(Beginning of March)
The Parahuman Response Team Headquarters was made of glass and iron. It had windows instead of walls, representing openness and watchfulness. A nice effect, except the building was reinforced, metal criss-crossing the whole skyscraper – looking just a bit too much like the walls of windows had bars on them. Reinforcement and protection. I wasn't sure if it helped my nerves. The front doors were also glass, but the light reflected oddly at the distance I was standing – probably some tinker-made bulletproof glass that was super strong and made normal scientists confused. At least they didn't put bars across the entranceway.
Not that we'd be walking in the main way.
Dad and I stood on the sidewalk across the road. He'd parked near the south ferry station, which had basically been just a carpark for the past ten years. We'd walked for a few minutes towards the PRT building, which everyone in the city of Brockton Bay could identify. Mainly because of the large, winged shield bearing the letters P.R.T. bolted to the front wall.
Two days ago, after dad came home with an information package about the Wards, we'd poured over the documents for an hour. And spend another hour discussing things after lunch.
The whole package was pretty vague, but since dad couldn't prove I was parahuman without me there, they couldn't give him the actual legal forms. I was still annoyed that I hadn't been able to join him at that first meeting – hell, it wasn't like I was going to school any more. And now that this was the course of action I was taking, I didn't want to wait. I'd put up with too much shit to have bureaucracy delay me from becoming a hero. Official, government approved, capital H, Hero.
But Dad needed to do his research.
I didn't want him to negotiate on my behalf, though he did a lot of stuff like that with contracts for the [Dockworker's Union]. So, we agreed on a few simple things to talk to the Sticking to safe patrols if I even had to patrol at all, which chafed but I understood. Not showing too much skin in my costume, which was weird because a) I wasn't good looking enough to show skin and b) it was really fucking weird.
What I was going to do was get this over with. We'd arrived slightly early for the meeting but that time was running out while we stood and started at the government department that would dictate my fate. Dad was even more lost in thought than I had been, and he startled a bit when I nudged him. But if I was going to be a hero (and get away from… everything) then we needed to actually get moving.
Dad had gotten a call this morning, telling us to go down a side alley and wait in front of a specific part of the brick wall that made up one of the side-attachments to the main glass building. I'd managed to calm my fidgeting on drive but standing and looking around in a narrow alley littered with trash made my hands twist together again. Eventually, a random part of the wall hissed and swung open, bricks sticking out of the now-door like teeth.
Ironically, it seemed like something out of a cartoon villain's lair, not something that the government would pay for. But I supposed that villainous and heroic tinkers all had the same basically-magic technological ability. Maybe. It wasn't like I'd met any superheroes myself.
(Apart from myself, but I wasn't a hero yet. Or very super.)
The inside of the building was so different it seemed ironic. Clean floors, walls painted with different coloured lines with arrows pointing in different directions, all lit by warm LEDs built into the ceiling. Next to this entrance was a cabinet, atop which sat a box of simple black domino masks. We both put one on, as the phone call instructed, then made our way down the empty corridor.
Room IN07 was similarly empty, but for a plain table with two chairs on each side. The only welcoming thing was a tray of snacks and a steaming pot of coffee next to two mugs.
I wished it was tea instead.
I looked around. Dad seemed far more comfortable than I was, though his shoulders were tensed. He must have seen something on my face, because he put a hand on my shoulder.
"Don't worry kiddo, all negotiations begin with some kind of power play. I couldn't count how many times I've been made to twiddle my thumbs till the mayor is ready to see me." I didn't echo his chuckle, but it helped me stop worrying at the inside of my cheek, at least.
I could deal with power plays. I could deal with a whole load of shit. But I still didn't like the silence we'd been in since we came inside. I looked around again, but nothing had changed. The table was metal and cheap, and the chairs on the other side were still empty.
There weren't any cameras I could see, but I was sure they were there. The ceiling had the same recessed LEDs, but these were a bit too harsh and bright to be comfortable. Maybe one of the walls was a one-sided mirror or something.
This was a weirdly boring start to becoming a hero.
Thankfully, we heard footsteps thirty-three seconds later. Walking into the room from the door behind us and circling the table were three people. Immediately obvious was Armsmaster, leader of the Protectorate!
Midnight blue power armour with silver highlights. His head was almost completely enclosed, silver visor above a short, neatly trimmed beard. A halberd was attached to his back, the iconic tinkertech weapon known to light up with plasma, or become a grappling hook, or… do basically anything. I was kind of shocked to see him in person. He was one of the top heroes. He'd been fighting the gangs in the Bay since I could remember. He had action figures with interchangeable halberds. People knew him like they knew Michael Jordan. Armsmaster was like the hero of the city. And he was in the same room as me.
The two others were women. One olive skinned and dark haired, wearing a scarf across her mouth and a sash across her waist, both patterned like the American flag. Miss Militia, second in command of the city's heroes, wore fitted army fatigues that emphasised a body I would never have. A variety of holsters and sheaths hung across her body. I saw a pistol in one of them. I looked back up quickly and accidentally made eye contact. The half of her face I could see relaxed, eyes warming. The pistol suddenly dispersed into a green-black blur, reforming into something that looked like a steak knife but for… killing… in the relevant sheath.
"Our parahuman, I presume?"
The third person, paused halfway to the other seats, was not one of the heroes. She wasn't wearing any kind of mask or costume and she was… uncomfortably overweight. Her navy-blue jacket and skirt clashed slightly with her bleached-blonde bob and general pudginess. What caught me, however, was the intensity in her steel-grey eyes.
"Are you a parahuman?" What? I wasn't expecting this. Of course I was a parahuman, why else would I be here? And she was staring at me… shit, I needed to respond.
"Yes, um –"
"What can you do?" The woman somehow made the question sound like a statement. She was demanding. Not in the same way as my bullies, but…
I reminded myself that this was a second chance. Then did my best to be clear as I gave the run down on what I'd discovered with the [Dockworker's Union], while clenching my fists to stop from picking at the hole in my nicest pants.
As I'd been doing more and more in the past few days, I focused on the [Union] and people within it to calm myself down.
The woman turned to Armsmaster, who nodded.
"She's telling the truth," Armsmaster said.
I blinked, then just sat there as the realisation that he had a lie detector hit me. This was the PRT, with powers and resources and a casual use of tinkertech that would have prevented over a year of my suffering at Winslow.
The blonde-bob woman finished walking round the table and, with heavy breathing and a wince of pain, sat next to Miss Militia. Armsmaster stood to the side. The woman pulled a few manilla folders out of a briefcase and set them on the table.
"I am the Director of Parahuman Response Team East-North-East. To clarify, you are here to join the Wards, yes?"
I stared into her blank expression, then quickly nodded. I looked at dad, who nodded too.
"Excellent." The director sounded more grimly satisfied than enthused. "Please sign this NDA so we can get into the details."
Dad straightened. "Director Piggot, we thank you for meeting with us so promptly." His eyes shifted between the heroes before focusing on the Director. "I am happy to sign documents as required, but I am a little surprised by the layers of secrecy."
"The PRT gets a surprisingly high number of teenagers and or parents trying to fake powers. The NDA covers the actual details of Wards contracts. And its Piggot, silent T." Dad worked his jaw, then sat back and passed me an NDA. I read through it, understanding individual words of the legal warning but feeling like I'd missed the meaning in the many whole-paragraph sentences. But Dad signed it, so I did too.
"Thank you. Since I am not aware of your identities and will not be made aware until you sign the Wards contract, I shall be calling you, cape," Director Piggot's eyes were still hard, "and you, parent."
