If you squint at the sun just right, you can see a kind of halo, an aureole around the bright disk. It's not recommended to stare for long, but there's something irresistible about spring sunshine... especially when you're perched on one of the debris chunks that Glory Girl scattered around during her fight. I squint at the sunbeams and sneeze loudly. My insects keep Sophia in focus—she's lingering. Doing something... changing clothes? Hmm.
The thought of dealing with her doesn't trigger anything inside me, nothing lights up. Glory really got me fired up though—one on one, fist to fist, girl on girl, just like Taylor's dad taught her, Irish by heritage and union leader by profession. Maybe it's because Glory is... well, Glory. The heroine of Brockton Bay, the girl thousands of fans pine over (hopefully not millions). She's the shining embodiment of justice and youth, such a pleasant contrast between all the chaos of this world and some bright side, the side of angels. Oh, I'm not idealizing Glory at all... or am I? Taylor never could have imagined she'd ever get to talk to her, but Taylor couldn't imagine a lot of things. No one could have.
I thoughtfully rub my chin with thumb and forefinger while Sophia Hess changes into civilian clothes and prepares her entrance. I sit reading a book—the first thing I grabbed at home. After all, Taylor's mom was a college English and literature professor, so it's no surprise they have shelves full of books, plus boxes in the attic and basement.
Of course, I'm not actually reading the book—I know it almost by heart. Taylor read it once, long ago. She didn't like what she read, but she remembered it. And everything Taylor remembers, I remember too. My insects tell me Sophia has changed clothes, left her backpack, and is heading my way. I wonder what she thinks about her victim, Taylor Hebert, showing up at the Ship Graveyard—specifically at the exact spot where Glory and Butcher recently fought? She probably thinks I'm one of those cape groupies. A Glory Girl fan, maybe. Though from someone like Taylor—gloomy, always wearing black—you could expect anything.
I mentally run the preliminary information through my decision-making mechanism, checking it against Butcher's moral compass. How? Simple—if the Butchers approve of something and get really excited about plans and prospects, that's a huge red flag. And right now, a bunch of bored sociopaths inside me are enthusiastically bombarding me with advice on how to torture one schoolgirl to death.
"Devour her alive with insects," says Alice. "It's pure chthonic horror when bugs eat you! Sure, the bitch will go into ghost form, but you have your larvae, right? They're not just trackers, right? Tell me! Tell me!"
"Of c-course they're multifunctional," Tok, the former Tinker vagrant, responds. "A tracker that's j-just a tracker is money down the drain. Taylor is rational. She can give the command and those trackers can start reproducing and d-d-devour the host from within."
"Nonsense! Break her neck and leave her here to die," declares the Nubian. "Why bother? Beat the shit out of her, turn her into bloody pulp with your fists. Give in to your rage!"
"If we had my machine gun..." Alice says dreamily, "we could shoot her arms and legs, then..."
"I understand I won't win any popularity contests," Pestilence interjects, "but a festering wound across her whole face—that's something girls are very sensitive to. Put a mirror in front of her, let her see herself rotting and decomposing alive... it's not even physically painful, it causes suffering on a deeper level. Loss of identity. Watching your face turn into a horrifying bloody grimace, flesh peeling from your bones..."
"The cleanest and most noble way is a blade's swing. Turn that piece of metal into a sword and cut off her head," advises Muramasa. "One strike. Oh, I could write a poem about a sword's strike, if I still had fingers capable of holding a brush."
"I'll give you an especially strong ant and a light pencil," I promise him. "And thanks everyone for the advice. Now I know exactly what to do."
"You haven't heard from me yet," Butcher grumbles somewhere inside. "Four-eyed slut..."
"Oh, I won't hear anything new," I roll my eyes. "You're damn predictable, old man."
"I'm not old!"
"How old are you? You were already forty when you triggered. Definitely old."
"Grrr... whatever. So do you want to hear my advice?"
"Well... you won't let it go, will you?"
"I'm against killing her," the First Butcher declares, and all the other Butchers fall silent, listening to him.
"I have to give you credit, oldboy, you managed to surprise me," I chuckle. "Why's that? Need to drag her to your basement and make parasitic wasps lay larvae in her body? Cover her with festering wounds and breed white carnivorous worms there? Eat out her eyes and house hornets there? Make her suffer for years... no, decades, oh yes. Turn her into material for my hive so she lives and lives while being devoured from within... oh, and your saliva heals. Spit in her face and immediately after—make her rot alive again? So it becomes my innocent entertainment before breakfast and before bed. How can you sleep if you haven't tortured someone before bed? Come on, amaze me with your inventiveness, old man. What do we millennials know?"
