Uh, words? Thoughts? Something?
Please don't kill my formatting, next chapter button!
"Fuck!"
Breathing hard, I tucked my smarting hand under my arm and gritted my teeth. Once the pain had dulled a little, I fixed a baleful glare on the outlet in front of me.
"Motherfucker," I muttered darkly, popping my thumb into my mouth. With my other hand, I gingerly grabbed hold of the cord plugged into the wall. This time, I was careful to keep my thumb on the plug, where it couldn't bridge the gap between the prongs.
Honestly, I'd been working for almost four hours now and this was what hurt me?
Once the soldering iron had been unplugged, I draped it gently over my desk, careful to place the hot end into a ceramic mug I'd tucked into the corner. It might have been a fire hazard, but I'd done it enough times before that I wasn't too worried.
With one final glare at the outlet, I turned my attention back to the floor, where I'd spread out all the materials I could scrounge from downstairs. There hadn't been much—unsurprisingly, Leviathan had left a lot of flooded basements in his wake. I wouldn't have had much of anything to work with, if dad hadn't offered me the remains of our microwave. I didn't ask how it got so dented.
It was only when I actually looked around my room that I realized how messy it had gotten in the past few days. My new notebook was splayed out over my bed, surrounded by a halo of loose scrap paper and even a napkin I'd scribbled on during dinner. The floor was scattered with loose wires. A pile of school textbooks lay in a dejected heap near the door, still in the same place they'd landed when I shoved them off my desk to clear a space.
I smiled. When I'd finally gotten home last week, the room had been just as I'd left it—same rumpled covers, same hamper full of dirty laundry, same everything. It didn't feel right, even though it was me who'd put everything there in the first place. Maybe it was something about how timelocked it seemed. It was as if the last month hadn't even happened, and one morning I might wake up to find that I was running late for school again. The clutter—the tinker clutter—made it feel more like home.
That, and it was a huge relief to be able to just... work. It had been over a month since I'd been left alone with just some tools and a notebook, and complete freedom over what I wanted to make. Even before Coil, I'd been tinkering in the basement, constantly listening for the creak of my dad's footsteps. The lack of secrecy was refreshing.
Glancing at the soldering iron, I frowned slightly. That was the one thing, the one thing that was bothering me the most. It was so fucking dull. It was the same with pencils, I supposed—eventually the point wore off, and I was stuck with a rounded nub that was nearly impossible to maneuver.
On a sudden impulse, I picked the iron back up. It was still hot—I could feel the warmth radiating from it, even if I only hovered my hand a few inches away. There should be a point, though. The one Coil had given me was needle sharp, threading in between the smallest wires, through steel and flesh and bone—
The soldering iron slipped through my fingers and fell to the floor with a dull thump, barely missing my feet. I blinked, looking down at where it had fallen. There were a few stray drops of solder on the floor, glinting silver.
I bent to pick it up, holding it gingerly by the plug and laying it back onto the desk. My hands were shaking.
Grabbing up a pencil, I snatched up my notebook and started glancing over the notes I'd made there. A few rough sketches were already taking form. I was having trouble figuring out how exactly to start my next project, though. Ever since the mess at Arcadia, I'd been wanting to try and integrate my gear into my own body. The problem with that, beyond my initial squeamishness and the fit dad would throw if he ever found out, was purely technical. I just couldn't reach most of my body with my dominant hand, let alone try and perform surgery on myself.
So, I'd decided to build something that would do if for me, which was harder than I anticipated. I'd come up with a complex system of clamps to hold the machine in place, and maybe if I coated them with some kind of glue, then—
"Taylor!"
I jumped, flinging the pencil away from me and shoving myself out of my seat with enough force that it toppled over. Instead of falling with it, I managed to find my feet, watching in dismay as the chair crashed to the ground.
"What was that?" my dad called out. "Are you alright?"
"Fine, dad," I yelled back. "I just knocked something over."
He didn't respond, but soon I could hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. In a sudden panic, I slammed my notebook shut and tossed in onto the bed. Grabbing as many of the loose papers as I could, I shifted them under the notebook and threw my pillow over the whole thing. I was just about to cover the beginnings of my prototype before I forced myself to stop.
Even if he saw the notes, my dad would have no idea what they meant. I took a deep breath, only to have it catch in my throat as he knocked on the door.
"Come in," I said, as I bent down to pick up the chair.
