Chapter 11 - 11

[>[>Laughing Mask<]<]

​

When Seneschal, who had already disappeared, stopped explaining things to the PRT dispatcher and didn't reappear, Clockblocker jogged back towards the ambulance. It was pretty obvious that Seneschal wouldn't be back until that fight was over. One way or another.

But he couldn't stop himself from constantly looking over his shoulder in the direction of the gunfire. Keeping his head on a swivel.

Or that's what one of those gruff sergeants in the Earth Aleph video games would have said. He would have said it too – imitating the harsh bark so closely associated with a military that wasn't as important as it used to be.

Apparently. (God, that was another one, but he just couldn't remember the right nerdy accent for it.)

The paramedics didn't hurry after he relayed what Seneschal was doing. Or his orders.

As Clockblocker then jogged further up into the middle of the street, he supposed that they were probably used to gunfire. Not… directly. But you wouldn't be able to work any kind of night shift in this city and not have at least… two… stories? Maybe five. Depending on where you worked.

He deployed his shield; the watch face expanding section after section.

God it was cool. And apparently making it have different modes was an easier design for Kid Win. Which, Dennis was certainly not going to complain.

(Especially since he'd convinced Chris to make the watch make the transformers noise. He still couldn't help but laugh a little inside. Every time.)

The street was pretty dark. Not really dark. But pretty dark. A bunch of the streetlights weren't working.

Yup. Creepy.

Like some weird suburban horror movie that was advertised as a psychological thriller but really just used way too many jump scares.

Dennis could deal with jump scares. He'd played a few games like that – and watched Dean and Chris play them afterwards and laughed at their faces.

Nothing jumped out of the darkness. The gunshots had still echoed – bursts of danger in the distance. But nothing was changing here.

This was the kind of horror he hated. The waiting. Knowing that something bad was coming. Waiting more. Knowing that even if you paused the game and came back later, something was still going to be horrible and all you could do was wait and just let it happen.

Dennis raised his shield – he'd selected the shape of a riot shield this time – and reached his other hand toward the quick release of the arm strap.

Press. Freeze.

He let go of the handle and let the shield hang in mid-air. The timer in the back of his mind had already started ticking down, but he had another 73 seconds to go.

The street was still dark.

Enough lights working that you could drive. Not enough to feel safe walking. Definitely not enough to see anyone sneaking towards him.

(He refroze his shield even if there was more than half of the timer left to go.)

Not that anyone would be sneaking towards him. But Dennis had seen the creepy statues in Earth Aleph's Doctor Who reboot.

Damn, why was he so fixated on horror tonight? Just because it was dark and spooky and people were shooting at each other (and probably dying) up ahead – oh, and they'd split the party – didn't mean that everything had to be all grim and monstrous.

Which it wasn't. There were a few cool things. Funky things. Very funny and awesome things.

Like Missy. Ever since Taylor joined, lil Vista had gotten cool. And Dennis was feeding her creativity, because a power like that used for pranks? Unforgettable.

Chris was a lot happier, even if they played video games together less often. Dennis knew that getting the tinker into the prank scene wouldn't work. Uber and L33t had already cornered that niche. (Cornered and mugged in a dark alley where they used their ill-gotten gains to make… unoriginal and weirdly cruel trash.)

Carlos was as uptight as ever. And Dean was just too… good. Even if it would be hilarious to send tiny laughter beams at people, he'd still talk about consent and accountability and blah blah New Wave has infected me through my girlfriend who probably broke up with me yesterday. (Even if laughter beams would be harmless.)

And Taylor.

Taylor was cool. Not like the laid-back popular kid cool, she was more like… the terminator. Tall, stoic, silently badass. Occasionally, she'd let out these dry, biting statements that left Dean worried about Dennis' feelings before he realised that Dennis had been aiming to get Taylor to let loose that wicked sarcasm the entire time.

And she was pretty. Well… no pretty was the wrong word. Taylor was tall. And lean. And still a bit gangly, but in a few years she'd be that kind of runway model hot that would make the image department redesign her costume.

And she was way too focused to even consider romance. At least she'd helped calm down the awkwardness between Missy and Dean.

Which was all fine. Dennis was self-aware enough to recognise puberty saying, 'hey look, girl' and keep it to himself.

There were funnier things to act on.

Unlike this darkness.

And the waiting.

He checked his watch – the third one, that actually told the time. Then groaned quietly because it had only been two minutes and he wasn't in the mood to start thinking about the things he thought about when there was too much waiting.

Those things were saved for hospital appointments and the ambulance was not close enough to a hospital, thank you very much. So piss off, intrusive thoughts.

Suddenly, a whine split the air.

Nails on chalkboard. A jet engine overhead. Air squealing out of a blown balloon.

Clockblocker pushed aside thoughts of some kind of demon portal, refroze his shield, and focused on the street. Nothing moved. It still felt like waiting. He'd still give his life savings and, like, an arm, for a mover power that would let him do something.

He radioed console and called an end to the patrol. He wasn't in the mood to see more dying people tonight.

Two semi-agonising minutes later, Seneschal just bloody appeared next to him. But it wasn't the first time she'd done that, and he'd since realised that she wasn't intentionally trying to freak people. So, Dennis managed to not flinch. And make a joke.

Because this whole thing was really far too serious for anyone's good.

"Speak of the Devil's steward. I was just about to call you over comms." He was. And wasn't. Had been debating it ever since she'd teleported out. It would have made the wait easier if he had. But that would have alerted console to the fact that orders were being… creatively interpreted.

And Clockblocker was always one to support creative interpretation. When it was funny. Or helping in another way.

"Thanks for waiting," Seneschal said. With that damn distracted tone that was as hard to read as Mr Finnegan's monotone.

"Nah, don't worry about it." Dennis walked past her to balance on the curb. Because he needed to focus on something other than how his teammate could just deal with a gunfight and seem perfectly fine.

"You got them?" He wanted more details, but that was the most important information. Dennis would get the rest when she felt ready to give it.

"Yeah. Cops are calling a wagon." She said it in the same manner his younger brother would respond to their mom when he was watching TV and not actually listening to what she said.

It was infuriating. It also seemed to be some kind of power-based quirk or coping mechanism. Dennis wouldn't complain about her methods. She didn't complain about his, anyway.

His own problems were… inevitable, unstoppable, and hopeless. But normal, in a way. Lots of people had dads who were dying of cancer. Dennis was just the one who got powers out of it. (Which still didn't make it funny.)

Damn. He'd brooded too long for a joke to feel natural. But he still wanted Taylor – the sarcastic and stupidly tall girl under Seneschal's costume – to know that he supported her.

"Nice." Is what he said.

He was then faced with the urge to freeze his costume and never deal with the real world again. Alas. (That would involve waiting.)

"A PRT van is coming. We got permission to end patrol early." There, that was better. Better than an awkward 'nice'. Better than the jokes he'd started out with.

Taylor didn't like a good half of the jokes in the world. But she (occasionally) liked puns and convoluted wordplay. Not that he would have held back if she didn't like puns.

Her fault for going with such a pretentious cape name, after all.

Later that night, after Taylor had teleported to her room in the Ward's base, Dennis reflected on the realisation that an angry Taylor was way scarier than an empty street in the dark.

Still, at least there wasn't that same sense of waiting.

[>[>Coveter of the Throne<]<]

​

The man in a snake costume didn't stand from his plush armchair when the blond girl was led inside.

It was a power play. Purposeful. Obvious.

She knew it. He knew it. They both know the other knew it.

Alone, it wouldn't have worked.

But add it to how he was in costume, face hidden, and her in casual clothes? Add it to how his men had pulled up in a van beside her when she was walking back from one of the decoy apartments she knew he knew about? Add it to the armed mercenaries waiting in the kitchen of this unmemorable safehouse?

Add it to how he waited before giving the signal to remove the black bag from her head?

Well, even if it was obvious, and he knew she knew he knew she knew what he was doing, she was still human. And humans got scared. And scared humans made mistakes.

Besides, he said it was all to maintain security. And he knew that she knew that was an obvious power play too.

(Even if he knew she hated him and she knew the security was still there for security too.)

Because he had the power. And she had to play nice.

"My Tattletale," the man in the snake costume said with the calm confident certainty of someone who knew they would face no consequences, "have you confirmed what I asked?"

"Yeah." She sounded angry. But her eyes were a little too wide, darting around just a bit too much. Fear. Good, it would keep her useful.

He waited, folding his hands in his lap. He'd asked for more information. And she had more to say, one way or another.

"The PRT files don't match her real power." She bit out. Still pretending anger.

"Which is?" He asked. Politely. It was always more efficient to start by entertaining such little games, he'd learnt.

"Its not in their system. Not digitally. There are traces of things being removed from her original power testing, but that's it."

He didn't clench his fist, but he reckoned she knew he had to stop himself. His Tattletale's power was so useful. When pointed away from him.

"But I did find something." She waited until he, irritated, cocked his head slightly in question. "Her power is affecting the Protectorate now. As well as the Wards."

He stilled in thought.

So, this Seneschal could reach far. And the expansion of her… effect… meant that the PRT considered it safe. Useful. Yes, he would start laying plans. Which would be so much easier, now his pet could tell him the odds.

