They say history knows no "if". Because in hindsight everything seems simple and clear, and all we do now is throw up our hands—how could you not foresee the iceberg, and why were there so few lifeboats on the Titanic? Wasn't it obvious you couldn't trust Cao Cao at his word? Who built the Maginot Line only to the Ardennes? Did you really want wealth so badly that you had to execute Genghis Khan's diplomatic delegation? And so on and so forth.
If you think about it, everything is explainable in hindsight—well, of course the Titanic was unsinkable with watertight compartments, but what if they all got ripped along the side, smartasses? Of course you can't trust either Cao Cao or Lü Bu because they're completely unreliable. In hindsight we know the Ardennes forest turned out to be passable for armor and supply vehicles, and Genghis Khan could move troops at such speed that the Khwarezmshah didn't even have time to blink before black riders besieged Urgench. But that's in hindsight.
Now I understand that my multitasking ability is the strongest defense against sensory overload—and it's precisely through such overload that the Butchers drove their new hosts insane. Constant screaming, swearing, insults that don't leave you alone for a second... and as soon as it starts getting to you (and it will get to you sooner or later, more likely sooner than later)—that's when Ukhtomsky's dominance kicks in, you can't concentrate on anything except this constant quarrel in your head. However, even with all their passion and truly brilliant ability for obscene vocabulary, all this constant swearing in your head is just an information stream. And yes, if you focus only on it, or (here's the trick! Watch closely!)—try your hardest not to focus on it—it will eventually drive you insane. Well... sort of insane. Push you toward impulsive and uncharacteristic actions. Which everyone around will naturally interpret as "the Butcher finally showed his true nature," even if you were a hero three times over. Edward simply couldn't stand this battle and killed himself. Though at that moment I think he just wanted to blow off steam. No one can suppress anger and irritation inside themselves indefinitely. Sooner or later it all bursts, and then society just shakes its head—how could this happen, he was so proper. That's exactly what drives you insane—the desire to stay within bounds when you're bursting inside. You need a valve to release steam, you need to process and experience feelings, not deny them. Though even so, if not for my multitasking, the Butchers would probably have driven me insane too.
But now, in hindsight, it becomes clear that for every clever nut there's always a clever bolt. My ability is to receive, accept, and digest without damage to my own psyche a gigantic volume of data. The human brain can't do that—remember, when you sleep, the brain often can't even display complex geometric shapes, distant landscapes in dreams are hidden in fog. The brain lacks computational power. When we look at a distant cityscape, we don't see it. We see a general picture simplified for our brain's capabilities. In my case, I simultaneously receive information from millions of insects. Millions! And to hell with receiving information—the brain can receive, tag it and send it to archives. No, I simultaneously make millions of decisions! Right now, I'm sitting at the table with my father poking at mac and cheese with my fork, while simultaneously culling hundreds of Japanese hornets and ant queens, conducting field tests comparing speed and maneuverability of new hornets—they're much faster than ant queens, faster and more resilient. At the same time I'm listening to screaming and scandal in the noble Butcher family about Edward's privileges as he's absorbed in some simple browser game. In parallel I'm conducting private negotiations with Quarrel, Muramasa, and Shock, each separately. Quarrel is being stubborn—the memory of her own death from "Medici" poison is still fresh. Shock agreed immediately, and we're discussing equipment needed for his workshop and the number of insects. He's learning to control ants and is completely thrilled by the possibilities that opened up. Muramasa... that's more complicated. He demands breeding a sword-wielding insect, period. Turns out he has ideas about how exactly to use a second pair of "hands" during sword fighting. I'm trying to explain to him that I'm not a biotinker, I can only control insect behavior, accelerate metabolism, and conduct selection of necessary genetic traits.
"...so they released us right away. The fire department came, medics, even the Protectorate with PRT, and police of course." And I'm also having a social conversation with Danny, who's pretending to listen attentively. He's tired from work and was very worried about me as soon as he learned the Teeth with the Butcher at their head fought practically in Winslow's schoolyard. Well... practically on the opposite side of the street. That's why he rushed to school in his old pickup, but of course everything was cordoned off and no one was allowed through, so he worried even more, and when they finally let him through—he learned I'd left long ago and then raced home. He only exhaled when he burst into my room while I was organizing the orderly ranks of psychopaths and killers, barely managing to remove the blindfold and pull out earplugs. He saw me whole and relatively unharmed and exhaled. He hugged me so tight that for a while I wondered if without the Butcher's strength he probably would have broken my ribs. Still, incredible strength, this regeneration—the intoxication passed like smoke from white apple trees. But my hand was aching, I'd strained it somewhere, and it all went away. And most importantly—vision. Now I only need glasses without prescription, because I have perfect vision. And there's even some kind of zoom built into my eyes—if I look closely and strain a little, it's like it zooms in a bit.
