Templar

by Agayek

In every life, there is a choice. In every choice, a contradiction. One to flourish, the other to wither. Every man must choose their own way. Good men carefully seek the best path. Great men forge the only path.

2. Introductions

Chapter 2: Introductions

Consciousness returned in an abrupt rush. There was none of the normal build up, the slow transition. One second, I was dead to the world. The next, I was staring at bars of early-morning sunlight on an unfamiliar off-white wall with one eye and the curve of a pillow with the other. A low, steady beeping, the unmistakable noise of a heartbeat monitor, sounded regularly in my ears. My nose was full of the heavy stench of smoke and singed cloth, trapped in the mask I was half surprised to find still stretched over the bottom half of my face, but beneath that was a sterile, chemical scent that I don't think anyone born in a first world country could fail to recognize. I was in a hospital.

And that realization was all that was needed for the memories to come pouring back in. I tensed in instinctive panic at the frantic, terrified memories of fire and pain before the rational side of my mind could catch up, reminding me that I wouldn't be in a hospital if Lung had woken up first. I tried to roll over and sit up, maybe see if I could get out of here, but my body was having none of that. A dull, muted throbbing radiated out from my side, a sensation I somehow knew should have been searing pain, interrupted the motion, sending me to the unyielding mattress beneath me in an ungainly flop. My back joined my side in protest, pulsing dully as it pressed against the rough sheets.

"Careful," a girl's voice chided me gently. A hand settled lightly on my shoulder and a pair of concerned brown eyes set in a field of blinding white suddenly appeared in my vision. I jerked in surprise, but the hand was firm and kept me in place. "You're still quite injured."

"Uh..." I intelligently managed to croak back before descending into a brief coughing fit. I felt like someone had stuffed my mouth full of cotton balls while I was asleep. The hand on my shoulder helped me sit up and a glass of water was pressed into one of my hands. I gratefully chugged it, barely remembering to slide the straw around the bottom edge of my mask in my rush. Several seconds later, I finished and met the obviously amused gaze of the girl. I looked away and coughed once more, my cheeks burning.

"Thanks," I mumbled under my breath. She nodded but, much to my relief, didn't say a word. She simply took the cup from me and took a step back, allowing me to finally get a good look at her. What I could see anyway. It was hard to make out details of someone wearing the closest thing I'd ever seen to a burka. From the neck down, her entire body save for her hands was covered in bright white cloth, and her head was covered much like my chosen costume, with a big hood and half mask of the same cloth as the rest of her outfit. The only break in the eye-catching white was the blood red cross on her back and chest like the tabard of a medieval knight or, far more likely in a hospital, a medic.

That outfit in this place meant only one thing: Amy Dallon. Panacea. She was a big name in Brockton Bay. A hero around my age with the power to heal any malady with a touch, and a junior member of New Wave, the short lived movement that pushed for the elimination of 'secret identities' among capes. It had been a bold move, meant to make parahumans accountable for their actions, and it may even have been successful if one of the founding members hadn't been murdered out of costume as a direct result of it. As it was, they'd become a cautionary tale, a symbol of why capes needed the separation.

I could only assume that she was here to heal me. I hoped so at least. I was pretty sure I was already hopped up on painkillers and could still feel my injuries. Letting them heal naturally would not be fun, especially if Emma found out about them. And I didn't even want to think about how Dad would reac-

That thought stopped me cold.

"How long was I out?" I half-demanded of Panacea, the frayed edge of panic in my voice. God how could I be so stupid? Dad must have been losing his mind with worry when he woke up and I wasn't home.

"About four hours, if your chart is right," she answered coolly. "It's currently seven in the morning."

I blinked, the surprise forcing back the panic for rationality to make a comeback. That meant Dad had only known I'd been gone for half an hour or so. I still didn't like it, but that was much better than I had expected. Hopefully I'd be able to use a bad dream and an extra long run as an excuse, if I could get out of here soon.

"Right, thanks," I said as I calmed down, trying to inject a note of apology in my tone.

She seemed to pick up on it, or maybe she was just used to that kind of outburst from her patients, because she nodded her acceptance and moved on. "You're also currently in the medical ward of the PHQ building."

"Out in the bay?" I asked, surprised that they would drag me all the way out to the converted oil rig that served as the Protectorate's main base in the area.

"Yes. It's the only medical facility in the city designed for dealing with capes. Now, on to why I'm here. I am legally obligated to receive express permission before healing any non-critical injuries when working in a hospital." She rattled the whole spiel off quickly, with the ease and familiarity of something she'd said hundreds or thousands of times before, and received the same answer every time. "Do I have your permission?"

Her tone was cordial and her posture relaxed, but something about her, maybe the look in her eyes or the almost invisible furrow of her brow, practically screamed unease. I wasn't sure what was causing it, but I got the very distinct impression she wanted quite badly to be anywhere else. Still, she was offering to heal me, so I may as well get it over with.

"Uh, sure," I said, unable to keep myself from giving her an odd look when the air of frustrated gloom around her redoubled. Was that why she wanted to leave? She didn't want to heal me? I felt a flash of irritation at that thought. She could heal anyone of anything with the slightest touch, with no more effort than a handshake. She was famous for it. What was so different about me that would make her so obviously reluctant?

She reached for my bare arm and an internal war broke out in my head. I wanted to be healed, that was without question. I doubted I could take Emma's normal crap with the injuries I was rocking. But at the same time, Panacea clearly had no desire to do it and forcing her to didn't sit right with me. Not to mention that she must have had her reasons to feel that way, and since I'd never met her before, I highly doubted it had anything to do with me. I had no idea how her power worked, and I wasn't sure I could live with myself if it was something like her taking on my injuries herself then accelerating her own healing or something.

In the end, there was only one thing I could do. Give her an out.

Moments before her fingers closed on my arm, I pulled it away. She made a small noise of surprise, but I bulled ahead before she could speak. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"What?" she asked, her eyes wide in surprise and confusion, and a glimmer of relief. I frowned at that. Was my random speculation right?

"It's pretty obvious you have no desire to heal me," I said, careful to keep any hint of condemnation out of my tone. I was far from thrilled at the idea of keeping my injuries, but if my suspicions were right, I couldn't live with myself if I had her heal me. I'd figure out something else to tell my dad. "I have no idea why, but I'm not about to force you to do it if you don't want to. You said it yourself, I'm non-critical. I'll heal eventually."

She blinked. Guilt, relief, and shame clashed freely in her gaze and she hunched in on herself. "Wuh, tha- uh, sorry?" she stuttered out in a squeak.

"It's alright," I returned, my frown deepening. I hadn't meant to set her off like that. It was supposed to make her feel better, damnit. "Really. It's not the end of the world."

She stepped back from me and took a deep breath to gather herself, pointedly refusing to look me in the eye. "Sorry," she mumbled at length, though with slightly more coherence than last time. The guilt and shame in her eyes practically exploded out at me. "You never should have seen that. You must think I'm a terri-"

"It's alright," I interrupted her, putting my left hand on her shoulder and forcing myself to ignore the way it stung. My hand moved to her chin and forced her to look me in the eye. "You have your reasons. Don't worry about it. I won't," I lied.

Her relief was nearly palpable. She sagged in place and mumbled a quiet thank you. We stayed like that for a long second before she stepped back and reached for her hood, pulling it down then taking off the scarf covering her face. Her eyes twinkled wetly and she gave me a small, genuine smile.

"Hi, my name's Amy Dallon," she said happily. She stuck out a hand for me to shake. "It's nice to meet you."

My lips quirked into a small smile. "I haven't picked a name yet," I told her as I grasped her hand. "But it's good to meet you."

The moment our hands met, a ripple of raw sensation shot through me. Skin itched and shifted, bones swelled, muscles twitched, and while I could feel all of that, I felt no pain. It was incredibly bizarre. It lasted for only half a second, but by the time it was done, I felt as good as new, maybe even better.

My surprise must have shown on my face, because Amy giggled lightly and let go of my hand. I blinked and sent her an askew glance. "You healed me."

"I wanted to," she answered with a smile that I couldn't help but return.

-[]-

I studied the small scrap of paper in my hand, committing the string of symbols on it to memory with one of my first genuine smiles in months. Amy had been... nice, was the best way to put it. After she had healed me, she sat down and we had just talked for a while, about everything and nothing. The topic had shifted constantly, moving from possible, almost entirely rejected, cape names for me to upcoming movies we wanted to see to whatever else struck our fancy. It had been amazing.

Part of me had been suspicious at first, wary of her motives and waiting for the other shoe to drop, as it always did, but she had been so damn sincere that it was impossible to keep that up. In practically no time, I'd found myself laughing and chatting with her without concern. It had reminded me of the time I spent with Emma, before... well, before. I'd been honestly surprised to find myself disappointed when, maybe fifteen minutes after we'd started, she'd scribbled an email address on a post-it, told me to keep in touch, and left to let someone know I was up.

I wasn't alone for long though. Only a few minutes after Amy had left, the door opened once more and Miss Militia walked into the room. She met my gaze calmly and I got the distinct impression she was smiling behind the flag-scarf-thing she used as a mask. A bundle of familiar purple cloth was clutched in her hands, which she held out to me as she spoke.

"Hello again. It's good to see you awake."

"Ah, thanks," I said as I scrambled off the hospital bed and accepted my cloak back happily. It unfolded in my grasp like a big purple waterfall, the color broken only by the many charred and blackened patches that spread across it. I frowned at the sight of the hole big enough to stick my head through at about shoulder height of the thing. If that was from the fire the Undersiders had put out, I owed them more than I had thought.

That was when it really hit me. I had almost died last night.