In one timeline, where he'd asked about state of the Undersiders, he dismissed his Tattletale. She had been useful this morning.

In the other, where he'd learnt what he really wanted to know, he clicked his fingers and a mercenary shot his Tattletale in the head. Her little games had been irritating him lately.

Monday usually felt like the start of the week.

The weekend break was over, everyone getting back to the grind. As some of the dockworkers would joke. Or not joke. As cynical as they seemed to be about work, I thought that they had it easy compared to high school. Compared to Winslow at least. Arcadia was way better than full-time dock work.

Fortunately, as I watched the street corner, crouched halfway up an apartment fire escape, Winslow felt… like something that had happened to a different Taylor.

A Taylor who dreaded Mondays.

Because I had not dreaded this Monday. Quite the opposite. But neither had it felt like the start of the week.

I guess the culmination of four days planning and preparation would do that.

The reason I was crouched halfway up a fire escape was because Tattletale had been (suspicious) helpful. She'd provided an encrypted zip file that showed regular patrol routes, locations where Empire goons congregated, and had a folder of police reports. With attached mugshots.

Very helpful.

So helpful I'd spent 2 days poring over court records to confirm the police reports. And another two days to, once I'd got my equipment organised, scope out the information on the Empire.

Which brought me to tonight.

Monday night. The beginning of my first real outing as… not Seneschal. A vigilante. Ooo. Big spooky word on the cape scene. An independent who didn't even have the benefit of being called 'hero'. And none of the resources that villains gathered. Worst of both worlds.

But tonight was not my first step in this new direction.

Maybe it was feeding into rebellious teenager stereotypes, but in going out alone the past few days, I'd felt free. A particular kind of freedom where it was less about bad things no longer happening and more about being able to do good without any more damn barriers. Cause while I might be using Tattletale's information, this was my plan. My tactics. My strategy.

The organisation of the Empire had not faced enough pressure to change. Because everyone else fought the capes. I wouldn't mind fighting an Empire cape. I'd managed to take down Cricket and Rune almost by myself anyway.

But that was the PRT's approach. Heroes versus villains. Big. Loud. Climactic. Attention-grabbing. Balanced.

I'd believed in that method too. Fighting the bullies. But I'd make the same mistake the PRT did. Thinking that the villains were the bullies.

Stopping that gunfight last Thursday had opened my eyes. The gangs as organisations had built a playground and schoolyard where bullies prospered.

So, I wasn't going to fight the enemy on their chosen ground.

I wouldn't engage in loud or attention-grabbing fights. I wouldn't try to balance things. I wouldn't fight the villains. (Unless they fought me.)

Stopping the gangs meant stopping the gang's organisation. And while the people at the top of the hierarchy were loud and attention-grabbing, every king needs a kingdom.

So, I was going after the peasants.

Four of whom were finally walking out of the bar where they (apparently) always met at 7pm Monday night. Starting the week with a celebration. Of… being a nazi. Because this bar apparently (pretty obviously) specifically catered to my city's population of racist skinheads.

If the stickers in the corners of windows and the whole colour scheme (the Empire's red and black) weren't a clear signal, the men I was waiting for gave off an even clearer vibe of 'racist skinhead' on my bottom-rung-gang-goon radar. Which I had fine tuned enough in Winslow's illustrious halls to tell that these men were full Empire members. And doing something that they found boring but that someone else had told them was important.

Probably. That's what Tattletale's notes suggested. And I doubted that these macho-shoulder-punching men had the acting skills to downplay their activities.

Or the brains to realise they should.

Which fed my anger just a little more. The nazis felt safe. Protected by their Empire. It was sickening. Gangs shouldn't last long enough to become like institutions.

Even Boston, just down the coast, had turnover in its players. Except for Accord, who was some super thinker. And the Butcher, who was… Piggot's containment nightmare. But even major players changed territory and were challenged by new parahumans and… didn't stagnate into… well, the shithole that my city was now.

Like, shit, the Empire Eighty-Eight was intergenerational. The past few days of analysis and frustration had made me seriously consider the rumours that one of their capes had connections to Gesellschaft. Because why wouldn't the premier nazi organisation of the northern US have connections to the premier nazi organisation of Europe?

Didn't that make a whole load of awful sense that just made me want to warp down to the street and break some nazi noses?

Or at least yell at them to hurry up and let me trail them to their criminal warehouse already!

Only the fact that punching them and trailing them were mutually exclusive pushed my frustration back into its cage.

So, with four days accumulated energy, I watched from afar as they finally sauntered down the street in a twisted parody of how other people would have walked to work this morning.

[>[>---<]<]

​

After 30 minutes of walking – detours to chat to equally sketchy racists on street corners included – the men I was following finally ambled to a stop outside a warehouse.

A squat, single-story, abandoned-looking warehouse that was definitely a gang stash. Unless there was a shipping business that kept the doors oiled but refused to clean a single inch of anything else outside. But, considering how the men I was tailing looked around before knocking a pattern on a door that, shortly after, opened silently, I thought it was safe to bet on gang stash.

Once they were all inside, I warped to the roof of the neighbouring warehouse, getting as close as I could while staying hidden. Leaning against the vertical part of the sawtooth roof.

Which was grimy. That particular kind of uncleanliness that's full of grease and dust and bird shit. It wasn't new after my past few days of scouting out Empire territory. But I was very glad I'd gone with black for my costume.

Second costume.

Solo costume? Secret costume?

I once again considered if I should try to establish a second secret cape identity. But the conclusion I'd arrived at on the first night of scouting was still sound. The only reason to make a second identity is for people put a name to my actions. And my aim was not to become popular.

My aim was to become very unpopular. Among a certain demographic of criminals. And the only name that fit that kind of identity was 'Consequences'. Which was cheesy enough that I'd decided to go with the silent shadowy spectre shtick.

Hence the black.

The other attributes of my costume also worked fine for standing on a grimy roof that was not designed to be stood on. Cargo pants – thick and replaceable. Motorcycle jacket – thicker and padded. Steel-cap boots – for if (when) I needed to kick someone. Weird martial arts gloves – covering fingerprints without hindering my grip. And a balaclava I'd stitched some of dad's old prescription sports glasses into.

Not the best for vision, but my vision was only for gathering details my mental map couldn't. I did regret shoving my hair into this scratchy hood. But the security was more important. My hair was a distinguishing feature – one I was proud of. Which is part of why it had to go. Because I needed to use all the tricks I could to separate a random new teleporting vigilante from the teleporting newest Ward.

Honestly, the worst thing was that I couldn't use a taser. Even a non tinker-tech one would have been so convenient.

Putting the costume and all my equipment together had given me an appreciation of the PRT's costume budget. The stuff I wore as Seneschal must have been pricey.

My musing had allowed enough time for my mental map to expand to the warehouse the empire goons had entered. I knew more of the outside than inside, just because sight expanded my map faster, but my steadily growing sense-view of the inside was… telling.

It was mostly large emptiness – the walls and ceiling revealing their full lengths with nothing interrupting the empty-distance-space between them. But the walls on the shorter side furthest away from the street had a room built on. What seemed to originally be the warehouse office had been built upon to form a… barracks? Or rectangular house?

The wait as my map slowly filled the space made me want to grind my teeth. But my body sense had pushed me away from (physically) detrimental coping methods.

Instead, I reached for my utility belt. I'd considered getting a backpack originally, but a belt like what Tattletale had worn at the bank was better for combat. The one I'd settled on was not as high quality, but it had enough pouches and clasped containers for my equipment.

Such as the extendable baton hooked onto the belt itself.

Details emerged. The rooms were definitely lived in, there was more than enough objects and debris down the back of cupboards for gang members. Things were pretty well stocked actually. This could be a safe house even.

Whatever the purpose of the rooms, the two bongs signalled that the empire wasn't too stressed about this setup.

Focusing back on the rest of the warehouse, I found that my mental map had nearly expanded across the entire interior.

Seven static-figures. So, this was a meeting place. Or the other three had been guards. Maybe some kind of day shift?

Boxes of scrap and two shelves of cans. Another shelf of tools and basic repair supplies. Not nearly enough for there to be a company selling things – unless it was a company selling randomly stocked gang hideouts. Definitely a safe house.

My mental map slowly filled the details of the warehouse. If seeing things made it cover them faster, having walls in the way did the opposite. I waited and got… more crates.

The seven figures were standing in two groups. There was some gesturing that meant conversation, then some handshakes (or fist bumps?) that managed to come across as aggressively macho despite me being outside the damn warehouse. Then the group of three gestured to an assortment of various sized crates against one wall before they walked up towards the front entrance.

Definitely a guard roster then. So, this was probably more than a safe house.

The three day-shift nazis were at the door of the warehouse when my mental map expanded into the collection of oddly shaped crates. And what I found made me freeze.

Weapons.

Guns.

Crates of guns.

This was much more than a safe house.

For a moment, I couldn't decide what to do. I'd seen gangers carrying weapons. Fought people with guns multiple times.

