the elevator’s doors shut right in his face through mere coincidental timing and
not at all because I keep a remote in my pocket just to avoid awkward, elevator-related
conversations.
… I take offense to the stereotype that Tinkers are antisocial. I also take offense at the
idea that somebody will not go to any lengths possible to avoid having to talk with
Assault.
So I wait for the next elevator to come, check my—I actually don’t know what to check.
It’s not like I’m wearing a tie to fiddle with the knot or something like that.
And if I take out my phone, that will take far longer than I’ve got time for.
So I hold back a sigh as I finally go through doors that open perfectly silently (as they
should) and wait for a very short while that still has me reach for said phone before I
stop myself.
Really, having a CAD program at the tip of my fingers is as useful for my occasional
Tinker fugues as it is a constant siren’s call. One that I should completely avoid
throughout the whole dinner if I don’t want to offend Hannah—which I don’t. She’s
always been a wonderful friend, and she’s going out of her way to accommodate my
sudden whims, and, no matter what Dragon thinks is actually going on, I should treat
her with all the respect she… deserves…
…
“Colin? You look… nice,” Hannah tells me with a soft smile that flashes me her perfect,
white, glinting teeth as she stands in the middle of the corridor leading to her office.
It’s almost enough to distract me from… everything else.
Because she’s wearing a little black dress that, while offering no cleavage, still drapes
over her chest in a way that makes the shimmering fabric look like pooling water, and
her hips are perfectly highlighted by the very quality of the fabric to cling to her skin with
folds that hide just enough it’s like looking at a nymph emerging from the depths, and—
“Hi?” she asks, waving the fingers of her right hand in a gesture far more feminine than I
remember seeing from her and cocking her hip.
And that makes me focus on her legs.
Toned. Tanned. The muscles visibly shift with each change in her stance, not bulging
out but just… defined. And she isn’t wearing any stockings, but the way her skin shines
under what should be the thoroughly unflattering light of the fluorescent tubes in the
ceiling is enough to make me imagine nylon clinging to her exposed thighs, maybe
ripping as—
“Colin!”
“Huh?”
“I take it I look… nice?” she asks me with what’s clearly meant to be an impish grin yet
is almost spoiled (read: enhanced) by her visible embarrassment.
Oh. Oh, dear.
I’m going on a date.
…
I need to build that social prompter.
Wake-up Call – Chapter 39 – Armed and Mastered – Part 4
The yellow streetlamps of Brockton Bay streak past my bike at a far more sedate pace
than I’m used to. Still, the lack of pressure at, for once, heeding the speed limit is more
than offset by the civilian version of the Armscycle not having any overt computerized
navigational assistance other than the obvious GPS, and that’s not taking into account
the added difficulty of…
…
Well…
Hannah’s hugging me.
We decided to take a single vehicle, seeing as we were going to the same place and
would be going back to our living quarters after dinner. It was a logical, perfectly
sensible decision.
Which ended up with Hannah sitting behind me in a blue bike stripped of outward
armoring, her hands clasped in front of my abdomen, her arms around me, her chest…
A new driving assistant. One that forces me to mimic the right movements so it
outwardly looks as if I’m focused on driving. Magnetic clasps fastened to driving gloves
on the handlebar? It would’ve to extend to finger movement so it would be convincing
enough to—
I take a curve hard enough that I need to lean into it, and Hannah shifts behind me, her
arms briefly tightening around me, the pressure of her chest not being impeded, at all,
by my jacket. Nor by hers, seeing as it’s unexplainably open.
I am in Hell.
It’s not enough that she’s wearing a black leather jacket that both contrasts and
perfectly compliments the short dress beneath. It’s not enough that said dress means I
keep catching glimpses of her thighs at my sides whenever I look down. It’s not enough
that it’s been so long since I last was with a woman that I’m completely unable to
distract myself from her heat, and only driving right at the very limit of the speed allowed
to people without science fiction superbikes lets me escape from her soft scent defined
by orange blossom notes and something mildly spicy lying beneath it that drives me
insane whenever I have to stop at a red light.
