Someone starts knocking on the stall door. I don't look up from my pita wrap. All the other stalls are empty, so if someone wants to use the restroom, they're more than welcome to pick a different stall.
I hear some chattering, and the stalls on either side of me open up. Coincidence? Maybe. Probably? No. I re-wrap my lunch, place it carefully in my backpack, and close the bag, schooling my features into a mask. I've practiced in the mirror and I'd like to think I've gotten pretty good at hiding my emotions. I can't stop myself from feeling absolutely livid whenever I put up with the Trio, but damned if they have to know.
I wait for them to start. Come on, do your worst.
"Found you!" a sickeningly sweet voice calls out from above me. I look up and get greeted by a face full of grape juice, with orange soda not far behind. It doesn't take much effort to keep from flinching, and through the film of drink on my glasses I get a look at the two responsible for this particular prank. Madison and Sophia, laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world. Like this helps them, somehow, to make my life miserable. I can already feel my shirt beginning to fuse to my hoodie, the disgusting feeling of stickiness on skin. Mask, Taylor. Keep the mask on.
They get down from the dividers and I take a moment to use some toilet paper to dry my glasses. Once I've cleaned myself up a little bit I stand up and open the stall door to face my tormentors. Madison Clements, Sophia Hess, and Emma Barnes, all looking happier than the cat who caught the canary. They look at me, covered in stickiness and standing emotionless. They laugh, looking for tears, for anger, for anything they can use, twist and throw back at me.
Fuck 'em.
I stare at them, keeping the mask on. Madison is the first one to stop, sneering one last time and practically skipping off. Sophia follows, dismissing me with her eyes. Emma looks me up and down, one last time, appraising. I keep my eyes locked on hers and my hands at my sides.
Mask on. Mask on. Keep it up.
She nods, as if she's finished up a masterpiece, all stoic pleasantness and satisfaction. Then she turns away, paying me no mind as she walks out the door, already adopting the walk that shows off her figure best, all swaying hips and bouncing hair. I track her with my eyes, and then turn to the old, dirty mirror over the sinks to asses the damage.
My hoodie's ruined, with orange and purple stains decorating the shoulders. I twist a little and see my upper back is also soaked, with streaks of purple and orange going up and down, like lashes. The top of my backpack got covered, but a quick check of the contents assuages my fears. Everything is intact. Now I just need to murder something and-
I cut that thought off, putting on the mask. Can't freak out. Won't freak out. Not here. I breathe. In. Out. Deep and relaxing.
It's not enough. I work my jaw and lift my hand in front of me to chest height. Then I push.
The skin of my hand parts, revealing a bud of bone. It parts and pushes up farther, slowly opening into wafer thin petals. A rose, bone white, with thorns running up the stem. Picture perfect. It took a lot of failure to make it look like a real flower. More to make it look like it grew in time-lapse. I can feel the tension draining out of me, seeing something bloom from me.
It takes a minute to become picture perfect. One minute where I can lose myself in the intricacies of calcium and collagen. Then I grasp it near the base (careful to keep my fingers unpricked) and snap it off.
I hiss. A little. Not nearly as much as I did when I was first testing my limits. I push my bone back into its normal shape (the skin healing back over itches like nothing else) and I put the rose into my backpack, right next to my art project.
Fuck. Art. I look in the mirror. A mess stares back at me. I can't go to class like this. Can't put up with the semi-pitying stares, the snickering, the increasing levels of bullshit that lead to me eviscerating-
Mask up. I school myself into calm. In. Out. Control the breath, control the rage. I head out of the bathroom and walk out of school, keeping to the under-used hallways. In. Out. A few of the kids give me looks. I ignore them. The mask is still on.
The bus ride has more looks. I ignore them. The mask is still on.
I get home and drop my bag by my door. I make a mental note to put it away somewhere Dad won't see before he gets back home. I step into the bathroom, turn on the shower, and strip off my filthy clothes. I don't even wait for the shower to hit a reasonable temperature before I step in, ignoring the cold. Mask is still on.