Did I feel… lucky? To have found a way to hurt the gangs in a way that would work? Because doing my ward patrols or just attacking random racists wouldn't harm the larger organisation. Taking out a stockpile would.

Guilt? For not trusting Tattletale? No, that was ridiculous, we both knew where we stood.

Anticipation? Not really, my body was reacting with…

Fear?

This was the first thing I would do alone. Solo. Without support. Facing gangers who would definitely be scared, not a minor gang that respected the unwritten rules. Seven was more than I had planned for. A few probably carried guns.

But despite all that, I was angry. Affronted and (perpetually) offended at how these criminals felt safe in my city. And I really wanted this to mean something. For the arrests to stick. The guns to be confiscated. For the Empire to feel a consequence.

Whatever this twisty ball of churning emotions was, it was just in my head. My body sense showed that my stomach was clearly not twisting around, even if… huh, my metabolism had sped up slightly. Guess that settled it. I was feeling action. Real action, for real purpose.

My breath grew deeper, and my eyes blinked closed. I knew what I was going to do. For another moment, the darkness behind my eyelids felt welcoming. Then my breath rushed out and my eyes opened.

The night sky had only a few stars shining.

I unhooked my extendable baton and flicked it open. Pulled out the audio recorder that was vital to my deception.

One of the people I'd mentally labelled day shift pushed at the warehouse's door. These gangers were just going to go home, acting like they weren't supporting the bullies that were rotting Brockton Bay.

The door opened – just a crack.

This hadn't been my plan when I snuck out tonight. But my baton felt firm in my hand. And my determination burned cold.

When the door was halfway open, I warped. Down, across, inside; appearing in an empty spot between a shelf of tiles and the nazi opening the door. My baton – already in motion – cracked down on his wrist where he was holding the doorknob.

Yelps of pain and surprise were accompanied by a burst of static as I warped across the warehouse to the group I'd originally stalked. Kicked one guy in the back of his knee and slammed my baton into his back.

Bzzt! A burst of static from pressing one of the buttons on my audio recorder and I warped two-boxes-away to knee the attempted-door-opener in his crotch. Warp and press button – bzzt – to swing my baton into the elbow of a nazi who had stopped gaping and was going for a weapon. Turned.

Kneed door-man in the chin now he was crouched over.

Back across the warehouse, warping and swinging to batter the limbs of the four Empire goons. They'd used their few seconds of respite to grab knives and a… wrench. (Well, good for that guy.) My thumb pressed the audio recorder button in time with my warps, syncopated with the impact of my baton cracking against arms and lower backs.

Near the door again, the first man I'd attacked was groaning on the floor. Swinging my baton into the jaw of another sent him down too. I took a moment to shut the door properly. It wouldn't do for any of them to escape, would it?

For all my plans about tonight (and current adaptation of them), the thing I had planned the most for was fights. (Thinking through movement and tactics ever since being stuck on Console for a week.) I was being nearly mathematical with my attacks; making sure I never hit the same goon twice in a row. Targeting hands holding weapons. Switching groups when they started trying to coordinate – or if I'd hit them all twice.

The four I'd originally tracked here got another round of baton whacks on elbows and shoulders. Hopefully they wouldn't even try picking up something by the time they got their wits together. Which wasn't happening quickly. It was rather bad practice to get drunk before work. Or crime.

Finally, my mental map found the end of a metal cylinder extending past the static-hand of the last man standing near the door. Someone was smart (or dumb) enough to draw a gun. I'd honestly expected it to happen sooner. I ignored him in favour of warping – bzzt – to introduce the shortest nazi's ass to my steel capped boot.

My mind felt sharp. My body strong.

My veins thrummed with the relief and satisfaction of action.

I felt… entirely free.

Free from the frustration that had been sparked by the gang war. I was finally doing something that would really help.

Free from the restrictive regulations of the PRT. This was my patrol, and I was going to succeed under my own means and merit. (And no one would give me shit for doing the right thing.)

Free from the haunted memories of Winslow. Being thin and tall was a good thing. Useful. My long arms meant longer reach, my flat chest meant easy movement, and my thick glasses now built into a mask that would enhance the spectre of my presence. Make the criminals remember consequences.

The guy with the gun was running into the warehouse. Towards me and the four Empire goons I'd kept empty-handed and swearing with pain. I warped – bzzt – behind the one in the middle and slammed my baton twice into his back then kicked him in the back of the calf. He buckled. My steel-caps got the back of his other knee and I waited as another nazi shouted and stepped forwards to bravely take a swing.

Brave, but foolish. I warped behind him, the static burst sounding too late for him to stop me shoulder checking him in the back. Pain and lingering alcohol helped me overcome his balance and send him further forward, toppling over the… person he'd just tried to avenge.

I turned to look at one of the two still upright in this group. One of the four goons standing up in the warehouse. I raised my baton, staring them in the eyes.

Bzzt – warped beside the man with the gun creeping round the corner. Brought the baton down on his wrist.

The gun fired. LOUD and BRIGHT right in front of my face. With spots in my vision and sensory systems adapting best they could, I warped behind him and whacked the idiot in the back of the head. Scanned my mental map to see if anyone was dead or bleeding. Or collapsing.

Warped – bzzt – in front of him mid turn to elbow him in the nose. Then behind again to kick sideways at the back of his legs. He collapsed.

He'd let go of the gun – from shock when it went off? I kicked it under a shelf and stepped on his hand for good measure.

Warped – bzzt – back to the group of four. Slammed my baton into the back of the guy I'd shoved over to discourage him from further attempts to get back up. Pressed the static button on my audio recorder and appeared beside the one on the right, baton swinging round into his ribs.

"–top! I surre-ghuh!" The ganger bent over, clutching his side.

I paused. Processed what he was saying.

Stopped. Not because he'd told me to.

Because I'd needed that moment to actually take in the state of things. Five empire goons down, with groans, pants, and whines breaking the silence. The other guy still standing near me had spun about when his fellow lowlife's words cut off.

The warehouse's light bulbs were old. Made even more yellow by my lenses. He stared at me. I stared at him.

Part of me wanted to keep going. Finish taking down these nazis. But… I already had. Mr bent-over was still wheezing something inaudible and the last guy was just staring at me.

I levelled my baton at him.

"No, no! Don't, don't – I'll, I'll… what do you want?" The mighty foot soldier of neo-nazi-dom sounded scared.

I had a plan for this. Another button on the audio recorder. The blood pumping through my veins made me feel like more improvisation (finishing the job, emphasising the consequences) would be good. Improvisation had already worked tonight anyway. Here I was, standing unharmed, one against seven. They'd even had a gun.

However, now that my brain had finally processed the words the Empire goons were saying, beating them up more felt… like exactly what the gangs would do.

And while bullies only listened to the language they spoke (violence, pain), I wasn't enough of a hypocrite to do the same.

I was here for more than just beating up gangsters. (Even if it felt good.)

I pressed the second button on the audio recorder.

"Give me your phone and kneel with your hands behind your head." The command came from a deep robotic voice. One from a cheap computer program that played anything you typed into it.

The Empire goon didn't move.

I tapped my baton on the bent back of the man whose surrender I'd interrupted. Pressed the second button again.

"Give me your –"

Both of them reached into pockets and held out compact flip phones.

I had already warped away – bzzt – at the rapid movement. They realised I was gone and, glancing at each other, put the phones on the floor. Then tentatively raised static-hands behind their static-heads.

My breath slipped out slowly. I'd wanted them to surrender; to do the thing that they were supposed to do. And they had. Chosen to stop fighting.

If only they'd made this choice earlier. Like, before-becoming-Empire-members earlier. Still, my city wasn't gone yet. The last bit of tension from the fight slipped away from my shoulders. I clipped my baton back to my belt (not retracted, just away).

I warped back to the open area between the office-barracks and gun crates. Reached down – bzzt – and picked up one of the phones. It was locked. The other one wasn't.

There were a few unsaved numbers that this goon had been called by recently. I didn't have the resources to trace anything like Armsmaster or the PRT could, but if I gave the information to Tattletale, she could... do something. With whatever her power really was.

I've never actually dialled the emergency number before. School had been filled with so many emergency drills – fire, gun, nearby cape fight, Endbringer – that the three numbers felt surreal.

But the dial tone was real. I pushed the phone to one of the Empire ganger's ears.

"Police Operator 8243, what is your emergency?" The phone's audio was quiet, but loud enough to be heard over the groans and held-back pained whimpers of the other racists.

I pressed the third button on my audio recorder, holding it to the other ear of the ganger on the phone. Another robotic-voiced message, telling him what to tell the operator.

I waited.

"What is your emergency?" The operator repeated.

"Uh, there are seven of us. Warehouse on –"

The other goon jabbed him in the side to cut the cooperative one off. I stepped to the side and pressed the steel cap of my shoes into the asshole's back. Not very gently. He remembered that he'd surrendered too. And that things were supposed to work a certain way once you surrendered.

"Sir? Sir, are you hurt?" The operator sounded tired, but earnest.

"No. Not me. Warehouse on... Duncan and Matthias. Downtown. There's a cape." The one criminal with any hope of redemption in this group sounded... scared? Resigned?

"Sir, are you safe?"