No, all of that is just a minor inconvenience compared to the fact that, for whatever
arcane reason male minds are not prepared to grasp, she’s wearing her jacket open
while riding a bike, something she should perfectly know is not only utterly impractical,
but really unadvised.
And that means I keep feeling her breasts shifting against me at her slightest
movement.
I never even liked baseball, so I don’t have that alleged escape.
Thankfully, after only so many stops that have me surrounded by the scent of our
leather jackets, sweet orange blossoms, and what I’m quickly growing to label as pure
Hannah, we reach our destination.
So I climb on the sidewalk with two quick thumps on my wheels, slow down toward the
almost empty parking spot for bikes, and brake before leaning to the side so I can kick
the—
Hannah dismounts.
She doesn’t do it awkwardly, doesn’t shuffle on her seat before shifting her balance to
her hands, doesn’t… doesn’t do it sanely.
No, she straightens her right leg and circles it above me, brushing along my back until it
joins the left leg on the other side, the absurdly lithe woman displaying her flexibility in a
quick yet torturous to witness movement.
This is unfair.
“Here?” she asks.
I distract myself by looking at the seaside restaurant. It’s a mostly glass and aluminum
squat building without a specific theme. One can order anything from a burger to a
seafood platter, which means neither will be of outstanding quality, but also that we
won’t have a problem with the selection no matter what she’s in the mood for.
It also means I owe Clockblocker an hour of brainstorming. The brat liked the latest
addition to his costume, and now he’s gotten greedy.
“It’s been recommended to me,” I curtly point out.
She looks back toward me, the visor on her helmet open in a way that casts shadows
over her that only let me catch a glimpse of glittering emerald, and she shrugs her
shoulders before taking it off, immediately shaking her dark hair loose.
…
Damn it.
“Can you take this? Thanks,” she tells me with a smile as she hands me her borrowed,
also black helmet. I should’ve fitted it with a speaker system so we could talk on the
drive over, but at least that means I avoided some very inappropriate and awkward
remarks and—
Now that’s just unfair.
Really? Gathering her loose hair into a ponytail that leaves her neck bare? Turning her
head aside as she raises her arms to secure said ponytail? Slowly opening her eyes
and smiling at me as she finishes? No way. There’s absolutely no chance this behavior
isn’t deliberate.
And now she offers me a hand to help me dismount, as if I need to—
Her hand’s really soft.
There’re calluses due to her frequent handling of different weapons, slight bulges below
the first joint of her thumb, above the joint of her trigger finger, at the base of her pinky
finger… Yet they’re still soft. Leathery, maybe, harder than the surrounding skin, yet far
from unpleasant.
And holding this soft hand, I dismount.
And only at the very last second do I remember that I didn’t engage the kickstand.
“Shit!” I turn back as quickly as I can, sliding to the side of my bike to support the weight
as I kick the damn stand halfway in place before I juggle Hannah’s helmet out of the
way and grab the middle of the handlebar so I can pull the bike forward and properly
secure it with far more effort than if I’d remembered to do it properly before stupidly
reaching for her hand and standing up.
… All right, I know I’m out of practice, but I was expecting, at worst, my college-self level
of performance, not to add to my high school trauma.
“What?” Hannah says from behind me.
“I…” I force myself to turn to face her and see her gaping at me. “My apologies. I think I
was unduly distracted.”
She blinks, points unsteadily at the bike that almost fell down seconds ago, and then
cocks her head as she stares into my eyes.
“Did you… the bike? Forget to—”
“No need to rub it in,” I protest as I, in fact, rub the back of my head—though I first
almost brain myself when I go to do it with the hand still holding her helmet, and then I
remember I’m still wearing mine, so I end up scratching beneath it.
This is mortifying.
And Hannah blinks yet again.