Then I drop the mask and fall to the floor, gasping.
Fuck fuck fuck. How'd it all get so fucked? None of the pranks on their own were that bad. Pleasant? No. Bearable? Yeah. I had my power, my plans for being a hero, I had Dad. I had options to get out of it. I had a coping mechanism, so why do I immediately default to extreme fucking violence to solve my bullying problem? I could force it down and that would work for a while. Thing is, they had infinite opportunity to torture me and if I lost control once, I could kill someone. Then I'd be branded a villain. Goodbye hero-career. I sob a little, salt replaced with heavy-metal flavoring as the shower pounded into my face. After a few more minutes of desperate gasping I feel my tears stop coming. Good, good. Getting better. I feel the goosebumps on my skin from the freezing water and see the slight pruning on my fingers. How long did I spend in the shower? I giggle a little, unbalanced and desperate.
God, I needed an outlet.
The water finally hits a reasonable temperature, and I stand up and start cleaning myself. Convex bone protrusions spring under where I feel the stickiness most. Pain, not as bad as snapping off a rose (and isn't that a great euphemism for breaking my own bones?) follows, and entire sections of my skin slough off. A neat trick I picked up when I realized I didn't scar when my bones broke my skin. Used it to get rid of all sorts of other little imperfections. I thought a perfectly clear complexion would be one fewer thing they could use against me.
Wow Taylor, you were finally able to get some surgery! Maybe now you can look a little bit more like your mother! Why not take the final step and jump off a dock?
I feel the protrusions curl around me protectively. I push them back underneath, enduring the sudden itching that follows my weird sort-of regeneration. Not going to think back now. Not at home.
I shut off the water, towel off, and tug on some clothes. The strips of filthy skin (mercifully bloodless) get thrown in a garbage bag I've made a habit of keeping in my room. It's not so full I have to burn it, but it's getting there. Now that I feel more like a human being, I drag out my notebook (blessedly free of stains) and turn to an empty page to really think about how my hero career should go. I've put it off for too long, experimenting where no one can see and keeping quiet. As a result, I haven't been looking forward. Time to hammer this out.
I could keep enduring. Do nothing. I cross the option out as soon as I write it down. I can't be sure if (or when) I'll snap, and lives are in the balance. Best not to rely on something as fragile as my self control.
I could join the Wards. I snort as I cross it out, right below 'nothing'. I'd have to tell Dad about my powers, and about how I go them. Not something I'm comfortable with. That, and my power would be hard to spin into something family friendly. Introducing Calcium Queen, the hero who tears open her own skin and has freaky bone spikes, a poster child for self-harm! That'd go over really well with the parents. Even more than those, reviews from ex-Wards who didn't join the Protectorate are not positive. The amount of paperwork that has to be submitted after something as simple as a stopped mugging is absurd, though that did come from a Master, so a grain of salt is required. On the other hand, the reward for saving lives is a stack of sheets? Pass.
No. Wards are out.
I could join a gang. Not asian enough for ABB (one bullet point ex'd out), not Nazi enough for E88 (another one) and I don't really want to start my own gang (last bullet point gone). No major gang that I could join cleanly. That and, hey, criminal activity. I'll be damned if I'm driven to crime because I couldn't take some abuse. They're not that strong.
I think about some other options, chewing on the eraser. New Wave is an option. I could be an independent, skip the paperwork. Or do something non-combative, like Parian. I write them each across the sheet at the top, then draw a line between each one. Pros and Cons.
New Wave. An flying brick, some flying shooters, a fairly generic strong man, someone with a lightsaber, and the best medical care parahumanly possible. Safety in numbers is a thing, and if they're recruiting it wouldn't be a bad gig.
On the other hand, they're basically a smaller Protectorate. A few teenagers, a few adults, an emphasis on accountability (if not paperwork), and they might ask me to unmask and/or tell Dad. Same package, different name. I write down 'probably not, but maybe if they meet some demands'.