"Uh." He looked up at me. Short dark blonde hair, brown eyes, chapped lips. I tilted my head. He was safe now. Safe from violence at least. Hopefully not feeling safe from consequences.

"Sir. Is the parahuman nearby?"

"Yeah. Uh. They're looking at me." The goon's brown eyes darted away, then back up, then away again. Like a nervous animal.

The operator said something quiet. All the background noises of pained criminals paused, as if even the other criminals were listening. Actually, they probably were. I was a little surprised none of them had tried to get back up. Especially the ones over near the door.

"He was. Now he's holding the phone."

Silence. I stood in front of the ganger, hands holding his phone and my audio device to both sides of his face. I pressed the fourth button, to play my last message.

"He, uh... he says that the police should come quick. He won't wait around long. And," blonde brows furrowed over brown eyes, "no one's hurt badly."

His eyes flicked up at me again. I stared back. Pulled the phone away and hung up just as the operator started saying something else. Opened the contacts list and placed it on a shelf next to some nails.

Pulled out my zip-ties. Walked around the two kneeling gangers. Grabbed the dark-blonde's wrists. He didn't fight it.

Only two of them did. And only one of those needed more than a jab in the back.

My improvised plan – diving in here and taking down all of them – would make getting these assholes sentenced a bit harder. But the police would get the guns. And the warehouse itself.

That made the coals of satisfaction in my chest glow and warm. This would make the organisation of the Empire hurt. Probably no more than a wince, because the gangs were entrenched. But still, progress on my very first outing.

I breathed evenly. Easily. Freely.

At one point, the guy who covered his skull tattoos with a cap returned to his senses and started yelling about how the Empire would kill me. But that if I let him go, he could forget this happened and vouch for me when I decided to join the 'winning side'.

None of his criminal buddies said anything, though the goons near the door started shifting around. I grabbed my audio recorder and baton again.

Warped – bzzt – to a gap in the shelves near the door. One of the nazis here was stumbling to his feet on obviously aching legs. The second one, who I'd guided back here after he tried to surprise me with a pistol, was cradling his wrist. The third had his back to a shelf, searching for something with his bound hands.

Number three saw me first. He froze, patchy moustache that I hadn't noticed before quivering.

Number two looked up and cringed away.

Number 1 – the door man from the beginning of the fight – took a step towards the door. I – bzzt – warped in front of him and elbowed backwards into his gut. I kicked him in the shin when he tried to grapple me as he sagged downwards. Then re-reacquainted door-man's junk with my knee.

The fight was over. Again.

The other two goons were still again. I nudged number three with my toe a few times until he knee-shuffled away from the shelf.

I warped – pressed the first button, bzzt – back to loudmouth-skull-tats in the other group. Who, I could hear from across the warehouse, was encouraging the others to find tools to cut or escape from the zip ties. He heard the static burst from my audio recorder behind him but, being ziptied, couldn't turn around as fast I could. I kicked him in the shoulder blade.

Then walked away from the group of four and stood in yet more silence. The Empire goons were beaten. I was a cape, they'd had no hope this fight. Not when I'd surprised them.

I stood still and silent. Externally, a spectre. Internally, pretty fucking satisfied.

Though, my brain kept going. At full speed. The fight was over, but I was replaying it. Thinking about my tactics. Equipment. Entrance. Did I need to refine the audio messages? I put more of my focus towards my body sense. Adjusted my posture. Double checked that, no, I hadn't even been touched by the Empire goons.

Waiting for the police to turn up was...

Different to the other kinds of waiting I'd experienced. The second little burst of violence had sent adrenaline back into my system. But the violence was much shorter than the energy. So now I felt restless again.

Still satisfied. Still deeply satisfied about this... mission(?) being a success.

Violence wasn't the answer to Brockton Bay's problems. Hell, violence was one of Brockton Bay's biggest problems. But it was the language of the gangs, and everything I was doing was preventative.

So, I thought about the PRT's recorded seminars on criminal information security and pocketed the unlocked phone from the shelf next to me. Funnily enough, I was using more of the behaviours mentioned in those three seminars than these nazis were.

Sirens finally broke through the night. I'd heard sirens before. Many, many times. Even before I was a Ward. But it was still a little surreal to know that they were coming for me. Because of me.

The Empire goons finally sagged. Some last bit of fear or tension leaving them when they realised things were over. Or that I wasn't going to do anything more. Hmm. Was I scarier – more of a consequence – than the police?

Huh. Maybe. I suppose the police wouldn't beat up nazis. Not in Empire territory anyway. Again, the threat – the idea – of capes were embedded into the politics of Brockton Bay. Everyone – heroes and villains – played the game, but it felt like I was finally advancing my own goal.

Two vehicles turned down the street, onto my mental map. Police. A patrol car, and a... huh. A PRT van. That made sense. And was still good. Though there was more for the cops to collect here than just criminals.

The vehicles parked, doors opening to let a police officer and a PRT agent jump out onto the street. Then three more PRT agents piled out the back of the van. Except the first agent didn't have any elements of armour peeking out of the static of their shape. And they were moving too quickly. Not running fast but turning on a dime and keeping a constant speed as they vaulted a car to get to the warehouse door.

Cape. Hero. Protectorate.

Damn. That was basic protocol for responding to an unknown parahuman. This was... not Velocity, but the rapid turns meant... Assault. I'd only interacted with him once, and that was barely a conversation. The other Wards talked about him like they did Clockblocker. A joker.

Still, any parahuman in the Protectorate or Wards would recognise my power. Even if I was using petty tricks to disguise it. I should have anticipated this. Assault might be the type to let me off the hook, but it could just have easily been Armsmaster responding to this call. Or Miss Militia, god that would've been the worst.

No. Focus. I was successful tonight, and I can still get out, and I'd done good.

Assault opened the warehouse door. One of the Empire goons gasped. Then groaned when Assault used his boot to tip the nazi onto his side.

"Huh," Assault's voice filtered through the warehouse, "a lot more prepared than Shadow Stalker."

I smiled under the balaclava. Bzzt – warped away now Assault had opened the door. Warped a few more rooves away, no longer pressing the button on my audio recorder. There were definitely some things I could have done better tonight. And some changes to my equipment I could make.

But I was better than Shadow Stalker. Suck it, Sophia.

The mixed satisfaction and adrenaline feeling that had made me feel so free during the fight had mellowed. What I was feeling now wasn't as intense, but this steady pulse of things being right was…

My shoulder muscles relaxed. Tension being left behind with each warp through the cold night air I could feel pressing between the layers of my costume. A few more stars were out.

Yeah, it felt like this Monday night was the start of something.

[>[>Peasant<]<]

​

Andrew shifted on the cold metal bench. It was his first time in a police holding cell and while he'd been ready for things to be harsh and uncomfortable, he hadn't been ready for the cold.

Like, it wasn't freezing. And he was dressed warm enough for the day. But it was now night and it felt like they'd turned half the heaters off. He turned sideways to bring his feet up onto the bench and hold his knees close. It was warmer, but the bench was narrow enough that if he leant against the wall, he'd gradually slip off sideways.

There were three other people in the holding cell. They'd watched Andrew when he was led in. Like he'd watched them. A Japanese fellow with a black eye. Some punk ex-Merchant – or whatever that gang was now – who was so drunk he'd fallen asleep twice already. And a teen with short curly red hair and freckles who spat at the police officer who dropped him inside and told him not to shoplift.

The boy was probably only five years younger than Andrew. Still growing and raging.

Andrew had entertained the idea of giving the teen some tips on how to avoid checkout workers or security guards. But then again, he was in here because he'd gotten caught pickpocketing on the Boardwalk.

So many oblivious tourists, come to see the Rig floating out in the bay. Or travelling with sick family members to see if Panacea would heal all their problems. Or... well, Andrew didn't really care. They had money, and they didn't have any experience in Brockton Bay.

Cause Andrew lived in the city where the people who didn't look over their shoulder and scan the crowds around them looked out of place. It made life as a pickpocket really quite convenient.

Except for when the Enforcers of the Boardwalk caught you.

Andrew probably should've told the red-haired kid (god, Andrew was too young to call anyone kid, but those freckles just screamed 'new to the streets') that he shouldn't antagonise the cops. The cops arrested you, which was bad, but not as bad as some of the Enforcers.

Andrew shifted on the cold metal bench. The bruises from the Enforcer's boots still ached a bit. But maybe the cold was good for them. Damn private security. Taking all the assholes who were too asshole for the legitimate law enforcement.

He was just a pickpocket! Go beat up the people who were real criminals.

Later that night, as Andrew was being questioned at some tired beat cop's desk, he saw a small parade of Empire thugs taken past to another holding cell. Then he noticed the bruises that lined the ganger's arms and thought that whoever went to town on those wastes of space had harder boots than the Enforcers.

Probably a good thing. The damn nazis needed a good kick. Andrew just hoped that a lowly pickpocket could avoid the gangs and their grudges.

"Yeah, I'm going to the markets with a friend again." I told dad. "Friends," I corrected. Vicky was a friend, even if I didn't have proof like with Missy.

