There are five minutes left in class, and I'm desperately stifling a yawn, hiding behind my open textbook. In my opinion, they're going way overboard with this "cape studies" thing. Sure, the emergence of parahumans seriously distorted the social and political landscape, but isn't that what social studies, sociology, economics, and law are for? For instance, there's even an act that effectively bans capes from participating in politics. In my view, that's just plain discrimination. The explanation is always that, say, a cape-master or cape-ruler could use their "unfair" advantage over other politicians. But you don't hear anyone complaining that one candidate might have pleasant looks and a smooth baritone, which just happens to be popular with voters, while another is ugly as sin and has a lisp. So what's the answer—eliminate all unfair advantages by making them both ugly and lisping? Or just ban attractive people with nice voices from running for office? Ridiculous.
Suppose Taylor wanted to run for city council, she wouldn't be able to do it as Ladybug or Roy, only as Taylor Hebert. And the moment it came out that she's a cape, those election results would get thrown out. The Johnson-Mathieu precedent even went to the Supreme Court and was upheld on appeal.
But that's not really my main issue—that it's wrong or illogical (even though it is wrong and illogical). What I don't get is: why the hell teach cape studies in school? The Johnson-Mathieu precedent—cover it in law. The impact of capes on global markets—teach that in international economics. Capes breaking the laws of physics—put that in physics class, and so on.
Cape studies itself is some weird combo of Hitler Youth and scouting, pure propaganda. Capes are cool, look at their powers; there are villains and they're bad, but here's the Triumvirate and they'll save us all. If you become a cape—welcome to the WARDs, only they know what to do in such cases, but if you don't seek help from professionals, anything could happen to you. And the main message—you can't kill people, right. That's a Very, Very Bad Thing.
I stifle another yawn, and all I can think is that for me, that battle is already lost. Lung and his thirty-seven men. Yes, I deliberately say "thirty-seven people" instead of "thugs," "goons," or "ABB muscle." The first step in making it easier to kill is always dehumanizing your enemy. Make them into anything but a person—fascist, Nazi, frog, spaghetti-eater, commie, whatever. But doing this is just like sticking your head in the sand. Even Lung was a person once. Was.
But here, I'm coming at this practically—the commandment is actually a little different. "Do not kill"? No. "Do not kill, unless…" and then there's a whole list of socially accepted killings. Killing is bad? What about a Kill Order? Killing in war? Self-defense? Dire necessity?
So, with a clear conscience, I file away the liquidation of Lung and his men under "extreme necessity," with a little note: "maybe try to be less... drastic next time." File closed. No point in beating myself up over it. What really worries me is my own decision-making process—not so I can mope around with self-blame, but so I can avoid negative consequences like another Kill Order in the future.
There were two moments in all of this that really surprised me. Alarmed me. Made me think. The first was when I attacked Lung and his goons. The second was when I came out from behind the dumpster, fully set on eliminating and devouring the Undersiders.
Both moments were odd. Out of character for my usual way of thinking. When I saw Lung and those armed men with him, I still didn't know how my neurotoxin would work. I hadn't tested that weapon in the field, not on living people, let alone capes. Sure, I tried it on the rats and mice crawling around Brockton Bay's sewers, but that's not even close to the same. In hindsight, I know the neurotoxin worked spectacularly on Lung and the regular guys, but back then, I didn't know that! So the idea, "hey, let's attack one of the strongest capes in the city, who also happens to be surrounded by his heavily armed thugs, while all I have is a pocket knife" was, undeniably, idiotic.
