I'm sitting in class, the perfect example of an inattentive student. Because during math class, I'm thinking about anything except mathematics. I'm thinking about how I need to expand my combat potential, and for that I need to accelerate my insects' metabolism—the motto for new generations of insects will be "live fast, die bright, advance evolution!" I even have ideas swirling in my head for mobile armor made from especially tough ant queens in four layers with shock-absorbing padding between them. And this won't just be mobile armor that protects against impacts and low-power lasers—this will be Self-Repairing and Autonomously Assembling armor. Like the suit of that philanthropist, playboy, and billionaire Tony Stark—extend your hand and instantly a gauntlet of insects assembles on it. If only I could figure out how to fly in such a thing... the lift from all the insects wouldn't be enough, humans are pretty dense things, dense and heavy. On one hand, it's completely unclear why I'm bothering with such projects, since I personally don't plan to enter combat, but on the other hand—there's no such thing as excessive safety. If there's a chance to make myself safer—do it. Especially if it would be exactly that kind of armor-suit, where snap—and you already have a safe space around you. Relatively speaking, of course, even four layers of insects probably wouldn't withstand a shotgun blast, but they'd save you from a club strike and give you the opportunity to "blur" your location. Or create a decoy from insects. After all, as practice shows, on my very first outing I was spotted and identified as the cape responsible for insect behavior. Besides, whether due to teenage hormonal storms or because the owner of this body was subjected to bullying and now has such sharp reactions—I don't know. But the fact remains, Taylor was drawn directly into conflict, brutally so. And I'd understand if she had a Brute power, like Mini-Alexandria, as they called Glory Girl here. But no, she has a ranged ability, the whole point of which is precisely the possibility of incredible super-multitasking, yet she (and me with her) is drawn straight into close combat. Into all that meaty stuff with "boom!", "smash!" and "thud!" like they draw in comics. Right with a fist to the jaw, foot to the ass, and face in the salad, grinding it in there with relish, pressing down from above.
I still don't know whether this is an effect of reincarnation and rebirth, character overlay, karmic working-through, or maybe just hormonal. I don't want sex, though I'm supposedly the right age, but violence—as much as you want. God, what a rush, what infinite and warm happiness I got when I elbowed Emma in the face! And even more—when I slowly walked toward the fallen Sophia, weighing a pipe fragment in my hand. Some people need surprisingly little for happiness, and Taylor Hebert is just one of those. She—or rather now I—has a hypertrophied sense of justice, truly teenage and maximalist attitude that divides the world into black and white, friends and enemies, denying all shades of gray and other colors. Execute, no mercy, and that's it.
I shift my gaze to the empty seat in the third row. Emma isn't here today. Well... I hit carefully but hard, nevertheless Taylor's untrained and fragile body can't yet deliver all the proper energy in acceleration, putting it into an elbow strike... so Emma just has a concussion and bruises. Not even a broken nose. But she's guaranteed "glasses" in the form of dark bruises under her eyes... and a girl like Emma would never go to school until she gets herself looking presentable. Besides, I assume that right now she's going through a certain reevaluation of values, change in personal identification, crisis of that same identification and other psychological processes. All those denials, anger, bargaining and depression. And such work, of course, is better done at home alone... I hope she's a smart girl and understands that she shouldn't climb where it's written in big letters "Don't climb! Will kill!" Because with my/Taylor's mental state, I can't even say when my lid will blow so much that the boundaries of local criminal law won't hold me back. Actually—they already didn't hold me back once.
I sigh. I look away from the empty seat. Besides Emma, Sophia is also absent from class, well that's understandable. A pipe to the knee—that's not drawing on a fence, even a not-so-strong blow can have various consequences. And the leg needs to be kept in order now, unless Panacea heals her. My suspicions that Sophia Hess is a Ward were confirmed, which means help from Amy Dallon, known in civilian life as Panacea, the famous healer cape of New Wave—shouldn't be ruled out. Here I could have had complications... after all, if Shadow Stalker seriously takes up revenge... the consequences are hard to predict. For now, I'm pleased that I correctly "read" her profile. Someone like her won't complain to higher-ups or go to the police. She'll want to sort everything out herself. That's why no one approached me with another accusation of violence against a student—Sophia would never act that way. But a crossbow bolt in the back is now quite possible. However, if I track Sophia's beacon within my perception range—everything will be fine. It's just that new beacon insects came out of my "design bureau's" development only recently, and I haven't had time to plant them on Sophia yet. Or Emma. Madison, who sits behind me in the second row, is already the proud owner of a second-generation beacon. And not just Madison. Absolutely everyone I've had any contact with over the past two days is already equipped with beacons, so now I can close my eyes and play hide-and-seek with the whole school. Why was this done? Wrong question. Because the answer is obvious—because I can. I finally grew a beacon insect, but at first glance it doesn't stand out and looks very much like a small worm that's hard to see even under a magnifying glass. Previously, ordinary fruit flies served as my beacons, which could invisibly hide in clothing folds and go into hibernation as soon as the carrier left my power's range. However, this was an imperfect system. Simple clothes washing destroyed my beacons, not to mention that a person could take off one set of clothes and put on another. The simplest solution to this problem was developing subcutaneous beacons. I think the previous Taylor would have been stopped by the ethical side of the question—after all, this is to some degree crossing a person's personal boundaries, but I had no such difficulties. They're just beacons. They implanted completely painlessly into the body, and their entire function was so I could always track the carrier. Ideally, after gathering information and establishing beacons on all city residents—I could at any moment be aware of everyone's location and identification. This would make my life much easier. In the future, I hope to develop the next generation of such insects that will be able to reproduce and intercept control of the nervous system or, for example—simply devour a person from the inside. Just accelerate metabolism and work on reproduction the floor and kicking until unconscious. But such things can actually very easily happen in a teenage environment, somewhere on the street. There they can make you kneel and stab with a knife and poke with a "rose" from a broken beer bottle in the face and rape with that same bottle.