He nodded in response, chewing on his breakfast. There was no bacon today – one of us, I couldn't remember who, had forgotten to grab some. But we'd still fried some eggs and dad had sliced up the last of a block of cheese that was at the back of our almost empty fridge. Sleeping over or eating dinner at the PRT HQ like Missy was doing recently was… tempting. Sometimes.

I still appreciated eating together, but it was really obvious that we were both focused on our work. Official and otherwise.

"So," dad swallowed his mouthful, "is one of these friends from... you know?"

I looked down at my plate. I'd finished already, because doing Ward patrols then going out myself at night burned a surprising amount of energy. More because of the cold than constant exercise though – my warping made getting around easy. But this just left me with nothing to fiddle with as I tried to avoid how dad avoided any mention of the Wards. For secrecy's sake, yeah. But also...

It was complicated.

"Yeah. A friend from work and a friend from school... who... works at a different company." There, that was a good enough code to say I was meeting Missy and Vicky. We both 'worked' as capes, and Vicky 'worked' for New Wave.

Dad nodded again. Looked to the side, examining the rest of our kitchen and the dishes that hadn't been washed up last night.

"So," he started before finding something fascinating with the fridge.

"So," he said again, finally meeting my eyes. "I know you're getting older Taylor. And you'll always be my kid, but..." He trailed off. Looked the other way to stare at the wall.

A whisper. "Annette should be the one to do this."

My gut clenched. This was painful. For so many reasons. Was he trying to talk about menstruation? Cause my cycle had started late, but Aunt Zoe had still given me a talk before Emma convinced her that I 'had my own friends'.

"Dad. What's up?" Please don't talk about periods. Please don't talk about –

"I don't mind if you start dating. Who you start dating. I don't care about – no, I care about you and you being happy and safe, but I don't care if you like boys or girls or whoever."

My body-sense told me my jaw had dropped. I told it to close and tried to process that this was this kind of talk.

"Uh," I said.

"I want to support you kiddo." Dad looked at me properly this time. My cheeks felt warm. "And... you're growing up. You'll start wanting to date people. Unless you don't! Which I am super happy with if that's what you choose." Dad looked like he hoped I wouldn't date anyone ever. I hoped this conversation ended quickly.

"But if you do, I..." He winced. "I'm just trying to say I'm fine with you dating. And if its not a guy, just stay safe around Downtown."

I winced too. The Empire hadn't seemed to care about my success three nights ago. And the general goons who went around beating up people who weren't white or straight wouldn't care about my secret identity either. It'd be hard to defend myself without blowing my cover. (Covers.)

"Anyway," dad's tone turned joking, "even if your friend at the mall is a girl, I think I'm allowed to use the shotgun routine on anyone from... your work."

I snorted. Like a shotgun could make up for parahuman powers. I mean, it could, if you caught the cape in the back and by surprise. And they weren't a brute or a mover or a –

Wait.

"You think I'm dating..." I couldn't finish the thought. It just wasn't right.

Dad smiled.

"You met up a few times last month. Then the Boardwalk and you came back with nice clothes. Now the Lord Street Markets. Its fine if you're not dating! But, its fine if you are. I was your age once, I get it."

Was he... smug? Trying to embarrass me? When had... this wasn't what we did. What was going on? Ugh, I was not going to blush. That would send the wrong message.

"Dad, I'm not dating her, we're just friends."

He was meeting my eyes steadily. The smile became a smirk.

"Sure kiddo. But again, I don't mind."

"Dad. No." I focused, making sure he knew I was serious. "We're just friends. And she's already dealing with a crush." Now can we move on?

He grimaced. I narrowed my eyes because grimacing was not moving on.

"Ah, that sucks." He wrestled with himself a little. "People always tell you that there are other fish in the sea and all, but if she – or whoever – is worth it, well..." He paused, having misunderstood me completely.

"Dad, she's thirteen. We're friends." I said before he could continue.

"...Heberts tend to mate for life." He said mournfully. Then the horror dawned.

I looked at him, just as awkward.

The concept of my parents and the word 'mate' should never go together. And had dad just…? I mean, I didn't want a stepmother. That idea was even worse than my parents having… yeah nope.

But dad should be happy, right? At least with his friends? It just felt like all he had was work and me. And I didn't tell him about what was going on in my life. Not the important things. Like being a vigilante on my own, or the weird agreement with Tattletale, or the Wards, or even Winslow (though that was over).

Sure, he didn't ask. But he never asked. And a good daughter would offer, right? Or at least believe that he could help. Dammit. Being healthy with emotions had always been Mom's thing.

Dad was right, even if he'd said it the worst way possible. Heberts weren't good at replacing people. Hell, it'd taken me two months too long to realise Emma wasn't my friend. And the thought of anything happening to my team was abhorrent.

I took a deep breath. Checked my team's emotions. They were fine. Missy was my [friend].

"So… you're not dating?" Dad asked lamely.

I nodded.

He nodded back. "Okay. Good."

We didn't look at each other.

"I'm… gonna go get ready." I'd originally planned to go back to sleep because there had not been many hours between the end of my night patrol and waking up to have breakfast with dad before he went to work. But I wasn't sleeping after this… awkward mess of a conversation.

"Yeah," Dad hummed awkwardly. "Have a good day Taylor."

We did meet each other's eyes as I took his dishes. He smiled, kinda. I kinda smiled back. This conversation had crashed and burned. But he was still my dad, so I was glad we'd eaten together.

Though I should make a note to get more bacon.

[>[>---<]<]​

I hadn't been to the Lord Street Markets in ages. (The patrol where I'd dealt with the Merchants didn't count.) Dad took me once last year, grabbing some cheaper (and second hand) winter clothes, cause I'd had two grown spurts already that summer.

Point was, I wasn't familiar with the place. And the way the crowds filled my mental map with static put me on edge. There were areas that just blurred. After my nights of scouting Downtown and keeping constant watch for the few criminals I could catch actually committing a crime, having my awareness be less had my hackles up. Mentally.

Still, we'd had to come here.

My bus route to the Boardwalk had been down for the past few days. The ABB had set off one of Bakuda's bombs that had set fire to one of the main roads. And the fire just… hadn't gone out. Hadn't spread either, fortunately. But yeah. No bus, no Boardwalk trip.

The buses could go around, of course, but there were enough bombs going off each night that the idea of consistent routes from the Docks to anywhere else was laughable. To get anywhere I had to look at the city metro website each morning and hope they didn't discover a new danger as I walked to the stop.

(I was not annoyed at myself for only today realising that my phone could access the internet.)

Also, Vicky had vetoed the mall. Without explanation. Missy had mentioned the Chorus when I'd asked, and a quick PHO search had informed me that Vicky had nearly died at the mall. (And Amy had gotten her powers there.)

So, we were at the Markets. I was still looking forward to things. To seeing Missy and Vicky. We'd invited Amy, but she was working at the hospital more often thanks to all the bombs.

I walked past another few stalls and looked down the other main thoroughfare. A lot of the pop-up stalls were regular here, but I didn't remember the broad layout. I couldn't sense anyone who was clearly Vicky or Missy, so I guess we were all failing to meet in the middle. Wherever the middle was.

My phone rang. Missy – was she already here? Was I late?

"Taylor!"

"Missy?"

"Stop, ugh," some background shuffling noises, "stop walking!"

I stopped.

"We're behind you."

"Oh." I said intelligently, turning around.

Sure enough, Vicky was making her way through the crowd behind me. But where I had used my height to see where the press was less pressing, she simply smiled; people stepping out of her way with nods of acquiescence, returning her sunny pleasantries.

She waved at me and started walking faster. The crowd parted like water around a non-specific religious figure. Which of course they would. Vicky was wonderful.

My body-sense showed a shift in brain activity as Vicky had waved. Right. Her aura. Much more subtle than I'd noticed before. I still felt a little unsure about the aura thing, but it had been fine after the brainstorm session mistake.

And Vicky was a friend. I thought she was cool without being affected by the aura anyway. So it was cool.

Someone bumped into my side. I resisted the urge to flinch (warp) and stepped out of the current of market-goers. Focused more on my mental map to try and clarify the static blending around me.

"Hey Taylor!" Vicky called once the people between us moved aside.

Missy stepped around from behind her, short enough to pass for one of the kids who were being dragged around the markets by their parents. She was glaring a little at the crowd, but her [irritation] was replaced by [fondness] as we smiled at each other.

"Hey guys, what's the plan?" I asked.

Vicky raised an eyebrow and squinted at me. "You better not be trying to get out of shopping."

The thought had occurred to me. Trying to distract her so that I wouldn't be spending too much more of my now-decreased savings.

Vicky's eyes narrowed more. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. (Her aura really could be subtle, huh.)

"Nope. Shopping is fine." Suddenly saving money when I'd already started to splurge could hint at me buying things that I didn't want people to know about. Like I was doing with my vigilante gear.

It was still hard to ignore the instincts that came from only having dad's meagre income for years. Especially because I wanted to. I had enough clothes now. And emergencies were all to common in the Bay.

"Good." Vicky harrumphed. Then a grin broke out across her face at her own pretentiousness.

