.
.
.
Taylor Hebert is the God-Queen of Escalation©
Wildbow is her mentor and Liege-Lord
I am a mere Bard, singing their praises
.
.
.
[INTERFACE]
.
.
.
Muster 1.3
Decision
.
.
.
My alarm clock clicked, began playing an Aleph pop song.
"Everybooodyyy!"
"Yeaaaah!" I grunted along to the song as I knocked out another sit-up, 'twenty-eight.'
"Rock your booodyyyy!"
"Yeaaaah!" gritting my teeth, I worked through the aching pain in my abs, arms and chest, along with the weird tingly feeling of Queenie speeding up my muscle growth, trying to get this last core exercise out of the way before my morning run…
Why was I exercising like this? Well, after teaching Queenie her ABCs and learning her in basic speech patterns, idioms and facial expressions, (via YouTube video) and shoving a Thesaurus down her throat, I'd given her my memories of using Google, Wikipedia and YouTube in a [data] packet before letting her off the leash.
I'd no idea I was creating a monster.
Right now, she had six windows open: A YouTube queue on exotic insects, another YouTube queue of PRT and Protectorate press conferences, a Wikipedia page that kept changing every few seconds (currently, she was studying ancient battles and personages thereof), another window kept switching between Google and various physical training reports and human biology treatises, and, finally, two windows on local wildlife and places of interest.
The sight of Queenie, eyes unblinking, perched on my desk with my headphones on her round head, typing URLs into the search bars with a wing-tip and rapidly clicking and scrolling with a claw on the mouse…
It was, at once, hilarious and unnerving: hilarious for me, because, I mean come on! An owl with majestic eyebrows surfing the internet!
On the other hand… I was a little bit worried that she'd become addicted and try to bite me if I wanted to, say, check PHO or do my own, private research… to say nothing of what the PRT would think of this scene, should they know of my full abilities.
A Master, learning years' worth of information in a matter of hours, through one of their constituents. With how they were treating Canary, a relatively docile and well-meaning woman who was, from what I'd seen, more a victim of serial harassment than the next Nilbog or Heartbreaker…
Yeah, the Breaker form was one thing; computer addict Queenie delivering simplified [data] packets on exercise techniques, basic self-defense, posture, social etiquette and cape summaries would probably have me in a holding cell on the Rig before someone could say "Security breach!"
Not that I was spying on the PRT! Well… I mean, it's not like they're hiding anything really important! I checked, through my bugs and birds! And-and, what if there's spies for the E88 or ABB in their HQ?! They've been in the Bay long enough that such a thing isn't outside the realms of possibility! Oh, and if I found anything, I'd be turning it over to them post-haste! Anonymously, of course; I don't need that kind of attention on what I'm doing.
Like the physical portions of my expanded powers.
It was, honestly, cheating; it was taking the proverbial line separating Movers and Brutes from the rest of us, ripping it off the ground, and slapping those smug pricks in the face with it.
The ease with which I could gain muscle mass (and a few, um, special upgrades to my physique) was so easy, it could be divided into a few easy steps:
.
Step one: go downstairs and microwave some pizza and wings. Big cup of Dr. Pepper to wash it down, because Dr. Pepper is for winners!
Step two: completely consume consumable confections. Remember, use paper towels, not pants, to clean hands.
Step three: tell Queenie how to sculpt my body through [parameters].
Step four: work out. Work out like your life depends on it, because it so totally does!
.
Okay, last one was a bit – okay, a lot harder than it sounds; Queenie [proposed] that the easiest way to do things, given that we don't have a weight bench or any dumbbells, was to leave all the research to her while my poor self preformed push-ups, sit-ups, squat thrusts, wall-sits, and various stretching maneuvers.
Long, painful story short, I'd spent the last hour making myself as sore as possible, my personal trainer/not-an-owl correcting my forms with drill-sergeant levels of anal-retentiveness. In spite of my complaints thereof, Queenie pointed out that it was all necessary.
The [[host] physiological optimization] feature of my powers could only work in two ways: one, I needed to let Queenie know what areas of my body I wanted altered and how, adding "raw material" to my digestive system to provide the microscopic symbiotic bacteria living in my body something to work with; so, for example, I could ask for stronger bones, but I'd need to ingest more calcium and iron to help things along.
