Aegis was sitting on a metal bench when they bought Seneschal in. Glory Girl holding his teammate as Panacea, her sister, had a few fingers resting on the newest Ward's jaw.
"Abrasions on knees, hands and lower face. Jagged lacerations on left hand – teeth marks. Electrical burns on right thigh and middle back. Nerve damage… everywhere? The sensitivity is all… wrong. How is she still awake?" Panacea's tone had started bored but was now curious.
Glory Girl laid Seneschal down on the medical bed where Panacea had reattached Aegis' legs. The memory of feeling reawakening in his pelvis and legs – half-torn liver no longer needed to oxygenate the blood in his legs – spleen no longer needed to fill in for a heart that wasn't there – nearly distracted him from Seneschal's mumbled words.
Except ever since that girl had joined the Wards, he'd consciously made his ears redundant by making his scalp hair follicles react to soundwaves. It had taken a few days to adjust, but now he could clearly hear:
"Agis power. They wrr gon escape. Nee to kee goin."
Carlos' gaze snapped to Panacea. "Nerve damage. Does that mean brain damage?"
"No. Internal bruising in skull cavity accompanying likely concussion. Hey. Do I have your permission to heal you?" Panacea poked Seneschal in the cheek and held the finger there.
Seneschal's head lifted, black curls trailing across the top of the stretcher.
"Okay, you physically, biologically, shouldn't be able to move. Like you should be screaming in pain. Vicky, hold her head." The healer was frowning. Aegis stepped closer as Glory Girl cradled Seneschal's head.
"Do I have your permission to heal you?" Panacea asked again.
"Heal mh." Seneschal slurred.
Aegis – Carlos – he kept the two separate, even though his struggles weren't so clear cut. (What use was Carlos if he didn't help people? What use was Aegis if he forgot to be human?) His teammate was hurt, that required being human. (Besides, the fight was over, and Aegis had been useless.)
"Internal bruising, skin damage, and all nerve damage fixed. Concussion should get looked at by a medic, I can't do brains." Panacea didn't look away from her patient, continuing her blunt – almost grunted – litany of medical assessment.
Carlos looked back down at Seneschal just as the bloody teeth marks on her hand closed over. His own healing was slower, more like an acceleration of the natural human healing than active regeneration.
"Okay. What actually happened to you? Cause none of the Undersiders can do… whatever was wrong with you." Panacea's hands kept twitching towards Seneschal, who was sitting up and fluffing out her hair.
Carlos' newest teammate's voice was less slurred, but still held that distracted tone that he always had to consciously listen past to pick up on her actual mood. "Tasr. Th 'letrical burns."
She shook her head, wide mouth pursed in frustration. Her hair fell around her shoulders, black curls contrasting the white bodysuit and hanging down to her gold edged chest plate. When she spoke again, her voice was clear. "I basically mastered my body after Regent made me taser myself. Used my map to see because my eyes were still overloaded so –"
She froze. Not paused, since she was still breathing. Just normal freezing from panic.
"Don't tell anyone I said that." Seneschal's voice wasn't distracted this time. Instead, it was hard. Attention grabbing. Focused, like the soundwaves themselves had weight. Carlos knew that Seneschal sounded like that when she was upset. Or angry. Or frustrated. Or…
Seneschal was complicated.
Carlos closed the PRT van doors then turned back to the group. Glory Girl was hovering an inch off the ground, having shifted in front of her sister protectively. Seneschal grimaced before her expression smoothed out and she looked down.
"The Wards would appreciate if everyone kept thinking Seneschal is a teleporter. Her… 'real power' is classified for her safety." Carlos glanced between Panacea and Glory Girl.
"Wait." Glory Girl's head swivelled between Seneschal and Carlos like watching a tennis match. Despite actually taking part in the fight, she looked spotless. "You said Aegis' power… shit!" Her eyes went wide, then she whispered: "you're a trump, right? That's why Dean didn't tell me anything about you."
Carlos was grateful that Gallant had managed to keep at least one fact about the Wards actually secret – like they were all meant to be. Having a girlfriend was probably wonderful, but Gallant – Dean – could be a little more selfless.
"Vicky." At least Panacea understood medical confidentially. And knew how to get her sister back on track. "We won't say anything. But Seneschal, you'll need to eat more to replenish what I used to heal you. And be careful about your limits."
"Aegis does it all the time." Seneschal tilted her head at him. Carlos was struck again by how weird it was for a girl to be taller than him before he registered her words.
They were wrong. He wasn't mastering himself. Masters were evil. Their souls were tainted by the Devil, who used them to disrupt God's will. He wasn't like Hellhound; turning dogs into demons. He wasn't like Heartbreaker, forcing innocents to worship him like some foul –
Seneschal flinched. "Sorry," she said absentmindedly. No, there was regret under that distraction.
Carlos made the finger bones of his right hand start managing his hormones, then swapped it back to his brain. Just enough to reset his mood. Then let out a deep breath. Before Seneschal joined the Wards, he'd have to get a lot more upset for that sort of thing to happen automatically. Conscious control had its benefits.
But he wasn't mastering himself. Seneschal – Taylor – was just using analogies. Carlos was parahuman. Gifted. It was his responsibility to help people. To ward of the Devil's grasping hands that dragged this world down. To make sacrifices so other people didn't have to.
"Aegis only has his legs back because his body isn't human. Seriously, his bones aren't even made from calcium." And that was why Carlos didn't ask Panacea to heal his minor wounds. "Also," the healer reached towards his teammate, who flinched then allowed the contact, "huh. You have the signs of being concussed but your brain is working perfectly. Even moderating signals to the bruised sections. Are you doing that consciously? Cause that control is –"
"I'm going to check on the others. The rest of New Wave is going to meet at PRT HQ for a briefing about the gang war, maybe call them and coordinate." Carlos reset his emotional regulation then opened the van's rear door and flew out to remind the public that he was alive and still kicking. The heroes were fine, things were fine, the public could feel safe.
The smile on his face was for them. And for his team.
Other people thought that being bitten in half was an ordeal. Something to worry about. But not for Aegis or someone with gifts like his. Carlos would worry about losing the battle, about leaving his team without leadership. But even then, the Undersiders hadn't escaped easily. Aegis' team had managed without him. (That was a greater burden than any physical injury.)
They had lost. But losing didn't mean you couldn't keep trying to be better. Heroes had responsibility.
And Carlos was the leader. He had more responsibility than anyone on the team. He would push past the challenges (that distant feeling of jagged teeth slicing through his bottom ribs, muscles tearing, spine splintering, organs failing; their functions taken over by other parts of him) if it meant living up to that responsibility.