That realization felt like a kick in the gut. I had no idea how to respond to it. There was fear, to be sure, but it was distant, muted, and intermixed with an equal measure of relief. More than anything else though, I just felt numb. And that scared me. I had thought a near-death experience was supposed to be terrifying, to highlight my own mortality. Yet I didn't feel any of that. I was more bothered by the fact that I wasn't really bothered by it. Was that normal? Or was I crazy? Was it always going to be like that? What if-

A hand on my shoulder and a worried voice interrupted my increasingly frantic thoughts. "-mplar? Templar, are you alright?"

I blinked, my thoughts reeling as as I tried to abruptly switch tracks. "Huh?"

She gave me a concerned look. "Are you alright? You spaced out on me."

"Y-yea," I answered with a sharp shake of my head. I met her gaze then immediately glanced away. "Sorry. It just hit me all at once. I... Lung could have killed me. If I'd been just a little slower..."

The hand on my shoulder tightened briefly. It was embarrassingly comforting. "It's alright," she said soothingly. Her voice was a mix of understanding, comfort and a hint of pity. "Was that your first cape fight?"

I nodded. She smiled behind her mask again. "Templar, you sh-"

"What did you call me?" I asked, my head snapping upward sharply at the sound of my birth name. Did the Protectorate take off my mask and learn my name already?

"Uh, Templar?" Miss Militia repeated cautiously, and the surprise and fear in me turned into confusion. That wasn't my name. Where the hell did that come from? "Isn't that your cape name? That was how you introduced yourself last night, right before you passed out."

"I did?" I asked, my voice as hopelessly confused as I felt. I racked my brain trying to remember the end of that night, but all I could dredge up were fractured images of Miss Militia and Armsmaster. "I don't remember that."

"You were heavily injured. It doesn't surprise me that you don't remember it." Miss Militia's brow furrowed sharply for a moment, then she shook her head. "What is your name then? We'll need to alter the paperwork for you."

"I don't," I began, stumbling to a stop as her brows furrowed even further. "I haven't picked one yet." I paused briefly, considering. I hadn't settled on a name yet, mostly because none of the ones that described my powers sounded remotely heroic. Templar wasn't a bad name in that regard. It carried some implications I wasn't fond of, but my subconscious apparently approved, and it was miles better than anything else I'd thought of. I met Miss Militia's eyes and shrugged. "But 'Templar' seems like it'll work. May as well save you the paperwork."

She cocked an eyebrow and studied me intently before nodding. "Very well. Now, as I was saying, you should be proud." She paused and I had to scramble to remember what she was talking about. When I did, I wished I hadn't bothered. "You beat Lung. There are not many who can claim that."

Truthfully, pride was the furthest thing from my mind. I had fought him because it had been the right thing to do. He had ordered his men to murder children. Even if I had known that the children in question were the Undersiders, probably a gang, I realized with the benefit of hindsight, I couldn't stand back and let that happen. That didn't seem like anything to be proud of to me. It wasn't like I'd had a choice in the matter. She looked like she wasn't going to take anything else though, so I gave her a hidden smile and a nod. I hoped they didn't look as weak as they felt.

They did, I discovered a second later, when her eyes tightened, but she didn't say anything about it. She nodded sharply instead and waved one hand toward the door. "Director Piggot would like to speak to you, before you leave. If you would come with me?"

I hesitated at that. I got the feeling that if I did talk to the Director, I'd end up getting pulled into the Wards, and I wasn't sure I wanted that. I was going to be a hero, there was no question in my mind of that, but I didn't think throwing myself into superpowered teenage drama would be a very good way of getting away from my problems, seeing as normal teenage drama comprised most of them. I had one hell of an advantage here though. I, mousy and pathetic Taylor Hebert, had been solely responsible for the arrest of Lung, one of the most feared parahumans in the city. They would want me on their side. I wasn't exactly sure what that was worth, but if it wasn't a bargaining chip, I was a banana. Besides, it wasn't like they could keep me here if I wanted to leave.

In the end, I nodded to Miss Militia and threw my singed cloak back over my shoulders. If I was going to do this, I was going to make sure they remembered what brought me here. "Lead the way."

Her eyes relaxed and she nodded at me before pulling a pair of sturdy slippers from a pocket on her back. "Here," she said, holding them out to me. I blinked stupidly at them, only then realizing that yes, I was, in fact, barefoot. Miss Militia must have noticed my confusion, because she spoke up as I took the slippers. "Your boots were damaged beyond repair. You can use these until you get home."

I couldn't stop the scowl at that. Those boots had been expensive. I had no idea how I was going to pay for another pair. Then again, maybe I didn't have to. They hadn't exactly held up as well as I'd hoped. "Alright, thanks."

I pulled the slightly-too-large slippers on quickly and nodded at Miss Militia. She returned it and moved toward the door. "Follow me please."

-[]-

The PHQ's hospital was smaller than I had expected. Miss Militia and I came out of the room into the stereotypical sterile white hallway of a hospital, but less than a hundred feet down, I could see it give way to the stereotypical sterile gunmetal grey of government offices. By my count there were only eight or so treatment rooms in the whole place, and there wasn't a doctor in sight, only a bored-looking man in a PRT uniform at a small desk just this side of the demarcation. His entire bearing screamed overworked and underpaid security guard, the kind you see in practically every movie ever made. The only thing missing from the picture was a portable TV for him to be absorbed in. Even without that distraction though, he wasn't paying any obvious attention to us. He wasn't even facing us, for that matter.

Yet I got the feeling he was watching us, or me rather, all the same. I wasn't sure how, but I was confident of that much. It was the only reason I could think of for the guard to be there at all. We were deep in the heart of the PHQ building, well past the countless layers of human and tinker-tech security that must have covered the place. It didn't make any sense to waste a man here except to watch me.

I wasn't sure how I felt about that. It made sense in a way. They didn't know me. I couldn't really blame them for wanting someone to keep an eye on me in case I woke up and did something stupid. In their shoes, I would have probably done the same. At the same time, the whole reason I was here was because I was doing their job for them. A bit of gratitude or appreciation would have been nice.

I shook my head and pushed the mounting annoyance aside with a sigh as I fell in behind Miss Militia. I didn't like it, but I had more important things to worry about. Like the meeting my escort was walking me toward. I had no idea what to expect from this Director Piggot. Would they be happy I incapacitated Lung for them? Mad I didn't sign up for the Wards already? Eager to recruit me? Want to arrest me? I had no way to know, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. All I had to go on was that they didn't trust me, and that didn't tell me anything I didn't already expect.

A sudden quiet chime rang out and snapped me out of my thoughts. I made some kind of awkward half jump at the sound, but managed to strangle the squawk of surprise before it could leave my throat. Miss Militia glanced at me, an amused glint in her eyes, and gestured me toward the opening elevator doors. I scowled distractedly at her, but stepped into the small metal box all the same, chastising myself for being so lost in thought.

"Relax," she said soothingly as she joined me. I scowled harder at the silently closing doors. "We only we want to know what happened last night. There's no need to be nervous."

"Right," I muttered. I wasn't sure I believed her, but I wasn't quite willing to tell a real superhero that to her face. Her eyes glittered with, if anything, even more amusement, but she didn't comment. I scowled harder at her and pointedly looked away. I thought I heard a low chuckle from her, barely audible through the muffling of her scarf, but I ignored it stoically. We lapsed into a semi-awkward silence until the elevator doors slid open with a chime a minute or so later.

"This way," Miss Militia said as she stepped briskly through the doorway and down yet another sterile grey hallway. I followed along behind her, trying to pay attention to my surroundings this time, not that it did me much good. Our route was straightforward and direct, but the corridors were all so bland and same-y that I couldn't retrace it any more than I could the route from the hospital to the elevator. Which was probably the intent, I realized belatedly. Anyone who didn't intimately know the layout would get lost in minutes. That had to come in handy if anyone ever worked up the nerve to attack this place, even if it made it a nightmare for new recruits.

Thankfully, Miss Militia knew her way around. She led me unerringly toward a specific door, to my eyes no different from the last twenty we passed, and pulled it open for me. I stepped through and found myself nearly blinded. From what I could make out, I was in a conference room of some sort, but the rising sun shining directly into my eyes made it hard to tell. I hissed in pain and a hand shot up to shelter me from the light peeking through the window in the far wall. The slim shade from my hand didn't do much, but it, and some squinting, was at least enough to let me look around a bit.

The room itself was spartan, with soft, grey-white walls and a broad wooden table surrounded by plush yet uncomfortable-looking chairs. The only nod toward decoration, and I hesitated to even call it that, was against the wall on my left, in the form of a small bookshelf that reminded me of the one time I'd stumbled into Emma's dad's office when I was a kid. It was neatly packed with the same kind of brick-like leather wrapped tomes that only legal dictionaries seemed capable of filling. Considering where we were, I could only imagine they were about the legal procedures and precedents dealing with capes.

"Take a seat," a voice I recognized as Armsmaster's said curtly as Miss Militia closed the door behind me. She stepped around me with an incoherent mutter and bustled over to slide the blinds on the window closed. I blinked the spots out of my eyes, nodded my thanks to her, and sat down across the table from Armsmaster and a heavyset older woman with a frown so severe I'd be surprised if she was actually capable of a different expression. The woman's gaze was sharp, if tired, as it raked over my ragged and singed cloak. She didn't say anything, but I suddenly felt every bit as scruffy as I looked all the same.

"Hello, Templar, was it?" the woman asked gruffly, and I got the distinct impression she didn't like me. Her tone was formal and businesslike, neutral at the worst, but her gaze was probing and wary. I felt myself stiffening instinctively under her scrutiny.

"Um, yes," I answered with an uncertain nod.