Hence the protein-rich chicken wings and cheesy, gooey pepperoni pizza I scarfed down before working myself into a puddle.
Secondly, I could, theoretically, make my vital organs more durable through a special process. However…
Several minutes ago…
[proposal]
I stared at Queenie, mid-push-up, [negation] "I'm not eating one of your feathers, Queenie."
Yeah, I'll stick with the upgraded durability of my Breaker form, thanks.
And if I'd [proposed] that she divert some of the proteins and fats to my, ahem, buttocks and legs, rather than my arms and core, that was just me trying to improve what I thought were my best features! It certainly wasn't out of a sense of vanity, that's for sure!
Oh, and 'twenty-nine.' One more, Taylor! You can do it!
"Everyboooodyyy! Rock your body right!"
'Thirty! Bluuuuh, I feel like jelly!' I fell spread eagle on the floor of my room, letting out a loud gust of breath, 'I'm finally done! Oh, and [destination], Queenie.'
"Backstree-" click! Queenie's wing slapped the Snooze button on my alarm clock, cutting out the sound of some boy band that every teenage girl on Aleph probably wanted in the worst ways. Queenie didn't even look away from the computer screen when she did it.
'Maybe I can get away with just laying here all day,' thought I from the floor, amazed at the levels of wonderful, jelly-esque pain throbbing throughout my body as Queenie's little helpers busily optimized all the work I'd just done… and got started on my soon-to-be-perfect butt, 'I'll send an owl to sub in for me at school. I look enough like one, no-one'll be able to tell the difference. Plus, no way in hell even Sophia would try attacking an owl; nature's ninjas, they are.'
Yep, owls are bad news if you piss them off, from what Queenie's sent me through [data]; silent flying, night vision, retractable wing talon, razor sharp claws and beak, smart as a crow. The average owl is, simply, an adorable, cuddly, snuggle blender with wings that will, without hesitation, rip your face off faster than you can blink.
Oh, and crows are sooo fucking smart! The ones here in the Bay have already told each other, through caws, that I'm the head honcho now and to keep an eye on me; Queenie and I didn't even have to tell them that, the dears! Ten of last night's twenty were holding position around my house, tracking everyone who came into the area, ensuring no threat would approach me!
But enough about birds; I needed to get up and run.
The all-consuming jelly-ness of my body was fading, leaving a tingly feeling, so I asked for a progress report from my personal trainer:
[query] [progress] nearly done, Queenie?
[data] 78% completion, [host]. Intense movement will not impede [progress].
Great! Grunting and panting, I managed to regain my feet with little effort.
Dad was already downstairs, getting started on breakfast; I'd prepared his lunch, leftover pizza and wings, an hour ago, when I'd gotten my own food. My power told me he'd seen the note and hummed thoughtfully.
Heading to the bathroom, I realized, quite belatedly, that by giving my name to the police, and being a minor, they'd no doubt gone to see him at work; if he knew what I'd gone through yesterday, I felt confident that I could talk my way out of any restriction for my morning runs.
If he didn't… well, all the better. I didn't want Dad worrying too much about me.
Going about my morning absolutions (use bathroom, wash face and sweaty pits, brush teeth lightly), I stretched my power outward, wanting to get a feel for what the city was like as it woke…
[1.3]
Huh, Glory Girl wasn't in her room. Damnit, Taylor, stop being a stalker!
To be fair, though, my power was already pretty stalker-ish, what with my ability to locate pretty much anyone in the city in a matter of seconds. Especially if I knew where they lived. Maybe I'll switch to Panacea tonight… stop it, Taylor. Moving on!
Emma, that traitor bitch, was sitting on her couch eating cereal and watching the morning news, still in her PJs. Maybe I'll give her house termites later… no, Taylor, that's not heroine behavior. Sure, she'd deserve it, but come on, Mom raised you better than that!
On the other hand… no, Mom's dead. If she was alive, Emma would've gotten her ass chewed into hamburger for abandoning me, and the locker wouldn't have happened. Funny how these things work…
Hmm… one of the capes from the Rig last night was in the PRT building downtown now, fifth floor… 219 dust mites in the room… arrange into a pattern Queenie suggested when I asked her about auditory surveillance half an hour ago annnnd…
"…sign of the perpetrators, ma'am. Velocity and local law enforcement were patrolling all last night. No doubt they'll be laying low until we take the heat off them." Male voice, familiar… Armsmaster! I'm in the middle of a morning briefing by Armsmaster! "Coroner report was finished last night; would you like the details or…"
"Keep it bare bones, Armsmaster. There's a lot on the docket today." Female voice, unfamiliar… send a couple stray fleas and a fly to trace the plaque on the door.