What followed was a long discussion, half lecture, about the contents of the contract I'd be employed under. Getting a job was pretty surreal, not even touching the fact that the job was 'hero'. A few things stood out to me. I'd get a yearly salary at minimum wage plus $50,000 put in a trust fund for when I turned 18.
Put together, that was more than what dad earned, even if I couldn't touch most of it! And the salary would rise after I'd spent a year as a junior member! I could see why people tried to fake having powers – the idea of so much money was… it felt like some fragile promise of freedom. With that money, dad might be able to afford the fees for another high school.
More details were added to the bureaucratic lecture.
On the topic of my costume, it turned out that "Image is overseen by its own national department."
Armsmaster was responsible for the Wards here, but some Deputy Director handled administration.
"As leader of the local Wards, I am their parahuman supervisor." Armsmaster's was gruff. He sounded heroic, in a determined way. "I answer questions, provide advice, coordinate patrol schedules with the protectorate, and offer some amount of tinker support if needed." He smiled, handsome and… bearded. "I'm very interested to see how a thinker can support the rest of the team.
Everything was going well until dad mentioned the salary docking. "Director, the section here mentions salary reductions. Could you please elaborate on what situations could ever justify this response? Especially since the junior membership salary is based on minimum wage."
Director Piggot's face got a pinched look that suddenly brought me back to earth. This was bureaucracy, not saving lives. And bureaucracy was never on my side. Piggot didn't remind me of Principal Blackwell, but Blackwell hadn't given any signs of being awful at the beginning.
But I needed to stay calm. This was going to help. (It had to.)
I picked a random person in the [Dockworker's Union] and started tracing connections, seeing if I could find anyone else I remembered meeting as a kid.
"Mr Parent. My job is to manage this city. That involves dealing with individuals such as Lung and Hookwolf. That involves ensuring that teenagers act responsibly and stay out of the line of fire. I don't know what decisions you face day-to-day, but financial incentives are one of the few tools that will stop an overconfident child from getting themselves hurt out of some ignorant or arrogant belief that they are invincible, even when the scientists tell them they are." A sneer.
"And if that tool lets me spend more on medical treatment for the agents who got hurt helping rescue that child? I consider that beneficial for all parties." Her voice was flat, her face impassive, and I could imagine her delivering the same speech – in the same tone – to anyone sitting where my dad was, even if it was the Mayor.
I didn't know what to think about Director Piggot. I mean, I did; I didn't like her. During this conversation she'd been brusque and demanding. But not snide or trying to hide anything, not like my school principal. I'd sat down ready to put whoever talked to me into one of two boxes: 'like Blackwell' or 'better'. The problem was that Director Piggot was… neither.
My parents were both wary of government. Not in the crazy freedom-over-all sense. But they taught me that law-making bodies should be more accountable to the people, and I'd seen dad blow up at the Mayor's aide more than once. Wanting a better world and failing to aim that anger somewhere useful. (Though that aide had been a prick.)
I remembered being young and seeing Mom getting angry at politicians using Lustrum's gang as an excuse not to support gender equality – fire had built in her eyes, and she'd spend the night writing emails to old connections. My bedtime stories would become filled with princesses saving themselves for a week or two.
(I still missed her.)
Miss Militia leant forwards and broke the passive standoff – and me away from memory lane. "Sir, parahumans use their powers. We have to. The Wards program is about training and safeguarding teenage parahumans while letting them do good in the world."
She seemed to weigh something, then shrugged in a relaxed way. "I was one of the original Wards, and the program has been amended a lot since then. I only know of salary being docked when school grades drop too much. The Youth Guard exists as a check and balance, but the PRT needs to be able to take action if a Ward is in an emergency."
At her words, dad went from clenching his jaw to sagging like a marionette with its strings cut. "Alright." He flipped to the last page and began writing his name before looking up at me. "You still want to do this?"
I nodded.
Tried to say something confident.
"Yeah." (I quickly straightened my back to make up for how limp that was.)
He signed. I signed.
Armsmaster nodded resolutely. Miss Militia's smiled behind her bandanna. Director Piggot's expression was… more satisfied than happy.
I was legally a Ward. A hero. It didn't really feel real, and my nerves didn't lessen, but I felt a little fluttering of hope in my chest.
"Armsmaster and Miss Militia will take you to power testing. Deputy Director Renick will replace me to explain schooling and the parent focused details of the Wards program. Mr Parent, if you have any further questions in the coming days, Renick will provide you his email."
Director Piggot stood after Miss Militia, then turned back to me. "I look forwards to the good you will do for Brockton Bay." We shook hands – her grip was firm and faintly clammy. As I let go, she held my gaze. I instinctively stood straighter. A corner of her mouth curled inwards.
The heroes led me out of the room.
[>[>---<]<]
(Present Day)
Entering the PRT building wasn't quite normal yet. The main doors, bulletproof glass, felt heavy, even though I'd been using the Wards workout plan. I knew that two weeks wasn't much time, but still. I'd gone to the PRT to do something. Their whole organisation didn't feel that heroic so far.
The main lobby was large, three times as big as my living room. There was a tour guide waiting near the front desk, chatting with one of the receptionists. PRT agents stood guard near doors and in corners. Their black armour and opaque facemasks still put me on edge, but the few I'd talked to seemed nice, or at least polite. There were posters on the walls, life sized stylised shots of the Wards. Mine went up yesterday. I avoided it and ducked sideways into the giftshop.
The giftshop took up part of the lobby, jutting out from the left wall at an angle. Inside, it was a right-angled triangle, walls lined with shelves of Protectorate and Wards merchandise. I was infinitely glad there weren't any shirts with my face or symbol yet. I mean, it was kind of cool and exciting to know that they would exist. But at the same time, I didn't want anything to do with them – or the fancy pens they'd inscribed my cape name and logo on.
I kept my head down and wandered to the giftshop checkout desk. The sales assistant was an adult and quite fit. I found this woman's eyes as assessing as all the other assistants.
"Could I use the bathroom?" I asked, still not used to this seemingly thin veneer of secrecy. Clockblocker had this theory that the giftshop 'sales assistants' were plainclothes PRT agents. I wasn't sure if he was joking.
"Of course! I'll just unlock it for you." The woman's voice lowered. "We've had one too many young kids try to hide in there to see heroes." I'd heard those words in a variety of confiding tones for the past thirteen days.
The woman led me to the bathrooms, out of sight of the entrance and giftshop exit thanks to a shelf of Triumvirate merchandise. I was technically part of the same organisation as those great heroes. But having put Alexandria pins on my middle-school bag made comparing myself with them… absurd. They were heroes. They'd been fighting back and saving people for decades.
A key card beeped against the tucked away door. With a nod to the woman – whatever her job actually was – I walked into the bathroom. I was faced with a short corridor and four more doors. Women's, Men's, and Disability toilets were clearly signed. I went to the fourth door, simply labelled 'Staff', and used my own key card on its scanner.
A beep. I opened the door to find what was definitely not a bathroom. Hopefully the corridor that led to the PRT's central tinkertech elevator would never be used for such things.
An eye scan and rapid elevator descent later, I stood outside the Wards base.
Another eye scan that had me waiting for the alarm and red light to fade. It wasn't a very fun way to enter a superhero base, but I appreciated the dedication to secret identities. Mostly. The light turned green and the door hissed open.