Then, for reasons entirely unclear, a wide smile blooms on her face, and she almost
bounces as she turns toward the somewhat aptly named (yet still depressingly
aspirational) Stern Gallery.
“Come on, hurry. I’m getting hungry,” she shoots at me over her shoulder, her wide
smile still fully on display.
…
I don’t know what I’m doing, yet it still seems to be working.
It appears that, after all, Tinkers truly are bullshit.
***
I don’t know what I’m doing.
“Can I suggest a bottle of red to start the evening?” the disgustingly unctuous waiter
asks me while doing a half-bow that has his oily forehead over our table.
I’m going to murder Dennis. Just… as a matter of principle.
“Not for me,” I finally answer, tempted to check whether he’s dripping. “I need to drive
later.”
“I could drive, if you want to,” Hannah interjects. “This is supposed to be about you
relaxing.”
And there goes my excuse.
“It’s been quite long since I drank anything—” I start to excuse myself.
“Perfect! Bring him… I don’t know. Something expensive that he can finish by himself?”
Hannah seizes on the opportunity like…
Like a male adolescent eager to get his date drunk. Which I’m sure is an analogy that
bears no relevance to our current circumstances and, thus, should not contribute to my
steadily rising feeling of disorientation.
“Of course, Madam! I’ll make sure your husband enjoys this evening out relaxing with
his lady!”
… Ah. So this is what a spit take without actual spit feels like.
“I—” Before I can finish the explanation, Hannah kicks my shin.
“Excellent, as for me… I think sparkling water will be fine. I do have to drive,” she tells
him with an infuriatingly charming smile.
I’m getting carried away.
I’m letting myself be carried away.
So the waiter walks off with the black leather menus and the rest of our order, and I’m
finally left alone with Hannah, her disorienting dress, and her intriguing, broad smile.
The place is well lit, though the warm lights are soft enough that I think I can see the
half-moon over the bay glinting off her hair, precisely in the same way as argent keeps
bouncing off the rippling surface of the sea below our window.
This is far too flowery for me.
“Colin?” she asks. And there’s a lot that fits in that question.
“What are we doing?” I answer.
And she freezes.
“Having dinner—”
“No. Hannah, you’re… You’re beautiful—I mean you look beautiful, and this is obviously
not just something between friends. You just let that poor Case 53 think we’re
married—”
“He just has oily skin—”
“So does Gregor the Snail. Now, please, answer the question.”
Her smile slowly fades into a frown that pains me to watch, and she uncomfortably
worries at her lip. It’s a bad habit she picked up, a way to express anxiety while still
hiding it behind her bandana. I’ve tried to talk her out of it often enough.
She always says she doesn’t mind people seeing when she’s unmasked, yet I feel she
would mind right now.
“I was obviously joking about the marriage thing, in case that wasn’t clear,” she finally
settles on answering.
“I know that. But it’s the kind of joke that sticks out when a well-dressed, attractive
woman orders me a glass of wine and offers to drive me back to my place.”
“… I mean, everything sounds dirty when you describe it like that.”
I try to hold back the smile and finally concede defeat. So, with an apologetic shrug, I
lay my hand on top of the white cotton tablecloth, reaching past the middle of the round
table, nearing her.
She looks at it, at my hand covered by my own collection of leathery calluses that I try to
keep at bay so they never again reach the point where they become painful or peel
entirely in the middle of delicate work. Yes, I’ve got a skincare routine, and it’s sadly
important for my own very masculine work.
Hannah looks at my hand in silence and then looks up into my eyes questioningly.
I nod.
And she lays her own hand on top of mine.
“This is a date,” I tell her.
“It is,” she answers, her smile making a comeback.
“Next time, tell me.”
“Next time?” she asks, her eyebrow climbing up in an exquisitely crafted inquiry.
And I ruefully smile.
***
Once the awkward part of the evening seems to be finished, conversation once again
flows smoothly. It shouldn’t be surprising, given how much Hannah and I have shared
over the years.