"Yes, ma'am; pattern of wounds, placement of body and…" he cleared his throat, "the message we found fit the Merchants' MO."
"You're saying Skidmark did this?" First name… E…m…i…ly…
"No, ma'am. Likely this was a group of their unpowered members; it's a rather common 'rite of passage', where the Merchants are concerned." P…igg…ot… oh holy fuck.
"Where's this information coming from, Armsmaster?" woof, she's got some bite to her voice. Then again, given that she's the god-damnned PRT Director… not too surprising.
"Shadow Stalker and our PRT Agents, ma'am. According to Stalker, she's seen cases like this during her time as a vigilante. She was also quite adamant about finding who did this, ma'am; the alley is near her usual patrol route."
"Hm. I'll keep it in mind. What's next?" Right, I've got enough to go on so far.
Backing out while sending Queenie a [proposal] to keep an eye on things in the PRT building, I ran a quick scan over the rest of the city; some of the other Parahumans were up and about, going hither and tither. A few were already headed to Arcadia; I ignored them. If they were Wards, which was practically a given, or members of New Wave, I'd respect their civilian identities. No sense breaking the law just to satisfy my own curiosity.
'Which means, Taylor,' I chided myself as I dressed for my run, 'no more sneaking candid glances at Glory Girl! Yes, she's hot as a bucket of suicidal wings, but she's a heroine! Your owl may be a creeper, but that doesn't give you an excuse to be one too! Stop it!'
One of the Parahumans was out for a morning run, it looked like. 'Huh. Small world.' Their light wasn't exactly light, but, rather, a star hidden by a smoky, swirling cloud. They were rather fast, too; also, a glance from a sparrow as they passed showed a backpack and hooded sweatshirt.
Their path… if they kept on it, they'd end up at Winslow…
… okay, maybe just a tiny peek. Just for safety purposes, of course.
Move a crow into their path, aaaaand…
…
…I froze at the top of the stairs, Dad's voice calling me downstairs coming to my senses from the other side of the world.
Sophia.
Hess.
Is.
A.
Parahuman.
[1.3]
I switched off my power, schooled my expression, took a deep breath…
'I'm getting out of Winslow. No. Just…no. Too much risk, especially now that my powers have evolved. Queenie, [proposal].' I needed to know how to safely remove myself from Winslow without it hurting my education opportunities, and Queenie was on the internet; I'd have an answer in no-
[data] [suggestion]
…Well, fuck! That was a rather bold plan. If it worked, though…
[agreement] oh, and [data] send my Winslow email address so Queenie could get it to me at school. I could print out the appropriate forms when I got there.
Walk downstairs. Everything's normal. Just another day in the life of Taylor Anne Hebert, social pariah and bullying victim.
Dad's got buttered toast and a water bottle set out for me. "Morning, kiddo."
"G'morning, Dad." Toast is perfect. Yum. "Going out for my run."
"Taylor." 'God. Damn. It.' "Wait a second."
Look up at Dad, picture of innocence, "What's up, Dad?"
"The police came by work yesterday, after lunch." Oh. So that's why he didn't mention anything in the note. I'd wondered about that.
"O-Oh." Brown hair like mine, 'too bad it wasn't you', "USED"-
I shook my head, hard, "Y-yeah… I'm not running down to the Boardwalk today, Dad. Just a few times around the block should do."
He nodded, slowly, "You're okay?"
'Of course I'm not fucking okay! I just saw another girl's raped corpse!' Deep, shuddering breath, get ready to tell another lie.
"No." no, Taylor, that's not a lie, "No, Dad, I'm… fucking pissed, that someone… a human being, would do something like that to-t-to…" Dad comes around the table as I lose the fight against my tears.
Crap, not even noon, and I'm already crying. And here I thought I was dealing just fine… guess not.
Dad hugs me, "I've got you, kiddo… And you're right to be angry. Lord only knows how angry I am, that you saw something like that."