I smiled back, because how could you not? Missy's faint [worry] dissipated and she stepped over to nudge my side with her shoulder. I poked the back of her head and turned back to Vicky while Missy scowled affectionate death up at me.

"So," I raised my eyebrow this time, "what's the plan?"

She looked me over.

I was wearing some of the clothes she'd harangued me into buying on our last trip. Partly because I wanted to show that I appreciated Vicky spending her time with us. Partly because, well, Vicky had been right at the Boardwalk. I actually looked decent in tight pants and turtlenecks. And so what if I wore my leather jacket everywhere?

It was a good jacket!

I was still thin, gangly, and had barely any more chest than Missy. But I looked good. And my hair managed to put me in the 'definitely female' camp.

There was an evil glint in Vicky's eye. She turned to Missy.

"I saw some nice dresses back there. Wanna take a look?"

"Sure!" My [friend] said, ruthlessly throwing me under the (shopping) bus.

"No, we are not doing this again. I said no dresses and I meant –"

"Do you think that navy one would suit me?" Vicky asked her conspirator as they turned and walked away.

I stalked behind them, grumbling. Until Missy turned back, [happiness] shining in her eyes.

Maybe the shopping bus would be gentle as it ran me over.

[>[>---<]<]​

I avoided the dresses. But got trapped trying on crop tops (of all things) when Missy volunteered to try some too.

Vicky wolf whistled when I walked out in a dark green one that felt baggy but was apparently just cut that way. And sure, I had abs now. And sure, Vicky's earnest teasing made me feel like I could pull this off. And sure, maybe some of the stares from people walking past were appreciative, not… whatever else they might be.

But when Missy came out after me, feeling [stubborn], [nervous], and [hopeful], I had to play along. Because Vicky was right about Missy looking better. Older, partly because she wasn't trying to dress older. Better, because she was fit and still a cute kid. And leaning into cute teen fashion meant she looked like a younger school student rather than a kid dressing up like an adult.

Missy smiled at Vicky's fussing but was still [uncertain] about it all. I stepped up to her side and nudged her shoulder. Opened my mouth to say something that condensed all my thoughts into a meaningful statement. Faltered in the face of her [hesitance].

I was an only child. Even if Emma had been like my sister, I was never really the one who comforted her. How was this supposed to work?

Maybe if Mom was still alive, I'd have some inkling of what to say or do or – Missy elbowed me in the hip and scoffed. [Uncertain] and…

I elbowed her in the shoulder because emotions were too complicated.

She punched me lightly in the knee. I poked her in the back. Then she kicked me in the shin. Which hurt, faintly. But more important was how her smile came back. A smirk of [mischief] and [fun] that came up whenever she would pay Dennis back for his jokes.

I backed away in mock fear and narrowed my eyes.

"Yes, yes," Vicky sighed in satisfaction. "Missy, we've found your look. Cute, but fierce!" And Vicky bared her teeth, snarling like some big cat.

It would have looked silly on anyone but Vicky, because, well, Vicky. But while Missy giggled at the feline impression, there was a fire in her eyes that belied the [affirmation] she was feeling.

"Okay, so new shoes later, but for now some rock band t-shirts? Or a black belt for a touch of goth," Vicky started flicking through the racks of clothes again.

Her perception – or ability to express that perception through clothes – was impressive. Missy was still young. Cute in both unmasked looks and as Vista, the city's princess. But while cute, Missy was far from innocent. Vicky's idea about Missy's 'look' was the simple concept of playing to both realities.

In hindsight, she'd done the same with me. Taken skinny and… serious (I guess that covered my personality) and made me look lean.

"Vicky's good at this, huh?" Missy said from next to me.

I blinked. Checked back into the reality that wasn't my mental map and daydreaming. Went to elbow her gently, but ended up with my hand resting on her shoulder.

"She's good at making you look like you." I said.

Missy got [embarrassed]. I looked down and narrowed my eyes again. "Just cause you're going to look like a badass, doesn't mean I'll go easy on you."

She narrowed her eyes back. The fire of [affirmation] flickered brighter. And I knew that our next spar at the PRT gym would leave me aching. (Missy got vicious.)

Then the mischievous smirk came back. "So, you're gonna let Vicky show you some dresses?"

"Hmm?" Vicky turned her head from the Metallica top she was checking the size of. My eyes flickered between them as I realised the corner Missy had backed me into.

Cute but fierce. Vicky was right. Too right, dammit.

[>[>---<]<]​

It was only when we finally went to get lunch that my body stopped its stupid and unnecessary blush reflex.

I had managed to avoid being shoved into dresses by encouraging Vicky to focus on getting Missy new things that she wanted. (Rather than what either of her parents thought she would want.) Even then, Vicky had muttered ominously about a lack of jumpsuits then cheerily said, "It'll be your turn next time Taylor!"

I'd also successfully defended against some knee-high leather boots. I did not care if people at Arcadia really wanted me to 'step on them' as Vicky claimed. I was tall enough without heels and those heels in particular were way too pointy to run in.

And as we sat down on fold out benches to eat at a fold out table under the indecisively sunny sky, I was relieved to put it all behind us. In favour of our burritos.

A delicious, guilty pleasure. But not really guilty because I could afford to buy lunches now. Especially since I usually got free food from the PRT canteen.

"Okay how are you not dying from that hot sauce?" Vicky was staring at me, only a single bite taken out of her burrito.

I shrugged. Took another bite, because the chicken and salsa were really good.

"No, like, I get that I'm weak with spice. But I can usually deal with some mild sauces, even if my mum is the most boring cook ever. Still, that sauce," Vicky eyed my burrito, "that's not chilli. I'm convinced some tinker is just selling them liquid pain."

Missy snorted and I managed not to choke while laughing into my burrito.

"What?!" Vicky's affronted face set us off again. "Hey look. I flew here after dropping Amy at the hospital and before a patrol last year and got that sauce, cause I like their other – not insane – sauces. And it literally grounded me. I couldn't fly! My sinuses wanted to eject themselves out of my face! I was crying too much to see!"

I blanked my face and raised an eyebrow at Vicky. Then took a big bite of my burrito. And let out an overblown groan of appreciation.

Missy wheezed out "anti-air hot sauce" amid barely restrained laughter.

"No. You can't be enjoying that. I made Amy try it after her shift and she started sweating. And Amy is fine with spice." Vicky scowled when my eyebrow went back up. "Then she made me have another bite and had to heal my taste buds."

Missy gave up on subterfuge and started openly cackling. I lowered my eyebrow and nodded. That was serious. Very serious.

I took another bite.

Vicky shook her head, despair beginning to set in. "I even brought Dean here and didn't warn him. We were fighting about something stupid and..." She put her burrito down and cradled her face in something that I guessed what embarrassment.

"He went through a whole box of tissues trying to pretend that he liked what I recommended."

I laughed at that one. Dean honestly had a good soul. But making a mess because he was trying to spare someone's feelings was a very Dean thing to do.

Missy's cackles continued, and I was glad that the emotions of her crush were minor. Secondary to the [fun] she was having with us.

"Seriously though, how are you just ignoring how hot that sauce is?" Vicky was back to smiles and earnest curiosity. Probably because she was just happy to be around us.

I took another bite and actually thought about it.

My taste had changed a bit in the past month. Sort of. It wasn't like I liked different things. But the physiological adaptability Aegis' power granted me meant that I didn't really register discomfort from food in the same way.

Like, I could sense how my tastebuds were reacting to the hot sauce. And my sinuses were affected. But not much more than they would be normally. I might sneeze later, but my nose wasn't streaming. And my cheeks weren't red because the blood just didn't need to go there. Not when digesting food faster was more of a priority.

So, yeah. I recognised that it was really spicy. But because I wasn't actually feeling the downsides of that, I could just… appreciate it?

"Aegis." I said, then took another bite. I'd be going out tonight to scout and getting food turned into calories earlier was better than a big dinner. Plus, it was tasty.

"Wait. Through the," Vicky made a bunch of hand motions that could have been charades for spider web, "organisation?"

I nodded.

"Huh. That's… Aegis has a weird brute power, doesn't he?"

I nodded.

Vicky nodded back absentmindedly and finally started eating her own burrito.

[>[>---<]<]​

The sun came out after lunch. We'd lapsed into a companionable silence, soaking in the rays now that they existed.

A part of me wanted to sit in this kind of comfort that I so rarely managed to find with dad. But another part of me was thinking about the important things. And had been sitting on a question for the past fifteen minutes.

"So, Vicky, where do you patrol?"

She looked up from her phone and tilted her head. Thought for a moment. "Mostly around my house for a few miles, to be honest. The Towers. Along the edges of Empire territory Downtown if I can get away with it. And near the hospital, but its pretty rare to find someone dumb or cruel enough to try things around there."

Wow.

I was suddenly, intensely jealous. For two reasons.

The first was irrational. But I had always wanted to fly. And if Vicky could cover miles of the city in a night, then she'd be able to find and stop so many more criminals. Flying was cool. But I'd never quite realised how it could be so effective. (Outside of fights.)

The second reason was because she was free. To patrol, to engage, to... whatever. Sure, independent heroes didn't have support or backup. And freedom from the PRT's procedures wasn't worth the chance of becoming a warning statistic for future Wards.

