I'm sitting properly and trying not to draw attention. After all, I'm a model student, and it's crucial that my lawyer, Henry McCallister, has grounds to claim exactly that. She doesn't make noise, doesn't cause trouble, stays calm in class, and went to the shelter at the first sign of alarm. Speaking of the shelter—there's no real shelter at Winslow High. According to regulations for educational institutions, every school should have proper emergency shelter facilities for students. A real shelter differs from an ordinary basement not just by thick concrete walls and at least three exits (one underground and located at least a hundred meters from the main shelter), but also emergency communication with the PRT, water and food supplies for several days. Oh, and activated carbon filters built into the ventilation system. I gleaned this information from reference literature available through public access via my insects. What Winslow called a "student shelter" was just a basement. No water or food supplies, no filters built into the air ducts, let alone emergency oxygen reserves. The basement walls weren't particularly strong or thick either—I could say that with complete certainty, since the cracks in the foundation served as shelter and home for numerous insects.
And there was nothing in the basement except old furniture dragged down here, disassembled desks, and chairs stacked on top of each other—getting them out of the pile was quite a task. So most students just sat on the floor, or rather on cardboard, remnants of furniture boxes and other things. Of course, some managed to extract chairs for themselves, and others just leaned against walls, digging into their phones, but most simply unfolded cardboard boxes and laid them on the floor. Self-organization, I thought, watching how students cooperated with each other. Even natural antagonists, enemies by definition—the red-and-green ABB and the "eighty-eights"—kept their heads down. I swear I saw one of the red-greens help Sabrina, a blonde from the eighty-eights, extract a chair from the pyramid. Curiouser and curiouser, as Lewis Carroll's Alice would say.
My sworn enemy, the last of the Mohicans, Madison Clements, sits nearby with her arms wrapped around her knees, staring straight ahead. She looks depressed. However, the unhealthy enthusiasm and burst of hysterical merriment among students had already begun to subside, and most of us now look exactly like that—depressed. This is facilitated by the fact that cell signal reception is poor in the basement—concrete all around, plus everyone's searching for news online right now. So even news pages load slowly, and there aren't many opportunities to distract from what's happening.
It's easier for me—I'm only partially here, in Winslow's packed basement, in this claustrophobia-inducing place. I'm outside, my insects are tracking what's happening around the school. I know no danger threatens us—there's nothing strange or scary within my power's range. The school administration just played it safe, just in case. Or they received direct orders from the PRT—get lost and hide in terror. And it's justified, considering what I know about the Butcher and her team.
The Butcher—the Fourteenth—is a terrifying creature. Practically invulnerable, with the ability to teleport, send pain impulses, always hit targets, see blood (through walls and certainly through flesh), control blood, plus she's an excellent swordsman, tactician, and tinker-tech specialist. But all this pales before the Butcher's most ultimate ability. Why she's called the Fourteenth. Because the Butcher cannot be killed. No, rather—must not be killed. Because whoever kills the previous Butcher gets a wonderful bonus in the form of a passing banner reading "Tag, you're it!" And the title of the next Butcher. Yes, it's that simple—whoever kills, loses. Along with the Butcher's incredible powers comes the personality... I don't know by what method, but from open sources, including PRT press releases and PHO discussion threads, I've established indisputable facts. Namely, that whoever killed the Butcher—after some time (usually a week or two) became the new Butcher. That is—returned to lead the "Teeth" gang and began behaving according to the Butcher's personality patterns, even if they were originally a hero.
Then came theories and assumptions, for example that the Butcher's personality simply absorbs the carrier's personality, and that this is his ability. However, the fact that the new Butcher retained the new carrier's abilities that he previously didn't have (swordsmanship, tinkertech, teleportation) as well as certain actions and slightly changed behavior suggested that the carrier's personality didn't completely dissolve in him. Phrases breaking through and uncontrolled actions rather spoke of deep internal conflict. The assumption put forward on PHO and satisfying Occam's Razor principles was that the Butcher's ability was more like collecting, gathering all personalities together, while the ability owner's will still dominates over the new carrier's will, either due to the abilities themselves or because the Butcher was originally more strong-willed and already had several such battles behind him.