Another shuddering breath, get it together girl, don't stain your Dad's nice shirt with tears, "I'll be okay, Dad," swallow hard, look in his eyes, damn I'm pissed, "I saw something on PHO; the Protectorate's looking into this shit."
"No surprise there," he smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes, "I mean, something like that in the Docks, nothing they can do, usually. But the Boardwalk? They're not about to let that fly."
Sniffle, nod, "Yeah… Well, like I said, I'm staying close to home-"
"Oh, no, that's fine, kiddo. There was something else," he visibly winces, uh-oh, "My boss, you know, the one in Florida? Well, the lay-about forgot to mention there's a union convention down in Boston next week, and he got the Dockworkers a kiosk."
"Oh… so, we're going to Boston?" sounded like fun… if a little counter-productive to my plans.
He's still wincing? Not good, "I am; my boss, in his infinite wisdom, forgot I have a teenage daughter," seriously? How do you forget something like – oh, wait, he lives in Florida. With hurricanes on top of Leviathan, I don't see how anyone sane would want to live there. "so there's only a hotel room for one," Dad shrugs while I deflate slightly, "I was going to call Alan, or you could talk to Emma, see if you can stay over their house next week?"
When hell freezes over, chocolate tastes bad, tea plants go extinct, and Alexandria gets fat.
Also, over my cold, unfeeling corpse. Just in case those things happen.
Bright side? House to myself for a week, WHOOOO! So much Administration's gonna be goin' down, baby!
Deep breath, Sophia Hess is a Parahuman, "I'll ask her when I get to school," bald-faced lie, "and I'll call you from a payphone when I get out," the whole, unvarnished truth. Hopefully. "If, um, if they can't, I can take care of myself just fine," been doing it for years, now, "Not like I'll burn the house down or anything."
Dad smiles, "I know. If the Barnes' can't, then it's fine. And… I'm sorry, sorry for springing this on you so suddenly, kiddo." I hug him again; oh, Dad! I'm not mad.
Another moment, we break apart and his face becomes all business, "Now, if you do end up staying here by yourself… ground rules-"
"No wild parties, no boys over, don't go too far from where you're supposed to be, try to find a girlfriend."
He blinks, "Uh… well, I'm not going to judge your life choices, Little Owl-"
I grin, gotcha, "Dad. Those are your ground rules. Seriously, you're handsome, you're tough, get a girlfriend."
Laughter. A rare thing in this house. "Alright, kiddo, you've had your fun. But, seriously," all business this morning, it seems, "The same to you, except finding a boyfriend/girlfriend. As your father, I must vet and interview with extreme prejudice any individual endeavoring to date my only daughter, and I can't do that from Boston."
Yeah, because they're just lining up around the block for a shot at my (soon-to-be-not-so) bony ass.
"I'll be fine, Dad. Promise." I'd be super busy anyway. So much to do, less time to do it in.
"Okay… okay," god, but he looks nervous, "I'll set you up with money for the week when I get home tonight; whether you're staying here or not, you'll need some kind of allowance. Oh, and I'll be leaving Sunday morning; stay near the phone, because I will be calling to check up on you every day, around 6 in the afternoon."
I grin, "Unless I'm at the Mall, shopping for clothes," or out superhero-ing, "I'll be here to pick up, Dad. Can I go run now?"
Another laugh; is the sky falling? "Go on, kiddo."
Finish toast as I go out the door. Warm-up stretches, check crows, all-clear.
Sophia Hess is a Parahuman.
'Well,' I thought viciously as I began jogging, then running, 'This is an interesting conundrum. I actually hope the Terrible Trio start something today.'
A grin found its way onto my face as I completed my first lap, picking up the pace for the next two of the ten laps I had planned.
'They won't know what hit them.'
[1.3]
Like clockwork, the idiot girls met my expectations just after Mr. Gladly's class.
Unlike the many times before this, I was prepared; Queenie sent me a [data] package on how to speak devilishly good right after Keyboarding class, there was a filled-out government document burning a hole in my book bag, and, during this past class, I could've sworn Queenie was grinning when she sent me all the [data] she could gather on practical self-defense.
I took the knowledge of how to make someone shit themselves with a kick with all the relish of an angry teenager who had an axe to grind.
Now, showtime!