Two weeks of spending at least an hour every day at the Wards base had stripped a lot of the wonder out of what was basically a government-managed share house. Or what I imagined a share house would be anyway, based on Mom's university stories. A central lounge area with a massive TV, shared mini-kitchen, and a small room for each of us. They'd rearranged the walls so Shadow Stalker's old room was now shared shelving. (Not forcing me to use her old space, thank God.) The only thing that was obviously parahuman was the very high-tech computer console setup angled away from the entrance.
Vista's room formed the wall the console was arrayed against. My room was between Vista's and the wall of the dome, which meant the ceiling curved over a bed I hadn't used yet.
I was the first one here today. [Gallant] – or [Dean] – had a car, which was a guaranteed faster trip than the bus, but he usually dropped Glory Girl home or hung back talking to people. Which felt a bit ridiculous. Glory Girl could fly. Why did she need a lift?
My footsteps felt loud in the empty space.
The door to my room didn't squeak, but it did eek – hinges still new in the modular wall that had been put in two weeks ago. Putting my backpack on the desk chair (nicer than the one I had at home) didn't magically dispel the silence.
My Wards room felt like the motels my family had stayed at when we went on trips to New York to see Gram. Mom's mom. It had been years, but I still remembered the weird feeling on unpacking my things in a room that wasn't mine.
I hadn't used much of this room at all, especially the bed. I'd laid on it at times during the ongoing meetings and bureaucracy, but it still felt… not-mine. Like I was renting, or something.
Maybe I should put posters up. But what of? I still had an Alexandria poster in my room at home, but it was a reminder of childhood. I wasn't sure why I hadn't taken it down, actually.
I liked music, but didn't really have favourite bands. Although, I had enough money to buy CDs now. Or a discount version of the portable music players that DragonTech made.
The room – the whole Wards base – still felt quiet.
I massaged my temples a little, then grabbed my English assignment, a spare domino mask, and the PRT-issue laptop that had been charging on my desk. Somehow, in a way that I wasn't sure I could replicate, I had managed to claim 'a spot'. A seat on the shorter couch, near the second coffee table, facing the door and slightly separate from the L-shape of the other couches. I gently placed my homework on the cushion next to me, then booted up my laptop.
Getting used to spending time at the Wards base had been… easy. When I was here alone, it felt a bit like waiting for dad to finish work back home – and that was normal. Being in a space that other people lived in, but being the only one there.
I'd felt a bit guilty about it last week, like me being in the Wards Base – at work – instead of home meant I was giving up on something. I could have interrogated that, looked at my relationship with Dad through my power. But enough was happening. I was a Ward now. I was a hero! I had responsibilities. (And I wasn't going to risk anything disrupting my connection to the team.)
Dad and I had agreed to a schedule. I'd have dinner at home five nights a week. I checked my internal emails. Right. That would have to be four nights a week now I was allowed on evening patrols.
I always slept at home. Dad sometimes left dinner for me. Or takeout when he'd had a long day too. We always talked in the morning. How the Dockworker's Union – not the [Dockworker's Union], not anymore – was faring. How my subjects were, whether I was caught up. Whether the new teachers or other (also new) kids were nice. Easy things – easy now, anyway.
We'd somehow made an unspoken rule. No hero talk at home. No hero stuff at home either.
[>[>---<]<]
(End of February)
The morning after I told my dad I had powers started normally. Which meant all the uncertainty had nowhere to go and just hung in the cold morning air. I hadn't gone for my run, sleeping in after a restless night. Which had been… a lot of things, and sleep hadn't been cooperative.
After running upstairs away from Kurt, Lacey, and my dad, I'd stood in the middle of my room. Crushed in the vice of indecisiveness and a problem too big for me to solve. Except, after the revelation last night and the torturous conversation with dad about having powers, I could see a way forward. A feasible, actually possible and not likely to kill me, way.
The drive that had propelled my information gathering efforts on the gangs was borne from a desire to be a hero. All the shit at school, all the problems with the Bay – it all felt like no one was actually helping. Maybe it was irrational, but I couldn't help but associate Brockton Bay's state of slow decline with the descent into hell my school life had become. Three bullies, a school that wouldn't help. Three gangs, a city suffering. Everyone a fucking bystander.
Once I'd actually gotten out of bed, I poured over my open notebooks. Comparing what I could plot and link together to city maps with gang territory annotations on my wall.
Knowledge of the [Dockworker's Union] was… more than clear, more than immediate, more than easy. It was automatic.
It had taken effort to piece together the social fabric of Winslow. It had taken time to figure out the dynamics between my three tormentors – Emma, Sophia, and Madison. And it had taken way too much risk to get even the scant scraps of information I'd gleaned about the gangs.
The [Dockworker's Union] simply was in my head. In its entirety. I knew everything about everyone and how they all connected. A web of labourers, thread spinning between stevedores to make a tapestry of tradesmen. And my dad, the hiring manager who had put in so many hours after Mom died that one day they just made him in officially in charge.
I'd basically thrown out all my own plans last night. Poking around gang territory wouldn't help. My real power involved being part of an organisation. But I needed to be welcomed. Included? Something really fucking awfully ironic considering how isolated my life had become.
Once I was… 'in', I knew the name and role of everyone else who was part of the organisation. I understood relationships between each person, distilled into a few words.
[Work friend]
[Distant colleague]
[Positive authority]
(There were way more [secret loves] than [illicit affairs], which had confused me until I realised that gay men worked the trades too.)
All this amounted to me having a full and constant awareness of the other dockworkers and which colleagues they liked or just put up with. I understood that this was a massive violation of privacy. I even felt bad about it. But I wasn't going to let go of this knowledge, of my power.
It wasn't much, but I'd warned Dad about five rivalries that my power considered at risk of turning violent. Not that I had any idea how it did that, or even how the whole web worked.
Honestly, I didn't care. I knew things now. There was somewhere I fit. Kinda. Loosely.
Anyway, the whole deal was that my old plans – learning about the gangs – didn't fit my actual power. Which meant I'd spent the past day making new plans.
Listing what I could do was both humbling and exciting. I still wasn't able to fly or be a real hero, but I could help! Joining a gang undercover was still sort of an option, but a dangerous and stupid one. Besides, I didn't know if I actually had to join in truth for my power to pick things up. If that was true, then the whole point of being a credible source for the authorities went up in smoke.
Becoming a rogue – selling my powers or otherwise not joining the whole hero and villain scene – was logical. I could use my power to advise organisations, make them function better. That was logical. But it felt like a waste.
If I had power, if I had some ability to make a difference, then I was going to do something to help my city. If I became a rogue, I would still want to help the heroes. Or hospitals or firefighters. Or the police… even though they dropped their investigation into the hell that happened to me.
Maybe if my power worked a different way, that would be what I'd do. But I needed to join a group. And until I actually joined, I had nothing to prove that I could be useful or help anyone. Unless I was a hero.
"Go big or go home, right?" I asked the evening.
A sticking point in becoming an official hero was that my dad needed to be involved. Not the biggest barrier, no. When I thought about trying to fit in with the Wards, my chest kept seizing up.
But there was a reason I hadn't told dad about my powers before last night. I'd gone downstairs after Kurt and Lacey, old family friends, had left. I had appreciated them coming over, especially since they'd accidentally discovered how my power really worked, but I'd needed privacy to figure out what to do with it. And it wasn't like me going upstairs to be alone was rare.
(I'd watched Dad and the others [reconnect] while I hid away and tried to figure out how the world had turned upside down.)