"You're an idiot," Butcher says curtly. "Pestilence is right. No pain surpasses psychological suffering. Let her live, but fear everything you described. If you give me control—I'll show her..."
"Hell no. I gave you control once... and you devoured that guy alive."
"Oh, don't play the innocent here, four-eyed whore! You enjoyed it, I know. And... I can't control your insects, you did everything yourself. Face reality, girl—you're even more fucked up than any of us. And you were like that long before we came to you."
"Hebert!" comes a shout, and I lift my head from the book, shifting my perception channels slightly so I can't hear the Butchers. I give each one a personal cockroach... actually, a pillbug. You'd be surprised how many pillbugs are in the Ship Graveyard. They're small, move slowly, and are trapped in enclosed spaces. Let them have fun—even those sensations are better than complete deprivation.
"What a meeting!" Sophia stretches her lips in a smirk and crosses her arms, looking down at me slightly. Well, of course—I'm sitting and she's standing. If I stood up... it's strange, but Taylor is actually taller than her eternal tormentor, though to her, Sophia always seemed like some Titan on the horizon. Now though... just an ordinary schoolgirl. A sports jacket like baseball and football players wear, with the number "69" on the back and some Minnesota college logo. Short haircut, bangs falling over her eyes, short-trimmed nails, no rings or bracelets. Sneakers and leggings on her feet—part of her previous costume. Throw her into a crowd of fans or cheerleaders at a stadium during bowl games, and you couldn't distinguish her from hundreds of others.
"Sophia Hess," I don't stand up, sitting and looking up at her, still holding the book. "Indeed. Do you like to read? You should like Nietzsche. There's something Nietzschean about you... seeking pain and tragedy, a kind of self-sabotage. Truly, we are our own worst enemies."
"Shut it, Hebert. You know, I wasn't planning to beat you up. I actually like you. You managed to fight back and punch that weakling Barnes. Well... I think you'll amount to something. You're no longer a victim. But, my dear girl, you little four-eyed fool... did you really think that just because you can hit Barnes, you can handle me?" Hess shakes her head. "Big mistake, little predator. I'm the one who raised you from a sheep, I showed you the way, it's through my efforts that you can keep your back straight. My lessons. And today... today I'll teach you a new lesson."
"Strange," I say. "I thought you'd just jump me with your fists."
"Don't worry, we'll get to fists. And kicks to the face too," Sophia nods, confident in herself and her victory any day of the week. "But what's a beating without educational effect? You're in for a lecture, my dear, and it will be extremely painful. But I'll try not to cripple you... though... we'll see how it goes. If you turn out dumber than I think, you might stay here at the Ship Graveyard. No one will find you afterward. So it's in your interest to ace my subject. Your first lesson was learning to stand up for yourself. Straighten up. My next lesson will be called 'Know Your Place.'" Sophia shifted her weight from foot to foot, and I suddenly realized she was about to hit me. Hit fast, hard, and without warning.
"Wait," I say, and she stops. Looks at me questioningly.
"Wait," I repeat. "So you're saying all this... all the bullying, when you called me names, poured juice on me, dumped trash on me when I was in the bathroom stall, broke my mom's flute, locked me in my locker—all of that was lessons? Are you completely insane, Sophia?"
"Hebert." For a moment she wavers, emotions shifting across her face. She wants to punch me in the face, knock me down and beat me half to death, but she also wants to show her intellectual superiority. She justifies her behavior with lofty phrases and constructed world logic—her own logic—and wants to demonstrate that she's not just a sadist like Butcher. She's educating. She's bringing good into the world. As she understands it.
"Okay." She looks around, brushes dust off a massive admiralty anchor lying nearby, and sits on its surface, leaning forward to look at me.
"Apparently, before I beat the shit out of you, we need to talk, Taylor. At least to clear your mind of questions," she says, and my eyebrow involuntarily rises. Taylor. She never called me by my first name. Never. Usually she didn't call me anything at all, as if I didn't deserve to be even human, but an object with its own designation. But when she addressed me, she called me by my last name. Hebert.