The door eased open tentatively, and dad poked his head through. "It's time to go," he told me, after a worried glance around the room.
I forced a smile, and went to my closet to grab a jacket. It was easy to excuse stuffing my head into the dark space, pressing my face into the fabrics and taking a deep breath. After a second of rummaging, I grabbed the nearest sweatshirt and slipped it over my head. The warm fabric felt nice.
Jamming both hands into my pockets, I turned back around to face dad. He step forward, putting a hand on my shoulder. I winced, doing my best to step away from him without being too obvious.
"We don't have to go, if you don't want to," he told me. "I can just call the PRT and have them reschedule."
"I'm okay," I said, even though going out was the last thing I really wanted to do. He seemed to accept that, at least.
By the time we made it through the front door, I was already starting to wish I'd stayed. It wasn't that I was afraid to leave, exactly, but the more I thought about it, the less I wanted to meet with the Protectorate. I still hadn't talked to dad in detail about... anything, really. He knew the basics, about Coil and Harrison and how I'd gone out as Cobalt, but I hadn't even touched upon how I'd gotten out of the base.
Still, I'd have to meet with them at some point, and waiting and wondering was going to drive me insane sooner or later. I couldn't hide in my room with my tinkering forever.
Dad's car was still in the driveway, though it had been crushed badly enough that all the windows had shattered. I found myself wincing sympathetically every time we passed it—the dent looked suspiciously human-shaped, and I knew firsthand how much that must have hurt.
Lucky for us, the PRT headquarters wasn't too far. Well, relatively speaking—it would probably take over an hour to walk there, but with the roads as fucked up as they were, driving would've been even longer.
"Taylor?" Dad asked, as we turned out of the driveway.
"Yeah?"
"I know this must be hard for you, and I don't want to push, but—" he stopped, took a breath.
"I'm just... worried."
I winced. He'd been acting restrained all week, and I could tell he wanted to know. I could only guess what he thought had happened, but the constant hovering and worried looks told me it wasn't good. I needed to say something, but I had no idea how to start.
What could I say? "Guess what, dad? I killed a man last week!"
Some of what I was thinking must have shown on my face, because he backpedaled almost immediately.
"I'm sorry," he blurted. "You should take your time."
"It's okay." I hesitated, shoving my hands deeper into my jacket pockets. "I'm just... still trying to figure it out."
The rest of the walk passed in awkward silence. Sometimes he would start up a smaller, safer conversation. That was nice—if it weren't for the devastated city around us, the whole scene would've felt almost normal.
We were only about halfway there when dad stopped in his tracks. I nearly bumped into him, but he reached out and grabbed my shoulder. Startled, I stiffened where I stood.
"Sorry," he murmured, obviously distracted. I followed his gaze to a brick wall, and a familiar symbol spray-painted over it—a capital M with a line through it.
"The Merchants?" I said, staring at the mark. "Here?"
Dad frowned. "I knew the gangs were acting up, but..." he trailed off.
I clenched a fist, suddenly hyperaware of how vulnerable I was. My armor had been pretty thoroughly trashed, and I'd left it with the PRT to save us the hassle of hauling it inside. We were planning on picking it up today, if only to reuse some of the more expensive components I'd used. That meant I had only the strength in my own two arms—which amounted to basically nothing.
"We should go," I told dad, eying the buildings around us nervously. He gave me an odd, measuring look.
"It's alright," he said, quietly. "We'll call Kurt next time, see if he can give us a ride." I grit my teeth, caught by a sudden and irrational pang of annoyance.
"Okay," I replied, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice.
After that, we made it to the PRT without incident. The woman at the desk waved us through as soon as dad gave her his name, and told us to head upstairs to conference room D. I grimaced, remembering the room I'd met dad in.
One of the PRT agents showed the way, leading us up a flight of stairs and into a long hallway. The conference room we'd been told to go to was on the left, and dad pushed open the door without hesitation.
Inside, there was a mild-looking man with ruffled brown hair and a harassed expression on his face. He stood up when we entered, and I noticed he was an inch or two taller than my dad—a rare thing.
"Ah, come in," he said, slipping a pile of papers into a nearby envelope. Three more manila folders were spread out across the table in front of him, each of them nearly an inch thick.
"Sorry about the mess," he continued, and stuck out a hand. "It's been a busy week. I'm Deputy Director Renick."