The conversation we'd ended up having, too late at night, was emotional. I knew he felt [protective] and [insufficient], which… fuck, it was true, but it hurt that even my power recognised that he hadn't helped me recently. I'd cut things short with the promise we'd figure things out in the morning. Given us time to process – really giving me time to figure out how all the threads that connected us worked in reality. At least there was less [hopelessness].
It was the morning now.
Dad had been downstairs making breakfast for a while. I was hesitating at the top of the stairs. Going over the last night let me plan what I was going to say, but I still didn't want to say anything about this at all. I thought about having a shower even though I hadn't run. No. This was my first step to doing something heroic. Isn't the hero's journey supposed to be hard? Facing adversity and all that? I remember Mom talking about that when we read The Hobbit.
I walked down the stairs.
Dad had just finished cooking. Bacon and pancakes were something he'd started making as a treat when it was just us. I could tell when it wasn't a celebration though, since some pancakes and bacon rashers would be just a little burnt. This morning wasn't a celebration, but I appreciated the effort.
We talked a bit while eating, the morning rituals of 'how did you sleep', 'what are you doing today', et cetera. I lied about getting enough sleep, and, based on what shifted in my power, dad did as well. In two months, I'd given up the bones of my two biggest secrets; the bullying and my parahuman-ness. We had both resolved to tell each other things. But eighteen months of hiding everything was a hard habit to break.
I returned the questions after pulling myself out of my head. Dad's knuckles were tight around the cutlery, so I almost missed his response.
"I've taken the day off." He never did this. Not even when I turned fifteen. "I think you should too."
A legitimate day off school. Yes. Yes, please. "Sure."
"You said last night you wanted to be a hero." He hadn't relaxed his grip.
"Yeah."
His face crumpled slightly. I knew he didn't want me putting myself in danger, but I had these powers. Not using them would... well, I'd been raised to dislike rich people that hoarded money for themselves. And hoarding my power wouldn't even benefit me! It felt like it was meant to be used.
"I can't stand aside while the gangs act like they do."
"What about being a rogue, you could help…" I could see he was searching for an organisation apart from the [Dockworker's Union] that I could join.
I'd already thought through this though. And while I'd grown up with the dockworkers – which was the only reason I'd believed what Lacey and Kurt had said and accidentally joined the [Union] – it wasn't really… me. Manual labour and odd construction jobs and the tarnished sight of the Boat Graveyard had never been my future.
"Dad, I'm not looking for money. I want to help. And I'm not going to be getting into fights with a thinker power! The heroes will probably give me a computer and pin-up board or something. I'll help them, and they'll help the city." He wanted me to be safe, but he couldn't be proud of keeping gang recruiters out of the [Dockworker's Union] only to then expect me to sit on my hands and watch my city suffer.
"Alright." Dad exhaled like a tree laden with snow bending in the wind. He pushed his plate forwards, half a pancake left uneaten.
"I'm going to the PRT and booking an appointment. We'll look over any forms tonight after I get Alan's thoughts."
And there was one secret that could still ruin everything. I didn't want Emma knowing any more about me than she did, not now she used our past to ruin my present.
Dad continued, unaware of my thoughts. "I don't want you going back to Winslow till we've got this sorted. And hey, maybe this might be able to get you into Arcadia."
I smiled at him. He didn't fill every aspect of being a parent, but he was the only person in my life who still cared. For all his flaws, he would always be there for me.
When Dad drove off to talk to the PRT, I had an unspecified amount of time free. Being allowed to skip school was a relief, but I needed to do something. The internet at home wasn't great. Once again, I remember some company that was poised to change the internet in 2004, up until the Simurgh shredded their headquarters and servers and leaked the identities of every government spy in the world. RIP Google, you had a weird name.
Still, I now had a course of action – joining the Wards, becoming one of the junior heroes of the city. I needed to do more research, see how thinkers used their powers. Look into all the things I gave up on back in January because I hadn't realised I was using my power wrong back then.
Wait.
I was approaching this wrong.
I didn't need information, my power would give it to me. What I needed to do, was know about the Wards. Become one of them.
The computer on my desk, originally Mom's, slowly loaded some wiki pages about who was already on the team. I kicked my chair into a spin to stop my hands fidgeting. Then I accidentally banged my shin on the desk leg. Pacing was a better way to pass time as the loading bar inched its way forwards.
In Brockton Bay, heroes came from either the Protectorate or New Wave. New Wave was an independent group, which appealed to me. They'd changed their team's name and taken off their masks in a big statement about public accountability of parahumans years ago. I really liked the idea behind it, and they had maybe the best healer in the world. But four years ago, a random Empire goon shot a member of the team, Fleur, when she was getting groceries. My Mom had really liked what New Wave stood for, but I couldn't imagine getting into fights with my face bare to the world.
Not when that meant always being on guard. Always in the spotlight. I also wouldn't risk dad in any way.
The Protectorate was government backed, regularly on the news, conducting almost every parahuman arrest, and patrolling all over the city. I had figurines and posters of Protectorate heroes from when… Emma and I used to play pretend at having powers. The Wards were the junior teen branch of the Protectorate, which still meant being in a spotlight, but one that wasn't anywhere near as bright.
Brockton Bay had six Wards at the moment. I'd done a little research when I first realised I was parahuman, and it seemed the Wards mostly patrolled in safe areas like the Boardwalk and malls. They did school talks and signings and things that made some people think they were a bit useless. I kind of agreed with those people, but the upside was that Dad would think I was safe.
It wasn't like I would be any use in a fight, I wasn't even fit for human standards, much less parahuman. As much as I wanted to help my city directly, I would settle for supporting the heroes.
Maybe I could get some self-defence training. Even if the PRT didn't offer it, I could ask another of the Wards to teach me. I knew Shadow Stalker had been a vigilante before joining the Wards. She always seemed intense, but I respected her determination to actually fight crime. Following in her footsteps had been my initial loose idea; get a reputation and join the heroes on an equal field. As equal as possible with my non-combat power anyway.
The internet had finally loaded, so I found the wiki on the hero agency I knew the least about. The PRT or Parahuman Response Team was a mix of unpowered field support, administrative agency, and oversight for the Protectorate and Wards.
According to interview snippets, the East-North-East Division, dedicated to my fine gang-ridden city of Brockton Bay, offered power testing to any new parahuman, no requirement to join up. Damn. I wish I'd looked at this when I first got my powers. I could have been using my power properly all this time.
The Wards operated out of the PRT HQ, not the force-field-shielded former oil rig the Protectorate used, floating out in the bay. While disappointing, this made sense since the Wards still had to go to school. Which I was not looking forward to. But I was hoping that they could get me into a better school.
Away from Winslow. Away from Emma, and Sophia and Madison. I'd tried to get a transfer before, but there was no way dad could afford Arcadia's fees if I didn't get a scholarship. And by the time I'd tried to escape – after way too long – my grades had been sabotaged enough that college was looking unlikely, much less a scholarship at the city's fanciest school.
Arcadia couldn't be any worse than Winslow. And I had to hope that the Wards would be okay people. This was a new start. At the very least, I would have a team, even if they weren't friends.
The computer slowly loaded the wiki page for the Wards ENE for a refresher on who my teammates would be.
Shadow Stalker had joined most recently, announced September last year. She was a breaker, turning to shadow to avoid attacks and float between rooftops. I was indifferent about the crossbow aesthetic, but ranged weapons were a good idea if I went on a serious patrol. Which dad didn't want me doing. Right.