"Okay. Let's review the material we've covered." Sophia puts her elbows on her knees (all healed up already?), clasps her fingers, and rests her chin on them, becoming similar to our English teacher. "I have no hatred toward you. In this, as you call it, 'bullying'—there was nothing personal. Look at yourself, Taylor, you were a pushover. You know how I met your friend Emma Barnes? She was already on her knees with her mouth open, and a couple of ABB assholes were standing over her with one already unzipping his fly. Sometimes I think I should have stepped out of the shadows a little later—maybe all that idiot needs to become strong is the taste of Asian Bad Boys deep in her throat. Maybe that would have motivated her for real. And you know what? Those losers were younger than her! Scrawny Asian boys—even she could have done something to them. At least not get on her knees. Die standing. Though, what am I saying—they wouldn't have hurt her, cut her, killed her. Those guys were just bluffing, intimidating. They don't need problems with the police, even if they're ABB. Lung can't protect everyone, and those who get caught—no one pulls them out of jail. Old Lung followed jungle law among his people—if you get caught, you're the fool." She pauses and glances at me quickly, making sure I'm listening. I am listening. I'm genuinely interested. Interesting that this bullying campaign turns out not to be just a spontaneous reaction to Taylor's victimhood, but has a thought-out ideological platform beneath it.
"What was I saying? Oh yes, Emma Barnes and a dick in her mouth. You see, Taylor, she could have fought, could have struggled, could have screamed, could have fought back, bitten, gouged out an eye with her finger, kneed someone in the groin, could have just pushed that idiot's hand with the knife and he would have cut his own face. But she chose to do nothing. No, worse—she chose to submit. Get on her knees and open her mouth. The world is divided into two parts, Taylor—there are predators and there are herbivores. Victims. Humans have long had two contradictory directives—submit or dominate. And I educate stupid schoolgirls not because I enjoy bullying someone. Look—I have no hatred toward you now. I acknowledge your existence, Taylor. I acknowledge that you took a step forward and grew. Stopped being herbivorous. Straightened your back. Think I didn't notice how you started moving? Training in something? Kenpo, jiu-jitsu, boxing, karate? Good for you, Taylor."
"Damn, that was unexpected," I admit. "You're even more screwed up than I thought, Sophia. Every time I think I know you, you manage to amaze me with your... whatever's in your head. Did you just compliment me?!"
"Because I'm above that. I have no hatred toward you, Taylor," Sophia shakes her head. "Despite the fact that you attacked me with a pipe and beat me with intent to maim—I'm even a little proud of you. Of course, that won't save you from today's painful lesson, but that's different. You've grown. But today I'm going to beat you up just so you understand your place. You'll never become like me, even if you've grown some teeth. You successfully learned the first rule—you became a predator, but there's a second one. The second rule states—there's always a bigger predator. Stronger and with huge fucking teeth. You know what predators do when they meet another, larger predator? They tuck their tail between their legs and lower their head. Today I'm going to teach you exactly that. Tuck your tail and lower your head."
"There's some contradiction here. You just wanted to make me a predator and now you want to make me lower my head."
"No contradiction. Survival of the fittest. In constant struggle we fight for our place in the sun, and I'm glad you decided to join us predators of the modern world. It's just... today you chose the wrong opponent." Sophia stood up, stretched, tilted her head sideways, working her neck, cracked her knuckles. "So, Taylor, time to get your ass kicked?"
"You see, Sophia, your nature analogy is a bit incorrect. There aren't just predators and herbivores in the world. There are, for example, omnivores. The same humans who aren't really predators but dominate everyone—herbivores became food for us, and predators became entertainment in zoos and safaris. From this perspective, it's not those with bigger fangs and stronger muscles who win, but those with brains. Humans became what they are because they could cooperate... eh... what am I trying to teach you? As they say—I don't give to charity because I'm not poor enough for that. But I like your enthusiasm, Sophia. Really, why drag out the anticipation. Just one question before you start beating me up."
"Before we start—take off your glasses. And take your cell phone and keys out of your pockets. Put everything over there," Sophia says. "We don't want to break all that... or drive it into your eye sockets. I want to beat all the stupidity out of you, Taylor. No one's ever beaten you like this before, trust me. You'll be spitting blood and pissing red. And... I hope this stays between us, right? Or will you run to file a police report?"
"No police. I've got my own dirty laundry. Let it stay between us," I say. "Girl-on-girl business."
"Good. I see you're learning, Taylor," Sophia smirks. "So what was your question? Fine, I'll answer. Try to remember what I'm telling you here, concentrate. I understand it'll be hard to do with a concussion, but do try. Sensei Sophia rarely gives such detailed lessons—appreciate it."
"Oh... infinitely grateful," I put the book down and stand up. I work my neck, rub my wrists. Smile. God, such happiness—a lesson from Sophia herself, how lucky am I. And her too—because today's lesson topic...
"Remind me, Sophia, what's the topic of our session today... it's 'Know Your Place,' right?"