"Still here, Taylor?" simpered the traitor bitch, wall of hanger-ons watching with eagerness, "You know, I thought you'd skip out today…"
'Your vainglorious attempts at dramatic pauses leave something to be desired, you stuck-up little bitch.'
"…after all, it's not like your pimp can give himself a blowjob!"
More laugh track. Have I mentioned I hate sitcoms with laugh-tracks? Try listening to them without the pre-packaged laughter. Sooo awkward.
But enough of this bullshit, time to give this bitch a taste of her own medicine.
"My pimp? Oh, sorry Emma; I forgot you know all about those, what with how much you get on your knees for your talent agent."
I kind of wish I'd brought a camera. Her fucking face, oh god! I'm going to have dreams about that face!
On the other hand, I wasn't planning on taking prisoners, "You look shocked. Don't worry, Emma, your secret's safe with – oh!" glance at the other eight students cornering me against a locker, including Sophia and Madison, "Whoops. Guess it's not a secret now."
Hess looked like she wanted to tear my throat out or something, but Emma rallied with a scoff, "You didn't deny it though, Taylor. Tell me, when they took your V-card," hmm, that's one vicious smirk, "did you cry for a week?"
…Huh… Why haven't I given you crabs again? Or, you know, HIV? Pretty sure I can find a mosquito and a blood donor somewhere…
Oh, right, I'm a heroine. Today's your lucky day, Emma, you cold-hearted bitch.
Or not. "Was that supposed to hurt me? Using the grief I confided in you after my mother's death to try and get a rise out of me?" oh, how your expectant grin melts away like snow in July, "Seriously? After everything you've done so far? After I woke up this morning and realized that the only reason you keep doing this is to make yourself feel better, knowing that you'll be a used up nobody by the time you're twenty, and I'll be at college getting a Mastery?"
She tries to interrupt, "Yeah, as if! You're not smart eno-"
"Oh Emma," was being bullied by this poor excuse for biological matter always so boring? "Grow up." With that dismissive statement, I turn to leave. Three, two, on-
Hess grabs my backpack strap, pushes me back against the locker, grinning in anticipation, just as planned, "Looks like you need another lesson in respecting your betters, Heb-urk!"
The butchery of my last name was, like everything I'd done today, carefully planned out; in this case, planned for maximum shock factor; the cause leading to this effect would've needed a slow-motion capture camera to see, I was so quick, but no doubt Sophia would not only know what happened in excruciating detail, she'd have a hard time walking for the next couple minutes…
Seeing as I just kneed her in the clit.
Anyone who says hitting a girl in the groin does nothing is a sad, ignorant person, and should be pitied by all and sundry.
Granted, I wanted to get her a little further back, make her fill briefs in a very literal sense, but Hess wasn't standing close enough for a knee in the critical spot, not far away enough for a kick. Hence the alternative.
'Grab her bra straps through her shirt,' done, 'Head-butt!' Oof, good thing Queenie made my skull stronger after breakfast, or that would've really hurt!
Sophia goes flat on her ass while I screech, sounding quite distraught, "Stay the fuck away from me, you crazy bitch!"
Next bit: run. Shoulder my way past two gaping background characters, get halfway down the hall before, right on schedule-
"What is going on here?!" ahh, Principal Blackwell, right in front of me, having just turned the corner at the end of the hall, on her way to meet Mr. Gladly for an 'afternoon delight' in the old wood shop.
It's just as horrid as it sounds. Trust me. Bug vision.
Just like that, all the little workers start defending the queen bees, while I absentmindedly checked on my costume at home and wondered, 'Maybe I should send a couple owls or hawks out to the farms in the suburbs. There's a lot of black widows out there, and I want that messenger bag ready by Sunday night…' Of course, I was defending myself back in the halls of Winslow, though not much; I was the victim, the loser. I'm supposed to stand there and look hurt, shamed and betrayed. Not too hard. 'Oh, is that a peregrine falcon?! I wonder if I can find a nest!' The falcons of Kings, they are! Great for delivering messages and hunting, and oh, so pretty!
Not as pretty as Queenie, of course, but a close second!
"Enough!" right, Blackwell, "Sophia, Emma, Miss Hebert," yesss, "my office, now."
Foolish woman.