Forced personality merger—simply horrifying. Yes, hell is other people, but in life you can run away from them, hide, not communicate, ultimately—kill them. But what if your personality is locked in a closed space with many others? Whom you hate (how else?! The closer they are, the greater the hatred, and in this case there's no room for privacy), but with whom you can do nothing? That's how people go insane, and it would be wrong to think only the new carrier goes mad. Everyone goes insane, but the old Butcher and his personalities have already gone off the rails, which is why it seems the old personality takes over. No one takes over anyone—if anything wins, it's schizophrenia and paranoia. Hatred from individualities locked in a tight barrel. Even if they don't feel pain, they still feel despair, longing, and horror of existence without the possibility of changing anything. Horror. Horror. No, better to die than end up in such a soul prison.
The brief conclusion from all this—the Butcher must never be killed. Considering that "capture alive" orders are always harder to execute than "kill on sight," add the Butcher's destructive abilities and tolerance for pain and physical damage—it becomes clear this is a razor's edge game. Balancing on a knife blade—don't press hard enough and the Butcher will turn everyone around into bloody mincemeat with his machine gun, sword, blood control ability or pain impulses, but press too hard—and hello, New Butcher.
I'm starting to keenly regret spending so little time researching neurotoxin and tranquilizer dosages. Yes, I had web traps, but what use are they against a teleporter? The whole problem with tranquilizers is they don't work at all like movies show—one shot and anyone drools, sees sweet dreams and calls for mommy. No, as Hippocrates said, everything is poison and everything is medicine—it's all about quantity. A tranquilizer, if you exceed the dosage, is no worse than any poison and will suppress higher nervous activity, stop the heart and other processes. The same neurotoxin in ant queens—in small doses paralyzes. What am I saying about neurotoxin—botulinum toxin type A in small, microscopic doses simply paralyzes muscles, but exceed the dose... and hello asphyxiation.
So the best tactic when meeting the Teeth and Butcher Number Fourteen is to run. Break distance, leave at maximum speed, leaving insect decoys behind, distracting attention by all possible means and saving your hide. Of course, the thought of invulnerable Taylor with the Butcher's powers warms the soul, but as a rational person I understand I'm no different from other idiots who decided to test the Butcher, and those who managed to deal with him regretted it very much. Well no, I don't think my ability to control insects in multitasking mode will help me cope with schizophrenia—more likely accelerate the process.
There are nuances, of course. I noticed I can direct anger, irritation, or fear into my Swarm. The insects absorbed the feelings, allowing me to remain a shard of pure rational mind. Almost. If you don't count the drive for constant conflict escalation—that's written right into my subconscious. In theory, I could try to suppress the Butcher's personalities or emotions associated with this directly into the Swarm. Again in theory, I could separate personalities and even assign each a personal cockroach (yes, very funny, Taylor, you're a real stand-up comedian today), or clones. At worst—not experience negative emotions from personality conflict, redirecting anger and hatred into the Swarm. But I'm not going to test this in practice. Screw it, I'm already living on borrowed time here—look what the conflict with Lung alone cost. Though yes... it obviously cost him more.
I chuckle. Awkward silence has settled in the basement, and my chuckle sounds unexpectedly loud, drawing attention. Madison raises her head and meets my gaze. Immediately looks away. Well... it seems I won't have problems with this particular Horseman of the Apocalypse anymore. Funny. School drama. Taylor feels more fear and hatred toward the trio than toward Endbringers, and that's understandable. Endbringers are somewhere far away, but the trio is right here, constantly delivering pain and fear... delivered. No more. Only Sophia remains, well, if she continues her crusade, she might be found on city streets, deceased from cardiac arrest and asphyxiation. Or simply with a crushed skull—ultimately no one would question such a method. The girl played too much at being a predator and got burned. Though I'd have to prepare beforehand... well, that's right, enough improvising.
I mentally picture Sophia lying on cold asphalt with a crushed skull and glassy eyes staring at the sky, and smile. No, it's pleasant. The original Taylor in my place would now feel horror and guilt. But I allow myself to enjoy these thoughts. I don't intend to crush Sophia's skull yet, but thinking about it is allowed! I don't intend to do lots of things—like getting into Tattletale's pants, but thinking... or even leveling Winslow entirely, such hatred inside for everything here... That's how school shootings happen, by the way—if Taylor's moral compass wasn't so strong, give her a shotgun and that's it.
I exhale the hatred inherited from Taylor into my Swarm and feel the ability to think rationally returning to me.
I pay attention to the surroundings, to what's happening around the school. Unusually empty streets, all cars parked or stopped, no pedestrians. Still, Brockton Bay residents learned to react quickly to cape fights the right way—don't get underfoot, don't interfere in fights, don't record everything on phone cameras, but get to the nearest shelter, or if there isn't one nearby—crawl under a table and don't attract unnecessary attention. After all, cape concentration in Brockton Bay is unusually high, which is why the Northeast PRT branch headquarters is located here.