"And one girl felt sick, they even took her away in an ambulance," I say, cowardly hiding that this very girl was Taylor Hebert herself. However, at the hospital they figured out pretty quickly that I was healthy beyond measure and just wasting medicine. They even offered to take me home, but I managed on my own... on foot. Interestingly, I can turn off unnecessary sensory channels. Rather, not turn off, but... not pay attention, mark them as "non-priority." Very convenient. Need the ability to see blood through walls—there you go. Don't need it—turn it off and you can see your father's face instead of a skull covered with bloody vessels. Same with other abilities, apparently because these aren't my abilities. My ability, insect control—I couldn't turn on and off at will. Oh well.
"And I even saw Armsmaster! And he's the seventh-ranked hero in the entire country!" I say. "Just like that! Right on the street, in person. It's one thing when he drives by on his motorcycle, completely different when he's standing nearby."
"You used to like Alexandria more," Danny says, carefully hiding a yawn. "You had so many posters of her, a lunchbox. And t-shirts."
"That's ancient history," I wave my hand. "My love now is Armsmaster. He has such strong, powerful hands... and a beard!"
"Mmph!" Danny chokes on his evening Budweiser. "What?!"
"I even have underwear with his face on it," I confide in him. Indeed, among all of Taylor's underwear (no lace and everything either athletic or cotton, pure girl scout)—there were such items. Cotton, of course.
"Kha-kha-kha!" Danny breaks into a coughing fit and I helpfully (but carefully dosing my efforts) gently pat his back. He stops coughing, wipes his mouth, and looks at me respectfully.
"You've gotten stronger," he says. "Strength appeared in your hands. Good job, not skipping PE. And you stood up for yourself at school. But better not tell me about your underwear—I'm still your father."
"Understood. Underwear talk only with other men," I make a mental note. "I wonder, what if I brought it to Armsmaster himself? For an autograph?"
"Taylor! You're just like your mother..." Danny shakes his head. "Stop teasing me. Keep in mind, I'm still the senior man in the family and can quite easily cut off your allowance."
"Okay, okay!" I raise my hands, surrendering to such a concrete argument. "I'm quiet already. Not another word about Armsmaster underwear. By the way, it's his mask, helmet, not his face."
"Don't understand what the PRT's PR department is thinking," Danny shakes his head. "Kids could buy them."
"The size is just right for kids," I agree with him. "They'll be too small already. Should go to the PRT—they have a gift shop for visitors. Get properly dressed, so to speak."
"And what am I doing? Discussing underwear with Armsmaster's face," Danny shakes his head. "Let's change the subject. Henry McCallister, our lawyer, called me at work. Says he can bring the case to negotiations and payoffs from the school about the previous incident. Ready to hold a meeting with both the school administration and Alan at the same time. I told him it's a trap and they'll present a united front, but he just laughed. And I believe him. Do you know the Heberts are half Irish?"
"And half Italian, plus Scandinavian for the third half. If there is a third half," I nod. This is dad's old story he uses every St. Patrick's Day to go out partying all night with friends from the dockworkers' union. Dockworkers' union—where else would Irish and Italians be?
"Anyway, there are two options—he can handle everything without your participation, so you don't have to be present," father continues. "But he wants to consult with you. Thinks you'll want to be at the meeting."
"I do want to," I nod. "How could I not? With someone like Henry, I'd go to hell itself. I think if the earth split in half and Satan himself crawled out, you'd just need to call Henry McCallister and he'd definitely make a deal. And Satan would pay compensation. No way I'm missing such a show," I say, tracking hornet culling, reading about today's incident on PHO, and checking how the next batch of botulinum toxin type A is maturing. Busy girl, what can I say. Oh yes, Tattletale is texting me something... and I dropped my phone screen-down, I'll go up and read it.