Independant. A little research can find the sustainability of independent heroes pretty easily, and it's pretty fucking terrible. Most get recruited by one team or the other, with a few joining the villains and a few dying/retiring. Other than that though, the indies have a good job. The legal system is setup to ignore you, and the police won't look too hard for missing money. Plus, there're a lot of overlooked assault charges as long as you don't go to far (like, say, shooting criminals with lethal ammunition). Other independent heroes say that not being a dick is usually enough to make sure you don't get badly injured. I scribble down 'decent option' under the even shorter list of bullet points and move onto the last option.
Parian. One of Brockton Bay's only Rogues, with the ability to manipulate fabric and create stuffed animals. Currently not doing much besides fashion shows and birthday parties. I go back to spinning the pencil and rub my chin thoughtfully. How can I economize my powers?
Bone marrow transfusions? Most of those are donations, so I'm not sure how much of a market there is. Plus, Panacea probably covers anything sufficiently serious. Skin grafts? Again, not sure there's a market for it. Art? Parahuman stuff always sells, but I suck at sculpting. Then again, I don't know how good Parian's stuff is. I was never into the fashion scene, always putting up with that traitorous bitch's attempts to pretty me up-
Stop. Mask. I notice my pencil's broken, snapped between a pair of bone-armored fingers. I toss aside the broken eraser end and pull the bone back under. I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, pressing my glasses up in the process. In. Out. After letting out the breath through my nose, I open my eyes back up and go back to the page.
The economical option is nice, but if I don't hit something soon I might go Freddy Kruger on the school. I write 'nice in theory, but not currently viable' under the Parian column, as well as a note to read some books on sculpting. Maybe I can do some modern art, pull in five figures, and pretend like I found a sack of drug money under a bench when I give it to Dad.
Yeah, real convincing.
I look a the page. New Wave, Independant, and Parian. New Wave might not take and Parian won't give me any catharsis. Guess that leaves going out on patrol. I head down into the basement, absentmindedly flicking on the lights, illuminating the bare boards above and slightly chipped concrete floor below. And the mirror.
More than six feet tall and clear as open sky, with a worn bronze frame that depicted laughing skeletons, all rictus grins and spindly fingers. The old man on the market couldn't be rid of it fast enough, said it creeped out his grandkids. That's probably a fair reaction if you don't think the skeletons are laughing with you. I initially picked it up to get a discount on the close-cut biking goggles that matched my spare set of prescription lenses, but it grew on me.
I strip, put on the goggles, and look at the mirror. An unimpressive, thin, gawky teenager looks back. With a just-too-large mouth, no curves to speak of, and owlish eyes, I wouldn't put myself above the median in looks. I've seen pictures of mom, and it gets better, assuming dad's genes don't become dominant. That doesn't help me now.
I close my eyes and push with my power. I remember the patterns I've been working on for these past three months, modeled after medieval plate armor. Barely-warm bone crawls over me, forming thick plates with ablative shells, barely attached. Loose at the joints for mobility and lighter that any metal. Apparently sometimes stronger, too. Fun fact, bone has one of the best strength-to-weight ratios in the world. For a second I lose myself in the gentle, soothing embrace of my power. It's pleasant. Like a full-body hug.
When I open my eyes and look at the mirror, Taylor, the perfectly average girl, isn't there. Instead, I see a woman with a slim, supermodel figure, all long legs, slim hips and clean limbs. Segmented armor covers every bit of her skin, reminiscent of ancient knights. She's in lifts, putting her well over six feet. I'd heard other girls complain about walking in heels, but walking in ones made of bone felt... natural.
I look at the mask. A full-face close helm, with vertical slits for breath and vision, skin concealed in shadows. My hair, Mom's beautiful black hair, trails from the back, forming a dark plume behind me.
Taylor was hidden. The White Rose remained.