So Madison was still far from simple and crude physical violence—for her, such a transition from verbal to non-verbal is simply incredible. Especially since the queens of the social hive left her without further instructions—both dropped out of the game simultaneously.
My insects in the nearest storage locker continue reading scientific articles on tactics, characteristics of capes in Brockton Bay, theoretical developments in the applied art of capes hurting each other, as well as legal precedents in this area. The phone buzzes, which I also left in the storage locker, since I can receive information at a distance, and carrying such an expensive and advanced model to school is just asking for trouble. Yes, the trio doesn't pose a threat for now, but who said the trio is the top of the social pyramid at school? At school they practically openly wore gang colors, even conducted some recruitment. Those who turned to these gangs for help paid them some amount from their pocket money. No, overall the guys in red-green or with "88" numbers stayed within the same school rules framework, but I didn't dare risk attracting attention to myself once again. Why? Especially since with my power it doesn't matter where exactly my phone was—next to me or in a storage locker, I could still receive information from there and even type messages. What I couldn't do was answer calls—well, I could press the "answer" button, thank God the touchscreen responds to insect touches. I couldn't talk, which was understandable. Still in classes. Though at the moment the only one who knows my number is Tattletale. And advertising services that continue spamming with messages that "a new lingerie store opened on the Boardwalk! 15% discount for the opening!"
But this time it's a mass message from the PRT. Out of the corner of my eye I see other students stopping and looking at their phones, excited voices sounding. My insects open the message. Periodically the PRT notifies the population about paranormal threats and gives route selection advice. The general alert network works in case of Endbringer attack, but local PRT and Protectorate offices use it for such notifications. It must be said this is quite reassuring, gives a sense of control and stability. There they are, our protectors, knights in shining armor—they live, they work, they guard our lives and interests.
"Paranormal Threat Alert!" the message reads. "The city has been subjected to a terrorist attack by a group of parahumans identifying themselves as the 'Teeth.' The group's leader, parahuman 'Butcher XIV' currently has a threat rating of nine. Civilians are advised not to leave homes or workplaces. School classes are suspended. Enterprise and institution administrations are advised to act in accordance with instructions provided for such cases. Brockton Bay Protectorate forces are currently being dispatched to the scene. Please remain calm."
An unhealthy excitement reigned in the classroom—everyone started talking at once, someone laughed. None of those present were frightened. Of course, I thought, we're all schoolchildren here—for us the end of the world is just a reason not to study boring lessons. You only start fearing something when you understand it's all real, when someone close is killed, or you yourself are wounded. But here we're still children, even those wearing red-green ABB colors or Empire 88 numbers, carrying switchblades or dirtying their pants pockets with bike chains. So no one actually believes in the possibility of being killed or maimed, no one expects to return home and find ashes and bodies of loved ones.
So unhealthy merriment sets in the classroom—everyone dives into their phones, someone plans what to do instead of canceled lessons, someone jokes, everyone talks at once.
Meanwhile, I pull my standby Hive group through the ventilation shaft closer to my location. Almost five hundred "Medici" ant queens, plump grape-like barrel ants filled with Clostridium botulinum type A toxin, several dozen more such barrel ants but with especially caustic acid.
"Kunoichi" ant queens, slightly smaller than the "Medicis," adapted for concealed carrying but no less deadly—ready their wings and stingers for combat. Some are hidden in my thick hair, others throughout my body. Several dozen are in my bag. The school also has a couple of wasp nests that have noticeably increased in inhabitants over the past week. And of course the usual inhabitants of any city buildings—cockroaches, crickets, woodlice and spiders.
Of course, the probability that I'll have to meet the Teeth at Winslow High is damn small, but—si vis pacem, para bellum.
"Attention!" the loudspeakers in the school corridors come alive. "All students are requested to immediately proceed to shelters located in the basement! Teachers ensure immediate evacuation of students to shelters!"
"Another drill?" some girl asks. "How much more of this?"
"Nah, I'm not going to the shelter," a guy in red-green responds. "Sitting and staring at walls for another half hour. Plus the signal barely works there. I'm going home since classes are canceled."
Meanwhile, I track that the "Madison Clements" marker is descending to the basement shelter right now. There's someone who has no doubts—she always does what the majority does. Personally, I don't care—I can calmly sit in a shelter for an hour or two. Because I control my insects from the shelter too, which means there's something to do. I won't be bored. Since they're asking to go down—I'll go down. I still need to show the image of a "model student" for the future investigation of the incident with Emma. Otherwise I'd be banned from this school.
I stand up and gather my textbooks, ignoring the unhealthy excitement around me. Sit for an hour in the basement with everyone, with Madison Clements? Easy. Of course, it would be better to be home conducting the selection-evolution process, personal control and all that. But... who expected the Teeth to show up in the city? I should read about them...