"Good. I am Emily Piggot, Director of the Brockton Bay PRT. You've already met Armsmaster and Miss Militia," she said with a gesture at them. Armsmaster nodded curtly in acknowledgment while Miss Militia waved slightly. I nodded back at them and turned my attention back to the Director. "I want to start by making sure you understand that you are not under arrest. You are free to leave at at any point. We simply have some questions about last night we would like you to answer before doing so. Do you understand?" At my nod, she continued with a small, almost certainly fake smile. "Good. Now, what happened last night? Start from the beginning, and stick to the facts please."

With that, I started talking. I began in fits and starts, stuttering or breaking off as I struggled to remember the finer details that had seemed so unimportant compared to the guy who wanted to kill me turning into a giant dragon, but I eventually managed to settle into a groove where the words flowed more naturally. I spoke uninterrupted for what felt like several minutes, the only other sound in the room the scratch of a pen against Armsmaster's notepad, and I was silently grateful for that. I doubted I could recount the story properly if they had started peppering me with the questions I could see forming in their eyes.

"Then I kicked him in the head, staggered a few steps away and collapsed," I finished, my ribs and hand pulsing with phantom pain. "That's where Armsmaster found me."

"Interesting," Miss Militia mused quietly, just loud enough to be heard. She leaned forward interestedly and asked me directly. "Will you show me this blade you mentioned?"

"I can try," I said uncertainly. I held my arm a bit above the table and tried to recreate the feeling from last night. "I'm not sure how I did it though. It just kinda appeared in mid-punch. I hadn't even known I could until I did it."

Director Piggot's eyes widened minutely, so much so that I almost missed it, but the increased worry that followed was not nearly so well hidden. "That's alright," she said, gesturing impatiently at me to lower my arm. "I would prefer not to have you testing unknown powers inside, please."

I lowered my arm with a frown. Now that it was mentioned, part of me was eager to figure out that aspect of my powers. I made a mental note to do that at the next opportunity and nodded at the Director. "If you insist."

"I do," she said firmly. Her eyes raked over me yet again, her gaze considering and thoughtful, before she sent an inquiring glance at Armsmaster, asking a question without needing to voice it. The Tinker nodded firmly. When she turned back to me, her expression softened a bit, managing to unfold from a scowl to a frown, and when she spoke, her tone was almost friendly. "I will also offer you a position in the Wards program. You would make a good addition to the team."

I blinked at that. I had known the offer would be a possibility of this meeting, but I hadn't actually expected it. The surprise quickly gave way to uncertainty. I had considered signing up for the Wards before, more than once actually, but I had always decided against it. It just hadn't seemed like a good idea to jump straight into a brand new social situation at the bottom of the totem pole. I got shit on enough at school. Now, though? Now I was the one that had brought in Lung and, as far as I could tell, it put me in the good books with both Armsmaster and Miss Militia, the two biggest heroes in the entire city. With those two and my record backing me up, signing on with the Wards didn't seem nearly so daunting. But at the same time, I knew I wouldn't be able to deal with another Emma outside of school. I'd snap in no time.

I wasn't sure what to do. Hell, I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do. Then Armsmaster spoke up.

"The Wards program exists for people like you," he pointed out, in a tone I would have called bland if not for the restrained interest I could practically feel radiating out of his body language. "It's designed to help you figure out your powers and make sure you have the support you need in the field to ensure you don't end up unconscious in the heart of gangland."

I scowled and sent him a glare, annoyed at the blatantly manipulative wording, but my annoyance quickly faded at the confused frown he was sending me in return. I sighed and shook my head. It was written all over what I could see of his face that he hadn't meant it like that. And he had a point. I'd been almost killed on my first night out. If not for the Undersiders and then he himself showing up, I'd probably already be dead. Not to mention what they could do to help me learn about my powers. I had thought my power was 'super-strong and tough teleporter', but my sword thing had nothing to do with that. God, or maybe Scion, only knew what else I could do that I didn't know about. Some help from people who did that for a living would be a godsend.

In the end, what they offered was just too tempting. I made my choice and hoped I wouldn't regret it.

"Alright," I said with a nod. "I'll join the Wards."

"Excellent," Piggot said, a fleeting smile on her lips. "Before we can proceed though, we'll need to know your identity, and you and your parents will need to fill out the paperwork."

I flinched visibly as it hit me. Dad! In the flurry of everything that had happened, I had forgotten about him completely. Panic surged through me at the thought. I glanced quickly at the Director's watch and sucked in hissing breath. It was almost eight! He had to be freaking out by now. I'd never disappeared in the night like that before, and after how much he'd been hovering over me since the locker, I had no doubt he was pacing the house pleading with me in his thoughts to come home. Guilt and shame underlined my panic. Dad had enough crap to deal with without me adding to it.

That was another reason to join the Wards, I realized. I had no idea how he would react to my being a cape, but I knew, with a cold certainty that surprised me, that I was going to be a hero regardless of his wishes. I simply couldn't see myself doing anything less, not after last night. I'd made a difference in the city, even if it was just stopping one set of murders. For the first time in a long time, I felt good about myself and what I'd done. I couldn't walk away from that.

And If I went out and kept getting hurt like last night, I'd only make Dad's life that much more difficult. The Wards could keep me safe and in doing so, help him stop worrying. I had to take it.

I met Piggot's gaze and calmly nodded before I pulled off my hood and mask. "My name is Taylor Hebert."

-[]-

Two sets of footsteps sounded outside the door of the meeting room, loud and obvious after so long with only the sound of my breathing to fill the room. I recognized my dad's stride immediately; his unique rhythm of paradoxically driven hesitance and confused, aimless anger was unmistakable to me. The second set was less intimately familiar, but I recognized it as belonging to Miss Militia all the same, which only made sense. She had been the one who had left to contact my dad, leaving the Director and Armsmaster to tell me to stay here and return to their jobs. It would have been odd for anyone else to escort him here.

I fidgeted uncomfortably in my seat, semi-consciously fiddling with the cloth of my cloak. Nervous fear, fueled by my uncertainty and my own pessimistically-spiraling thoughts, thrummed through me. Dad and I... Well, there'd been distance between us ever since Mom died. He had simply fallen apart, alternating between bitter despondence and incandescent fury in equal measure, both aimed at the memory of Mom, and I hadn't been much better off. If not for Emma and her mom, I doubted either of us would have been able to recover at all. Which just made her betrayal a year later that much worse.

I shook my head, forcing down the surge of anger and pain that thought conjured with depressingly familiar ease. I could dwell on Emma after I found out just how badly Dad was going to take this bombshell. Both of us were introverts by nature, and after Mom died, we'd just... stopped talking, about anything truly important anyway. Neither of us really knew how to relate to each other after that mess, and neither of our fumbling attempts to bridge the gap had done much about it. All I could really tell about the looming conversation was that it was going to change things between us.

And with that uncertainty, my mind proceeded to conjure increasingly vivid and painful possibilities the longer I thought about it. It was exhausting and terrifying, and if I never had to go through it again, it would be far too soon. So when the door opened, I felt a surge of gratitude and relief, mixed with a healthy amount of stubborn fear. My head jerked up automatically, but I couldn't quite bring myself to look directly at the opening.

"Taylor?" Dad asked confusedly the moment the door opened. He hurried over to me and I stood up to face him. His hand reached out toward my shoulder, his touch gentle and hesitant. I glanced up and met his eyes. His gaze was uncertain, concerned, and wary, but there was no condemnation in it. He didn't know yet. "What the hell's going o-"

He cut himself off mid-word, his gaze sharpening. I squirmed slightly under his perusal and self-consciously tried to push the burned patches of my cloak behind my back. His fingers brushed against the edges of the charred hole in the back of it though, and I could track the way his eyes bounced between the many patches of singed cloth I couldn't hide before settling on the bunched mask wrapped around my neck. Recognition, shock, worry, and fear welled in the depths of his eyes.

"You're a cape." It was a statement, delivered without tone or doubt. My dad had never been a stupid man.

I glanced away and nodded once.

"How long?" he asked, a low, simmering heat beginning to seep into his tone.

I took a deep breath and, still not looking at him, said, "Last night. I got my powers a couple months ago, during the-" my voice hitched and I had to force myself to continue. "The locker thing, but last night was the first time I went out and used them."

"And it was a good thing she did," Miss Militia's voice interrupted. I jumped in surprise, and I could feel more than see my dad echo the motion. We'd both forgotten she was there. "Taylor was instrumental in preventing the murder of several children last night. You should be proud."

"Really?" he asked, shock clear in his voice as his grip tightened briefly on my shoulder. Miss Militia nodded. Bitter disappointment and sullen anger swirled around him like a heavy cloud, and my heart dropped into my feet. At least, until his other arm wrapped around me and pulled me into a tight, uncomfortable, awkward, painful, warm, loving, proud, and oh-so-incredibly-wonderful hug. I blinked stupidly into his chest and glanced up to find him smiling gently at me. His eyes still shone with a poorly-hidden mix of disappointment, anger, and fear, but above all that was a granite wall of approval, love, and burning pride. The hug tightened minutely and he whispered into my hair. "You did good kiddo."

Tension I didn't even know I had bled out of me at those words. I deflated like a balloon in his arms, and a small, nearly giddy grin crossed my lips as my arms wrapped around him in return. Miss Militia said something about the Director then, but the words washed over me with only the slightest effect. It felt so damn good just to be held like this again, to be blanketed in the affection and pride and approval of my father, that I wouldn't have noticed if Lung himself had burst in looking for a rematch. It had been far too long.

Sadly, it couldn't last forever. Hours too soon for my taste, Dad pulled back from the hug. Part of me idly noticed Miss Militia's absence, but I ignored it in favor of meeting my dad's gaze. His hands settled on my shoulders and gently held me in place as his eyes raked over me again. The worry and fear in his eyes sharpened once more, underlined by a slow burning anger and steely resolve I'd only seen in him once before, on the day I came home covered in the remains of rotten tampons and with brand new superpowers.