"Good then," Danny says, finishing his Budweiser and getting up from the table. "I'm so tired today, Owl, I'll go sit in front of the TV a bit then sleep. There's a Lakers game replay today but I don't think I can watch to the end."
"Of course. I'll clean up," I reply. "Rest."
"And... I was thinking today," he stops halfway to the living room couch. "You probably need to buy a cell phone. I know you don't like them, but I nearly went crazy from this incident at your school. What if something happened?"
"Daaad! Not at school, nearby! Heroes stopped the Butcher and his Teeth minions two blocks from us and ground them into the asphalt," I roll my eyes. "We didn't even really hear anything. Sat in the shelter for two hours, boring."
"Still," Danny frowns. "Tomorrow I'll give you money, you'll buy yourself a cell phone. You have the day off anyway, everything around the school is blocked off. And there are notices posted."
"Won't refuse," I quickly agree. "I'll go buy one. This... won't hit our budget too hard? I was offered some part-time work..." Right, offered. Tattletale offered it. Kill Coil, get millions. Such a simple offer. What does she take me for? Manipulator. Found herself a part-time killer. Hell no, Coil personally hasn't done anything bad to me, and killing people for money is somehow improper. Especially since I don't need money yet. Yet. The stream of consciousness I use to communicate with Shock, a tinker cape among the Butchers, starts understanding how expensive it is to be a tinker. Need materials, need instruments, need machines, need parts, and much of the above is very, very expensive. Damn.
Still won't kill Coil. Tattletale and I aren't blood relatives—she's attractive, so what? I also find Armsmaster attractive, strong, muscular hands and beard... eh. But he doesn't ask me to kill anyone, he's ready to just give... or are these remnants of Taylor's adoration? Or desire to pull the tiger's whiskers? Or... terrible revenge on the Butchers—seduce Armsmaster and let them spit during sex? No, I don't hate the Butchers that much, really.
Father settles on the couch and opens another Budweiser. I put dishes in the sink and go upstairs to get my phone, see what Tattletale is ranting about. Because who else could be texting me? I blocked advertising services, only she remains. Well, there's also the PRT emergency line in case of parahuman attack, but there was already a parahuman attack today—lightning doesn't strike twice, right? So—Tattletale. Now begins "let's meet and discuss what an unfortunate maiden in distress I am and how Coil exploits and violates me every day, save me, my knight in chitin."
I have to say, Lisa appeals to me, but more as a personality—she's so daring, always walking the edge, such a sly sister fox from an adult fairy tale. Cynical, charming, smart, bitch through and through. If she could keep her tongue behind her teeth, she'd be priceless. Interesting that Tattletale in this regard is just like me—knows she shouldn't get into bottles, but can't help provoking. I wonder, what if she simply must enter conflict, as an option—to know a person better? Like echolocation—a short ping to determine personality, thinking method, behavior pattern, stress reaction type? If she needs this for her power to work? Then everything falls into place—she simply can't do otherwise. For me it's all simple—Taylor's hang-ups sometimes just nudge me along. And... there's some underlying desire to smash someone's face, really bloody, to meat. Where does that come from in a fragile girl? All from the same place—suppressed needs. Can't keep that inside yourself, Taylor—should have signed up for boxing, started doing sports or carried a razor in your pocket, made friends in a gang... eh, what's the point now. I hope after getting the Butcher in my skull, this won't get worse. I've already lost hope it will pass, that nirvana and enlightenment and forgiveness will come to me, but at least stay within the bounds of previous reactions. Though... remembering Lung, even the previous reaction was overkill, too much and three aces in hand.
I enter the room and pick up my phone, thinking in hindsight that simple ants couldn't flip it, but if I took several "Medicis"—they definitely could have. I unlock it. So many messages. Several at once from the PRT. Explosions in the city, request for civilians to remain calm. New message. Some Bakuda, a cape from ABB, Lung's minion, claimed responsibility for the explosions. Now she heads ABB. She's blowing up buildings and making absurd demands—hand over Lung, allegedly he's alive and in a secret PRT prison. Another message—request to remain calm and not go outside, a list of unsafe neighborhoods. Residents of these neighborhoods are recommended to proceed to shelters. The last message—really from Tattletale.
"Where are you?! Home, I see. Need help, urgently! Bakuda will kill us! Please, please, please!" Looking at her message, I understand the matter is really serious. For the first time since we've known each other, Tattletale didn't put an emoji.