[1.3]
"-completely unacceptable behavior, Miss Hebert! Why I've never-"
I'm sure you've seen worse, Blackwell. I mean, it's not like your school's been used as a recruiting ground for the ABB and E88 for practically your whole tenure…
Oh, wait, I'm being sarcastic. It has.
"-fine, upstanding young ladies-"
Wait, is she talking about Emma and Sophia? I honestly stopped listening after the five-minute mark; seriously, any chewing out that lasts longer than that, for something as minor as a scuffle in a High School hallway, is just screaming 'power trip'.
But, on the subject of the two girls next to me being 'fine, upstanding young ladies'…
Yeah, allow me to express an appropriate response, in the safety of my head:
BAH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! OH-OH-AHHH-HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Wait-wait… pfft, oh shit, that gave me the best idea!
[data] [amusement]
Queenie's response? [agreement] [data]
See?! Even the pan-dimensional owl is laughing at you, Blackwall!
Oh, and Queenie also sent me an update on my costume. The mask looks good. Nice eyebrows, almost looks like a crown. Awesome.
"-do you have to say for yourself, Miss Hebert?"
Fucking finally! It only took you twenty-six minutes and sixteen seconds!
Deep breath, calm nerves, because you can do it Taylor!
"Well, to be perfectly honest, ma'am," I began in a calm voice that was at odds with a small part of me screaming 'Bad idea! Bad idea!', "when you told my Dad that I wouldn't be bullied in school any further, I actually thought you'd back up your words with actions. But, seeing as, not only has the bullying gone on, but you appear to be enabling it, I'm offering you a way that won't see us both become destitute from lawyer's fees." I reached down to my bag, pulling out the forms I printed out earlier in Keyboarding and filled out during lunch…
And enjoyed the brief, shocked silence.
Blackwell didn't last, sadly, "What nonsense is this, Miss Hebert? Threatening a school official is-"
"Ma'am." I retorted sharply, "I am not threatening you. I am stating the fact that you, personally, would not be able to afford, based on your state-approved salary, the civil suit for going against your own official statement, made in January in the presence of two Brockton Bay detectives, that I would be safe here," I snapped the papers in my hand when she opened her mouth, "or, much more seriously, failure to properly sanitize and secure this educational facility at the start of the year. I'm sure the State Board of Education, not to mention the CDC and FBI, would be pleased as punch to know that you deliberately covered up the presence of a Level 2 Biohazard on the premises after it was exposed to the student body. And if you think cleaning my locker was enough, you've forgotten one thing: my toxicology report. Ten more minutes in that locker and, instead of explaining to the CDC your improper removal of toxic waste after one of your students nearly died from exposure thereof, you'd be explaining away a corpse."
Really, really should've brought a camera. I had no idea someone could imitate a fish so accurately.
I stood, placing the 'Student Notice of Voluntary Expulsion', or, for those not in the know, the official document for drop-outs, on Principal Blackwell's desk. She stared at it in disbelief.
"Or," I went on neutrally while she paged through the stapled papers, "you can sign, stamp and copy that form, I walk out of Winslow, and we hopefully never meet one another in an official capacity ever again."
It made me nauseous, that this plan hinged on letting them get away with it. However, given that I was planning on becoming a superheroine while cramming for my GED (which, with Queenie helping my studies along, would be easy as thought!), plus the fact that, barring a sizable loan from the bank, Dad couldn't really afford the lawyer's fees, on top of the unfortunately strong possibility of losing the case, I was willing to grit my teeth and bear it.
After all, this was merely my vengeance against Blackwell and Winslow in general; Madison, honestly, didn't factor into my plans much. Sophia deserved special treatment, being a fellow Parahuman and possible Ward (I was thinking Shadow Stalker at the moment, but I'll hold judgement till tonight, watch where she goes). And Emma…
Well, if you want to hit someone, hit them where it hurts. She'd get hers in due course.
Sophia, it seemed, was quick on the uptake, despite the blow to her head, "You planned this! The fight in the hallway! Getting caught!"
"No," said I blandly, not looking away from Blackwell, who was frowning at me, "Just dropping out and going for my GED. Signed up for that earlier this week," a lie, I did that during Keyboarding, and Dad still needed to sign off on it, but Hess didn't need to know any of that; anyway, now I looked at Sophia, and smirked, much to her visible rage, "I just needed you to give me one more reason to leave, Miss Hess."