"I'm proud of you Taylor," he began hesitantly. His bearing turned cautious and unsure, but determined to push on. "You apparently saved lives, and that's great but... Jesus, your clothes are covered in burns." One of his hands slid up to my head and settled behind my ear, fingers rubbing gently and soothingly against the back of my skull. One of my hands rose up to grip the wrist right below my jaw. "It's a miracle you're not hurt."

I grimaced faintly and shook my head slightly. I didn't want to say it, but I couldn't bring myself to lie to him, not then. "Not a miracle," I admitted under my breath. "Panacea patched me up this morning."

The hand on my head tightened for a fraction of a second, fast enough that I almost missed it, as well as the flash of naked rage that raced behind his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was bland and carefully controlled. "What happened?"

"I got in a fight," I said slowly. I looked away. "With someone a lot stronger than I am. I won, but he hurt me pretty bad."

The hand on my shoulder tightened almost painfully and his other hand pulled me up to meet his gaze. His jaw was clenched tightly, a vein visibly pulsing along it, but he pushed two words out through it anyway. "How bad?"

"Three broken ribs, second, nearly third, degree burns along her back and left hand, minor burn damage to her throat, and half a dozen lesser injuries," Director Piggot rattled off as she came through the door, butting into the conversation without a second thought. Dad and I both looked over to her automatically as she led Miss Militia inside and they both sat down at the table. I blinked as I processed what she had said. I had burned my throat? Dad did the same, and his expression turned incandescent.

"Who?" he growled. The word thrummed with barely-contained violence.

"Lung."

"Lung?!" he yelped, somewhere between a shout and a bellow. He whirled back to me. "Jesus Taylor, what were you thinking?!"

The anger in his voice hit me like a punch to the chest, one topped by my own blade at that. "He ordered his thugs to kill kids," I said weakly. I shook my head. "I couldn't let that happen."

"Lung has beaten the entire Protectorate!" Dad shot back, his hands falling to his sides and clenching and unclenching randomly. "You could have been killed!"

"Which is why I asked you here," Director Piggot cut in sharply before I could reply. Dad turned to her and started to bark something angrily, but she gave him a gimlet, unimpressed stare in return. Surprisingly, he swallowed his words before more than the first syllable escaped, though that didn't stop him from returning her gaze with a glare. "Sit down, Mr. Hebert, Miss Hebert, and we can civilly discuss what will happen going forward."

I nodded, silently glad that Dad had stopped yelling, and took a seat across from her, earning myself a nod and slight smile from Miss Militia. Dad hesitated for a brief moment, not letting up on his glare at the Director in the slightest, but eventually sat down beside me. His hand reached over and settled on my wrist, and I blinked in surprise at the simple need I could feel in his grip. He started taking deep breaths, trying to calm down. He glanced over at me every couple of seconds then back to the Director. When he did, his grip on my wrist would tighten briefly before relaxing as he looked away. Finally, he turned his attention fully on the Director and began to speak, his hand still loosely wrapped around my wrist.

"What did you mean? And who are you?" he asked. His voice was calmer now, and at a normal speaking volume, but still carried a thick undercurrent of anger.

"Emily Piggot, I'm in charge here," the Director answered calmly. "And I meant exactly what I said. You are correct. Your daughter could easily have been killed last night." Dad's grip tightened again. "Lung is an incredibly dangerous opponent, and the slightest misstep could have ended in disaster. You are here so that my organization can do what we can to prevent that disaster from ever happening."

Dad's scowl turned contemplative. "How?"

"By giving your permission for Taylor to accept my invitation to join the Wards."

"No," he said without a second thought. I scowled at the immediate dismissal, but Dad's tightening grip on my wrist stopped me from saying anything. I thought I saw him glance at me out of the corner of his eye and I realized why he was refusing. He was terrified. For me. "She's already nearly been killed. I'm not signing her on to fight more."

The Director's expression tightened but she nodded. "I understand your position, Mr. Hebert, but there is perhaps a misunderstanding on your part." Dad's eyes narrowed at her and she waved a hand in an encompassing motion at the walls around us. "Why do you think the Protectorate and the PRT exists?"

"To protect people from the villains," he answered immediately. His expression mirrored the confusion I felt. What did that have to do with anything?

"Close," Director Piggot responded with a nod. "But incomplete. We do serve as a parahuman police force, for lack of a better term, that is correct, but that is not our true goal. It's a side effect, to put it bluntly. We exist to, ultimately, integrate parahumans into society at large. This expresses itself in a wide variety of ways, but most relevant to this conversation is the Wards program. Despite what you appear to think, the program is not meant for combat." A small grimace crossed her face. "In an ideal world, no Ward would ever even see a villain. The Wards program was originally created to give young parahumans, like your daughter, a safe environment to get used to their powers, to learn and grow with them, and to prevent any dangerous mishaps in doing so."

Dad snorted dismissively. "The Wards fight villains all the time," he scoffed. "It's all over the news."

"Unfortunately, you are correct," the Director admitted gracefully with a small frown. "We have little choice in the matter, given the number of villains in Brockton Bay. At times, we simply must call on the Wards because no one else is available to stand between innocent civilians and Uber and Leet's latest... idea," she spat the word 'idea' venomously. She shook her head and looked at Dad. "The both of you do have a choice, however. Wards are not required to risk themselves in any way." She looked over at me. "Attendance at publicity events is required, when it wouldn't risk your secret identity, but combat is strictly voluntary. We may ask you for help, if we must, but you will not be punished should you refuse, and if you do accept, we will do everything in our power to keep you as safe as possible."

I blinked and glanced at Dad. He looked just as surprised as I felt. Director Piggot gave it a moment to sink in before continuing. "In addition, all Wards are paid a small allowance and given mostly free access to our facilities and resources. There are reasonable restrictions in place, to prevent abuse or theft, but so long as you have a valid reason for it, you can count on PRT backing for almost anything you happen to need. Given the powers you described earlier, I'm not sure precisely what that would be, but Miss Militia has already approached me with a handful of possibilities that are all well within our means."

I glanced over at Dad again. His grip on my wrist had slackened and his scowl had turned into a thoughtful frown. He looked over at me, his gaze questioning, though the worry and fear in it had not diminished in the slightest. "What do you think?"

"I want to do it," I said, meeting his gaze with all the sincerity I could muster. "Last night was, was dangerous, and it hurt, but I made a difference. I, I can't not keep trying, and the Wards could keep me safe while I do it." I rotated my arm in his grip and shifted so that his palm laid against mine and squeezed it gently. "Please, Dad?"

He studied me intently for a long second before sighing heavily and sagging in his seat. "Promise me one thing," he said at length. "Promise me that you'll be careful."

"I will," I said seriously, not backing down from his gaze.

"Alright," he said with another sigh. "I don't like it, but alright. I'll agree to it."

"Excellent," Director Piggot said and Miss Militia gave me a discrete grin at the same time. The Director pulled a thick sheaf of paper out of the folder in front of her and set it lightly on the table in front of Dad. "This is the paperwork we'll need to fill out to confirm it. Taylor is not required for this, however." She turned her attention to me. "If it works for you both, I recommend we begin Taylor's initial assessment immediately. It can take quite some time, depending on the full extent of her powers."

I nodded uncertainly and glanced at Dad. He sighed again. "Go ahead kiddo," he said, leafing through the papers before him. "This will take a while, but I'll come find you when I'm done."

The last was said in a questioning tone and he glanced at the Director, but it was Miss Militia who answered. "Of course." She stood up and gestured for me to do the same. I complied, reflexively pulling my mask and hood back on. Dad grimaced slightly at the sight, but didn't comment. "Come with me Templar, I'll take you to the Gym. Dr. Stevenson is excited to meet you."

-[]-

The Gym was aptly named, and it deserved the capital letter. It wasn't the largest single room I'd ever been in, but it was close. It was maybe half again the size of Winslow's indoor basketball court, and while, before today at least, I'd never been closer than the beach to the Protectorate's oil rig, I was pretty sure that meant it took up almost an entire floor of the PHQ. And it was littered with equipment running the gamut from familiar, if a lot more visibly high tech than I was used to, treadmills and weight benches to utterly bizarre machines whose purpose I could only guess at. Some of them, like the enormous hydraulic press hanging from the ceiling and ending in a standard barbell in one corner, were easy enough to figure out, but others were completely beyond me. What possible use was a row of cameras on swivel mounts above a five foot tall half-circle array of what looked like tinker made light bulbs, for example?

"You must be the fresh meat," an unfamiliar tenor interrupted my thoughts from right behind me. I yelped and whirled around to find myself facing a reedy man around my dad's age. He was a few inches taller than me, just enough that I had to look up to meet his eyes, and with his salt and pepper hair and confident bearing, he practically exuded an aura of competence and knowledge. Unfortunately, that aura was immediately dispersed by the rest of him. Brightly colored tattoos, their designs incomprehensible to me, covered his hands and the parts of his feet I could see between the straps of his sandals before vanishing under his clothes, which were composed of an offensively bright hawaiian shirt and sweatpants under a clean but visibly worn, almost shabby labcoat with the name 'Stevenson' stitched over his right breast. A hand-rolled, though thankfully unlit, cigar sat in one corner of his mouth and twitched randomly as he gave me a wide smile.

One bright, spidery hand offered itself to me and he spoke. "Nice to meet you. My business card says 'Dr. Ian Stevenson', but just call me Ian, or Doc if you really have to be formal."

I hesitated briefly and glanced wide-eyed at Miss Militia. They couldn't possibly be serious.

Somehow, she managed to smirk at me without ever showing me her lips, then inclined her head to answer the unasked question. When I looked back at Ian, his smile had widened into a grin and his eyes glittered with fierce amusement. His expression clearly said that he knew exactly what I was thinking and was entertained more than offended by it. Feeling incredibly awkward, and fighting my instinctive urge to not touch something with that many colors that also looked that much like a spider, I grasped the doctor's hand and shook it.