Kid Win had joined late 2009 and was a tinker. Laser pistols and a hoverboard were pretty damn cool. The other tinker on the team was Gallant, wearing power armour that reminded me of chivalric knights. He could send out emotion blasts, which seemed useful for capturing criminals.
The two other boys on the team were Clockblocker and Aegis. I remembered Clockblocker from the media scandal when he announced his blatantly innuendo of a name. Still, being able to freeze an object or person in time was proof that powers were unequal and that some people got lucky. Aegis was the only flyer on the team, so at least others could share in my jealousy. He was a brute, but not in the super-strength, super-durability sense. Apparently, his biology was super adaptive. There was a phone recording of him getting pepper sprayed right in the face and completely ignoring it because his body began breathing and seeing through his skin. Which… yeah, that went in the cool category, even if it was weird.
The last Ward was Vista. She was the longest serving Ward and, according to the wiki, both the youngest and most powerful. I also thought her name was the second most appropriate, after Shadow Stalker. Vista could warp space, compressing or expanding areas. I'd seen a news report show the video of a car chase where a side road suddenly stretched out as big as a four-lane highway. Or where an intersection suddenly twisted into a dead end. One short video on a cape forum from the last month showed the world rippling in front of Vista like the air was cellophane, the girl stepping between the rooves of buildings without a care.
So, the Wards were awesome. I was about as far from awesome as you could get, even with a power. There was a whisper in the back of my head that reminded me how my power wasn't 'cool'.
I didn't get super strength, or flight or anything that would help in a fight. I could be useful in helping plan things or figure out who or where the villains might be, but… I couldn't help but dread more of the high school social bullshit that I was so desperately trying to escape from.
It was a new twist on the anxiety that had plagued me for too long.
But it was better than walking into Winslow.
Anything was better than that.
And being a hero was better than basically anything else I could think of.
My life was going to get better. It had to.
(First Day of March)
The impact of feet against pavement reverberated throughout my body. I drew the still-cold air of the first day of March into my lungs, expelling breath in a whuff.
After a month of running every morning, I finally had the stamina to not fall in a heap upon getting home. Not that I was near home currently, having just started to head back. The second half of today's morning route went through the Docks, south along the Boardwalk, then west into the relatively safe if low-income suburb and my house. Recently, I'd first headed north then east, heading to Lord's Market before returning. This meant that I started the day running through gang territory. ABB territory specifically.
Which is decidedly unsafe and I wouldn't recommend it to anyone of sane mind. The only reason I took the risk was the pepper spray in my pocket. And my power to recognise gang members though my power – with some concentration.
Thus, my runs became research. And getting research on the gangs was important. The first finding of my research was that most serious gangers slept in. A lot.
I dodged a few tourists as I made my way down the Boardwalk. My runs were research yes, but they were also escape. Now I'd built my meagre level of fitness, running let my body relax and mind wander. I slowed, jogging on the spot as a larger group of tourists met students meeting up before school. A smaller kid picked a tourist's pocket and darted past me. The tourists didn't notice, but they weren't native to Brockton Bay.
I'd noticed, so the Enforcers, the Boardwalk's own private police, definitely would. The Enforcers would also be way too rough in their 'arrest'. My power told me their purpose, [ensure tourists and the affluent have a good time]. Not that anyone who shopped here without wearing designer needed a power to know that.
Getting past the crowd, I glanced over the Bay.
While Brockton Bay was undeniably a shithole, tourists still came. One reason for that was the great shimmering forcefield floating in the middle of the bay. After international shipping died, someone had the idea to bring a decommissioned oil rig close to shore and renovate the whole thing for a Protectorate HQ. Add a massive tinkertech forcefield and if you looked down any major road angled towards the bay, you'd get visible proof that Brockton Bay had heroes.
Look any other direction and live outside the rich downtown areas and you'd see some pretty visible proof the city had villains too. But the Rig was a big, solid, impressive symbol that there was still hope. Pity that the Wards, the junior Protectorate team, had their headquarters on land.
I always made sure part of my run had sight of the Rig, though I varied my routes. I wanted to be a hero and heroes needed to be fit.
In truth, my equilibrium had been off since Emma and Sophia stole the notebook I'd filled with my school observations. I still knew what to expect at school, but any measure of control I had over encounters with the Trio had gone out the window. Madison wouldn't change much, it wasn't personal for her. Sophia would probably use my notes for strategic pushing-down-stairs. Emma… would make it personal.
(All the more because my power had gotten pretty personal, eventually clarifying enough to label her an [Externalising Victim]. And if that didn't lay every problem I'd faced throughout high school at Sophia's fucking feet, then I don't know what would.)
The rest of my run home was spent musing on Emma. It's easy to diminish the concept of a best friend: a long-term intense bond between peers. Ever since January, I'd gotten used to abstracting social relations. But part of me still remembers being a kid and nobody being as important as her.
Emma and I were BFFs from our first day of first grade all the way through middle school. We'd stayed over at each other's houses on weekends because spending every class and lunch break together wasn't enough. We called each other's parents Aunt and Uncle after my Mom joked that we were close enough to practically sisters.
A friendship that deep can't be abstracted, broken down into roles and relations. It was intimate, a sharing of your whole self with the other person, no matter how vulnerable it might make you.
So, to come back from a summer camp to find that Emma's new best friend was Sophia? To find that Emma didn't want me near her? To find that anything I'd shared was ammunition to bully me with? Well, for roughly a year and a half, my core feeling had been betrayal. Now, I could reflect back and recognise the stages of grief that I'd never quite moved past.
I had hated Emma for the betrayal.
Now I…
It was complicated.
(I still hated her.)
My power had forced me to adjust my worldview in many ways. One of the first was the understanding that organisations don't shift by themselves. Before January, I'd associated Emma's shift with changes in myself. Now I could see the roles of Emma and Sophia in their own friendship. Not that any relation my power summarised as [Traumatised Dependence] should be called friendship.
The irony was that I could finally understand why no one helped me – with anything I went through.
But while my power could act as actually objective hindsight, it didn't help a bit with explaining the events or anything behind the connections I could see.
I looked over my shoulder at the Rig once more. My mood stayed ruined, but I found the will to carry on with my day.
[>[>----<]<]
The buses of Brockton Bay were always late. How late was variable, but given the general gang activity and an obligatory cape fight every few days, disruptions in traffic (from crushed cars to ruined roads) guaranteed some cascade in delays to schedule.
I got some looks, getting onto a bus that was heading away from the closest school. I wasn't wearing gang colours, so anyone who picked up on how plainly I was playing truant merely went back to their own business.
A few stops later, there was a commotion at the front of the bus.
I'd taken my usual seat near the back, but looked up to see a staggering and sunken-faced young man mumbling at the bus driver. It was only when the Merchant, identified by the coloured bands on his arm, tried to trade the rest of whatever he was high on for a bus ticket that someone else did something. Meaning that a middle-aged white man with a shaved head punched the Merchant in the face, grabbed the drugs and put them in his own pocket, then threw the Merchant off the bus. The bus driver maintained an impeccable poker face as they pulled away from the curb. They probably knew the middle-aged man only acted because the driver was white.
See, the buses of Brockton Bay were always late. But they also always got there eventually. No matter how entrenched the gangs got, a few customs carried over from when supervillain crime first got organised in the city. The civilised rules of the gangs included such benevolence as 'don't attack the hospital' and 'don't fight on the buses' and 'try not to do anything on the weekend when people travel from across the country to be healed by Panacea'. Of course, the fact that gang members used the buses a lot and really appreciated Panacea's healing when they were hurt was completely unrelated.