So, Carlos flew over to his team and stood tall despite failing them.
[>[>/^\<]<]
Aegis led his team through the front door of the PRT building. The regular PRT troopers were alert. Bulky black military armour, darkened chain mesh, and faceless tinted helmets clashed with the four-foot posters of the Protectorate and Wards that decorated the walls.
He stood tall. A proud leader of the Wards signalling to the reporters shouting from outside that the heroes were not defeated.
The clerk waiting at the empty front desk opened a door to a corridor of meeting rooms as they approached. "You're in room GM3."
"Thank you, sir." Aegis said letting his skin absorb oxygen so that tension in his lungs didn't disrupt his voice. The clerk straightened his posture when Aegis nodded to him, then held the door open for the team.
Meeting room GM3 was plain. No windows to the outside – for security, of course. Aegis held the door to this room open as the Wards filed inside. He still stood tall. His team may complain about PR, but even Clockblocker rationally understood the importance of inspiring the public. Of showing that there is hope.
"The Director will be down soon." The clerk was young, but professional. When Aegis smiled at him, he blushed, and backed away.
Aegis stepped into the meeting room and closed the door behind him. Carlos let out a breath. The clerk was nice – sharp jaw, nicely shaped nose – but he wouldn't go there (there was the sort-of-colleagues relation, the age gap, the words his abuela would say). He needed to meet his responsibility, such side distractions weren't important. Even his tío had stopped complaining about his… preference. What did it matter when the Devil had sent beasts of hell to ruin the world every three months? What did it matter when Carlos had been given a gift – the chance to be a saint and stand against every would-be Lucifer that decided being selfish was more important than honouring God and your fellow man.
In the face of that… well, some things didn't matter.
Carlos looked at his team. He knew they didn't think of things the same way, but that didn't matter either. Placing one's body and will in the way of the Devil's decay was what mattered. But his team's will was weary.
He understood. He commiserated. He was tired too. They had lost. Against demonic dogs. Against two who heard the Devil's whispers and subverted other's bodies. Against one who summoned what could only be smoke from damned souls burning.
But loss was temporary. The war between heaven and hell was eternal. Aegis' struggle would end in peace.
Carlos' fight was less physical, however.
"Guys." They looked at him. Hunched or sagging in their seats, energy drained – except for Seneschal. They saw him, still standing tall, and drew strength from his strength. "Today was not a win. But it was also not a loss." Grumbles and protest; frustration needing an outlet. "It was not a loss, because our enemies were forced to reveal more of themselves. Because this is only one battle. If the Undersiders continue in their ambition, we will be better prepared to capture them." His team was breathing more evenly now, but they were still slumped. Not proud of their struggle, not feeling able to hold the weight of their responsibility.
Carlos made his muscles start conducting the electrical signals from his brain, the difference in sensation letting him focus on his own breathing and not showing anger at the selfishness of a minor gang that would be yet another Judas for Brockton Bay.
"And when we or the Protectorate do capture them, it will be over. They are a small gang, so capturing even one of them will spell their end." Carlos looked around the room, meeting everyone's eyes. "The Undersiders are but a temporary blight. Today was the first time anyone has properly fought them. They did not escape easily. Next time, they will not escape."
His team was sitting straight now. Ready and… looking past him. Carlos blinked and Aegis turned to find the door open behind him. Director Piggot, standing in the corridor, met his eyes. Armsmaster was looming behind her. He quickly made his hair take over for his ears again and chastised himself for slipping up.
"Good speech." The Director said, in that particular tone that Carlos was pretty sure was genuine. Aegis nodded and got out of her way, taking a seat near the head of the table.
Director Piggot walked round the table and lowered her sickly bulk into the only chair at the end. Armsmaster walked to a corner of the room, footfalls deceptively light thanks to one of the endless gadgets built into his armour.
"I want to know exactly what happened with the Undersiders, but keep it quick. You all need to know about the gangs we can't capture in one swoop." Her breath was steady despite the pain he could see in her posture – only spotted thanks to his own constant physical self-awareness. Carlos respected her tenacity despite her injuries – she really should get them healed, but maybe it was her way of reminding herself of the responsibility she carried. Her weight was heavier, after all – virtue of her position leading the protectors of the city.
Aegis explained their initial plan to corner the Undersiders. Relayed the information Seneschal discovered. Bluntly described his own immediate failure against Hellhound's beasts. Then made his muscles take over from his bones to keep his posture straight as he asked his team to describe the fight he hadn't been able to help them in.
Silence.
Carlos turned in his seat, looking over his team. Aegis knew Seneschal had taken charge after his helmet and comms broke. But now she looked impassive, unconsciously impersonal. Carlos knew that she'd made friends with Vista, which was good for both of them – but Seneschal's expression was hard to read when she wanted it to be.
She hadn't said a single word since they got in the PRT vans to leave the bank, only occasionally smiling when Vista nudged her. Seneschal's visor shifted towards him now, then turned to Gallant.
Carlos looked at Gallant. His power armour was nearly too big for the chair, but he was still sitting with good posture. The lower part of his helmet was detached, half of the knight-like faceplate resting on the table.
He was looking at Seneschal but quickly glanced back at Carlos and smiled. Then started relaying the rest of the battle. Then got Kid Win – Chris, fiddling with sections on his still bulky switch suit – to describe things that Gallant hadn't seen, including the final events on the other side of Grue's darkness.
"So, Seneschal was the last person to see the Undersiders before they escaped." The Director was staring at Carlos' newest teammate.
Newest, but arguably most important. Her power – gift – to empower others – had absolutely revitalised the Wards. Which had been needed. Learning what Shadow Stalker had been hiding had… nearly destroyed them as a team. Everyone blaming themselves and unable to reconcile guilt with each other. Carlos – and Aegis – still held that failure as a reminder. At least Seneschal had never seemed to care about it. Just introduced herself and listened to their discussions in between a ridiculously rushed introduction to the public.
Seneschal continued to not say anything while meeting Director Piggot's flat stare. Carlos didn't know who he rooted for in this staring competition.
Then Seneschal described attacking the Undersiders directly. (Something Aegis had failed to do.) How Tattletale had told their new member to stand down. How Regent had tasered Seneschal after making her taser herself. How Seneschal, apparently blind, had kept a hold on Tattletale's utility belt. How the Undersiders had known Velocity was on his way.
"Armsmaster, contact Velocity and find out where that utility belt went. I want it in evidence. And see if we can trace Aegis' helmet or comms signal." The Director barked orders without turning around. Then she reached forwards and paused the recording. "You were fighting while blind? How." It was more demand than question.