"Templar," I said. After a beat, we released the shake and I continued, though I couldn't hide the note of confused disbelief in my voice. "Are you, err, are you in charge down here?"

His eyes glittered with amusement and he nodded. His cigar swung around to the other corner of his mouth. "Got it in one missy. Big P may not like me much, but she knows talent when she sees it. I do the head honcho stuff for R&D, and power classifisication is part of that. Savvy?"

I stared blankly at him. I couldn't have responded even if I knew how to. My mind was too busy trying to process the idea that Director Piggot, a woman I was close to certain had absolutely no sense of humor, would tolerate a subordinate who called her 'Big P' and mispronounced his own area of expertise. Something of my thoughts must have shown through my mask though, because Ian's eyes flashed with amusement that bordered on manic.

"So, where do you wanna start?" he asked with a grin, as if I had actually responded. I blinked stupidly and remained silent, just barely starting to get over that mental stumbling block. "From what Brigade Lass says, you're a real mover and shaker."

Miss Militia's quietly resigned groan said quite clearly just how long she'd had to deal with nicknames like that. She then gave me a glance and spoke up before I could finish recovering. "If you don't mind Templar, can you start with the blade? I know you said you weren't sure how to recreate it, but do you think you can manage it before I have to return to work?"

"I, I think so?" I asked more than stated. I thought back to my earliest attempts at working with my powers, and all the things I'd learned about them then. I didn't know if those same lessons applied to such a radically different power, but it couldn't hurt to try. "It's worth trying at least." I lifted my arm, only to hesitate and glance at the doctor. "Err, how do we do this?"

"First, we go over there," he answered, pointing at the clear space that took up the entire rear third of the room. It was completely empty, save for a bucket, a small pile of hula hoops, and a selection of short metal bars in the center of the clear area. He stepped around me and started heading deeper into the room. "We gotta figure out where your limits are before we can test 'em."

I shrugged uncertainly and decided to just go with it. Ian was supposed to be an expert, and while he sure as hell didn't look it, he moved and talked with a confidence and surety that was hard to fake. It made a compelling argument to believe him, especially when Miss Militia fell in behind him and waved at me to follow. I sighed and shook my head before hurrying to catch up. In the best case, I stood to learn a hell of a lot from an expert on parahuman powers. In the worst, this was more practice. I had nothing to lose by playing along.

"Whip it out then," he said the moment he reached the small pile of equipment, turning around with a crooked grin. I blinked at the innuendo laden tone and, despite myself, I felt my cheeks redden behind my mask. I stuttered incoherently until Miss Militia swatted him lightly upside the head.

"Behave," she said in a weary tone, as if she'd had to do that many times before, and expected to do it again many times in the future. "Or do I have to get the Director down here?"

"Alright, alright, serious time," he said with an exaggerated wince. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "No need to get mean." When he turned back to me, the mirth was all but completely gone from his expression. Only his eyes retained their playful gleam. "You ready, Templar?"

I nodded and had to fight the urge to fidget under his and Miss Militia's suddenly-intensified gaze. I raised my right arm up to the level of my chest, reached out to my power, opened myself to the void, and felt a familiar soothingly cool rush flow through me. I spent a moment remembering my first attempts at blinking, the hours of failure after frustrating failure to replicate what had, that first time, come so naturally, and the solution I had found only after a full day of fruitless effort. Then I took a deep breath and threw myself at this new problem. I didn't try to guide my power, didn't fight or corral or coerce. Instead, I simply locked the image of my blade firmly in my mind and decided that it was on my wrist.

With a crackling hum and a surge of cool power, two feet of glowing green energy forced itself into being half an inch above my wrist.

"Nicely done," Miss Militia offered, giving me a small smile that I was quick to return.

"Is that plasma?" Ian murmured quietly, just loud enough for me to hear. For the first time there was no sign of the immature playfulness that had defined him thus far. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a pair of thick rubber gloves that he immediately pulled on. Then he crouched down and picked up one of the small metal bars at his feet before he walked over to me, his eyes never once leaving my blade. He held out the bar of what I recognized as steel and wiggled it at the sheet of energy. "May I?"

"Uh, go ahead," I answered, careful not to move my arm. I'd already seen what my blade could do to Lung, I had no desire to find out what it could do to someone not ludicrously durable. Without further preamble, he took either end of the bar in each hand and pressed it lightly against the edge of my blade. I didn't feel the slightest bit of pressure as the bar pressed into and passed my blade, leaving two distinct, smoking halves of the bar in the doctor's grip.

"No resistance," he muttered under his breath. He hefted both halves of the bar up to eye level and examined the cheerily glowing layer of semi-molten steel decorating both sides of the split. "Very interesting indeed."

"Can you make one on your other arm?" Miss Militia asked curiously, stepping in while Ian examined the bars. His head snapped up to face me immediately, completely ignoring the metal that had so engrossed him a moment before.

I shrugged uncertainly and gestured for Ian to step back. He nodded and walked over to deposit the still-glowing metal rods into the bucket with a splash, hiss, and billow of steam. By the time he looked back at me, I had raised my free arm, keenly aware of the hyper-sharp knife sticking out of my other wrist, and willed a second blade to appear. My power leapt forward at my command, surging up and out of my arm even as the thought crystallized. There was a low thrumming sound, like someone had just shoved a tuning fork in my ear, and a second blade, identical to the first, sprouted from my unoccupied wrist.

I looked up at Miss Militia and let the surprised pleasure I was feeling leak into my voice. "Yes."

The hero's eyes twinkled and she nodded in acknowledgment. At the same time, the knife sheathed on her hip shifted into a small ball of light that rose to chest height, where Miss Militia's hand closed over it and it shifted again. A distinctive, boxy handle sprouted from between her clenched fingers, spreading quickly outward until it bracketed her hand from her knuckles to nearly halfway down her forearm like the skeletal framework for some kind of gauntlet. The other direction put the lie to that thought though. Instead of wrapping around to finish the process, both sides of the handle had come together over Miss Militia's fingers like a set of knuckledusters, before flowing up into a wickedly sharp, easily eighteen inch triangular blade very similar to my own.

"This is an Indian weapon called a katar," she said, wiggling the blade slightly. She fixed me with a look that was equal parts intrigued, honest, and curious. "It's close enough to your weapons that fighting styles for one will be easy enough to translate for the other. I have no formal training with them, but I've seen them in action and I know enough about similar weapons that I think I can work with you to hammer out the basics sometime, if you'd like."

I blinked. That was unexpected. Armsmaster had said part of the Wards program was training, but I had gotten the impression the Protectorate heroes would be too busy to be personally involved in it. I wasn't sure if that didn't apply to Miss Militia or if she had some other reason to offer her time, but I'd have to be an idiot to turn down personal training from one of the best heroes in the area.

"Y-yes!" I hurried to say before she could retract the offer. A low chuckle rumbled out of her throat and I had to fight the urge to blush as I coughed awkwardly and continued at a more sedate pace. "I mean, yea, I would like that. You, you'll have to let me know when you have time."

"We'll work out a time after you get settled in," she said with a firm nod. The katar shifted suddenly back into its original knife form and she slid it back into the sheath on her belt. "But for now, I have to get back to work. Keep it up Templar, Dr. Stevenson."

"Milady Army!" Ian cried in comically exaggerated woe. One hand came up to clutch at his chest and the cigar dropped from his lips only to be swiped out of the air almost absently by the other. He turned wide, teary eyes on Miss Militia. "I thought I said there was no need to be mean."

She just winked at me before she turned and walked off, throwing a wave over one shoulder. Ian continued to grumble at her back for a few seconds, but relented soon enough. He turned back to me and stuck his cigar back in his mouth with one hand while gesturing at me to lower my arms with the other. I complied, dismissing my blades in the same motion, and cocked my head inquisitively.

"What now?" I asked. His eyes lit up with restrained enthusiasm, and I could have sworn he was visibly vibrating in place.

"Next step!" he crowed. "Is to see how far you can take it. You've already duplicated it on your other arm. Can you make one in the air?"

"I'll try," I said, a small frown of concentration coming to my face. A moment later, I blinked in surprise as the bucket of water, the halves of the already cut bar clearly visible at the bottom, was set down in front of me.

"Make it over this," the doctor answered my confused glance. "If you can't make it hover and burn a hole in the floor, the Swiss Army Knife is gonna mount my head on his pigsticker. Or worse," he said with an exaggerated shudder. "He'll tell Big P."

"Swiss Army Knife?" I echoed. Who the hell was that supposed to be?

"Armsmaster." He shrugged carelessly. "Who else around here carries everything and the kitchen sink?"

Almost against my will, a small giggle forced its way out of my throat. His smile widened. "I knew I liked you for a reason." There was a short pause, then one spidery hand waved at the bucket. "Give it a shot whenever you're ready."

I nodded and focused on the task at hand. In my mind's eye, I took the image of my blade and superimposed it on the air inches above the water. Then I opened myself to the void and, as I had so many times before, willed that it be done. There was a familiar rush as my power leapt to my command, flowing through and out of me in a fraction of a second. I could feel the energy as a kind of echo as it left my body, tracking its chaotic swirls through the air. A sharp crackling noise filled the air as the first streams of energy violently collided, sending nearly invisible arcs of electricity flashing between them.

I frowned at that sight. The other blades had never done anything like that. I pushed aside the slight worry with an effort of will. The energy was out there though; I could feel it, and that meant I could do it. It was probably just harder without using my arm as a starting point. I only had to try harder. I redoubled my focus on the image in my mind, filling out details to make it more real, and demanded that the blade appear.

