"Remember this, Hebert—there are predators in this world, and there are victims. Victims hide and run. That's just how it is. Got it?" Sophia's voice is sharp, almost rehearsed, as she delivers her little Nietzschean sermon. I meet her gaze, letting her see that nothing she says intimidates me. Sophia moves like a fighter, confidence radiating through every taut muscle. But right now? She's no threat at all.
Somewhere deep down, I almost regret giving in to all those "You have to finish school, Taylor, it's important for your future!" talks. What future? What possible career matters in a world where monsters like the Slaughterhouse Nine exist? Humanity really will get used to anything, won't it?
"You've been sticking your head up a lot lately, huh, Hebert?" Sophia unscrews the cap from her grape juice, her motions slow and deliberate, telegraphing her intent for anyone with half a brain. It's almost laughable—she's actually planning to dump juice on me. Pathetic. The kind of "attack" no one would ever take seriously. She'd just feign clumsiness: "Oops, bottle slipped, it's not my fault if you got soaked!"
A Ward, a government-sanctioned vigilante, trained to fight monsters—and she's going to resort to juice? Not acid, not containment foam. Juice.
It says more about Sophia than she'd ever want to admit.
I step aside as her wrist flicks, intercepting the arc of purple with a gentle touch to her forearm, redirecting the spill. Sophia's form is tight, quick—she tries again, aiming to douse me from above, but I swat her hand away; the bottle flies from her grip, rolling across the grass.
"Hebert!" she snarls, frustration twisting her pretty features. There's real anger there, and just a sliver of something a little unhinged. Controlled? Oh, I have no doubt Sophia Hess could kill if she felt like it. But she doesn't. Instead, she's throwing juice.
That tells me all I need to know.
For all the hell the trio gave Taylor, it never crossed over into brutal, open violence. No group beatings. No blades, no scars. The worst was humiliation—disgusting locker pranks, whispered rumors—but nothing permanent. Even the infamous locker incident: they shoved her in, but never laid a hand. With Sophia's temper, if she were truly protected by the PRT, Taylor would've left school in an ambulance, or worse. But she doesn't let herself go that far. Why? Because the PRT wouldn't stand for it. It's all about reputation; a Ward caught roughing up a civilian would be a PR nightmare, and Sophia knows it.
Which means, despite all her bravado, Sophia Hess is far more vulnerable than she realizes. If a regular student steps out of line, that's one thing. If a Ward gets caught? Big trouble. The PRT might try to hush things up, but if anything ever made it into the open...
"Sophia, you dropped your juice. Clumsy for a star athlete." I take a single step back—inviting a crowd, making sure everyone sees who's initiating, and keeping myself clear of any quick jabs or cheap shots. If Sophia wants to start a fight, she'll have to do it with witnesses.
"That's it, Hebert, you're dead!" Madison pipes up. "You'll pay for what you did! I told the teacher everything!"
"So you can't handle things yourself, Madison? Have to run to an adult?" I shoot back, my gaze never leaving Sophia. I don't let my guard down—she's smart enough to keep it together in public, but all it takes is a snap.
Either way, I win. If they play it cool, I just keep living my quiet life, tracking their movements with my ever-present fruit flies, avoiding their ambushes in the dark. If she finally loses it in front of an audience—well, the fallout's on her. And if, by some miracle, Sophia outed herself as a cape here and now…? She'd be out of Winslow before the week was over.
"That's you, ugly toad! You're always whining to your mommy!" Emma spits venom, her words scraping for a reaction. Once, she'd been Taylor's best friend. Now, she's just… pathetic. Not even a good villain—just a traitor, desperate for popularity. And always dragging Taylor's dead mom into it. That wound was already bleeding; Emma just loves to twist the knife.
"Yeah, I'm not the prettiest girl here," I reply, calm and even, watching as Emma blinks in confusion. This isn't how Taylor used to play. "But you are—I've even seen your ads. But you know what? I'd rather be plain than betray a friend for a shot at popularity. When I last read Dante, I learned there's a special place in hell for people like you. Beauty won't help you much there."
"Oh, you—" Emma's hand whips upward, about to strike, but Sophia grabs her wrist, freezing the motion. The crowd holds its breath. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Mr. Gladly pretending not to see any of this, the coward.
"Later," Sophia tells Emma, gaze never leaving mine. "We'll deal with her later."
"Voice of reason," I can't resist muttering. "Listen to your master, Emma."
"I know what you're doing, Hebert. Trying to make me snap in public?" Sophia says, voice low and cold. "Not a chance. But you'll see. You'd better watch your back, because I'm coming for you for real now." She pulls Emma away, Madison trailing after, tossing a final insult as she goes.
"Miss Hebert," Mr. Gladly coughs. "The principal would like to see you now. This way, please."
"With pleasure, Mr. Gladly." I sling my bag over my shoulder and follow, all smiles.
The principal's waiting area is only marginally less depressing than a prison. When the secretary finally lets me through, I suppress a smirk—Blackwell's office is all cheap wood and darker shades, like someone's bad impression of authority in a TV show. Blackwell sits behind her desk, every inch the classic "strict administrator" in glasses and a no-nonsense suit.
"Here she is, as you asked," Gladly announces, beating a hasty retreat as soon as the door clicks shut behind me. The look of relief on his face is priceless.
I let my attention wander—to the swirl of ants beneath the floorboards, to the little baggie of weed in the bottom drawer, the metal flask, the faint scent of gun oil. This woman deals with Brockton Bay's worst, and it shows: weed for the nerves, booze, even a revolver stashed beside it all. And… huh. The same pheromones from her secretary that I'd picked up earlier; guess I know who's really running the place.
Silence lingers between us. Classic interrogation trick—let the suspect stew, try to make them crack. But I barely notice, my mind busy cataloging vibrations and scents through my bugs.
Blackwell finally folds first. "Hebert, there's been a complaint about you."
I pounce on the opening. "Oh, yes, I accidentally stepped on Madison's foot coming out of class! I felt terrible, offered to walk her to the nurse, but she refused! Please punish me—I'm so ashamed. Honestly, I am!"
"Uh… yes. Ms. Clements says you kicked her."
"No, no. I simply stepped on her foot—my mistake. Madison's right, I need to watch my step. She has such tiny, delicate feet, and I… well, I hope she's okay."
"That's… understandable. Just be more careful next time, Hebert. That'll be ten hours of afterschool detention, starting today."
"I deserve it, ma'am. Thank you."
Blackwell relaxes immediately. If I'd tried to fight, or claim Madison started it, it wouldn't have done me any good. She hates me enough as is—the school budget is still suffering from their little "locker" episode. As far as Blackwell's concerned, I'm the source of all her woes.
But this doesn't bother me at all. If anything, detention is a blessing. A couple of quiet hours is all I need to perfect my command of insects. Besides, with my powers, I'd never have to set foot in this dump again if I didn't want to. Let Winslow rot.
When I leave, I shoot the secretary another look—if she ever loses the bun and blazer, Blackwell's taste suddenly makes sense.
"Do you need something, Hebert?" she asks, not glancing up from her monitor.
"No, nothing at all. Have a nice day." I head for the door, two whole hours of afterschool freedom waiting for me.
No one ever gives ABB or Empire 88 kids detention—funny, that. But for me, today is just another day to experiment. Control means more than behavioral nudges. With my touch, I can rewire everything—pheromones, breeding signals, even the form and venom of my insects. True control means the possibility of real transformation, of evolution.
And I have a whole two hours to play.