"Daniel Hebert," dad replied, returning the handshake with a strained smile.
Renick sighed, rubbing a hand across the bridge of his nose. "I hope you've had the chance to catch up on some rest," he offered, as he pawed through the loose paper on his desk.
"A little," I said, once it became clear that he wanted a response. Renick hummed distractedly.
"Ah," he mumbled, after a while. "This is it. My apologies, it's been a bit hectic lately."
"What is it?" I asked. I couldn't read it upside-down, but it looked like something that had been scribbled down in a hurry.
"Just some notes," the man replied. "I have a few things I needed to talk to you about, and... well, I'm not very good at remembering those off-hand." He flashed a self-deprecating grin.
"Is Taylor in any trouble?" dad asked, putting a hand on my shoulder. I shifted uncomfortably, keeping my eyes on the sheaf of papers.
"It's likely there'll be an investigation, but that's mostly a formality." Renick's smile slipped for a moment as he continued, "Armsmaster noticed similarities between the armor found in your basement, and the set Cobalt had been wearing. Beyond that, Dinah has testified that you helped her escape, and—"
"Dinah?" dad interrupted.
The PRT agent frowned. "Another girl apparently being held in the same location." He paused, glancing between dad and I. "How much have you discussed, about... well, your situation?" I winced.
"Only the basics," admitted dad. "I didn't want to push, and..."
"I don't like talking about it," I said, cutting him off. It hurt hearing him sound so guilty, considering how much of a relief it had been when he hadn't started prying.
Renick nodded slowly, as if absorbing the new information. He coughed, looking uncomfortable. "I know this must be hard for you," he said, "But... we will need to keep him informed, and you'll have to give the police some kind of statement eventually."
"I know." I glanced between dad and the PRT agent, eventually settling my gaze on the desk. It was a warm, wooden brown, filled with lazy swirls of light and dark.
"I can talk," I decided, after a moment. When I locked eyes with dad, he looked torn.
"You don't have to," he told me reluctantly.
"I do, though. If not now, then later." Besides, it should be easier to talk to dad than the police, or PRT, or whoever was going to take my statement.
Renick cleared his throat awkwardly. "I don't mean to rush you," he said, "but we do have a lot to discuss..."
"Right," dad agreed, shaking his head as if to clear it. Then he froze, turning back to Renick. "You mentioned... there was someone else there, too?"
"Dinah," I muttered.
He looked almost sick. "So... this isn't the first time he's done this. What—Why wasn't he caught?"
"We were trying," Renick asserted. "I don't know if you're aware, but the man holding her—"
"Coil," he gritted out. "Yes, I know."
"The Protectorate has been trying to apprehend him for years. Until now, we had no idea he had an underground base of operations, let alone it's location."
Dad scowled. "This other girl... is she home, now?"
"She's with her parents, yes. They're staying in Boston for a while." Dad seemed to relax a little, at that.
Renick coughed again. "I apologize, but I have a small mountain of paperwork waiting for me, and I wanted to ask about your plans for the future."
"What?" I asked, thrown.
"Well, if you planned on continuing your career as a parahuman, I'm sure we could work out a contract with the Wards that—"
"No!" Dad stood up, slamming his hands against the table. I jumped out of my own seat, taking an instinctive step back. The rage on his face seemed to melt, and he collapsed bonelessly back into his seat.
"No," he said again, more quietly this time—but just as firmly. "I just found out that my daughter fought not one, but two gang leaders, and Echidna. And you want me to sign her up to risk her life again?"
"Dad—" I tried to interject. He held up a hand, twisting in his seat to look at me.
"Please... I don't want you getting hurt. Not again."
"It wasn't exactly my choice," I shot back, clenching a fist. Dad stopped, took a deep breath.
"I know," he said, after a moment. "None of this is your fault, but... I can't do this again."
I looked away, eyes stinging as a multitude of little things I'd tried so hard to ignore came rushing back. It wasn't just the dented microwave. There was the new hole in the wall, the trash can full of plastic six-pack rings, the way my room had been left untouched—like a tomb.
It wasn't my fault. I knew that.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled.
"You don't need to be," he assured me, nearly stumbling over his own words to try and get them out faster. A hand brushed against my shoulder, before falling limply to his side.
"No, it's not that, I just—I don't think I can stop." I could feel him looking at me, but I kept staring at my shoes.