In New York, watching cape fights, passersby would gape and reach for phones. In Brockton Bay every dog understands that the more you gawk, the greater the chance a car might fly into you, completely accidentally of course. For which we should thank Glory Girl, no kidding. She quickly trained Brockton Bay's civilian population to hide in terror at the sight of cape fights. No, no fatalities, and she didn't really cripple anyone... well, she did cripple them, but her sister Panacea healed everyone. However, memories of being torn in half or having arms and legs ripped off aren't the most pleasant memories, and people prefer to avoid such experiences. So the New Wave sisters should be awarded an order from the PRT, or an honorary certificate "for visual education of the city's civilian population in proper actions when witnessing parahuman conflicts."
So personally I don't share the majority's negative attitude toward Glory Girl, Collateral Damage Barbie. As they say—do you want to play checkers or actually travel? When you're cutting down a forest, chips fly; you can't make an omelet without breaking eggs, and generally this whole theory of "measured violence application" is a bit unclear to me. Violence is violence for a reason. As one familiar thug said—"if you want to convince someone when squeezing his hand, you can't do it like in movies. Squeezed, released, pressed again—no. That's a popular misconception. You need to do it like this—squeeze, crush, destroy, pulverize. Each time press harder, otherwise they won't understand the concept of real violence and will have illusions about their place in society and the specific communication session."
That's exactly why I personally find it hard to control myself during combat—everything inside screams "add more!" because I know perfectly well that an extra bullet to the head won't hurt at all, but a lack of holes in the enemy's body might negatively affect my health. And that's exactly why the Butcher is the most terrible opponent I can imagine... he cannot be killed. Need to dose toxins and violence levels, and I don't know how to do that.
At this very moment, something happens at the edge of my consciousness. Some chaos is happening within my abilities' range—explosions, gunshots, rapid movements, and finally pops here and there. I grit my teeth. Of course.
I quickly figure out what to do. The battle between the Teeth and Protectorate is rolling through city streets. I barely manage to mark participants. Though I don't know who's who, I mark those moving quickly or showing unusual abilities—I managed to identify Armsmaster and Miss Militia, but I simply can't tag some of them with insects—they're moving too fast.
Need to run, I think, watching the battle move closer and closer to our school. I have chances. I can maintain distance between myself and all this mess—just get up now, burst through the door, run away and keep running in a direction perpendicular to the battle's advancement vector through the streets. And run until my legs give out.
I look around. Winslow High's basement, full of students and teachers. Taylor hates this school and every one of them. Not all of them tormented her, but each of them allowed it to happen day after day. Indifferent and cynical creatures. Just get up now and leave—what could be easier? Get up and go. And anyway, why did I decide the battle would roll right through Winslow? This isn't a scheduled race—they could turn aside. And even if the battle passes right through the school—they're sitting in the basement! The shelter. Who's to blame? Administration didn't take measures, didn't strengthen the shelter—it's just a basement.
And then—who are they to me anyway?
An explosion sounds outside, someone cries out, lights flicker, and Madison sitting across from me flinches with her whole body.
What the hell, I think—if this were Lung, Kaiser, or anyone else, I could do something. I'd destroy almost everyone on the parahuman list except those with inhuman physiology like Weld or Alexandria, but this is the Butcher! And I have violence triggers, lose my mind—I won't hold back in battle, these are damn reflexes—throw everything I have at the enemy, don't hold back strikes. Not a minute will pass and I'm already the New Butcher, and who will that help? If the Butcher gets my powers too... I need to be evacuated from him in a sealed armored box marked "Urgent! Otherwise Apocalypse!"
I feel my Medicis trembling as they scatter through ventilation shafts, wasps tear from their nests, cockroaches and woodlice with centipedes flow from their shelters. Just in case. I'm not going to fight the Teeth. And especially not the Butcher.
Another explosion and machine gun staccato, muffled by walls but audible thanks to ventilation. Madison covers her ears with her palms and presses into her own knees. Idiot. Can't stand her.
I stand up and catch surprised looks. Silently walk to the door and open it, despite weak protests from pale Mr. Gladly. I step into the corridor and walk along it, releasing ant queens from my hair.
Idiotic school. Moronic students. Stupid Madison. How I hate you all.
The lights go out, gunshots and bursts thunder. I walk through the dark corridor as my insects bank into attack distance.