"Miss Hebert, you are making a grave mistake," began Blackwell, voice slightly shaky.
'For fuck's sake,' I went for the kill, "The only grave mistake I've made, ma'am," I snapped, "was not taking the scholarship to Arcadia when it was offered, instead wanting to stay with my 'friend'. In the interim, that 'friend' has left my side, my grades have slipped, I've been bullied, and I've been hospitalized. Whether or not you sign that paper is irrelevant; I'm never willingly setting foot in this building. Ever. Again."
Blackwell sighed, shaking her head and picking up a pen.
I sneered down at Emma, who was looking at me like I'd turned into Alexandria, stripped naked, and started dancing Hammer Time on Blackwell's desk.
Horrified. Emma looked horrified. Interesting…
Sophia, on the other hand… was looking at me appraisingly? Okayyy, that's not creepy at all! I better get out of here, fast.
Scritch-scritch went Blackwell's pen.
The stamp sounded like a gavel in the silence of the office.
"Have the secretary in the office make a copy, then get out of my school," Blackwell all-but snarled, roughly thrusting the document back at me.
I smiled brightly, "Thank you, ma'am! You won't regret this!"
Spinning on my heel and not giving those two bitches a second glance, I kept myself from strutting out of the office by sheer force of will and the mental reminder that…
'Dad is either gonna be pissed, or he's gonna hug the stuffing out of me.' Oh, right! I better update Queenie on this latest development. Handing the form to the office clerk for copying, I did just that.
[completion] [relief]
[satisfaction] I had to agree with her; for an owl that exists in multiple dimensions and geeks out on a computer all day, she comes up with damn good plans!
The original was pressed back into my hands. Look it over quickly as Blackwall's office door opens. Everything's in order.
I look up. Hess glaring daggers at me. I grin brightly at her…
And skip my way out of Winslow, once and for all!
[1.3]
Approaching the payphone, two blocks from Winslow, I swallowed painfully.
'I'm about to ruin one of Dad's oldest friendships,' I thought, raising my hand to pick up the receiver, 'I've been lying to him for a year and a half… and that's all about to end.'
It was one of Queenie's lessons, which she related to me as [data], that strengthened my resolve, made me want to end all these lies I've been telling myself and others.
The best successful relationships are
built with trust and honesty.
I'm tired of lying. Of being dishonest with Dad. It needed to end.
Better to rip off the band-aid quickly. 'Talk to dad, go to his office, tell him everything – except the cape stuff – go home, have a nice cup of tea, and everything's going to be just. Fine.' Unless Murphy decides to throw me a curveball again.
I picked up the receiver. Dial tone. Change in the coinslot. Coins aren't slippery this time.
I'm not the girl in the alleyway.
Picks up after three rings, "Danny Hebert, Dockworkers."
"Hey, Dad." I smile, even as my eyes sting, realizing that my life was only going to get harder from here.
I'm the one who's going to avenge her.
"Kiddo? Did school let out early?" a pause, "Everything okay?"
Deep breath, "Yeah… Um, is it okay if I come by your job? I… we need to talk about things."
I'm not going to turn away. Or back down.
I'm going to be a superhero.
And nothing's gonna stop me.
.
.
.
.
.
.
a/n: Huh. Two updates a week.
I would literally pay someone (in chunks of malachite) to make a video of Alexandria, in full costume, dancing to the tune of MC Hammer's "U Can't Touch This" with the Wards as back-up dancers. I busted up just writing that bit. XD
Seriously, if the CDC got wind of the Locker Incident, Winslow would've been shut down within a day, Blackwall would've lost her job, and the Heberts would be very rich from the resultant lawsuit.
My Taylor doesn't care what other people think of her. Mostly, this is due to her second 'worst day ever' and all the bullying she's put up with, plus being let down by nearly everyone she knows; in spite of all this, Taylor's going to become a heroine whether or not anyone has a problem with it, and is fully prepared to Escalate© the shit out of them if they try to stop her. Case in point: her treatment of Blackwell.
Oh, weird thought! Has anyone here played Hotline Miami? Taylor in a Rasmus mask with blue eyes. It's kind of fitting, actually, given what that mask does… minus the homicide.
Till next time, folks!
~Baked