"Stop what?" he asked, gently.
"Tinkering."
"Taylor... you don't have to get into fights to use your powers."
"It's not just about building things, dad. It's about using them to do something." I stopped, frustrated. Nothing was coming out right, and I suspected that probably had a lot to do with how muddled my thoughts were even in my own head. Dad still had that obstinate look on his face, the one I always saw when he was on the phone with someone from the city government.
"You can do something else! Something safe!" he insisted, gripping the arms of his chair hard enough to make them creak in protest. It was almost made me flinch away—but his tone was desperate, not angry.
"I can't," I shot back.
"Yes, you can." The pleading edge had left his voice, replaced by something softer.
"Dad—"
"You're home now, Taylor," he said, quietly. "You don't have to fight anymore, you can start trying to pick up the pieces, get things back to normal."
"I don't want to go back to normal!" I shouted, lurching to my feet. The chair legs rasped against the tile floor, and the room went dead silent.
"Normal... normal sucked. My power was supposed to be an escape from that, a way to actually do something instead of sitting through another day in that hellhole of a school! I want—" I stopped, taking a harsh, shallow breath. "I wanted to be a hero."
Dad slumped in his seat, looking suddenly exhausted. "Okay," he said. I could see tears in his eyes.
"I'm sorry," I mumbled again.
"Don't," dad choked. "Don't do that." He stood, folding me into another hug. I forced myself to stay still, this time, until we were interrupted by a small, polite cough.
Slowly, I turned my head to the other side of the room. Deputy Director Renick sat behind his desk, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
"Would you like a minute?" he asked, glancing between me and dad.
"Oh," I said, face burning at the sudden reminder that he was still in the room—and had been through that entire argument. "No, it's fine."
I bit my lip, feeling suddenly torn. I hadn't wanted to join the Wards when Armsmaster had asked, and in the intervening month I'd gotten into a fight with half of them. A very large part of me wanted to tell Renick to shove it.
But dad would hate it. I could keep pushing, I knew. Dad might relent again, let me go out as independent—but it would be a constant strain on him, always worrying that I'd gotten hurt again. As much as I disliked the idea of trying to get along with them, they were much safer than other hero groups. I was living proof of that, already.
He couldn't see me get hurt again, and I couldn't stop using my gear—the Wards program was the closest thing to a solution I could imagine.
"I'll join," I said. Not that I wanted to join—just that I would.
Dad rubbed at the bridge of his nose, and the look on his face told me I'd made the right choice. "I'll give permission," he sighed.
"That's good. We... well, we're low on manpower at the moment." Renick's face twisted.
"Is there anything I need to sign?" dad asked.
The Deputy Director heaved a sigh. "Quite a lot, yes." He pulled open one of his desk drawers and shuffled around for a moment, before producing another stack of papers. There was a ghost of a smile on his face as my dad paled.
"It's not as bad as it looks," he said. "There's only a few things you actually need to sign, the rest is information for your own benefit." Shifting the first bit of paper around so that it was facing us, he began talking.
Most of it was about safety procedures and policy, about what Wards were and were not responsible for. Some of it was specific to tinkers, detailing the budget I would have and the hoops I'd have to jump through to get new projects approved. The rest tended to fly right over my head.
With every word, I felt myself getting more and more twitchy. I hadn't said a word in nearly ten minutes, but my dad was leaning forward, seemingly absorbing every rule and regulation. I squirmed in my seat, suddenly wishing I'd just stayed home.
"This is by no means binding," the Deputy Director assured us, just as I was trying to think of a way to leave politely. "Either of you could terminate the contract at any time, though I do hope you continue on to the Protectorate." He smiled warmly at me. "We could use more heroes in this city."
I squirmed uncomfortably. The statement seemed so hollow, though I couldn't begin to guess why. Frustrated, I didn't bother trying to respond. I nodded, hoping that would be enough to show him that I'd heard.
"Boston and New York are lending us Weld and Flechette, but it's still difficult." I looked up, startled.
"I didn't know that," I told him.
Renick grimaced at his desk, running a thumb along the grain of the wood. "I can't tell you how grateful I am that you want to help out like this," he said, glancing up to meet my eyes. I squirmed in my seat.
There was a tense pause, before Renick coughed again.
"Moving on to more... pleasant topics," he said, with a wide, fake grin, "I believe we have something of yours."