Energy surged through me, pouring out in thick waves that slammed into the ball of already roiling power. A tingle of raw sensation trickled down my spine, the fine hairs on my arms stood out from my skin, and the gentle crackling turned into a tumultuous roar. The arcs of electricity were easily visible now, as luminescent lines of momentary brilliance, and they flashed through strange distortions in the air, like the shimmer above a long road in the summer. Sparks flashed and miniature thunderclaps roared over and over again, and with each one they grew louder and closer together.

I had a very bad feeling about that.

The ball of turbulent energy abruptly lurched, for lack of a better word, and the rapid fire thundercracks reached a crescendo. A single bolt, nearly the size of my wrist, lashed out and hit the rim of the bucket. A shower of sparks went flying outward from the point of impact, and I could feel the electricity dancing along the bottom of my cheap slippers. I flinched away with a cry of surprise, throwing myself back even as I scrambled to turn off the flow of energy.

There was a deafening boom and blinding flash moments before a sharp shock slapped me with what felt like a solid wall of thumbtacks. My skin prickled uncomfortably with a sensation that I could only describe as 'itchy goosebumps', and icy-hot fingers tickled every single one of my bones. I couldn't stop the twitchy full-body shiver that forced its way out. My teeth ached and my hands shook randomly, but I was relieved to discover I was mostly unharmed.

A pained groan to my side dashed that relief and replaced it with icy dread.

"Ian!" I cried, rushing over to where the man had collapsed and begun twitching spasmodically. His clothes were smoking lightly, his hair stood straight up in a cloud of ash-grey hair, and there was no sign of his cigar. I fell to my knees next to him and started babbling incoherent apologies at him while my hands worked uselessly in the air. I was nearly desperate to help, but I was no doctor. I didn't have the first clue what I was supposed to do here. I settled for tearing off my cloak and bundling it under his head like a pillow. The least I could do was make him slightly more comfortable.

"'m alrigh'," he slurred out with another groan as I slid the bundle under his head. He waved weakly at my useless hands. "Jus', jus' gimme a minuh. I 'ink I hur' my... e'rything."

The dread receded a bit at his words, but only enough to make room for the guilt and self-loathing that followed, feelings that intensified with every pained sound he made. It was my fault this man, who had been nothing but kind to me, if eccentric, was laying there twitching in pain, and there wasn't a goddamn thing I could do about it. Every time I tried to come up with something, anything, to do, my brain kept coming back to the fact that I had been the one to put him there.

Fortunately, I didn't have long to dwell on it. Mere seconds after the explosion, the door of the lab flew open with an echoing clang and Miss Militia, half a dozen men and women in PRT uniforms, and my dad came rushing in.

"Over here!" I called, waving a hand and standing up. "He needs a doctor!"

They turned to me immediately and hurried over, two of the uniformed lackeys breaking off as they neared to take my place kneeling over Ian. I moved back to give them room to work and Dad fell in beside and slightly behind me. His hand on my shoulder and the silent support therein was embarrassingly comforting. Miss Militia came over to me then, a serious look in her eyes.

"What happened?"

I took a deep breath and told her, the words tumbling out of my mouth in a flood I couldn't hope to stop. My dad's grip tightened from time to time, but it remained on my shoulder all through the brief tale, and I reached up and squeezed his fingers gratefully. By the time I had finished, Miss Militia's eyes had softened with a touch of sympathy. I glanced between her and the PRT agents tending to Ian and finished with a cautious question. "I-is he gonna be alright?"

"Tol' ya alrea'y. 'm fine," he called out from the floor. By the time I had looked over, he had pushed aside the PRT agent tending to him and managed to sit himself upright. "Wasn' the firs' 'ime I been shocked. 'm a li'l numb an' sore, bu' I'll live. Was muh faul' anyway."

"How do you figure?" Miss Militia asked.

"I was 'oo fee' away from an unknown Shaker power. Shoul'a been behin' the forcefield."

I couldn't stop myself from interrupting at that tidbit. "There's a forcefield?!"

"It's around the cleared space," Miss Militia answered absently, not looking away from the doctor. "It's meant to keep the rest of the building safe when testing new technology or applications of powers." She looked over at the PRT agent now wearing a stethoscope and trying to keep it steady against Ian's still weakly twitching chest. "Agent Welsie, should I call for the medical team?"

"No need ma'am," the agent said, pulling off the stethoscope with an annoyed noise. "He doesn't need anything but rest to let his body recover. He took a nasty shock, but I couldn't find any burns and his heartbeat is steady."

"'old ya," Ian tried to cheer, but with his slur it came out as closer to a moan. He waved impatiently at the PRT agents to back away from him before looking at me. "I'll be goo' in a bi'. 'alk wif yer pops for a bi' and then we can ge' goin' again."

"This time with you behind the forcefield," Miss Militia said pointedly.

"Was plannin' on i'," he replied in an exasperated tone, and I could practically hear the roll of his eyes. Miss Militia shook her head with a sigh, gestured at the PRT agents, and led them out of the room.

Dad's hand on my shoulder took the opportunity to steer me off the side so that we had at least a semblance of privacy, then he stepped around in front of me. I couldn't bring myself to meet his eyes when he asked, "Are you alright, Taylor?"

"Fine," I said immediately. I silently kicked myself. That hadn't sounded believable even to my own ears.

He gave me a look that clearly said he didn't buy that for a second, but something in him stopped him from pressing. His hand squeezed my shoulder gently. "If you ever wanna talk about it..." He trailed off uncertainly.

"I know," I said with a small, fragile smile. I squeezed his fingers again. "I will. Thanks."

He returned my smile with one of his own and we descended into a mostly comfortable silence for several minutes. We started wandering around, just the two of us moving from machine to machine and I entertained myself by trying to figure out what each one was supposed to do. Eventually though, Dad's curiousity seemed to finally get the better of him. "So, err, what exactly are your powers?"

"Shaker 3 at the very least," Ian's voice chimed in before I could answer. Dad and I both jumped and whirled to face the doctor. He was lounging comfortably against one of the machines bordering the area we had been testing my powers in. He waved cheekily at us and climbed unsteadily to his feet. Even from this distance, I could see his knees shaking as they tried to support his weight. He lifted his hand from the machine and tried to take a step, but one of his legs gave out immediately.

Without stopping to think about it, I called up my power and blinked over to him in the same heartbeat, catching him by the trailing arm with ease. He gave a muffled grunt of surprise, but I ignored it. I hauled him back upright and set his arm over my shoulders, silently insisting that he lean on me. I had been the one to do this to him, helping him until he finished recovering was the least I could do.

"Ah, thanks," he said cheerily. "Much obliged."

I glanced over at my dad and had to suppress a giggle at the gobsmacked look on his face. He kept glancing between me and where I had been only a few seconds ago as if he couldn't quite believe what he had just seen. I helped Ian hobble over toward him and the doctor picked up where he left off.

"As you saw, she's a mid to high Mover as well." Dad's dumbfounded stare moved from me to the doctor, who smiled and awkwardly pulled another hand-wrapped cigar out of one of his coat's inner pockets with his free hand. Sticking it in his mouth he smiled at my dad. "We're just about to start testing for real. Care to join us?"

-[]-

"And we're done." The doctor's words were punctuated by a hiss of hydraulic motors and the abrupt disappearance of the pressure against my shoulders.

"Finally," I muttered, slumping weakly once I no longer had to fight the crushing pressure from above. With a grunt of effort, I staggered out from under the press, my legs wobbling unsteadily with every step. I felt alarmingly light, as if the effort of holding up the press had caused me to lose over half my weight, but I somehow managed to wobble over to the wall and the convenient chair Ian had set there before we began. I collapsed into it with a tired groan, gratefully accepting the bottle of water Dad pressed into my hand. A bead of sweat slid down my temple and into my mask as I chugged the blessedly cool water down.

"What's next?" I asked between gulps

"Nothing," he announced cheekily. I blinked in surprise. "We're done, and in record time."

"Six hours is record time?" Dad asked skeptically. I could practically feel the exhausted disbelief radiating out of him.

"For her powers, you betcha," Ian shot back without missing a beat. He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it open. "You mind?"

I traded glances with Dad, turned back and waved dismissively. "Go ahead."

Ian lit the cigar without further preamble, sending the acrid scent of burning tobacco wafting through the room. "Anyway, we're done here for now. Me and the boys will have to look through the data, and I may ask you to come back here if we see anything weird, but in the meantime, you've got a team to meet."

"That would be my cue," a new voice intruded on the conversation. I snapped my head around fast enough for it to crack. An older, very tan, teenager in a rust red costume, complete with helmet, was leaning casually against the frame of the open door to the Gym with his arms crossed over the shield emblem on his chest. He was big, not tall but muscular and blocky, like a professional football player. The look, when combined with the rigid armor his costume sported and its coloration, gave the distinct impression of a brick wall. An impression that was only highlighted by the silver-white trim running through the whole getup.

"Meatshield!" Ian greeted the newcomer with a smile. He gestured impatiently for the teenager to come in. "We were just about to go over her ratings. Come on over, you should hear 'em too."

The teenager nodded and shoved off the frame before striding over. I pushed myself to my feet, ignoring the muted protests of my still tired legs, and turned to face him. Dad handed me my charred and tattered cloak and I quickly reattached it on my shoulders. By the time I finished, the new guy had come within a few feet and stuck out his hand. I took it with a hidden smile and a nod. His mouth opened to greet me.

"Templar, Meatshield. Meatshield, Templar," Ian interrupted. He pulled the lit cigar out of his mouth and waved it at the new cape. "His real cape name is..." He trailed off uncertainly. "Uhh.. it starts with a G, I think?"