"Mental map from Vista, pain-reduction and a kind of biological self-mastering from Aegis." Seneschal's tone said she was thinking about something else. It contrasted with the promptness of her response confusingly. Two signals meaning different things happening at once.
"Right." The Director's voice was hard. No mixed signals there. "That stays in this room. Anyone else asks, your costume is electrically insulated." Piggot stared at Seneschal some more, then glanced around the room, flinty eyes picking his team apart. Seemingly satisfied, the Director reached forwards and turned the recording device back on.
"Do any of you have information on this new Undersider?" The Directors professional tone was nicer. Not softer, just with the hard edges angled away from his team.
Gallant, after checking that Seneschal wouldn't offer the information herself, presented what they knew. Young kid, maybe Vista's age. With the Undersiders for cash so his family could pay the ABB's rackets. Maybe a temporary villain, but anyone with a gift never kept it hidden once they'd done something – for good or ill.
Clockblocker chimed in with the nickname he'd come up with in the van – everyone else too focused on their own emotions to deny him the humour. Carlos had appreciated it, even if no one else apart from Gallant did. Director Piggot grunted – her dissatisfied grunt – after all the details about the newly named 'Shotput' were recounted.
"The best and worst part of this is that there is much more serious news going on, so the media won't obsess over the Undersiders escaping. The Empire attacked the ABB earlier today and started a war. This… skirmish with the Undersiders didn't hurt anyone. But we do have dozens of injuries already and at least ten deaths in the Western Docks from gangs that didn't even have the decency to start their war in the night." The Director growled out the end of her sentence, her grimace like some biblical depiction of wrath.
Carlos was just glad his wage from being a Ward had grown enough for his family to move out of the Western Docks last year.
"Aegis was partially right, however. The Undersiders have spelled their own end. Robbing a bank, visibly injuring heroes, all when a gang war started? The public won't see them as harmless thieves anymore. Next time anyone encounters them, kiddie gloves come off." The Director's anger now had an underlying satisfaction.
Aegis understood. No one wanted to think of parahumans, of the new saints, as dangerous sources of death or collateral damage. And going all out against those who would work with the Devil, even unwittingly, meant they went all out against you. And villains didn't care about collateral damage.
Director Piggot stopped the recording device, tapped it against the table, then tucked it into her briefcase. She stared at them all again. "You all need to know what's happening with this war. And this is a war. The Empire have claimed about a quarter of current ABB territory. They won't be able to keep it, but it's a statement. And Lung hasn't shown up."
Carlos heard (through his hair) a sharp inhale from his team. Lung always, always, responded when someone moved on his territory.
"Watchdog thinks Lung has gone to New York. Recruiting." Piggot said the word with carefully enunciated distaste. "Which is not a good thing. Oni Lee has already set fire to 27 buildings in Empire territory – at the latest count. Which is outdated."
Aegis thought about the burden that Brockton's firefighters and paramedics would face in this needless conflict. Carlos thought about the people who might be caught in the crossfire. Even if the Empire would happily hang him and his family, not everyone in their territory was a Nazi.
"The situation for you as Wards is straightforward. I'm allocating more hours, slightly later shifts. The city needs to see heroes helping and protecting. You are still expected to attend school – if they stay open. PRT vans will pick you up before shifts from specific locations, your parents or a driver will take you home. Do not walk alone if you live in the Docks." Piggot looked between Carlos and Seneschal – Taylor. She didn't react. He nodded. Walking alone anywhere in the city was a bad idea when you were Puerto Rican. (Not white and not asian.)
"And what would we be doing to help or protect?" Seneschal's distracted voice broke the sombre atmosphere.
"Regular patrols and assisting relief work or first responders." The Director replied.
"Only letting the Protectorate protect doesn't seem like an effective use of resources."
Carlos stilled. Seneschal's words would have been insulting even without the distracted tone of voice. He heard Gallant mutter something in the barest whisper.
Director Piggot laughed. It was an empty, mocking sound that made his hair twitch to hear. "A Director in Gary, Indiana, thought the exact same thing. Too many villains, not enough heroes – why not train the Wards? Well, that Director kept their job through accusations of grooming child soldiers. Then the Wards were ordered into the middle of a feud between C-grade villain teams and two of them got murdered. Another lost a leg. The last one deserted. Then the Director got fired."
Silence.
"So, no. You're not going to fight in a gang war. You're going to be good citizens and help the people in danger. And tell the ones who aren't in danger to trust us. Because my resources being trusted makes them a lot more efficient than when they have bullets in them. Understand?" Director Piggot's face was flat. A bulwark as blunt as her words.
Carlos nodded. Gallant did too. Kid Win and Clockblocker nodded more slowly – it was a heavy thing to think about, Aegis knew. Vista was staring at the table, fiddling with the edge of her dress. It was extending outwards when she pulled and returning to normal whenever she noticed her actions.
Piggot let out a heavy breath. "Seneschal, your punishment was ended early. That can change. Don't deny me a resource by being stupid."
Seneschal was still staring at Director Piggot. Something was telling Carlos that she wanted to fight. Nothing on her face, but… something was telling him she was intent. He waited for her to do… anything.
Eventually she leant back and turned towards Armsmaster in the corner. The Protectorate leader had been silent and still the entire time. He remained a statue.
Seneschal looked at Carlos, who met her visored gaze and let his face show some of the weight this day had placed upon his shoulders. Then he settled his expression and faced the Director again.
"Armsmaster, has New Wave arrived?"
"They entered the lobby 4 minutes ago." Armsmaster's tone was as even as ever, but his weariness still came through. Carlos wondered how many Empire capes the blue and silver armoured hero had fought today. And for how long.
"Please escort them to the rest of the Protectorate."
Armsmaster nodded stately then turned the exact amount he needed to walk to the door without bumping the table.
The door closed with a 'thunk' in the silence.
"I expect full reports on this fight from all of you. Even guesses about powers. Any and all details." Director Piggot stood and paused to clench her jaw in an aborted wince of pain. Carlos wondered how long she had been working today. "Aegis, a word."
Carlos followed her, ignoring her occasional pained breaths like she preferred everyone to do. Once in the corridor, her eyes flicked to the door and an eyebrow raised. He closed the meeting room door.
The Director stared at him. Looking upwards, but losing none of the intensity that was drilling into his eyes. He waited.
"If you get transferred, then Seneschal is a mover/thinker. That is what all official records say, so I better not hear any rumours otherwise." The Director stared at him a moment longer, before turning and walking further into the PRT building.