But Vicky got both freedom and support. In exchange for living without a mask. For a moment – a bittersweet moment where I let myself forget about dad – I was tempted.

No.

I needed the Wards. My team.

And I'd managed to find a way that got me everything I wanted anyway.

Still though...

"So," I ventured, "how do you feel about the–" I waved a hand over my face "–thing."

Vicky chuckled and put her phone down.

"You know I actually had a bet with Dean on when you would ask."

I blinked. Focused on my body sense to keep the mortification off my face. Missy elbowed Vicky.

"Oh, no, no I'm not bothered." She smiled easily, amusement brightening her face like the sun had come out again. (It hadn't, but it was a relief she wasn't upset.)

"People usually ask earlier. Like, first conversation earlier."

Huh. I guess we hadn't covered that back in the Wards' base. It had all been about my power.

"But I don't mind explaining. Especially not when you get it. More than normal people anyway." Her lips pursed. They were glossy.

"I guess the main thing is that I am Glory Girl as much as I am Victoria. Like the Protectorate take off their masks and they can just... be normal. Right?"

I nodded, Missy tilting her head in [reflection].

"Some fans get worried that I can't 'take off the mask'. Like, how am I supposed to relax if I'm always in costume? But that's the thing. I don't really see Glory Girl as a costume. Like, I'm not acting differently just cause I'm wearing the tiara or anything."

I let myself focus on the conversation. This was something I'd... probably avoided thinking about. I knew that I had been changed by the Wards. I'd been in fights, I'd seen the consequences of the gang war. I was a different Taylor even to the girl who had gone back to school with a bad understanding of her power. And Seneschal...

Was me. With all my sharp edges raised to attack. Then covered in padding to keep me PR friendly.

Had I been acting like a different person in my costume? Maybe. But with the changes to me, what I was required and advised to do as Seneschal, and what I was now doing as a vigilante, there was too much to unpack in a lunch time.

"I always tried to be a hero before I got powers anyway. So once... well, it was just like I had more tools to do what I wanted to do anyway." Vicky smiled after her statement.

I smiled back. Because it made sense. Tools. To do what I wanted to do anyway. I'd always wanted to help my city. My powers were just tools to make things right.

(Or, more than tools, maybe like... hmm.)

Missy was [unsure] but [thoughtful] and [resolved]. I lightly kicked her shoe. Met her mock-affronted gasp with a raised eyebrow. Her face scrunched up a little, then she shrugged and stayed silent.

That was okay. Having powers that young would have helped me avoid a lot of shit, but I wasn't naïve enough to think it came without downsides. Missy was already far too serious for a thirteen-year-old.

At least we'd given her some fun today.

Vicky finished reading whatever had made her phone buzz, then turned back to us. Her eyes flickered from Missy – staring into the middle distance – to meet mine. I gave a small nod and a smaller shrug.

Her smile came back like a spotlight. "Sorry, Dean was asking about seeing some movie. Anyway, I kinda think that even the Protectorate must feel a little different even without masks. It's not like the powers come off with the costume. But I think the main difference is that I get people coming up to me when I'm in civvies."

It had already happened twice today, in fact.

"But just imagine Armsmaster going to the grocers and having to remind himself that he doesn't need to give the check out worker an autograph because they think he's just some random guy with a really nice beard."

Missy snorted. I let my lips pull into a grin.

"Okay, you laugh. But," Vicky paused, arms raised dramatically. "One time last year mom used up the last of our milk just before she had to go to work. So, I had to get up and fly to the shops. And this kid with like seven pimples on his jaw is halfway through scanning my milk when he realises who I am." Another pause.

"And he asked me to sign his work uniform." Missy snorts again. "But the vest is black! So, he asks me to sign his arm. Which, not the weirdest thing I've been asked to do by far. But I was getting milk. I didn't have a marker!"

Missy giggles. I shook my head and let my own laugh fall out.

"And this kid. Steals a marker. From his own work. Takes it off the shelf and rips open the packet. And just... offers it to me? Like, am I supposed to be glad my fans commit petty crime for me? I mean, I'm not Armsmaster so I didn't arrest him. And all I wanted was to go back to bed. So… I kind of went to sign his arm on autopilot."

Missy was straight up chortling now.

"But I was tired. And this kid didn't say anything in the moment. But later on," Vicky pauses again with a bashful look. "Later on, Amy comes into my room and asks..."

Vicky coughs with exaggerated embarrassment, dragging out the tension.

"She asks: 'Vicky, why is the milk signed by Glory Girl?'"

Missy wheezed with laughter, slumping sideways into Vicky. Who laughed at herself too and slung an arm around my [friend].

I let myself laugh too. I felt light; weightless and bright. A feeling of friends that I hadn't had so purely for... I smiled at Vicky and shook my hair out, focusing on Missy's [joy]. In the moment, I was full of – many things – but mainly appreciation.

Because I could just exist with them. And not have to follow procedure or hide or pretend. It was just easy. Nice. And –

"...Taylor?"

Ice. I knew that voice.

I didn't blink. Twitch. Turn. Or breathe. Maybe I'd imagined it.

"Taylor?" Missy asked [worriedly].

Okay. Maybe I was... hallucinating… and my friends could tell. Or it was a master effect. They were worried because I'd frozen out of nowhere, not because–

Movement; red hair in my peripheral vision. A static-person walking around the bench. Another person hanging back.

"Taylor! It is you!"

ICE.

"Barnes? Do you... know Taylor?" Vicky questioned disgruntledly.

"Oh yeah," Emma said. "We were best friends!"

The ice spontaneously combusted in a blaze of... history. Were best friends. Yes Emma, we were. And why did that change? Huh?

"Okay…" Vicky hesitated, glancing between Emma and I.

"I almost didn't recognise you! This outfit is new and," Emma shifted further into my line of sight, "huh. You look good." Her tone (I still knew what all of those inflections meant) was hesitant, almost embarrassed? And longing? No. Not Happening.

She couldn't miss me. She didn't. She certainly hadn't reached out. Ever.

"How is Arcadia?" Emma asked. Like anyone would. Despite how she was both the reason I'd chosen not to attend Arcadia years ago and the reason I was there now.

This was too surreal. I turned to look at my… personal torturer, ex-best-friend, and… huh. That was it.

I blinked and let out a huff, a spiky ball of emotion leaving with my breath. Emma was no longer Emma. The best friend was gone, and now this bully was just that. A bully.

Memories of fighting Cricket, E88 gang members, and Bakuda's bombs were compared to Winslow. And Emma's taunts – though I would never forget how they shaped me – lost.

Emma's eyes flickered over my face. It felt like a reversal of all the confrontations at Winslow. I held power that she could never have. I was the untouchable one. And she was the one searching my face in desperation.

She was still achingly pretty. Dressed in better clothes than me even now. But it just… didn't matter. Emma would always look better than me. But nowadays my worth was more related to arresting criminals.

I entertained a brief thought of arresting her.

And – huh. The person Emma had arrived with was Madison, who was standing a few feet away looking like she had no idea what to do. She looked… the same… I guess. Still a bit fake.

"– look, I know." Emma was saying. I didn't respond. She didn't get the hint.

"Sophia told me. I know you're strong now." I stilled.

The PRT would definitely arrest her if she was saying what I thought she was saying.

Missy coughed, [concern] and [confusion] replaced by [suspicion] and rising [anger].

"Alright. Let's just pause for a moment." Vicky had a hand raised at Emma but was looking at me. "Taylor, are you actually friends with Barnes?" She sounded sceptical.

Another huff of feelings and barbed wire. "Fuck no." I said. I felt a little bit lighter again. The sun didn't come out, but it would have been really appropriate if it had.

I spread almost all my focus out on my mental map.

Emma's eyes snapped to me (hurt?!?) then back to Vicky. "This isn't your business, Dallon."

"Really?" Vicky raised an eyebrow. "Because I am actually Taylor's friend."

Emma's eyes flashed to mine again with… no. She couldn't really be hurt. This was just another plot. Complete with playacting. (Surely.) Emma glanced between us once more, her frown suddenly clearing.

"Right, you were at the bank fight." Emma pointed at Vicky.

Vicky pointed back. "You need to stop talking about this." Her voice was hard. (The air felt tense.)

"No." Emma set her jaw, then turned to me. "Taylor, I've been keeping up with what you've been doing and, I have to say, you've done so much more than Sophia already. I'm keeping track of you in the news and on PHO, but that leaves out a lot of detail. Do you still not have a phone? Cause I could –"

I tuned out Emma's sudden weird idea of helping me (what was she on?!?) due to the sheer horror of realising that I had a cape groupie. Which was insane by itself, but, ugh. It was Emma. I wanted a shower. With an extra bar of soap.

"–but I can help!" Emma was saying. Insanely.

Nope. This was… too much. And a year too late.

A younger me would have suffered through a lot of weird things to have Emma being this friendly again. (A younger me had suffered through a lot of abuse for nothing.) So, I was… done.

I leant forwards, just a little. Emma froze in… no, I didn't care what she was feeling. But I met her eyes and made sure she was paying attention.