I'd only started thinking and reflecting on how my city operated since January. I'd grown up with Marquis' bus truce, and it had always held a remnant of the nobility that villain had liked to posture with. Now, I could more easily recognise that someone who refused to harm women and children would inevitably look noble next to literal Nazis. Still, the idea of the bus truce meant that the literal Nazis had merely stolen that Merchant's drugs rather than stabbed him.
The bus route from my house to the public library went near ABB territory. Every Asian person that got on was sneered at by the middle-aged shaved-head man despite only a few wearing red and green.
The ABB was strange as parahuman gangs went, at least in Brockton Bay. The Bay had one of the highest ratios of parahumans per-capita in the country, but where in New York new capes had space to exist, Brockton Bay's gangs gobbled up, killed, or murdered most of the new independents. Despite all this, the ABB only had two capes: Oni Lee and Lung. They held their gang together through a fearful reputation. Oni Lee was a psychopathic knife-wielding teleporter and Lung turned into a dragon.
Neither Lung nor Oni Lee got on the bus before I hopped off at the public library. I'd never seen a cape, hero or villain, and despite all longing, I held hope that I wouldn't. Not unless I'd planned to.
Grow up in Brockton Bay and you hear about enough housing blocks being demolished or bystanders becoming collateral for the awe surrounding capes to settle into knowledge that they're parahuman. Give people powers and they will remain the products of their situations.
I got off the bus without being harassed by the Nazi.
(What a hero I was practicing to be.)
Brockton Bay's public library was old fashioned, with chandeliers shining down on stacks of my favourite resource in the city. Having an English Professor for a Mom cemented my love of books, so I'd been coming here since I was a kid. By this point, I recognised the other kids who couldn't just buy books – not that any of them were here during school.
After browsing a few coding or computer science shelves out of the idle thought of getting good grades in one subject at least, I signed into a library computer and began browsing Parahumans Online, the cape forum that had got so big, the government released information through it.
The forums were currently focusing on recent events. The Simurgh's attack on Canberra was still being quarantined. Cornell University over in New York state was being held hostage by a tinker, a parahuman that built super-advanced technology. This tinker supposedly specialised in bombs. The PHO forums were calling it all a Simurgh plot, which… was possible, but would mean everything could be a Simurgh plot. And I had to have a little hope about the broader world, because my local reality was fucked up enough.
The most common posters on PHO could be divided into the actually knowledgeable, the attention seekers, the everyday person, and wild conspiracy theorists. Given that the forum was the most central internet location for cape discussion, there was a lot of pertinent information and useful advice. However, the few gems were scattered throughout pages of fake glass beads and garbage.
Thus, a few rumours emerged from among inane ramblings. Some accounts I'd marked as probably gang-owned or related talked about Lung laying low or going out of town. Other gang-owned accounts, obviously from the Empire, had spewed racism and insults, getting the forum thread locked yet again.
Lung potentially being away was big.
Not for me, but the Empire Eighty-Eight would take immediate advantage if their biggest rival was unable to retaliate. I found the Brockton Bay cape sighting thread with a throwaway account and posted a question about a tall man in a dragon mask entering shops in ABB territory. 10 minutes later, I had been insulted seven different ways, mostly by trolls laughing at someone who didn't know what Lung looked like. I appreciated the one person that asked if I was okay and safe, though I didn't reply.
Lung's absence wasn't big for me, but it was still an opportunity. Part of my morning runs was checking the edges of gang territory, scanning what I could with my power from the most outside edges. So far, I'd only been able to infer membership and vague importance of groups of gangers, as well as confirming common street knowledge about the ABB's structure.
Unlike school, where I had daily interaction and personal knowledge of the Trio over time to draw from, using my power on the gangs was hard. It felt like stretching in the wrong direction, like my power wasn't meant to be used that way. Which was frustrating on an existential level because what power about understanding organisations didn't want to provide information about organisations?!
Still, I needed to do something important, to give me some sort of ground to stand on when I talked to… whoever I was going to talk to about my powers.
The problem was that my power wasn't suited for patrolling the streets. PHO described powers in several categories. I wasn't a brute, supernaturally strong or tough. I couldn't shoot lasers or fire like the Bay's blasters. No special effects happened when I hit someone. I couldn't change my shape and I didn't have a breaker state with extra powers. Even the other mental power classifications could be useful in stopping crime. Tinkers needed resources, but could build wild things with technology that was basically magic. Masters controlled other things that could fight even if they couldn't themselves. Some thinkers were useful, seeing the future, guessing intentions, or being geniuses.
The only way I could use my power to make the city better was to give information to the authorities. But I needed credibility. Winslow had shown me that without the clearest, most airtight evidence, no one in power would believe a random teenage girl.
Except I was tired of taking it slow.
Of planning safe routes, taking notes after running. All my efforts to make school easier were useless now. I wanted to be a hero. Why not now?
[>[>---<]<]
In hindsight, an impulsive decision to wander through gang territory wasn't very smart.
As I left the library, I'd justified it in numerous ways; gang activity was lowest in mornings since people were sleeping in, or at jobs, or hungover. I'd even considered the benefits of saving money on my bus pass and the extra exercise thanks to walking home.
But illusions aside, I'd regretted acting on my emotions only a few blocks into my investigation-walk. Statistically safest times didn't guarantee real safety. And this was Brockton Bay, so crimes were probably massively underreported. I was also dressed for school, in baggy pants and a too-wide hoodie that wouldn't provide any protection. I didn't even know any self-defence!
I chewed the inside of my cheek to focus. Money was tight, but I could ask for classes for my birthday. Or maybe dad knew a former dockworker that owned a gym. Or something.
Regardless, I was basically defenceless.
That the crime statistics were holding true and I hadn't been immediately mugged was a relief. But it also meant that there wasn't anything for me to see. Not that I wanted to see crime happening. I just wanted to do something. To act and have other people respond. I had a superpower – or maybe just a power – and I wanted to use it! What was the point of all this if I couldn't make life better?
I paused and looked around. The point of walking home through gang territory was to be a hero. Or to get one step closer to that. I wasn't giving up on that.
I'd been following the edges of the ABB area and was currently walking through a warehouse district the Merchants were occasionally spotted in. I wasn't sure why, since all the warehouses had been scavenged soon after shipping died and the Boat Graveyard blocked the harbour. All that was here was slowly decaying real-estate and the slowly despairing squatters who moved in when the police had bigger things to worry about.
If I wanted to be a hero, to help the real heroes, I needed real information.
I could spend my savings for some mild protection, like motorcycle leathers and a baton or something. Get self-defence lessons now – they might help with Sophia at school too. I could prepare to go out at night, into gang territory proper.
I'd been impulsive today and – while I wasn't backing down from my decision – I could be smarter about it. I'd gotten through school days without my notebook before. Planning to be a proper hero despite my weak power would keep me going.
Until I found some way to leave Winslow and prove my credibility.
I straightened and changed direction to get home faster.
More information. I needed to have more information to give. What could I use to take notes at night? It'd be too dark for a notebook and a torch was right out and –
I turned and ran down a side street.
The houses went past, and I needed too many steps to clear each block. I coughed. Kept going.
Only when I got back to Lord St and had to lean against a street lamp to catch my breath and try to stop sweating, did I process what had happened.
Danger apparently made my power work better.
But that didn't help me one bit, because there was no way I was getting anywhere near another ABB [kidnapper] who had faint threads leading into the alley he was standing out front of. The man I'd run across by accident had been a close enough experience already.