Aegis didn't know what to think. Transfer? Why would he be transferred? He knew the PRT and Protectorate in Brockton Bay both got very little transfers from outside the city. Not many people wanted to come to an officially designated Hive of Scum and Villainy, after all. Would his transfer be the give so Director Piggot could take?
Carlos faced the closed meeting room door. He didn't want to leave his team. They'd all grown, especially in recent weeks. He was… proud. Of them. Of what he'd done.
But pride could be dangerous. Any of the seven sins could be. He had responsibility – from his gift and position. He would live up to that responsibility.
And humility was a virtue. He should feel grateful for getting to lead such a team. He was grateful. So he would continue to work with and for them for as long as he was their leader.
If his responsibility moved to leading another team, then he would be grateful for that too. And live up to being their leader.
No matter what, Aegis and Carlos would strive to honour the burden they carried. His own sacrifices were nothing compared to what so many people had to struggle against every day.
He would help them. No matter how much it hurt.
When they cried "Death to the King", my father the king had been dead for two years. Whoever was controlling the bones of my father's body cared nothing for him, me, or the kingdom we used to rule. But all the people in the kingdom didn't care for the façade of my father, or me, anymore either. And I'd ran from them – the people – the bones – my birthright – all of it.
I'd give up much more than a kingdom to replace what I'd really lost. Besides, it was a lot easier to be happy as a barmaid than a princess.
I looked up from the book. I'd seen it on the library shelf and picked it up since other students had been ranting about how the third and final book in the story was coming out soon.
I'd opened the book because the blurb was interesting enough – some medieval princess in a world where parahuman powers are like bloodlines is living the commoner life but is asked to return to her mantle. She doesn't want to, so it becomes a story about refusing the call and the struggle of doing the easy thing versus the right thing and all that. Typical for stories that people my age were reading.
I'd re-read the opening passage maybe five times now.
It was a fine opening passage. Nothing on the level of the real classics, but fine. The hint at some necromancy style power was cool. But…
How could anyone know that their home was suffering and not want to do anything about it?
I started reading again, from the top of the page (again). The words were there in front of me. I could see them. They just…
The fight yesterday at the bank. Seeing and sensing clouds of dark emptiness. Beasts of bone and meat taller at the shoulder than I was standing. Laser blasts and chromatic beams. The very battlefield changing under everyone's feet. Feeling myself warp to where I was needed and struggle to plan around the Undersiders and push through the shuddering of my muscles and –
I closed the book. Put it down. It seemed like a fine book.
But fictional stakes didn't seem like enough right now. I'd never felt more alive than yesterday.
Even following orders that weren't helping, even while trying not to act from anger, even losing. The energy was like nothing I'd experienced. Sure, I'd struggled before. Winslow had been a slow inevitable hell. Until I'd gotten free. And now I had purpose and there were direct and concrete actions I could take. To help my city! (And myself.)
I grabbed the fine-enough book and walked back to where I'd found it. I think I was a little in love with Arcadia's library. Winslow had barely even pretended to have one (for anything beyond textbooks). But this was rows of wooden shelves and soft but still slightly scratchy carpet and little nooks with tables where you were allowed to read or study or talk quietly at lunch.
The book went back on the shelf, and I thought about how much I wanted to tell Mom about Arcadia's library. Maybe if I had never chosen to go to Winslow (to stay with Emma) then the butterfly effect might have been enough that Mom would still be here.
But then I probably wouldn't have powers and… right. I could understand the protagonist of that book now. I'd totally give my powers away if it meant Mom would come back. If it meant I didn't have to face… problems.
I realised I was still staring at the book on the shelf. I understood that protagonist (not that I'd even read enough to get her name), but fiction was fiction. Mom wasn't coming back, and I wasn't going to give up my powers.
The news was playing from the tv screen high up in the library. Silent, with subtitles, as always. I moved my stuff to a different table so I could watch. Heroes should know what was happening after all. Hell, it was a gang war, everyone should be obsessively keeping up to date – just in case.
A map of the city was on the screen, shaded red where the Western Docks and Downtown met. Where the Empire had declared war by suddenly looting Asian stores and businesses – and violently assaulting the people inside them. Where Oni Lee had set fire to any bar or shopfront that referenced or blatantly showed Nazi symbolism. Unfortunately, there were a lot of those.
The map was replaced by a news reporter, who looked very sombre. And a photo of a young girl, straight dark-brown hair, long enough to go past the bottom of the school photo headshot. I read the subtitles – why was she important?
Huh. Niece of the Mayor. Dinah Alcott. Went missing yesterday after the gang war started. The police are asking everyone to keep an eye out in case she was kidnapped by either gang.
People were dead. Injured. More would be injured and killed again tonight. Or right now, depending on if the gangs decided hurting each other was more important than collateral damage. The mayor's niece being kidnapped was bad, sure. The gangs could try to ransom the mayor – prevent the national guard from getting called in. If it gets that bad, which… Brockton Bay. It would probably get that bad, but the guard would be 'needed elsewhere'.
Still. Why was one girl more important than all the people who'd already suffered? There were no names in the news yesterday – just warnings and updates and statistics.
The bell rung. Lunch was over and I was still frustrated by the privileges of people in authority. And frustrated about having to go to history class to make up for missing half the day yesterday. Why was fighting crime less important than homework?
Why did some people at the Youth Guard get to decide what was best for 'impressionable youths'?
Why did the fucking gangs get off on ruining my city?
[>[>/^\<]<]
History class was fine. Far better than Mr Gladly's World Issues back at Winslow. I mean, Mr Finnegan didn't really like me – some of the teachers thought I never paid attention for some reason – but at least he didn't give free passes to the kids he did like.
Today we were discussing events that changed the world. A discussion-based lesson, which actually worked how they were supposed to at this school.
"I explicitly asked for events before 1950 John. Parahumans first appeared in the 80s." Mr Finnegan had managed the niche trick of making a monotone voice not boring. No one could figure out if he was ever sarcastic on purpose or not. "The world wars do count Yasuda, but we covered them before break. I want you to name something I haven't taught you."
Someone mentioned the inventions of Tesla and Edison. The boy called them 'basically tinkers for their time'.
"Yes. The innovations of that period changed the face of society. Although those inventors, however enlightened, only seemed miraculous to the everyday people. Other scientists of the time could understand and replicate what Tesla and Edison had done. The only thing current scientists can understand about tinkers is that their technology makes even less sense than believing in horoscopes."
A few people chuckled. Mr Finnegan's face stayed utterly blank. Apparently, Dennis had been trying to get the man to laugh for over a year. He was still trying.
Someone else described the discovery of America, which was not quite global enough: "The world does not end at Europe. Taylor, would you like to give us something?"
