Chapter II

THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT.

"The locker," I groaned. "That must be when I Triggered." I wasn't much of a cape nerd, but it was almost impossible to avoid picking up some of the parahuman lingo through cultural osmosis. Heck, it was even theoretically possible I might have learned something in World Studies class at school, in between bouts of Emma's cronies messing with me, and Mr. Gladly being too busy fawning over his favourite students instead of, y'know, actually teaching.

The sword – Windblade, it'd called itself – didn't seem too impressed with my grasp of my new life as a cape, though.

"Trigger?" It sighed. "Sweetie, I'm a sword. Crossbows and those Dwarven flintlock pistols have triggers; swords have hilts, or handles. Sheesh, get a grip."

I sputtered, shocked at getting snarked at by a sentient piece of cutlery. Although, everyone else seemed content to walk all over me; why should a giant carving knife be any different? "I meant, a Trigger Event! The locker was filled with... filth, and crawling bugs, and I was trapped in there for ages! It'd be enough to traumatize anybody!"

The Windblade hummed as it considered this. "Are you sure it wasn't a pagan sacrifice of human blood, offered up to an elder deity of darkness and strife? 'Cause I saw the inside of that locker, and there was plenty of red in there that didn't come out of a spray can. Considering the amount of graffiti in your school, that's really saying something."

I crinkled my nose at those mental images. "No! Also, eww! Gross! That was a bunch of used tampons, and... And definitely not a human sacrifice!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure about that," the Windblade chuckled. "Dad taught me all about organized religions, and even more about dis-organized religions. Trust me, I know a human sacrifice when I see one." The sword seemed to notice the quizzical look I was giving it. "...What? Something on my pommel?"

"No, it's just... You have a dad?" It seemed an odd choice of words. Swords were forged, not born, surely? Then again, where did baby talking swords come from? I thought this 'Windblade' was some sort of product of my power; wouldn't that make me its mother?

...Oh, ick. One more mental image that needed to be deleted.

The sword answered in a cheerful tone. "Yeah, I call him 'Dad', but that's just for lack of a better word. In any case, speaking of human sacrifice, Dad's sister-brother would disagree with you on that topic."

Wow, the topic changes were going back and forth and sideways, weren't they? "Uh, okay? How so?" ...Wait, 'sister-brother'? Should I ask about that? Did I even want to know?

"Well, my aunt-uncle Slanny has a saying about situations like this one," the sword explained. "They always tell me: 'Windblade,' they say, 'Keep this little secret in mind: Really gross blood sacrifices are the best kind of blood sacrifices'."

"That's... lovely," I frowned. "Sounds like being a creepy weirdo runs in the family for you guys, huh?"

The Windblade wriggled in my hand, shaking its skull. "Hey, I'm not as bad as my aunt-uncle! I never use 'tentacle sex' and 'stab wounds' in the same sentence." It paused for a second. "Except for just now, I guess."

I shuddered. "...You know what? I really don't think I'll need your help to become a hero. Cutting up villains is a bit too 'vigilante' for my tastes."

"Oh, ree-hee-hee-heally?" Despite its lack of facial features, the Windblade was somehow able to convey the impression of a smirk. "Are you saying that using a big, sharp sword like moi would be too... Edgy?

"Stop it!" I snarled. "I just meant that I'm not that kind of Cape!"

"Well, you're not going to intimidate any of your enemies, if you keep whining like that," said the sword.

"I'm not whining!" I bellowed, gripping the Windblade's hilt hard, until I realized that oversized carving knives likely weren't all that throttleable.

"Ooh, loud-pitched whining, is it? Hardly an improvement, if you..." The Windblade's voice faltered. "Wait... Wait-wait-wait-wait wait. Back up a bit."

"With pleasure!" I started dragging the huge sword back towards the tangle of broken crates and newly-sprouted branches where I'd pulled it free.

"No, no that! What you just said, a moment ago," the Windblade babbled. "Say it again!"

I frowned. "Uh... 'With pleasure'?"

"Before that!"

"Erm... 'I don't need your help to...'?"

"After that!"