"Go away Emma."

She blinked. Eyelashes fluttering prettily. Even that stubborn frown didn't make her ugly. What a lie she was.

"I can help." She repeated slowly.

"Go. Away." I repeated slower. Then turned back to Vicky, who was glaring at Emma, and Missy, who was also glaring but really [worried] underneath it.

"I can help." Emma stated stubbornly. "I've got experience helping Sophia when she went out. Stakeouts and first aid and –"

I started laughing. (Missy got more [worried] and a tiny bit [scared].)

The idea of Emma helping Sophia – Shadow Stalker – hunt criminals in the dead of night was a joke. She had acrylic nails! How would she even get onto the rooftop? Not to mention throwing a punch.

"Alright. Barnes." Vicky clicked her fingers in Emma's face. I (forced) let another chuckle escape. "Firstly, you don't talk about this in public. Ever. So organise a private catch up or something if Taylor wants–" I shook my head, but kept laughing under my breath "–which is not going to happen. So, you keep this to yourself or I will make sure you are buried in a courtroom. And no," Vicky talked over Emma's protest, "your daddy won't even try to fight the PRT. So shut the fuck up."

Okay, that was actually funny. Alan feeling helpless as his precious girl finally dug her own grave too deep. Emma realising that all her problems were of her own making. Her face would flush like it always did when she threw a tantrum as a kid. Just like it was doing now.

"Fuck you." Emma's outburst came out cold. (Like she'd always been inside.) "You were pathetic. A coward. I've already helped you. You're strong now. But I guess you're still a coward inside."

Even with all I'd gone through as a Ward, the taunts stung. Dug in. Bled a little. It was only because Emma was spouting insane shit about helping me that I could keep my focus spread.

Madison hadn't moved. Her eyes were wide, flinching away from my gaze when I looked over.

"Okay, fuck off Barnes." Vicky sat up straighter and was glaring. Being aware of how her aura was affecting my brain didn't stop her looking like someone about to smite Emma in the face.

"No." Emma snarled. "You don't get to swoop in and – Taylor is strong now. I don't care that it took so long." She turned to me, tone gentling. "It all makes sense in hindsight. Sophia made me leave you because you were weak. But we made you strong and now we can be friends again!"

My body stilled.

Vicky blazed with righteous fury; a vengeful angel rising from the bench. "You did what!?"

Air entered and exited my lungs. Perfectly regulated. It was all I was aware of. That and the pressure building in my head. Pressing against the back of my eyes.

Rage.

Fear.

The world came back in bits as I breathed in.

A small part of me whispered 'aura' as Vicky lifted into the air. But all I knew was that I was afraid. And Emma was standing in front of me.

I spread out my focus. Felt my mental map. Sensed my body. Knew and understood my team. A regulated breath emptied from my lungs as I acted.

Straightened my legs and twisted my torso to maximise momentum as (I warped across the bench) my arm extended and fist turned to connect in one smooth satisfying motion.

I breathed in.

Vicky's aura shut off.

Missy's [turmoil] spiked.

Emma fell back onto the ground.

I breathed out and stepped out of a fighting stance. Looked down at my ex-best-friend and… ex-bully.

A bruise was already forming on her jaw. She was out cold. Dirt from the grass – trampled and damp from all the feet – was getting into her hair.

I breathed in and out.

Vicky said something to the crowd that made them return to whatever they were doing. Then flew to Madison and started saying something quiet and threatening.

I breathed in. Then out.

Emma looked… well, she was still pretty, even when unconscious. And I was… so much taller than her. The static-Emma on my mental map – with a tent pole to measure – only came up to my shoulder.

I'd spent so long hunching over and reducing myself in front of her that it'd never registered.

And even though punching her didn't feel very heroic, it had been so quick. I wasn't proud of reacting with violence, even if Emma definitely deserved it. But Emma had tried so hard to make Winslow hell for me. But after everything, all it had taken was a punch.

I breathed in, the emotions of Winslow filling my chest. This time, when I breathed out, that twisted ball didn't have spikes. It was still heavy. But it didn't reopen any old cuts.

All those emotions were just there. Related to memories, but not doing anything. Just like Emma, lying in the trodden-on grass at my feet.

"Hey Vicky?" I asked.

"Hmm?" Vicky turned away from Madison, who was staring at the ground with her arms wrapped around herself.

"You got a pen?"

Vicky blinked, but nodded. Then tossed me a golden Glory Girl branded marker. My breath came out with a tiny, amused huff. I stopped focusing on it.

We hadn't yet put our lunches in the bins so I grabbed a paper napkin, folded it to get a clean side. Thought about the things I should have said years ago.

Wrote 'Goodbye'.

Realised she didn't have pockets, so tucked the note inside her fancy purse. Stayed crouched for a moment and thought if there was anything more I wanted to say or do. There wasn't. Emma had shaped me, in good ways then bad ways. But she was behind me now. I existed in a bigger pond.

"Goodbye Emma." I whispered.

I stood up and looked at Missy. She was still sat on the bench, hands in fists and shoulders tense. She was looking at Vicky and Madison, but met my eyes when I walked around the bench. Neither of us said anything for a moment.

"You okay?" I asked.

"Shouldn't I be asking that?" She grouched. [Embarrassed] and [anxious] and [uncertain].

"I… we can both ask it. That's what friends do, right? Real ones." Missy looked up at me. I smiled in a way that didn't feel entirely happy but was at least honest. She leant against my leg for a moment. Then [focused] like she did on patrols and swung her legs over the bench.

We walked over to Vicky. I tapped her on the shoulder – on the impervious shell of her forcefield.

"– and find some better company." Vicky finished firmly. Madison looked like she'd died of shame at least twice. Maybe she'd change her ways. Hopefully. I didn't say anything regardless.

The bullies I were dealing with now were a lot bigger and well connected than some popular girls with rich dads.

I walked away. My [friends] followed.

The sun came out. It wasn't really appropriate. Well… kinda, but not really.

I turned to Vicky and Missy beside me. Missy was still [worried] but also [vindicated] on my behalf. I nudged her shoulder and [affection] blended into the mix. Vicky smiled slightly when Missy elbowed me back.

"Come on, lets go to that book stall we saw earlier." Vicky suggested.

I nodded. Missy led the way.

And, later, when I looked up from the worn classics on the shelf and saw my friends chatting, I thought that maybe the sunshine was appropriate after all.

[>[>Peasant<]<]​

Madison started the day normally. Getting up late to check all the messages and PHO boards in case something had happened after she went to sleep (too late) last night. But school was out, so it didn't really matter.

Her family was out at work, so Madison brought her phone to the table. She reminded herself why she was eating fruit when Emma texted. Because Emma always texted nowadays. (Madison wasn't her friend, but she was closer than anyone else and something was weird with Emma ever since Sophia moved state.)

The mall was still unavailable apparently. Madison had never been to the Lord St Markets; there were usually better places to go after school, and her family had been too busy for outings that took longer than two hours.

But Madison had learnt how the buses worked, at least. Enough to know that meeting Emma for lunch meant getting ready… about now.

And since no one was around, she groaned and slumped back up the stairs.

[>[>---<]<]​

Madison waited for the bus. It was late. She didn't mind – she needed the time to… process.

This day had…

So many things that she wanted had happened. In the worst possible way.

Madison had met Glory Girl. Who recognised her as Emma's friend (she wasn't friends with Emma) and chewed her out. Because Madison wasn't a good person.

She knew that, but she'd built a little shell of good things. It had been enough. For her, for her parents, for the students and teachers at school.

Not enough for someone she actually wanted to impress though.

And Glory Girl was friends with Taylor. Taylor who Madison had kind of forgotten about. Who was the new Ward. The cool new Ward that Madison had also dreamed of meeting.

Who hated her. How could Taylor not hate her? Madison was a bad person. And her shell had finally shattered.

The bus would be arriving soon. Madison needed to pull herself together. Taylor hadn't pressed charges yet. Maybe she wouldn't now.

It wasn't like Madison had done anything to her today. (And would never do anything to Taylor ever again because the way she had met Emma with unrelenting blankness was terrifying.)

Madison focused on her breathing because it had gotten too fast. Again. Today had changed… everything.

Other people knew she was a bad person now. (Other people that could do things about it.) Emma was done. Gone. Had been slipping without Sophia, fending off other contenders for top of the totem pole. But this, getting punched out by the girl she used to bully and ignored by a cape celebrity?

Well, Madison's one skill was telling which way the wind blew. (It was how she knew she was a bad person.) So, Madison told Emma's current rival that they should meet up tomorrow and talk. Then messaged the rival's rival – because high school popularity predictions needed data.

It didn't really help with the whole 'being a bad person' thing. But Emma had had it coming. They probably all did honestly. Maybe that's what the Endbringers were.

That thought didn't help with the 'breathing too fast' thing. But there was a gang war. Everyone had an excuse for their stress.

Madison, as she did sometimes, wondered about how her life might have gone differently. If she was a cape. Or had been born in New York. Or before Scion.

Or Earth Aleph.

Maybe if everyone wasn't fighting all the time it'd be easier to be a better person.