And I don't consider myself an idiot... although, maybe I need to rethink that. Once again—the smartest move would have been to gather more intel, not go charging in. Even smarter—to just run home. None of my business, why get involved? If Lung killed the Undersiders, or if they killed him—good riddance either way, I wouldn't care. I don't have much fondness for Lung or the Undersiders, but see, there I go, diving into a fight like a drunk bouncer on a Friday night. It was like I had a physical urge to fight. Not just a fight, but to flex my strength, stretch my shoulders, test myself, walk the edge… like an adrenaline addict. Like something inside me nudged me along. No, not even that—more like a thirst. I know this thirst. That feeling when power's surging through you, and you go after your enemy, absolutely knowing you're more than strong enough to smash them into the ground.
And honestly, hand on heart, I can't say it was justice or the urge to protect the "kids" that drove me. It was that feeling—the urge to charge into the fight, not even through my bugs, but personally, head-on, into a brawl with Lung, like I was three meters tall and made of steel. And only my logical side tried to talk me out of such idiotic impulses… though not completely successfully.
The second time was when Tattletale came out to me, and I came out to her. That was a dumb decision, I admit it. But the "Idiot of the Year" award I share with that cute blonde in purple. She knew who I was, what I could do, and still decided to face me. It's hard to imagine a dumber choice. If I'd slept with her, I'd swear stupidity was an STI... or maybe some other idiot bit her. I have no clue what line Tattletale was walking. Because, by the time I left the dumpster, I was set—I'd kill all of them, what did I have to lose? If the barn's already burned, what's the house? Four more bodies wouldn't change the weather. So much for "the clever one"—swapping that title for "Idiot of the Year" feels right.
In both of these cases, I didn't act… the way I should have. And sure, the situation was unusual; sometimes people do irrational things, like there's someone pushing them along… but still. The most important difference from other dumb decisions—like picking the biggest guy at a bar and punching him for no reason—was I could clearly recall my mindset. In neither of these cases was I angry, furious, hurt, or feeling anything strong. Attacking, to me, was just a theoretical option at first... but before I could fully consider it, it suddenly seemed like the smartest and most reasonable thing to do. Like I just lost my mind for a second.
Not anger, not fear. Just... a thirst for it. I know that thirst.
And honestly, my main driver wasn't justice or saving innocents—it was the thrill, the urge to throw myself at Lung, hand to hand, like some kind of giant. Only my logical side barely kept that at bay, and not entirely.
Then came the bit with Tattletale—a.k.a. Lisa in her purple costume. It was a stupid decision, hers and mine. She knew what I could do and came out anyway. If I'd slept with her, I might've thought stupidity was an STI. As it was, we both just ran along the same knife edge—for what? As if another four deaths meant nothing at that point. Genius.
I just didn't act how I "should" have. Maybe people sometimes do that, but in these cases, I distinctly remember my mindset. Neither time was I angry or upset. The idea to attack, at first, was theoretical... but became "obviously the right thing" before I'd even thought it through. Like some brain glitch.
"Glad everyone finished the homework!" I vaguely hear the teacher. Whatever. The bell will ring soon, and honestly, coming to school today was just for the thinking time. Somehow, school background noise helps me process stuff. If I try at home, I end up cleaning or, you know, breeding ant-queen terminators. Sixth generation already!
"Class dismissed!" The room erupts as usual: shouts, chairs scraping, books closing, laughter, footsteps. The teacher grabs his gradebook and flees. I sit, no rush. I need to work some things out—like what the hell is happening to me? Is this some psychological echo of the "original Taylor"? Did all her bullying and crusader complex get hardwired into my brain? Does that mean I'm not in control—like, I want to talk things out, but Taylor-Kneejerk kicks in. How do I live like that?
But the data's thin. Maybe it's just post-stress craziness—first real fight, hormones out of whack. Let's not jump to conclusions. I'll keep an eye on it. If there's a pattern... well, drastic measures.
And from now on, before making decisions like that—a mandatory double-check: "Do I actually need this?" Period.
And then—someone bumps me, and cold liquid drenches my head and face. What the—? Anger and rage spike, and I almost leap up to grab whoever—who?
Emma's standing by my desk, holding an empty plastic bottle. The label reads "World's #1 Grape Juice."