I sighed, shaking my head as I tried to recall the train wreck of a conversation. "Um... 'I'm not that kind of Cape'?"

"Cape!" Windblade squealed. "Oh, sweetie-pie, of course you can have a cape! Grumpy old Aekold, my previous partner, he never wanted to wear a cape, said it would just give opponents something to grab onto in a fight, or get tangled up with my scabbard-"

I stared at the giant gossipy cutlery. "...Huh?"

"...So Aekold was happy to just waltz around with his banner pole strapped to his back, until one day, a Daemonette asked him: 'Are you the army standard bearer, or are you just happy to see me?', and then-"

I let go of the sword's hilt and glared at it, watching it drop to the floor with a loud clang. I stood up straight, rubbing my arms and stretching my spine in an attempt to ease out the aches and pains I'd gotten from hauling around all that heavy metal. "You are a nuisance!" I hissed.

The Windblade cooed. "Aww, you flatterer, you! My infernal spirit has been summoned and bound for so long, I'm really more of an old séance, ha-ha! But it's sweet of you to say so, it really is."

"...Whatever." I sighed, turning on my heel and wandering away. "Bye."

"...Uh, champ? You forgot something," the sword called out. "Me!"

I looked back over my shoulder and waved my arms. "Listen, I'm not calling you overweight or anything, but... What do you expect me to do, exactly? Drag you around in an old shopping trolley, like a heavily armed bag lady? I can't carry you! In case you hadn't noticed, my arms are skinny enough to make noodles look beefy, in comparison!"

The Windblade snorted. "You-"

I narrowed my eyes and jabbed a threatening finger at the sword. "If the next words out of you are 'beef' and 'ramen', then so help me...!"

"Oh, puh-lease," the sword huffed. "Gimme some credit, here. I can think of much better noodle puns than that."

"Uh-huh." I started walking again. "Sure."

"I was going to tell you about how you can get strong enough to carry a whole supermarket full of shopping trolleys, if you wanted..." Windblade called after me, trying to shout nonchalantly. "...Buuut I guess you're not interested."

I stopped walking. Holding up my hands, I scrutinized the unmarred skin. When I'd yanked the sword free, earlier, I'd ended up prat-falling my way into a heap of thistles, and stinging nettles, and busted wooden crates rife with rusty nails. My hoodie had protected me from some of it, but my hands and my face had still ended up with plenty of painful welts and deep scratches.

Those injuries had only lasted a few seconds, before they started healing in front of me, practically vanishing as I watched. Evidently, I really did have some kind of regeneration-style Brute power, but... It wouldn't be too shabby to have a punching-Nazis-thru-moderately-thick-walls style Brute power, as well. What could it hurt to try?

...Normally, if you jinx yourself with an unfortunately phrased rhetorical question like that, you'd expect the answer to be: "a lot". As it happened, the Windblade's strength-boosting technique wasn't painful, so much as... Unsettling? Weird? Creepy?

When it kicked in, it was like... It was like the opposite of riding a bicycle. Even on a quiet day, you'd feel a resistance from the air friction, especially when you were rolling downhill quickly. If it was a windy day, and you had the wind blowing in your face when you rode around on your bike, the hindering effect only got more pronounced, as the air pushing against you slowed you down.

But the Windblade's strength boost was like the opposite of all that. When I followed the sword's instructions and seized it by the hilt, there was a sudden rush of air, whipping around my body. The winds gently nudged my arms and the massive weapon I was struggling to lift. Bit by bit, the Windblade felt lighter and lighter, until I finally held it aloft in one hand. I took a few cautious practice swings, and the helpful breezes immediately adapted, making my movements easier.

If Armsmaster, or some other highly skilled Tinker, ever decided to construct an invisible suit of power armor with a built-in exoskeleton, which supported the motions of their limbs with transparent servo motors or whatever... I'd imagine it'd be a lot like this. It didn't make me feel stronger, so much as it made everything feel less heavy.

Now that I was actually holding the sword, and it wasn't either: A) flying around chasing me at high speed, narrowly missing my head, or: B) covered in rapidly growing vines, I took the opportunity to inspect it more closely.