"It's Aegis, Doc," the newcomer, Aegis, said with a roll of his eyes. I recognized that name. He was the leader of the local Wards, and my new boss. Turning back to me, he said, "Nice to meet you." A small frown creased his lips and he glanced between me and the doctor. "Wait, why does she not get a nickname?"

"Haven't thought of a good one yet," Ian replied with a careless shrug. "I'll come up with something eventually, I'm sure."

"Goody," I said drolly.

Ian just winked in response. Then he shook his head, stuck his cigar back in his mouth, and hefted the clipboard he'd been scribbling on since we started testing with the machines. "Anyway, back on topic. Preliminary results are Brute 2, Mover 6, and Striker 4, with a possible Trump rating."

I nodded to myself. Except for the Trump rating, that all made sense. Before I could ask about it though, my dad spoke up.

"Excuse me, but what?" he asked, his voice completely bewildered. "What does any of that even mean?"

"It's a way to summarize powers," Ian said around the cigar clenched in his teeth. He paused and let smoke flow out of his nose for a long moment before continuing. "Different categories on a one to ten scale. Brute is for physical superpowers, strength and toughness usually. Movers are like it sounds, fliers, speedsters, and teleporters. Strikers are the touchy-feely capes. Their abilities are either based on touch or are extremely short ranged, like conjuring swords out of their wrists."

Dad made a thoughtful sound and nodded his understanding. "But what about, what was it, Trump?"

"Trumps are powers that affect powers. Eidolon's the ur-example." He looked over to me. "I'm not sure it applies to you yet, but from what you've told me, your teleport and sword-things spontaneously manifested because you needed them." He shrugged and took a long pull from his cigar. "I don't believe in coincidence."

Aegis whistled quietly. "Impressive."

I shrugged awkwardly and stuttered out a thank you.

"There's other ratings too, but you can look 'em up later." Ian made a waving motion with his clipboard. "For now, I've got work to do. You kids have fun." He gave Aegis a nod and threw a slightly manic smile my way, his eyes twinkling with poorly restrained enthusiasm. Then he turned and bounced out the door, practically dancing the whole way.

Aegis, Dad, and I watched him leave with varying degrees of disbelief.

"Every time I think I'm getting used to him," Aegis muttered in his palm. "He goes and does something like that." All I could do was nod along, despite the fact that he couldn't see it. A beat later, the teenaged hero looked up to me and said, "The team's gathering up in the lobby, and they're excited to meet you. You up for it?"

The nod I gave him in response was uncertain but determined, and if he noticed the moment of hesitation before it came, he didn't give any sign.

"Great," he said with a smile. Then he glanced over at my dad and his voice turned slightly awkward. "Err, Sir, I'll have to ask you to leave separately. We need to maintain your... daughter?" he ventured questioningly. At my and Dad's nod, he continued more confidently. "Daughter's secret identity. It's for your safety and hers. There's some PRT agents outside that will get you back to your car once it's clear."

"I figured as much," Dad said, his voice resigned. One of his hands snaked around my shoulders and squeezed in a one-armed hug. "I'll be waiting for you at home, alright?"

I nodded and returned the hug with a gentle squeeze of my own. "See you there. Thanks, Dad."

He squeezed my shoulders again and left the room.

Aegis nodded and turned to leave as well, waving at me to follow. "C'mon, the others are waiting."

-[]-

There were three people already waiting for us in the lobby, all in full costume, and there was really only one word to describe them: Colorful.

The first of the trio, and the only one I couldn't put a name to, was a boy, roughly my age judging by height, who wore what looked like a science-fiction reimagining of a suit of plate mail. It was painted, or maybe just was, a bright, nearly radiant mix of gunmetal grey and gleaming silver with faintly glowing blue-yellow lines running in complex patterns along the undersuit I could occasionally glimpse between the armored plates. He was standing between the other two, gesturing occasionally, and radiated a sense of amused resignation as he clearly played referee for the other two's bickering.

To his left stood Clockblocker, a cape with the power to freeze time for anything he touched. If memory served, his signature trick was turning sheets of paper into impenetrable shields and capturing villains with even a grazing touch. He wore a skintight white bodysuit covered with glossy body armor of the same color wherever it wouldn't hamper his mobility. Dark grey images of clocks, most of them animated, either to move around his costume or to make the hands tick, stood out starkly against the pristine white of his armor. His head was covered by a featureless helmet, turning his face into a smooth, unbroken expanse of white.

Directly in front of him, and scowling ferociously from under her forest green visor, was Vista. She was, well, tiny was the best way to describe her. It came with being the by far youngest member of the Wards. The top of her head barely reached my chest, and she looked delicate enough that, even before I got superpowers, I would have been concerned about breaking her bones if we ever got in a fist fight. Her costume was a loose, sweeping arrangement of cloth, complete with skirt, that was covered in wavy lines alternating between snow white and the same green as her visor. Over that, she wore several pieces of body armor in vital places, including a breastplate molded to give the illusion of a chest that she obviously didn't have.

Aegis sighed, the sound saying more than any words could about how many times he'd seen this exact scenario play out, and waved at me to follow him.

"C'mon," he said. "Let's go say hi." I nodded and we made our way across the mostly empty lobby. The Wards' argument reached my ears as a quiet murmur, and I was lucky to pick out one word in ten. It became clearer the closer we got, but as soon as we were close enough to not have to shout, Aegis called out to the three. "Give it a rest already. Whatever the idiot did can wait until after you meet the new girl."

The argument ended immediately as all three whirled to face us and came hurrying over to meet us. "Guys, this is Templar," Aegis said, waving a hand at me. He looked over to me. "And this is the Wards. Do you know their names already, or do we need to go through introductions?"

"Maybe?" I asked more than said. "Vista, Clockblocker, and..." I pointed at the gathered capes one at a time and rattled off their names, hesitating as I came to the guy in armor. There were a few possibilities for who he was, but his costume looked like a brawler's, and there was only Aegis and one other Ward that fit that description. "Browbeat?"

Clockblocker gasped drammatically and my keen detective instincts told me I'd guessed wrong. "That explains so much!" His faceless mask swung over to Vista. "Quick, get the popcorn! We gotta be ready when Glory Girl finds out!"

Vista kicked him in the shin. Hard.

"Gallant, actually," the armored one, Gallant, said, taking my mistake in stride. We both ignored the way Clockblocker was hopping around on one leg and mock sobbing.

"Ah," I said lamely. Thankfully, my mask stopped him from seeing my embarrassed blush. "Sorry about, uh..."

"Don't worry about it," he said dismissively with a rather charming smile. Despite my continued, and redoubled, efforts to suppress it, my blush only intensified. That was so not fair. He stuck out his hand to shake. "I'm just glad to meet you."

"Uh, yeah, same," I said, taking his hand and desperately trying to ignore the heat I could feel radiating out of my cheeks.

"Yeah," Vista chimed in quickly. She stepped up, causing Gallant to release my hand and step back, and gave me a big smile. "It's great to finally have another girl on the team."

I gave her a confused look. "Isn't Shadow Stalker a girl?"

"Yeah, but she's Shadow Stalker," Vista announced firmly, as if that explained everything. Her expression was set in an annoyed scowl. "She doesn't count."

"True that," Clockblocker finally gave up on his histrionics and joined the conversation. "I'm with the midget on this one. You have no idea how badly we need to break up the sausagefest."

"Okay, first, eww," Vista shot back. "Second, do you want me to kick you again?"

"Settle down children," Aegis cut in smoothly before Clockblocker could respond. "We're supposed to be making a good impression here."

"I always make a good impression," Clockblocker said cockily and started flexing exaggeratedly.

I couldn't resist that line. "You certainly make an impression," I said. "How good remains to be seen."

The time stopper snorted in laughter, even as Vista erupted in giggles. "You wound me, dear lady," he said, in a poor imitation of Gallant's voice. "Pray tell, what have I done to offend thee?"

"You should be asking what haven't you done," Aegis said with a roll of his eyes. "It'd be a shorter list." I couldn't see it, but I could tell all the same that Clockblocker was giving Aegis a megawatt grin in response. The Wards' leader ignored it with practiced ease before rather bluntly changing the subject. "Where's the others?"

"They're on the way," Gallant replied without missing a beat. "Kid Win and Browbeat got caught up with something at school, and Shadow Stalker was just getting on a ferry out here a few minutes before you came up."

"And while we wait," Clockblocker cut in the moment the knight had finished. It was hard to tell through the smooth white expanse that covered his face, but I thought he gave me an appraising stare. "You can fill us in on why your costume looks like it lost a fight with a blowtorch."

I couldn't help the small snort I made at that comparison, or from wondering what Lung would have to say about it. At the same time, Vista sucked in a surprised breath through her teeth. Her head snapped around and I could practically feel her eyes bouncing along the burned patches of my cloak. She started worrying her hands anxiously in front of her chest. In direct contrast, Gallant's reaction was only a burst of keen interest behind his eyes. There was no surprise there.

"I won the fight, actually," I said with a shake of my head. A proud, victorious smirk spread across my lips at the thought. The expression was unfamiliar to me, and unpracticed, but it felt good. "Though you probably don't wanna call him a blowtorch to his face."

"Who?" Clockblocker asked, curiousity clear in his voice.

"Lung," Aegis said before I could.

The room went silent.

"Damn," Clockblocker said at length, drawing out the word over several seconds. His helmet moved up and down, like he was re-appraising me. "I'm glad you're on our side."

"Y-yeah," Vista agreed. She was giving me a wide-eyed, incredulous stare behind her visor.

"I have to agree," Gallant said. He flashed another of those ridiculously charming smiles at me. "That is... beyond impressive."

"Thanks," I said, though it sounded awkward to my ears. I shrugged uncertainly and tried to ignore the nerves building in me from their stares. I really wasn't used to this kind of scrutiny.

Which said a lot of things about my life, and not many of them were pleasant.