"Oops! I must've tripped," she says, sickly sweet. "Sorry, Taylor. Not that it matters—you're so ugly, no one will notice."
Behind her stands Madison Clements and two other girls, snickering. Sophia's not here; she doesn't take cape studies.
Sticky juice runs down my hair and clothes, drips on books and notes I hadn't packed yet. I grit my teeth. Just seconds ago, I promised not to act on impulse—okay, breathe, count to three, and decide. One. Emma tells her friends she might've mistaken me for the trash can because "Hebert looks and smells worse." Two. I see Mr. Gladly quickly look away and leave, hugging his gradebook. Madison chimes in, maybe I liked it—look at her eyes! Maybe add cola, got a can, beggars can't be choosers. Three.
Fine. I've counted to three; the options are clear. No inner controller at the wheel—this is my choice.
"Emma," I say, getting her attention. "If only you knew how long I've wanted to do this…"
"What?" Her mouth twists in a sneer, ready to say something mean—but the time for words is over. I shift my weight, pivot, and snap my elbow into her nose—with everything I've got! There's a crunch; pain shivers up my arm. On the street, I'd follow up, but this is school, it's Emma—she'll manage. The blow knocks her flat, clutching her face. Madison and the others freeze, stunned.
I check—Emma's alive, moaning and rolling on the floor. Calmly, I pack my books and notebooks. I'm never coming back to this school. Backpack over my shoulder, grape juice still dripping, I walk out. Madison yells something after me. I pause in the doorway, glare at her. She goes silent.
I smirk. Emma and Madison picked their timing—no teachers, lunchtime, free to mock me without witnesses. But today, that works for me—no staff to intervene. Never occurred to them I might fight back, that I could come right back at them.
I move down the hall, ignoring the students staring—sticky juice trickling, anger burning inside. Idiots. Couldn't let it be. Picked the wrong person. The Darwin Awards are calling their names. I lengthen my stride. I'd even stopped tracking Sophia's markers with my fruit flies. Bad move—she's moving fast, converging at the exit; probably waiting for me.
I could avoid her ... but closure's due. I owe Taylor at least that.
I quicken my pace. My insects scout the school's front yard—there, found it. Out the gates, I head to the road, duck into a ditch, and pick up a piece of cut pipe—just the right length. No way this was tossed by accident; someone brought it for a fight and ditched it.
I track Sophia, moving fruit flies over her to feel each move. She's running for the exit. Fine. I turn my back to the gates and keep walking, my swarm already selecting the ambush spot.
"Hebert! Stop!" A shout behind me. The so-called champion's finally caught up. Good. I walk faster, like I'm trying to evade, duck around a corner.
"You're not getting away!" Another shout. Sophia's fast, trained—too bad. Around another bend, a small cement dead-end, dumpsters, and swarming insects. Suspiciously many. If Sophia's a real cape, I may need heavy artillery. But I hope not.
"Hebert!" Rage in her voice, she's close. My power's a beautiful thing—multitasking. Right now, I sense every move, her breath echoing in my fruit flies, every step as I lift the pipe like a baseball bat. Quick math—then swing.
Thunk! A solid blow and a howl! Sophia's tough, not knocked out, but an iron pipe to the knee does damage. She skids across the pavement, eating concrete—at one point, she flickers out, vanishes, reappears. Huh. Theory confirmed.
"Bitch! Bitch!" Sophia howls, clutching her knee, nose bleeding. "Hebert! I'll end you, you're dead!"
"You know what I'm going to do to you, Sophia?" I ask, stepping closer, weighing the pipe in my hand, slapping it against my palm.
"You wouldn't dare!" Her tone shifts—she realizes that right now, busted knee, me with a pipe, she's not winning.
"Don't worry. You've had enough for today. I just wanted to remind you, Sophia…" I toss the pipe aside and dust off my hands. "Kneecaps—they're a privilege. "