Maybe he was annoyed I'd missed his class yesterday. Oh well. "The invention of the printing press made mass publishing feasible and massively lowered the prices of books. It also meant that European countries started standardising their languages. Which made being able to read worth it for common people. Published books or newsletters also started being printed about events and discoveries from other countries and allowed people to copy old historical accounts which renewed interest in the ancient world."
There. Tied it back to your subject Mr Finnegan. Happy?
Well, he nodded. Good enough.
While someone else started talking about the Spanish Flu, I noticed some people were… staring at me. I shifted focus from my mental map and the emotions of my teammates to my biology sense and made sure I wasn't tensing up or hunching down like I used to at Winslow.
I looked at the people who were looking at me. They looked away. I turned back to Mr Finnegan who was now calling on Alyse (who was in my English class I think?)
Alyse then went on a small rant about the Black Death and its effect in shaking faith in the Church, driving urban migration, and setting the stage for giving more rights to serfs. Then she went ahead and said that the death toll was basically like an Endbringer hitting every town in the country.
Somebody else joked about a disease-Endbringer. But nobody laughed because… fuck. The capital city of Australia had been put under a dome less than two months ago. And in roughly another two months or less, another city would be destroyed. Irradiated. Drowned. Condemned to insanity.
Imagining a disease like that? At least the heroes could fight back against Endbringers. Make it less completely awful. We had modern medicine, which meant the Black Death wouldn't happen again. But what if some biological tinker decided to make some super plague which just ignored antibiotics? Or was a literal zombie virus?
Mr Finnegan quickly asked someone else to speak. And allowed discussion of American Independence, even though it was a war, because no one wanted to really think about Endbringers any longer than they had to.
[>[>/^\<]<]
"Seneschal, get costumed up; you're with Kid Win today." Carlos – Aegis – was in costume on the Console; [frustrated]. "Heading downtown to help firefighters."
The door to the Wards base had barely closed behind me before I was getting instructions. Much different to the usual wait for everyone to gather.
"Everyone's patrols are shifted to shadowing first responders since the gangs don't clean up their own messes." Aegis finished explaining. He spun his chair back, the screens of the Console displaying… huh. Multiple patrols. That didn't happen very often. And Aegis was stuck here supervising. That explained his mild [resentment].
I stopped standing in the entrance like a stunned mullet and warped in front of my room's door. Darted inside. Stripped my clothes off and threw them onto the bed – cleanliness could come later. Then threw my costume on. Strode back out into the main space, holding my boots and armguards.
"Vista and Clockblocker have already gone out to assist paramedics." Aegis said, flicking through screens on the Console. "Kid Win just came in – I sent him to suit up too. I'll brief you both once he's out."
Made sense. I hadn't heard Chris enter – each Ward's room was soundproofed (for a multitude of reasons I really didn't want to think too hard about) – but my mental map had shown a static form enter and head to the tinker workshop.
Missy and Dennis helping paramedics made sense too. Dennis could pause injured people to give everyone more time and Missy could sense people and make it easier to get them.
How would Chris and I help firefighters? I could do the same sensing people trick, of course. Chris could fly – get people out of windows, guide them down with his hoverboard. I suddenly (not for the first time) wished I could warp other people along with me.
As I was thinking, Chris walked out of his workshop. He'd never had power armour of his own before, just maintaining the armour Armsmaster had made for Gallant. Even now, he hadn't so much made a suit as turned his costume into a tinker-costume; connection ports that would allow any of the armour modules to teleport in from the workshop.
Seeing him improve so much gear in three weeks had driven home the point about how dangerous tinkers were. They were the only capes who could grow and respond. Sure, it took resources and time, but there was a reason Armsmaster had lasted so long as Protectorate Leader in my gang-infested city. He was famous for always having new tricks packed into his halberd. If you fought him, you'd never be able to plan for all he could do. (But he could plan against you.)
Chris had ducked out of yesterday's Ward meeting (after Piggot's antagonistic 'debriefing') to fix up the things that had gotten damaged in the Undersiders fight. I was pretty sure he'd done something to his targeting drone too – the antenna array on his helmet was more complicated today.
Pity that the shared power from Chris didn't let me do any tinkering of my own.
Aegis told us about how Oni Lee had continued firebombing Empire territory through today – probably making up for Lung's continued absence. Which was concerning. Really concerning. Like this war wasn't bad enough with one of the scariest players being completely off the field.
Regardless, there was work to do now. Work that the firefighters had already been doing since yesterday afternoon. Focus on the present, Taylor.
Chris and I were going to be shadowing one of the firefighter squads, helping them however they wanted and following them between locations.
The squad in question was already out there and had been since lunch.
Kid Win had to jog to keep up with me as I strode towards the PRT garage; to the van that would get us to where we could help.
[>[>/^\<]<]
As soon as Kid Win cracked open the doors on the PRT van, I warped outside.
An apartment building was on fire.
Not fully, but, like, seeing flames crackle upwards and black smoke stream from the windows was…
The bottom floor was hard to see – past the flowing and snapping red and orange. Sparks snapped. Smoke was coming from the second floor mainly. A CRACK and air rushed out, parting the smoke enough for a tongue of yellow to lash about inside a window.
The water spraying from the firehose just disappeared inside. Was it even doing anything?
I'd seen burning houses on the news before. Reporters standing in front of destruction, views from helicopters. I mean, this was Brockton Bay. We'd had a history of arson ruining lives since some assholes set fire to the container ship created the Boat Graveyard.
But I hadn't known how warm it would be. I was standing across the street from the blaze, and I was warm.
And it stank. Acrid and grimy and the smoke and I half wanted to turn around and take a shower just to scrub the –
Kid Win nudged my arm, [commiserating]. "It's, uh, a lot. If you need a, uh, moment I can –"
"Hey!" A whistle followed the shout. Standing near the cabin of a fire truck were two firefighters. Heavy suited, hard helmeted. One of them ran back towards the fire. The one who had called out had the facemask of his helmet detached, mouth scowling under the clear visor. "Heroes! You here to work or pose?"
His barking shout didn't make me jump. But it did remind me that I was wasting time. I warped in front of him and felt Kid Win jogging towards us on my mental map.
"Right." Open-facemask-man glared at me. "I've got men doing a final sweep of the top floors. Then we need to douse this blaze and move on. You got anything to help?" His words were fast and clear in a way that reminded me of rap – but rhythmless, just rushing to impart information and – Taylor! Help!
"I can sense people in an area. Could also give you a floorplan of the building. I can teleport up there to check for people now." I was already scanning everything as my mental map expanded.