The first impression anyone would get from this sword was its size. Frankly, it was huge. Even a big burly weightlifter with muscles on top of their muscles would most likely still need to use both hands to wield it. Although it'd given me some sort of enhancement with those weird wind manipulations, they didn't make me feel any stronger, but being able to lift this hulking lump of metal, let alone swing it, was testament to their effectiveness. Still, I would probably never be able to land the first strike in any kind of sword-fight with it.

Come to think of it... That whole "making winds spring up out of nowhere" business, wouldn't that have to be some sort of aerokinesis? (Unless talking swords had functioning digestive systems, and a great fondness for beans... Just my luck, with a power that made plants grow at a mind-boggling rate, everywhere I went. The Windblade would always have plenty of fuel for its amazing powers of flatulence.)

Wasn't there a local villain, one of the members of the Empire Eighty-Eight, who had an aerokinetic power? Stormtiger, probably... Could he boost his strength like the sword had done to me, with his own aerokinesis? More importantly, could the Windblade shoot powerful ranged attacks made of pressurized air, like the Blaster power I seemed to remember Stormtiger having?

Food for thought... Except, I wasn't planning on keeping the sword, so: Food for somebody else's thoughts. Probably more beans.

Another word that described the weapon quite well was 'spiky'. The blade had what was technically a serrated edge near the hilt, above a decorative skull that was affixed where the blade met the hilt, and which appeared to do the talking. Mind you, those saw-toothed notches weren't just short little barbs that might tear an opponent's flesh into gruesome bloody bits, but big broad spikes – almost like spearheads in their own right, given the overall size of the weapon. The sword also had some sort of fire theme going on; there was a flame design on several parts, including the cross-guard bar thingy between the blade and the hilt.

Okay, so maybe I did need to expand my sword-related vocabulary, learn the proper stabbological terminology. But, that was only an issue if I was going to be a swordsman. Swords-woman. Swords-girl? Anyway, moot point, 'cause I wasn't going to keep the talking cutlery. End of discussion.

At the end of the hilt, opposite the blade, was the... pommel? I was pretty sure that was the correct term for the counterweight bit on the end. I'd learned a couple of terrible 'pummel a guy with the pommel' puns, that also worked as mnemonics to remember the word, back when Mom was... Anyway. The sword had a pommel, kinda ostentatious and jewel-encrusted. It was large and gaudy, but it didn't look quite big and heavy enough to be able to properly balance the absurdly oversized blade. Still, I wasn't sure how to test that, and since I'd decided not to keep it, the pommel would be somebody else's problem.

"Ain'tcha gonna test how strong you are, now?" The Windblade asked. "Hey, that load-bearing wall is looking at you funny... I think it's disrespecting you! You should chop it in half!"

I opened my mouth to reply, but was interrupted by a loud, drawn-out growling noise. I looked down at myself, and blushed a little.

"Whoa! Sounds like someone's tummy is being sassy, too," said the sword. "Lunch break, people! Everybody, take ten!"

"I didn't bring my packed lunch with me, remember?" I grumbled, rubbing my aching stomach. Now that I was paying attention to it, I could feel that I was getting pretty dang hungry. "I was just a teensy bit busy, earlier, escaping Winslow when it drowned in greenery and high-speed plant growths, and then fleeing for my life when a huge flying machete started chasing me!"

The sword wriggled in my hand, like it was twisting from side to side, looking around the warehouse. "Mmm... A-ha! How about those things? They look edible!"

I glanced in the direction the blade was pointing.

Amongst the sprouting foliage lay the discarded remains of what had likely once been a BLT sandwich, bought at a gas station or a cheap super market deli corner. Juicy red tomatoes ballooned obscenely, all over the dark green plants bursting out of the greasy old takeaway wrapping paper. Stalks of wheat were poking out of the uneaten bread crusts. Plump heads of fresh lettuce bloomed from cracks in the floor, almost close enough to nudge against my foot.