[>[>---<]<]
I'd jogged the rest of the way home, making sure to slow my breathing and walk after turning onto my street. Ordinarily, I'd get off the bus one block from home and focus on my destination. Now I was scanning the street, irrationally afraid of the crime statistics I'd been making light of a mere hour ago.
No one ran round corners. No one jumped out from behind fences. The neighbourhood was quiet, residents at work. My suburb was pretty safe as far as gang crime went, but outside the best suburbs, it was pretty clear that Brockton Bay was run down. And I was living far from the best suburbs.
The houses on my block had originally been built for an expanding workforce to raise families. That had happened, but then the Endbringers hit the world, and the planned work hit a rough patch that it never really recovered.
My house was normal for the area. Two story and built when heaters used coal, with a front garden that was kept tidy but hadn't been impressive since Mom passed. I stepped over the rotten step automatically and unlocked the front door to finally decompress.
The house was empty, as expected. Dad worked as head of hiring for the Dockworker's Union and always liked to arrive before and leave after the general employees. He talked about how the union was going every few days, sharing things about people I'd grown up hearing of. He'd get hopeful about a new deal or job, practically fighting the city council or other companies to make sure there was work for the union.
Occasionally, he'd talk about getting the ferry up and running again, his personal proposal to reverse the slow economic decline and general decay of the city. I always engaged (or at least listened), wanting the connection. And on some unconscious level understanding that everyone needs some kind of dream to keep going.
I shook my head from where I'd paused in the middle of the hall, then grabbed a change of clothes from my room upstairs. I needed to centre myself and staring at family photos that hadn't been updated in two years wasn't helping.
I also needed a shower, thanks to that frantic sprint and the long jog afterwards.
Warmer, dry, and in a new set of clothes, I went back downstairs for a snack. The fridge was surprisingly full. I made a sandwich and ignored the beer. Alcohol had never been attractive as a way to escape the hell my school life was, mainly because dad drinking so much had been part of why school got so bad to begin with.
The door to the living room was open and I could see the framed photos above the couch. I looked more like Mom now than I did in those photos. She'd given me my wide mouth and dark curly hair. I was glad my hair finally matched hers in length – it felt like keeping part of her with me.
My short-sightedness and too-lanky limbs came from dad. Which was… well, it just was.
I'd forgiven dad for all but forgetting me in his grief when Mom died.
Figuring out my power had inspired me to research some basic psychology, which helped, even though I'd never blamed him for anything that happened to me. Home, and dad, had been an escape from the bullying at school. I knew now that dad also used home to escape from the despairs in his work. But he used work to escape the fact that home felt hollow.
I shook my head. I'd had a shower to change my mood and stop musing. I went back upstairs to my gang notebooks to record where I'd seen that [kidnapper].
[>[>---<]<]
Dad called out when he got home. I finished staring at an annotated map of the city and went downstairs to fulfil our daily routine. At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and paused upon finding dad sitting in his armchair. He hadn't taken his coat off.
"Taylor, take a seat."
I did. I didn't know what else to do. Dad had a temper, and while he'd never yelled at me, this serious tone wasn't normal. I fidgeted a bit as he gathered himself and met my eyes.
"The school rang. They said you didn't show up today."
Oh. Oh, he was worried. I relaxed – not fully this was still uncomfortable – and thought of the least untrue thing.
"I did go to school in the morning, I just forgot my backpack. So, I came back home. I also went to the library."
Dad looked relieved but still a little confused. Then he frowns. "Did you go to the library instead for a reason? Are you still having problems at school?"
I focused on my power to mute any external sign of the mess of emotions within me. The month I'd had off school after the hospital had been when I tested and figured out my power. I was used to using it at home, even if I didn't need to think of my family as an organisation. I honestly didn't know if I regretted what it had told me about dad, but that knowledge was just another fact to acknowledge and endure.
"Its…" I couldn't say it.
"I just study better at the library. Less distractions." I swallowed the lump in my throat when the silence stretched on.
"Okay." It was tired. But the end of the conversation.
Dad went back to hang his coat up in the hall.
I sighed in conflicted relief and leant back on the couch. That was the – not best – the most real conversation we'd had since January. I just didn't know how to feel about our relationship in general. I'd confided in dad about the bullying once before, but he didn't know it had kept going when I returned to school. And I hadn't confided in him about my powers.
Partly because I now knew the various elements of our family organisation. But my power only handed me information. It was up to me what to do with it.
I hadn't done anything with that specific knowledge yet. I had no clue what would happen if I did, anyway. Home was safe and more comfortable than anywhere else. Even if Mom was no longer the light in our lives, no longer the lynchpin of the family, no longer here, I still wanted dad around.
Even when my power said [Hebert Family] [Goal: Pretend].
"Hey, you feel up for helping make dinner? We're making lasagne."
It wasn't our usual routine, but I got up to help. We both very consciously didn't comment on how lasagne recipe was written in Mom's handwriting.
Twenty minutes into making far more than two people could eat, I finally asked the question: "Why are we making so much?"
Dad had pulled out our largest oven dish from its buried place under other trays. And then the second largest too. We usually made enough for some leftovers but the mountain of ingredients we were layering been pasta sheets could feed me for a week. If I wanted to eat lasagne and only lasange.
"Kurt and Lacey are coming over, remember?" He turned to me from pulling a tray of mince from the fridge. "You suggested the idea last week."
I had. Partly because I hadn't seen anyone but Dad and people at school since leaving the hospital. Partly because I was frustrated with my power and had the idea to practice analysing the Dockworker's Union. I'd grown up knowing people in the Union, and Kurt and Lacey were the closest thing I had to godparents. They used to be at least. I hadn't really talked to them in a while, but neither had I really talked to dad in a while either.
"You alright kiddo? I can call them and cancel?" He'd noticed my frown and lack of reply.
"No its fine dad. I'd like to see them." My words were more honest than my smile. I did want to see them though, so I focused on slicing vegetables for the lasagne layers.
By the time Kurt and Lacey rang the doorbell, the lasagne was almost ready to come out of the oven. I'd changed into a less worn version of my outfit after realising I didn't have any nice clothes that fit anymore. Dad was the one to answer the door and welcome them into the living room. I came downstairs to hear a discussion about a recent contract and some exotic insults about the mayor.
Kurt spotted me and was as enthusiastic as I remembered him. A big man, not tall like dad, but large from a life of manual labour. Lacey was also muscled, one of the few women to have been in the union before dad became head of hiring. Lacey's hug was better, warm instead of crushing. It was good to see them, even if I didn't quite know how to engage with them anymore. I slipped away to set the kitchen bench for the four of us.
Dinner was enjoyable. Mom's recipe was always good, even if it never tasted quite the same. Kurt and Lacey continued their discussion with dad about the mayor's stonewalling about restarting the ferry. The ferry had been one of the first things to go after the Boat Graveyard happened. Signs saying it would be back in service soon hadn't been taken down since I was 7.
I answered a few questions about school, actually talking about an assignment in computer class. Mostly I let the adults talk. Memories of sitting alone at lunch bubbled up in the back of my mind, which I hated because home was where I could escape from all that shit.
Practicing my power was a good distraction, if only because it too much concentration to let me ruminate on other stuff. Understanding a new group had always taken effort and time, so I just focused on the conversation, trying to figure out which words and sentences were important to the makeup of our dinner gathering.