"Can you teleport with people?" The firefighter grunt-asked.
I shook my head.
"Bloody course not. What about you?"
"I can fly and assist someone else on my hoverboard – no one too large. Can also scout windows, defend, and go into fire for a short time." Kid Win had joined us.
"Right." The firefighter muttered something into the radio clipped to his collar. "Go check for people. We need to put this out."
I had already been focusing on my mental map, staring at the burning building to make my mental map fill the space faster. There were three static-shapes in the upper floors, all moving. No one below floor 3. My mental map didn't tell me there was fire – it showed no heat, no cold, no airflow, no smoke.
But I could infer that fire was where the apartment building had sections that didn't form straight lines or flat surfaces when a building probably should. Stuff like craters of abrasion that were deepening as I focused.
On the ground level, I noticed what was left of a wall collapsing in slow motion – plasterboard flaking off as the beams behind it grew thinner and thinner – then the wooden supports came down and another sparking crunch joined the burning cacophony from across the street.
"Is this a quick power or what?" Gruff firefighter was scowling.
"Three people moving in the top two floors. No bodies." I turned back to the burning apartment block. Was this really an Empire front? My mental map showed me distances that formed what could only be the shapes of kids toys and photos on mantel-pieces.
"Stop getting distracted by the fire kid. We gotta job to do an' we ain't got enough time to do it." Gruff firefighter's eyes were as scowling as his mouth. He'd just finished growling into his radio again – the static-people on the top floors were all moving to fire escapes.
"I was looking at the building, not the fire."
"This is your first time. I can tell. Don't act tough, just work." Did he really… I was not acting tough! I was focusing on the building and – gah! Fine. Not important. Just work. Fine.
The rest of the firefighters ran back to the truck, pulling out another hose to join the two that had been water-blasting the ground floor. The new team ran down a side alley and started fighting the fire from a different angle.
"Any powers to help with this bit?"
I met this blunt firefighter's eyes through his soot-stained but still clear visor. Thought about it; I could hold a hose, but I didn't know how to accurately fight fire. My powers couldn't help me fight environmental or abstract problems. So as much as I wanted to hurt the concept of arson, I had to shake my head.
Kid Win glanced down at the screen built into his gauntlet, then said something about knocking walls down.
I watched the firefighters tame the blaze. It shrank as I waited. Standing aside. Because this was a situation where I couldn't do anything.
My teammates could all help here. Aegis could take damage and fly, so he could hold a hose and be directed. Clockblocker could freeze parts of the building and leave the fire without fuel to burn. Kid Win would be able to invent something to help next time – and could be indirectly useful now. Vista could make the water bigger, the fire smaller. Gallant… would connect with the firefighters and keep their morale up – and talk to the civilians who had been roused from their homes and were now standing on the street staring or sobbing or screaming at the fire. Or at the world.
Gallant would talk to them. Reassure them. He would also know what they were feeling. Would know what to say.
I didn't have much experience with normal conversations before this month. Calming someone whose home was burning?
That wouldn't go well. And I kind of agreed with them. They didn't deserve to lose their home. Not for the Empire. Not for random bloody bad luck.
When (particularly) horrible things had happened to me, all I'd wanted to know was 'why'? And I didn't have that answer for these people. (Still didn't have an answer for myself.) So, I wouldn't interrupt their grief. Or rage. Or despair.
The firefighters ran back to the truck as the one who had stayed with us gave instructions to Kid Win about the next blaze.
My mental map showed the extent of the damage. Surfaces marred and charred. Walls caved and collapsed. The damage no longer growing but staggering in its amount. And this was one building.
The hoses finished their electronic retraction into the truck and the firefighters jumped inside the cabin, pulling heavy face masks aside.
"Can you follow the truck?" Kid Win nodded at the blunt firefighter. "Good, we're moving." He turned and hauled himself up behind the truck's wheel.
Kid Win flew up to the firetruck's roof. I warped up in front of him.
Some words barked from within the truck's cabin. The lights flashed in my face, sirens blared in my ears. The air stank of smoke.
We sped off.
[>[>/^\<]<]
The blaze we were now facing was another apartment building. After the first apartment block, Kid Win and I had assisted in dousing a hunting store and two bars. I'd spotted Nazi symbolism at each of them – not swastikas, but it turns out there are a lot of subtle ways of signalling that you support both genocide and fascism (subtle until you tattoo yourself with the symbol of course).
But this set of apartments was well and truly aflame. People were standing hunched over, sitting, or simply collapsed – all in their pyjamas. Some holding a few objects. Most coughing the smoke from their lungs.
All visibly still processing the destruction of their homes.
There hadn't been any people near the fires at the other places, but I'd gotten better at just acting. Better at taking in the horrible majesty and danger and pushing it aside. Better at doing the damn job. It helped that the gruff firefighter (squad sergeant, I'd discovered) reminded me of a few dock overseers dad was friends with.
I warped closer to the fire, letting my mental map expand to cover the building. This one had gone up recently. I could sense the patches of fire – they hadn't burned into the building itself – not as much as the other places. But there was a lot of fire. And sections of it weren't connected.
Patches of charring walls and weakening ceilings – some floors apart. This apartment building was closer to the Towers, taller to make up for the more spacious rooms. Or something. I knew dockwork and shipping, not real estate.
Regardless, the fires here had multiple sources. Like the ABB had ran through the building dropping molotovs as they went instead of throwing everything at the bottom floor. Or like Oni Lee had teleported around, his clones immolating themselves and their surroundings after the real Lee passed.
The firefighters had unspooled their hoses and were blasting water at the apartment tower. One of them was going through the residents, checking for injuries and seeing if we needed an ambulance (again).
I warped back to the fire sergeant. "Multiple sources of fire. 23 people still in the higher floors but most of the stairways are burning."
"Oni fucking Lee." The sergeant spat, mask swinging from one side of his helmet as he ran towards his squad. I jogged after him. "Right guys, half stay on the hoses, half up on ladders. Kid's gonna be hovering people down, so Dion's going up with him to help Seneschal clear the top."
Kid Win was already flying to meet the firefighter who was handing his hose to the sergeant. The firefighter – Dion – stepped awkwardly but unhesitatingly onto the hoverboard, which Kid Win navigated upwards.
I warped closer and scanned my mental map again. There. A static blob on the balcony facing us. "Kid Win, there's someone three balconies from the right on the 6th floor."
"On it. You're asked to do doors again." His mic clicked off just as his targeting drone teleported in. He'd had to send it back to his workshop to charge in between stops. He'd also teleported in the rest of his gear, unplugging forcefield power packs to keep the drone going when the little charge it had gotten was inevitably not enough.