"What?"
Renick smiled. "Your armor—both sets, actually. An officer brought the older one to us for analysis, and it's been sitting around ever since."
I blinked. That suit had been half-melted by Lung, barely functioning well enough for me to limp home with it afterwards. I'd been thinking about repairs when... when Coil found me. As for the other... I'd never actually checked what had gone wrong with the right arm.
"Could I bring them home?" I asked, feeling my fingers twitching at the idea. The project I was working on was far more appealing to me than my old gear, but it would take a long time to finish. If I fixed the armor, I could be going on patrols in the meantime. It would have to be the Cobalt set, though—the old one wasn't nearly as responsive even when it had been new.
"Of course," Renick replied, chuckling. "They are yours, after all."
"If I fixed the newer one," I said, "Would I need to get it approved?" The last half hour had, if nothing else, taught me that there was rigorous testing involved for every new bit of technology I wanted to bring out in the field. I tried not to think too hard about it—as tedious as it would be, at least I'd be still be able to build what I wanted eventually.
"Technically, yes," Renick said. "But I believe we should be able to bend the rules a little, since you've already used that suit before, and Armsmaster has certainly poked and prodded it enough." His face darkened a bit at that.
"What does that mean by bending the rules, exactly?"
"You'll need to do some paperwork, but we'll be able to cut quite a few corners. I suspect it'll go through before you finish repairing it. We need all hands on deck, including yours."
"It's official, then?" I asked.
"Not until all this is finished," he told me, waving a hand over the mess on his desk. "But there shouldn't be any problem."
Sweeping the loose paper into another folder, he handed it to dad. "If you could fill this in and get it back to us, we should be all set."
I shifted in my seat. "Can we go?"
Renick laughed. "Yes, the boring part is over." He ushered us out the door, calling out to a nearby officer and telling them to escort us to Armsmaster's lab.
"The armor should still be there," he explained. "You could bring it home, if you like, but I'd recommend leaving it here. You'd be welcome to use the lab to start repairing it."
I frowned. "When would I start? With the Wards, I mean."
Renick shrugged. "As soon as all the paperwork is filed, I'd hope. Probably by the end of the week."
My heart sank. "Okay," I managed. Dad gave me an encouraging smile, but I could tell he wasn't happy, either. Then again, that was the point of compromise, wasn't it?
As we walked out together, I let my hair fall into a curtain over my eyes, feeling suddenly exhausted. I was so busy putting one foot in front of another, that the only indication I had that there was someone else in the hallway was when I bumped into them.
Startled, I looked up and blurted out an apology, only to stop in my tracks. Panacea was standing in front of me, looking almost as uncomfortable as I probably did.
"Watch where you're going," she muttered, and moved to go around me.
Part of me wanted to snap at her... but I had walked into her. "Sorry," I repeated, then extended a hand.
"I'm... uh, Cobalt," I told her. It was a risk, maybe—she had plenty of reason not to like me. But my secret identity was basically common knowledge among the Protectorate, and I did want to try to offer whatever olive branch I could.
Panacea did a double take. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, eying my hand like it was about to bite her.
"I just joined the Wards." I frowned, suddenly curious. "What about you? Did someone get hurt?"
"No. I'm going to be staying here for a while." The line sounded stiff, like something she'd been saying a lot recently. I'd been doing the same thing, regurgitating the same explanation anytime someone asked an awkward question, so that I didn't have to think about it.
"Oh," I managed, wracking my brain for something better to say. I tried not to look too obviously surprised—Vista had mentioned she'd gotten into some kind of fight with her sister, but I hadn't thought it was so bad she'd have to leave her house.
"Do you mind?" Panacea asked pointedly, jerking her chin toward the hallway behind me.
"Right, sorry." I stepped aside, wincing as she brushed past me.
"Do you know her?" Dad asked, turning his head to watch her walking away.
My minder held her gunpoint, and the next day I nearly got her eaten.
"Sort of?"
The expression on his face shifted to something unreadable. He took a long, steadying breath.
"You know you can talk to me, right?" He moved toward me, then stopped, holding his arms stiffly at his sides. "Nothing would make me love you any less."
I chewed my lip and nodded.
"Let's go home, kiddo," he said, turning to walk back the way we'd come. For a moment, I hovered in place, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot.
"Dad?" I called out. He twisted to look over his shoulder.
"I love you."