Since I hadn't been talking, I finished first and started clearing up the kitchen. Once the others finished – I'd given Kurt seconds – and dad noticed what I was doing, he gathered us all into the living room. Kurt and dad started a very one-sided debate about what tv channel to have on in the background. Dad caved and soon enough the local college's basketball game was playing on low. I spent a few minutes confused, wondering how the players could stand being outside in this weather, before realising it was a playback. Yay. Sports.
"Hey Taylor," Lacey was beckoning me from the kitchen, "help me grab some drinks."
I walked over and grabbed a beer for dad out the fridge, only for her to put up a hand and lead me to the smaller table tucked in the corner. I couldn't help but notice we were out of sight of the living room.
Lacey stared at me for a long moment where I didn't know what to do. "You okay kid?"
I blanched. Had I acted weird over dinner? I'd been trying so hard to use my power quickly – but I finished my plate – what –
"Woah okay, calm." I met her eyes and stopped holding my breath. "Just noticed you were quiet over dinner. Remember you never shutting up a few years ago." She paused, but I didn't say anything. "Didn't expect you to look sadder now than after the hospital."
I still had no idea how to respond to an adult noticing and actually caring.
"So what's up? Boy trouble?" I made a face. "Girl trouble then?"
My nails dug into my palms.
"Hey hey," she soothed, "I'm not gonna judge any team you bat for. Hell, Anne-Rose got wild back with Lustrum's gang!" Lacey laughed.
I'd known my Mom was part of the feminist club/gang before she met dad, but to realise she… she was… well… something?!
"Mom was…?"
Lacey snorted. "Taylor, your mom filled every stereotype of 'rebellious college girl with strict parents.' I didn't know her when she was in Lustrum's gang before Danny but damn, she had stories."
She pursed her lips for a moment, then asked, "Did Danny ever tell you about the fling she had with a Teeth girl?"
I blinked. "She… the fuck?"
I'd had two semi-meaningful conversations this week. And both left me completely and utterly lost.
"Hah! She swears!" Lacey grins and, distracted from the original topic, finally grabbed the beers. "Babe, Danny hasn't told Taylor about Anne-Rose's Lustrum stories!" Kurt yelled in mock despair as I follow Lacey back to the living room.
Kurt berated dad until he started sharing a few things, then Lacey teased him more until the hollow grief dropped out of his voice. It was strange to hear him talk about Mom and laugh. The laughter came and died in the same breath, but his friends brought out a hint of the father I remembered.
Turns out Mom had been quite high up in the local segment of Lustrum's gang.
I knew she left before it got extreme, but to hear that she'd been handcuffed in more than one protest that got violent was wild. I was also trying to forget Kurt teasing my dad about picking Mom up from a rally-planning session that had apparently turned into the kind of party that involved lube and no men.
Blocking out the uncomfortable bits wasn't too hard thankfully. I'd been pushing my power to accept the information and observations I had. The initial part always felt difficult, almost wrong. But with the gangs and the Trio at Winslow, I'd forced myself past whatever block my power had to get confirmation of facts and new hints at connections to figure out. Once the web had even one thread, it was easier to expand. But getting that first role or connection was frustrating.
Amid the stories and teasing, Lacey must have noticed me going quiet again. I'd made sure I wasn't frowning, but she still roped me into stories about Mom bringing me to the Union's offices when I was a kid. The nostalgia was nice, but it was just that, nostalgia.
Mom wasn't here anymore. I certainly wasn't going to call Emma and reflect on bygone days. But the inclusion was nice.
Wait, it was silent. Everyone was looking at me.
"What do you think Taylor?" What do I think about what dad? I must have looked lost because Kurt chuckles, a deep sound.
"Internship! You talked about some crazy computer thing before, so why not help out at the office? Union clerk Hebert." He elbowed dad and snickered.
Kurt's enthusiasm rocked me a little, but the idea was… not crazy. Using my power on the union might help a lot. And I did like computer class.
"It wouldn't be paid." Dad looked… apologetic? "But I know the IT guys would be happy to teach you the ropes. It'd help with college applications too."
College. I hadn't thought about college. There was general despair at my grades slipping and Mom's wish that I'd follow her into academia. But… the future? I hadn't had time to think about the future. I'd just been enduring.
"Sure. If everyone's ok with it."
"If everyone's ok with it?!" Kurt cried.
I tried not to jump.
"Danny what bullshit is this?! Taylor's an honorary dockworker and she should damn know it!" Oh.
Lacey elbowed Kurt in the side. "Inside voice, ya lump. Seriously though, we knew you when you were a limpet on Danny's leg. You're always welcome round the office."
My cheeks felt hot.
"I'm pretty sure there's an old name board somewhere in office storage. Maybe I can find it for whichever desk they give you?" Dad actually looked happy. The Dockworker's Union was always his thing, but Lacey was right, I'd spent a solid part of my childhood in those offices, picking up swear words and learning basic building skills way too young.
I smiled back at dad. Properly.
Kurt pulled a scoffing Lacey into a stupid chant of "Honorary Dockworker! Honorary Dockworker!"
I was sure my blush had only grown, but I didn't feel embarrassed for once. I knew these people and they had always been kind to me. Now they were offering me an internship. A chance to improve something and to help people. They'd offered to help me.
I swallowed the tangle of emotions and enjoyed the moment. 'Honorary Dockworker.' I liked it. Made me feel like I belonged. I knew the difference between feeling and reality thanks to fake friends orchestrated by the Trio – No Taylor, this wasn't high school. This was real. Lacey and dad were discussing how an internship could be structured. Kurt was interjecting with useful or ridiculous things. They cared. I belonged.
In my head, something expanded. A relieved feeling washed through me, like I'd just had a cool glass of water after a long hot day. It was so simple, so clear, so easy. I knew:
[Brockton Bay Dockworker's Union] [Goal: Find Work/Survive, Rebuild the Docks]
And:
[Daniel Hebert] [Spokesperson] [Head of Hiring]
And there were more so many more. I stilled as information blossomed inside my head like a tree – a whole forest growing in an instant. [Builders] and [electricians] and [foremen]. Mostly [dockworkers], but there were four [administration staffers].
Kurt and Lacey were there. I could pinpoint them and follow their threads to [friends], [friendly colleagues] and [mutually distant workmates]. I knew the jobs and dispositions of over two thousand people. I knew how each of them felt about every other member. I could understand what my dad did in an incredibly human sense.
I saw – felt – the connections of [respect], [gratitude], and [grudging appreciation] leading to him from all members of the [Brockton Bay Dockworker's Union].
And – somehow – my brain had processed, sorted, and linked all of that automatically. Before I was even able to be surprised. And surprised I was, because buried in the webs of connection and lists of roles was [Taylor Hebert] [Honorary Member].
The longing ache for belonging that I hadn't realised was linked to my power was finally sated. My heart warmed. My eyes prickled at the edges. Then the euphoria faded.
I laughed. I wanted to vomit. It must have sounded broken because Lacey was looking at me with furrowed brows. I didn't – couldn't – care though. I had bigger issues. No wonder my power felt weak and difficult – I'd been using it wrong!
The irony made me choke. Thanks God or wherever powers come from! Give the socially isolated girl powers that require being part of a group.
I made an excuse about forgetting an assignment that was due tomorrow and didn't care if I sounded furious at the sheer nerve of the universe. I all but ran to the stairs and, if anyone called after me, I didn't hear.
I couldn't block it out anymore. I couldn't lie anymore. I couldn't put it off. I knew how silly and hopeless my idea of tracking the gangs was.
I had a super power. And now that I finally understood it, I had to do something.