I was close enough to the crowd to hear the first gasps and calls of "Heroes!" as Kid Win flew towards the burning tower. My costume was less visible in the night, with no glowing forcefields and most of the white-grey of my bodysuit covered by my dark chest plate and arm guards.
So it was without fanfare that I warped up onto another balcony. Then warped inside the apartment and banged on the bedroom door until the static shape stopped darting between different open drawers and stumbled to the door. A woman in her 30s opened the door in jeans and a tank top and ran straight into me.
Then shrieked as she realised I'd been knocking on her bedroom door and not the actual entrance to her apartment. She immediately paled as she took in the fact that I was in costume.
"I'm a Ward, with the Protectorate." I cut off her burgeoning panic. "The firefighters are here, another Ward will pick you up from your balcony. Focus on saving your life, not your valuables." I warped away before I could feel guilty about the harsh words. Or before she could start begging me to help.
The corridor of this floor was slightly smoky. Not enough to trigger the alarms, but the blazes elsewhere had been more than enough to set the whole building wailing.
My mental map showed the firefighter guiding a family to the balcony where Kid Win had dropped him off. I began warping all over this floor of the building, pausing only to close doors to apartments that were empty and to unlock from the inside the doors that had people still inside them.
For the third time this night, the world became a series of short films.
Small segments where I organised the doors to help the firefighter find the people who hadn't focused on getting out of the burning building. Absurd little movies where I repeated words that the fire sergeant had told me to say to people that were barely holding themselves together. Dangerous documentaries of what could happen when panic in the middle of the night overcame training from school demonstrations and public safety announcements because my world was one of parahuman pyromaniacs.
All the while, the majority of my attention categorised and dissected sections of my mental map. Tracking the static shapes as they moved to the evacuation balcony and were flown down by my teammate. Who was [impatient] and [restless].
Other people were directed up, down, and around the patches of fire to safe balconies where Kid Win could grab them. Or to where another firefighter could guide them down the two fire escapes that hadn't had fires set along them. It was very not funny that Oni Lee had used the fire escape to get inside the building to set fires.
For a second, I wanted to laugh. It was not funny. It was so very infuriating and despicable. It…
I stopped. My mental map was still showing the movement of static figures, the spreading of fire, the sprays of water around the lower floors.
My hands were clenched. Formed into a fist the way the PRT self-defence instructor had shown me in the weekly trainings Vista and I (and now the other Wards) had. Three sessions. I knew how to form a fist. I knew how to throw a straight punch. And I knew what to do if some bully grabbed me when I wasn't in costume.
I'd cut my nails short so they didn't interfere with the gloves of my costume. But right now I wished that I could feel them digging into my palms. I… I'd always thought the Wards were trained. Prepared. Ready.
The most I'd interacted with the actual Protectorate was when I'd done my first power testing. And then when I was punished for dealing with the Merchants.
For fucks sake! Vista had been the one to tell me about what cape fights were like!
I'd never been trained for a real fight. I'd never even been told I would be helping firefighters before tonight. I'd never been ready for what was happening.
The Merchants were a surprise. The Undersiders were… (my own stupid fucking mistake…) we'd underestimated them. And this gang war was just a waste. The Empire and ABB didn't want the Merchant's territory – or there wouldn't have been any Merchants. Skidmark, Squealer, and Mush had been tricky for the Protectorate, but that was mainly Squealer's tinker vehicles becoming invisible and stuff. The Merchant capes could never have faced the Empire's roster and neither Lung nor Oni Lee wouldn't have needed backup to win (kill them).
So why was this war happening? Because the gangs just wanted more??? What was the point? Money – no, power? (Fuck you Tattletale, money was still needed if you weren't a supervillain.)
Were the gangs just fighting because they could? Trying to expand their petty kingdoms just because no one could stop them?!?
There was fire at the other end of the corridor I was in. I'd closed all the doors – no one was on this floor anymore. My oesophagus was closing to only draw air in through my nose, trying to limit the smoke that was making my eyes sting even behind my visor.
I watched the flames. Kaiser certainly styled himself a king. Lung styled himself… well, Lung was a warlord. Conquering and unifying any 'Asian' gang under his banner. But why did any of them bother?
What the hell did they gain by plunging my city into war? By murdering people who didn't run away from their gunfights fast enough. By burning down homes on purpose. By –
My body coughed. It… shocked me. My body coughed again and I realised I'd been standing here, scanning my mental map, keeping some attention on what I'd guessed was the level of lactic acid in my muscles.
I'd taken a break from the repetition of opening and closing doors, talking to shellshocked people, reporting on the where the fire was spreading to… to try and understand what the fuck was happening.
The villains do something awful and the city and the PRT try to stop it, clean it up. Just… endless reaction. The Merchants were hurting people and I had to react to that. The Undersiders rob a bank and the Wards step in. We're heroes, we stop the villains. But why were we waiting for the villains to make the first move before doing anything ourselves?!?
It felt uncomfortably like Winslow. Every day there I would walk carefully, trying to look ahead. Futilely attempting to minimise the harm until something inevitably happened and I could only react. Director Piggot used professional words: 'containment', 'response', 'chain of command'.
But I understood what 'managing a powderkeg' was like. I understood what it felt like when the other side was stronger, had more resources, used the system to their advantage.
I didn't like thinking about it, but I'd watched the trio for a month – despairing as I realised they had the school with them and that the administration believed their story. The thing that had gutted me most is when I'd realised that the more they won, the more they were believed. Which meant they won more.
Organisations were made up of people. And people had flaws.
I warped away from the fire to a blessedly less smoky area. My lungs had been doing the biological equivalent of complaining, but I needed the oxygen to be thinking clearly and getting lightheaded was something I'd experienced enough yesterday when pausing.
There was something there. A connection between the trio playing the system of high school and the gangs playing with the rules the rest of the city followed. But the last people were getting out of the building now. The firefighters would have to decide how to stop the blaze – how much of the building to save. Because once the gangs attacked, something was always left damaged.
A few warps took me down to the firetruck. The air still smelt of smoke out here, but my lungs finally stopped telling me that the air was full of irritant particles.
Kid Win looked up as I appeared, [tired] but [planning]. He turned back to the fire sergeant, who was gesturing at sections of the apartment building. They seemed to reach an accord, with Kid Win [concentrating] as he flew into the air above the crowds on his hoverboard to…
Right. Help the firefighters hose down the fire. By helping them reach the fire. By pouring all of the charge from every module on his suit into his auto-lasers. Which fired a streaming barrage of white crackling beams into sections of the apartment building.