Hesitantly, I reached out and plucked a tomato. It was plump, and ripe, and bright glossy red. It looked absolutely delicious. "You know... I can't help but remember the theological discussion we had earlier. Makes you think, doesn't it? A mysterious, dangerous thing appears and strikes up a conversation with an impressionable young woman. Then, the serpent... Sorry, the sword tries to convince said maiden that she should go ahead and eat a tasty-looking bit of horticultural produce." I turned the tomato over in my hand, admiring the sheen of its crimson skin. "Hilarity - as the ancient saying goes - ensues."

"Ooh! Good point, I hadn't even thought of it that way," said the Windblade.

"Befidef, there'f all fortf a' toxic garbage scatter'd 'round thif area, I'm fure the foil muft be poif'nouf," I said. "Thefe tomatoef could prolly kill an el'phant."

The sword wobbled in my hand, nodding seriously. "Uh-huh, sure... Don't talk with your mouth full, dearie."

"Mm-hmm," I hummed, chewing and swallowing. "They taste amazing, though!" I plucked a third tomato, and a fourth, and took another big bite, juice trickling down my chin.

"Y'know, I think you might be able to use those broad leaves over there as napkins," said the Windblade. "Let's leave that whole 'Catsup for the Catsup God' angle to Uncle Kay, alright?"

I reached over to tear off one of the large leaves that the Windblade had pointed out, and then froze. A thought sprang to mind, and it wasn't a particularly pleasant one.

"Hold on," I said, glancing around at the indoor wilderness. "That discarded sandwich wrapper has 'BLT' written on the side... The lettuce is over there, and the tomatoes are heading down my esophagus."

The sword didn't seem particularly alarmed by this revelation. "Yeah? So?"

"That only accounts for the L and the T! Even though gas station takeaway rarely has more than a passing resemblance to actual food, I doubt they'd go so far as to completely omit the B," I explained, starting to feel a little anxious. "So... What happened to the bacon?"

The Windblade and I stared at each other in silence. Before either of us could speak up again, the warehouse reverberated with an ear-splitting howl.

The echoing bellow shook the building. Dust rained down from the ceiling. Countless twigs and branches trembled, leaves rustling against one another with a sound like the shaky knees of a terrified cartoon character.

Or perhaps I was just projecting. My own knees weren't exactly rock steady, right now.

There was something about the harmonics of that loud, angry grunt which just bypassed rational thought, went straight for whatever part of the brain handled fight-or-flight responses, and started poking the 'flight' button. Much like a meowing kitten might imply the existence of roaring lions, one could extrapolate from the gentle oinking of little pink piglets to form a mental image of the creature that must have made this noise.

I began backing away. Snuffling and crashing noises could be heard coming from deeper within the undergrowth, but heading towards me.

"Sounds like this little piggy stayed home," the Windblade whispered. "And it's ready to hog someone up."

THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT. THCoT.

A/N: Some replies to comments and reviews:

ROTH963: Greener than a weed-choked arboretum! More escalating than a staircase! Able to leap tall Nazis in a single sword-swing! (Or lop, depending on how aggressive she's feeling. If it's Alabaster, he can easily recover any lost body parts, anyway.)

Char-Nobyl: Slashing damage rather than bludgeoning, but... Yeah, you've got a point. It's basically a sassy, talkative Mjolnir.

The_Shameful: So, the Windblade would sound like a mix between Deadpool and Detective Pikachu? Neat! (Also, suitably sanity-warping.)

Alkard: True, a Lankhmar reference would have been more fitting than a Zelda reference, at least if it had been a story about Skaven.

StrangerDanger, Zernach: If Nurgle's divine portfolio includes stasis (as you say, he's more about enduring hardship than actively changing things), then Alexandria could be presented as one of Grampa Nurgle's favorites - or what about the Siberian? Might cast a slightly different light on her interactions with Bonesaw...

Ian Von Doom: "Spiky harem protagonist", snerk. That comment is so good, I'm gonna go ahead and steal it as a summary for this story. Yoink, and thanks!

Grim Troll: Grudge match: Simurgh vs. Lord (or Lady) of Change? (There's only room for ONE avian-themed psychic harbinger of the Apocalypse on this planet...)

Rakaziel: True, the Windblade probably seems a bit cartoonish. Obfuscating silliness, perhaps?