It, somehow, is.
“Tell me, once again, why you aren’t allowed to play with magnets anymore,” she asks
me with a glint in her eyes I allow myself to appreciate.
“Apparently, sticking fridges to Hookwolf was deemed a waste of resources. Also, the
PR department didn’t like my proposal for a new addition to the ‘Heroes in the Kitchen’
line of merchandise.”
She laughs.
It’s just another anecdote, one of hundreds, one we’ve laughed at often enough after
the latest attempt by the PR department to turn us into something even more impractical
than we’re already forced to be. A worn-out joke that lost all hilarity years ago, when we
were still new in the bay and desperately needed to come up with ways to trivialize the
threats we were facing.
It’s an old joke, and it’s only funny because it’s ours.
“Well, at least I wasn’t the one who got reprimanded for shouting about her
flammenwerfer,” I remind her, nudging her leg with my foot in quiet revenge for her
earlier kick.
“It was Krieg. Joking in broken German is the least the fetish cosplayer deserves.”
“You also set him on fire.”
“As I said, broken German is the least he deserves,” she ripostes with something that
has warm light glint off her teeth and—
I don’t love her.
I’m not in love with Hannah. I don’t pin after her, don’t try to get my mind off her after
hours of conversation that never seem enough. I don’t think about her when I work,
trying to do something worthy of her. I don’t… I don’t share everything I am with her.
Haven’t given her access to my whole life’s work, just so she will have it when I fall in
the line of duty.
I don’t love Hannah.
But I like her.
A lot.
“Colin?” Once again, her head’s cocked to the side in a way that shows me her
uncovered neck. And it’s been years. So, so many years since I…
Dragon knew it was a date, advised me, told me how to dress.
And I… I like Hannah.
A lot.
“I am in love with Dragon,” I tell her, cursing myself for not coming up with a better way
to say it.
She freezes, the hand twirling the ends of her ponytail stopping mid-motion, her lips
barely parted.
Then she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and straightens herself, both her hands
on top of the table at each side of a plate empty save for a few crumbs of the bun of her
burger.
When she opens her eyes… she smiles.
Softly.
“I know,” she tells me.
“You… do?” I stupidly answer.
And she grabs my hand.
“Of course I do. I’m your friend, Colin. We’ve spent years together, and Dragon’s… She
is about the only thing you always talk about. More than work, more than your latest
gadget, more than… Yes. I know you love her.”
Her eyes are warm. Almost unbearably so.
“Then…”
“I like you,” she tells me before I can formulate a question that, in hindsight, is far too
obvious.
Her thumb is drawing soothing circles over the flesh between mine and my pointer
finger, gliding smoothly over the hairless skin. Her green eyes are on mine, holding me
steady.
And I…
“I like you as well,” I tell her in what feels like a childish confession.
Her tongue briefly peeks out, licking along her lower lip before she offers me a shy
smile. And it’s only now that I realize she’s wearing lipgloss.
Hannah.
Miss Militia.
“She… she told you to come, didn’t she?” the words come out of those beautiful, tender,
shining lips. They still hurt.
I nod.
Her eyelids slowly drop, almost as if she’s trying to let our shared look rest for a brief
moment, and then she looks back up at me.
“Then drink your wine, joke with your friend, and enjoy your night out with a woman you
like. It’s the only thing I want from you tonight, Colin.”
I look at her. Just look.
She’s beautiful, yes. It’s not even about shining green eyes and tan, gleaming skin. It’s
not about the toned, agile limbs. It’s not about high cheekbones, graceful nose, delicate
chin, or slender fingers.
It’s about a noble, loyal, courageous woman who wants to spend time by my side.
I guess I have a type.
So I let my right hand rest on top of the table and beneath Hannah’s caress and, with
my left, pick up the stem of my glass of wine and raise it in a toast to her.
“To werfing flammen,” I say.
And she laughs.
Which, to be honest, may be the best part of the evening.