Thankfully, Gallant seemed to catch my moment of floundering. He subtly nudged Clockblocker with his knee and asked loudly, "So do you know when you're starting training?"

Clockblocker and Vista alike flinched and sent me brief sheepish looks.

"Not yet," I answered, giving him a smile of gratitude. He nodded in return with one of his own. "It's all been going kinda fast."

Clockblocker snorted derisively. "You'll be done with that in no time. Piggy isn't going to sit on someone who can beat Lung for long."

"That decision's above our paygrade," Aegis pointed out calmly. He stepped into view at my side and gave me a tight smile. "But he's probably right."

I just nodded.

"So," Vista began in the slightly awkward silence that followed, only to be interrupted by the soft whoosh of the front door sliding open. We all looked over to it, but Vista was the first to act. She gave a small wave to the person coming through. "Oh, hey Shadow Stalker."

The girl stalking through the front door returned the wave with a disinterested grunt. She strode over toward us, and I couldn't help but stare. She was the antithesis of Clockblocker. Where he wore nearly pure white, her costume was a uniform blackness so deep that I rarely saw its like outside of my own shadows. A cloak of the same color, of similar design to my own I absently noticed, hung from her shoulders down to her ankles and fluttered with every move she made. The hilt of a small crossbow poked out over either shoulder, bracketing the stern dark metal face that was her mask. It gave her a dangerous and strangely regal bearing, especially with the interlocking metal plates that covered most of her vital points.

I recognized her immediately. I really wished I hadn't.

I couldn't put my finger on any one thing that gave her away. I wish I could, but there simply wasn't anything to single out. Everything about her sang her identity to me the same as if she'd had it painted on the front of her mask. From the way her hips moved in her cocky strut all the way to the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest with every breath. There was no way I could ever confuse her for anyone else. It was so incredibly obvious that I was amazed at how blind I had been to not see it earlier.

Shadow Stalker was Sophia Hess.

The world seemed to stop on that fact. Aegis started talking, but his words were only so much useless background noise. My brain was stuck on that one, undeniable fact. Sophia Hess, one of the chief architects of my suffering for the last two years, was a government-sanctioned super hero. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. I couldn't think of a single person less deserving of the title of hero.

It made a disturbing amount of sense though. No matter what I did or said, the teachers at Winslow had never lifted a finger to stop her or her friends. It had never made any sense to me before, but now? Now it all came together. Sophia was a Ward, a "legitimate hero". The school would never touch her with that hanging over them. She'd had free rein to make my life a living hell, because she had powers. The PRT, an organization supposedly meant to protect the powerless from capes, had been protecting her the entire time, and I'd been the one to suffer for it. They'd thrown me to the metaphorical wolves without a second thought.

That thought ignited a fury inside me that I could scarcely have imagined beforehand.

The world fell away around me, narrowing down more and more until only Sophia and I remained. My heart began pounding in my chest like a drum, sending booming staccato beats roaring to my ears and drowning out all other sound. Ice cold power thrummed eagerly in my veins, prickling gently at my flesh with every thunderous beat of my heart. My hands clenched into fists so tightly I could feel my knuckles popping from the force. I wasn't sure who I was mad at, or if the distinction even mattered any more.

All I was sure of was that I wasn't going to stay on any team that held up Sophia as a hero.

It took everything I had to break my relentless stare at Sophia, and even more to keep myself from looking back as I turned and stormed toward the door. My power roiled angrily within me, seething in tune with my own rage, but I clamped down on it hard. It strained against my control like a snarling rottweiler does a leash, all but begging me to let it free and eliminate the problem. I could do it too. It would be easy. All I'd have to do was stop fighting it and Sophia would stop being a problem, forever.

I forced that urge away with a growl and kept walking. I wasn't about to sink that low. I wouldn't let Sophia win like that.

I made it all of six steps before a big hand settled firmly on my shoulder and a rust red wall appeared in front of me. "Templar?" Aegis asked, his voice baffled. His eyes were wide and just as confused as his voice, and his mouth was set in a deep frown. I tried to push past him but he just frowned deeper and pushed against me, keeping me firmly in place. He was too strong and his grip on my shoulder was too solid for me to get out of. "What's going on?"

The void answered my silent call immediately, wrapping me in its shadowy embrace in a matter of moments. The familiar cool sensation was immensely comforting, like diving into a favorite stream or a snowball fight with a best friend. It blunted the searing edge of my anger. As the shadows swallowed my head, at the very last moment before I blinked away, I snapped out his answer.

"I quit!"

-[]-

The silence left by Templar's abrupt departure was deafening.

Aegis was the first to break it, blinking and swiping at the swiftly dispersing shadows around his hand. "Uhh... What just happened?"

Nearly simultaneously, Gallant whirled on Shadow Stalker. "What did you do?!" he half-shrieked, his voice shrill with a mix of confusion, anger, and accusation.

"The fuck?" she replied immediately, and her cocked eyebrow was obvious in her tone. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back before continuing, her voice scathing. "Did you not take your meds this morning or did you forget that I just got here?"

"She was a hair's breadth from attacking you," Gallant replied instantly, ignoring the barb. His voice was hard and just as heated. "That doesn't happen with strangers."

"Wait, you mean we missed an epic catfight?" Clockblocker interrupted before his teammate could respond, his voice both dismayed and intrigued. His faceless helmet bounced back and forth between Shadow Stalker and the spot Templar had once stood. "Damn it! You think we could bring her back?"

Aegis groaned into his palm. "Not the time, Clock."

"So it's my fault the bitch is crazy?" Shadow Stalker asked incredulously, ignoring the others' byplay and meeting Gallant's gaze with a challenging stare of her own. "I've never seen her before. How the fuck am I supposed to know what set her off?"

"Maybe it was your charming personality," Clockblocker offered helpfully. He got a look in response that could melt steel. "Yeah, that's the one."

"Not the time," Aegis growled, real heat leaking into his voice. One big hand reached out and slapped the back of the snow white helmet, sending the irrepressible jokester stumbling forward with a yelp of pain. He pushed past the quietly complaining Clockblocker and put himself directly in the middle of Gallant and Shadow Stalker's staredown. "And that goes for you two too. Calm down."

Shadow Stalker snorted. "I play along with the song and dance, your new recruit turns out to be a psycho and I get blamed for it? Yeah, fuck that. I'm out of here."

"You're not going anywhere." The voice cracked through the room like a whip, its tone firm and sure that it would be obeyed. In unison, the Wards turned to find Miss Militia, Armsmaster, and Director Piggot frowning severely at them, even as a flustered-looking Vista left their side to rejoin her teammates. The Director deliberately swept her gaze over the assembled teenagers, lingering just long enough to impress her full displeasure upon each of them.

"Templar is gone." It wasn't a question. "Explain." It wasn't a request.

The Wards all started speaking at once. The resulting cacophony was a mess of clashing sound that got progressively louder as they each tried to talk over the others. Accusations, denials, blame, excuses, fact, and fiction all flew fast and thick in the air in a crescendo of sound that blurred together into one long string of random noise. Director Piggot couldn't make out a single word. Her scowl deepened, but when she spoke, it was no louder than her regular speaking voice.

"Shut. Up."

Silence reigned.

An imperious gaze swept over the briefly cowed teenagers, keeping them silent by sheer presence. Several seconds passed before she let up, satisfied that they had been properly cowed. She pointed at Gallant. "You. What happened?"

"I, err, I don't know, ma'am," he said, sincere confusion in his voice. "We met Templar and things seemed to be going well. She was shy, but she was starting to open up when Shadow Stalker came in and it all went to hell."

Shadow Stalker made a noise of protest but a hard glance from Armsmaster silenced her. Gallant fumbled momentarily in his retelling, his gaze darting between the girl and the Director until Director Piggot narrowed her eyes.

"Templar took one look at her and, well, snapped." He grimaced. "I've only seen that kind of anger a few times before, and it never ended well. I'm honestly kinda surprised there wasn't an attempted murder." He shook his head. "I don't know what happened between them, but whatever it was, it was personal."

"I told you, I've n-never seen her before!" Shadow Stalker snapped, her voice indignant and frustrated, and it came with only the slightest hitch from the Director's best glare. She set her chin mulishly, her bearing stubborn and unyielding. "The crazy bitch probably belongs in the E88."

Clockblocker snorted disbelievingly and looked ready to interject only for the words to die in their infancy when Miss Militia gave him a pointed look and shook her head. The Director didn't even seem to notice the exchange.

"Thank you, Gallant," the Director said, without even the most cursory attempt at making it sound sincere. "We will look into it. For now," She gave Shadow Stalker a piercing look. "You are suspended without pay pending the results of that investigation." The Ward sputtered but the Director ignored it. "You had better pray she really is crazy. If we find anything, and I do mean anything, you're off this team and going straight to prison where you belong."

Shadow Stalker glared out from behind her mask and made a dismissive noise. "F-"

"If the next words out of your mouth are not 'yes ma'am', we can skip the investigation," the Director promised, her tone final and unmoving. She could feel more than see Armsmaster step up beside her in a show of support. "Do not tempt me."

Shadow Stalker stiffened and her eyes glittered with blazing anger. Director Piggot returned the stare with a bland, unimpressed look of her own, practically daring the girl to call her bluff. A long, tense moment of silence passed. The teenager looked away first.

"Yes ma'am," she spat fiercely, the words harsh and sharp with barely restrained fury.

Director Piggot nodded and turned to Miss Militia, dismissing the girl entirely. "Get a squad of plainclothes and catch up to her father if he hasn't left yet. Maybe he can help find her. I don't care what you need to do, but get me answers." Miss Militia nodded and hurried back into the building. She set a gimlet eye roving over the Wards. "The rest of you, get out of my sight."

Less than three seconds later, the lobby was empty.