Smoke poured out of the new holes in the burning homes people had been sleeping in mere hours ago. It felt counterproductive, kinda… wrong… for heroes to purposefully destroy buildings. But when the choices (to react to the villain) were knocking a few walls down with lasers, letting firefighters risk their lives even more, or letting the thing burn, well. The priorities were clear.
I wondered where things got so messed up. On the line from priorities to outcomes, Brockton Bay had a glitch or broken component somewhere.
Lasers flew. The area in front of the burning building didn't get any brighter, because there was so much fucking fire.
"What the fuck! That's my apartment!!!" A man, getting to his feet on the other side of the street. "What the fuck are you doing!?!"
He started running towards us. "That's my home! I'll sue you all for property damage! You better stop you juvenile freaks! Stop! That's my fucking house!!!"
Kid Win flew back towards us as the firefighters moved in.
The fire was really bright. My lungs had filtered out the smoke from the corridor now, but my heartrate was still increasing for some reason. I chose to focus on my mental map – to try to count the individual static-shapes. It would be good practice.
"Shut the fuck up! They're just kids! And they saved your life!" Another angry man in the crowd. Another man, angry at the first man's anger. Reactions. I started counting again from the beginning.
Someone else started comforting the first man – who was now crying more than he was yelling.
I looked at Kid Win. His visor turned to meet mine.
"Everyone wants us to do more." He said it with [understanding/frustration/resignation/sympathy].
Kid Win and the other Wards knew how fed up I'd gotten with my week-and-a-half of punishment duty on the console. He wasn't referencing that now though.
Everyone in Brockton Bay wanted the heroes to do more. Students at Winslow. Students at Arcadia. The dockworkers. Shoppers on the boardwalk. People who lived in the Towers worrying about insurance. People who lived in the bad parts of the Docks worrying about putting food on the table (or their lives).
I had the same thoughts. Maybe they were selfish ones in hindsight. All along the lines of: 'why aren't the heroes fixing my problem?'
(Well, a hero had been causing my problem.)
The PRT was the issue. Department policy. Stakeholder relations and PR – the Youth Guard. But Piggot complained about all that too.
Somebody, somewhere, wanted the heroes to do less.
Unless it wasn't any one group. Just small things adding up. Pressure from one area, a push from another. Until someone like Lung comes along and is strong enough to not care about rules that had already been weakened for years.
So, all the people without power don't matter. And lose what little power they have. Was this all just the people with power fighting over who had the most?
The people with power certainly weren't elected. And the people we did elect didn't have power. Not how Tattletale described it anyway. What was the point of electing a mayor if the mayor doesn't run the city?
We stared at each other a moment longer, then Kid Win teleported his hoverboard in front of his feet. He stepped forwards and lifted off to follow the truck that was already speeding away, sirens blaring.
I looked at the still smoking apartment building. At the few cinders still glowing in the alleyways that, even soot-stained, were so much cleaner than the ones in the Docks.
My city was not going to bow to any ridiculous might-makes-right bullshit. People mattered. America was a democracy, and the gangs were not going to drag us back to the middle-fucking-ages.
I warped onto the firetruck before it went off my mental map. The lights flashed in my face, sirens blared in my ears, metal shifting under my feet till I grabbed the edge of a roof panel. I could still smell smoke.
I held on.
[>[>Peasant<]<]
Fire Sergeant Grumman took his helmet off and scratched his scalp. He'd kept it shaved since rescuing someone who'd kept it long and gotten burned for it.
His office wasn't quiet. The radio was still issuing updates, but the alerts had stopped. Oni Lee, the ABB, whoever might have joined in on the arson; they were all done.
It was dark outside, but maybe he could see the dawn rise over his city. Grumman checked the time – the first time he'd allowed himself to since driving out to the first alert.
4:47am.
He didn't groan. Or laugh. Or sigh. He hadn't done any of that last night either, when his squad had gotten back after the sun had risen.
Grumman walked – more like exhaustedly shambled – down to the showers. His squad had probably finished up and hit the bunks. Or were calling their loved ones and families. He'd just called the head office and given a verbal report then sent in the notes his deputy had made when driving between blazes; the barest minimum grease needed for the bureaucracy to keep grinding its gears.
The shower was lukewarm. He made it colder. Just a little thing to tell his body that there wasn't going to be any more fire and smoke for a little bit.
That the work was done until tomorrow night.
The cold woke Grumman up just enough for his hatred of the gangs to bubble up next to the fatigue. Not cutting through his tiredness, just joining it. He kept his mouth shut against the cold water and grabbed the soap.
Hopefully his squad would get some parahuman help tomorrow night. Maybe even the same ones. But probably not.
The heroes had chipped in. At best, they'd now chip in somewhere else. Grumman didn't resent the Protectorate for that. He knew what it was like to be one person, one squad, against fire after fire. At least his fires didn't fight back. Not literally.
The shower shut off, the drips the only sound around him. His arms dropped back to his sides as he contemplated whether grabbing a towel was worth it. Maybe it was worth laying on the floor so he could just sleep right here.
Grumman stumbled to the sergeant's bunk room. Andrew was asleep – his squad had gotten in an hour earlier. Grumman spent a second staring at the lucky bastard. Then remembered Andrew's squad hadn't had the parahumans.
The one redeeming quality about the firehouse bunks was that they didn't get more uncomfortable. He would never call them good, but the bunks never crossed the line into bad. Not in the years he'd been here. Not in the time his sergeant had talked about before the man was decapitated by the nazi in shining armour.
Grumman stared at the ceiling, too exhausted to completely relax.
Goddamn parahumans. When he'd grown up, the civil war was supposed to be the last war ever fought on American soil. Then people got powers and now he'd lived through three periods of hell when the underworld stopped pretending it was under anything and decided fire and bullets needed to be as widespread as the drugs.
The heroes had always put a lid on it. But times like this, when he didn't have to manage his squad, when he was too damn tired to be anything but a pessimist, Grumman didn't feel very grateful.
Parahumans destroyed. Other parahumans limited and stopped that destruction. But none of them ever built anything after the rubble had settled.
Grumman rolled over and finally, finally groaned. Cursed god and the devil and that one maths teacher who told him he couldn't be a builder without learning trigonometry.
He woke up three hours later to his son calling to say he was bringing breakfast to the station. The kid had always wanted to be a chef. Was never gonna be famous, but his son's food was half the reason Grumman's squad put up with him.
Grumman didn't notice he'd fallen back asleep until he realised the smell of bacon wasn't a dream. He groaned at his son, but didn't try to hide his appreciation as he ate.