Running the Pale Garden is hard. And I'm not even doing the most taxing job.
A woman who looks not much older than me is at the register scanning items as fast as she can, barely bothering to close the till before turning to help the next customer. Another woman, older and more severe, is at the door, preemptively scaring off shoplifters and less reputable types. Two employees run between the shelves and the stockroom resupplying everything as fast as they can manage, slapping barcode stickers on paper-wrapped bundles before rushing back into the employees-only section to grab another armful of product. A third person is tasked with managing the constant flow of customers and ensuring that we never have enough bodies in the building to violate the fire code. The background chatter is loud enough that I consider breaking my own ears just to be free of it. Consider but never actually go through with, because how else would I be able to hear the questions from the pack of rabid rumor-jockeys that happen to work for the Brockton Times?
"The Travelers are demanding partial credit for the recent downfall of the ABB. Are you going to make similar claims?"
"You've been seen with members of New Wave in public multiple times, but never on patrol with them. Thoughts?"
"What are your feelings about the recent miscarriages of justice against Paige Mcabee and how do you anticipate them affecting your own business?"
Mr. Doe gave me a crash course on Public Relations for Dummies, which can be best summed up as "never say anything to a reporter you don't want horribly misconstrued." More specifically, I should refuse to speak to anyone holding a microphone, a notepad, a tape recorder, or any other type of recording device unless I have him or someone similarly versed in legalese beside me offering advice. When I asked who I could answer questions from, he just shook his head and explained the purpose of me being visible in my shop.
"You're there to show people that the store is, in fact, run by a cape. Merely being nearby will dramatically increase sales as people try to find a reason to stick around and stare at you." When I warped my mask into raising an eyebrow at my objectification, he shrugged. "It's not something you should do every day, or even every week. Scarcity creates value. On the other hand, making a good first impression is key here. Show up, remain calm, maybe do the petal trick as the shop closes up, and business should be good. Just don't answer any questions and don't hurt anyone."
That was hours ago. The store hadn't closed for lunch, and I am starving. And tired. And feeling a little antsy. There are only so many things you can do with bone to suppress the urge to just wall off everyone for some goddamn peace and quiet.
Huh. That particular thought was less violent than usual. Maybe it has something to do with my recent catharsis? Worth looking into.
I keep a smile on my stylized seashell mask and continue to watch the crowd as I play with a ball of bone. It took about five seconds for someone to pull out their phone to record it, and maybe three minutes after that the painter from the planning stages of my shop showed up with his arms full of spray paint canisters. I grew a small fence around the two of us, the painter fastened on a mask and goggles, and we made art. Spheres, just like the one I toyed with at Somer's Rock, but this time colored. Sunset orange and sky blue, shades of seawater green and aquamarine, black with streaks of dark purple, and custom orders for anyone holding up a sufficiently large wad of cash. I kept track of the value of the first few but stopped when the numbers went north of four thousand.
I know this can't last. I'm saturating the market, and the demand will die off soon. I figure that after a few weeks I'll be just like the stores on the Boardwalk, making rent by selling to the tourists with more wealth than sense in the summer and closing my doors for most of the winter.
That doesn't make the sums I'm being offered now any less staggering. To think that I used to believe fifty dollars an hour was living the good life. I spin up another sphere and daydream about what I'll use the money for. With this sort of cash I could probably pay off the rest of the mortgage on the house, get some renovations done, purchase a better computer...
All I need to do is find a way to tell Dad that I'm a cape.
I take a breath in, then let it out with a nearly-undetectable shaking of bones. That is a problem for later. For now, I need to focus on my public appearance. I turn my attention back to the sphere-
"The Empire's identities have been revealed, White Rose. Do you intend to take the fight to them and bring them to justice?"
I nearly drop the sphere I'm holding. The painter's spray skews to the side, ruining his past twenty minutes of work. The crowd's roar drops to a murmur for a moment, stunned, before redoubling in volume.
"The Empire? Revealed?"
"Weren't they the ones that went after Fleur? Didn't they give up the guy that did it on their own?"
"They're not going public, it's a leak. Maybe they crossed a Thinker?"
"It was the Protectorate, finally taking aggressive action."
"Watchdog followed the Medhall connection all the way to the top."
"It's a Simurgh plot! Wake up, sheeple!"
The other reporters smell blood and start asking me variations of the same question, pressing against the bone fence. I don't bother looking at them and stay still, mind racing.
Tattletale is the obvious suspect. Now that Bakuda's gone, the Empire are the only serious force of capes in town besides the Protectorate. Leaking their identities would destroy their morale, dramatically increase the ease of tracking them, and incite the E88 to levels of violence normally restricted to Stormfront fantasies. I literally cannot imagine a move more likely to end with her head on a pike, and I'm trying to imagine how on earth Tattletale came to the conclusion that this was an optimal course of action.
I feel a tap on my shoulder and come back to the real world. The painter is pointing at my hands. I look down. The sphere has turned into a mess of sharp points, still roughly circular but now festooned with spikes and hooks, an alien artifact straight out of H. R. Giger's dreams crossed with a food processor. The painter makes a "gimme" gesture so I snap my connection to it before handing it over. He grabs it carefully and starts coating a few of the spines in steel grey.
How am I going to play this?
I grow a stool, sit down and think. The painter has four different spheres behind him plus the orb of confusion. That should be more than enough to occupy him for the next few hours.
The crowd devolves further into speculation even as they continue to throw money at me. The reporters continue to ask questions and I continue to ignore them.
Instead I sit there like a statue, trying to figure out a way to respond to this that doesn't drag me right back into caping.
**********
When the customer density per square foot dropped from near-riot to more manageable at around four 'o clock, one of the people stocking the shelves (a twenty-something named Eric) managed to slip out of the shop and bring me back a steak sandwich, which I thanked him for with a rose that he's probably going to pawn after hours. I'm about halfway through my very late lunch when three massive dogs/lizard things come bounding down the street.
The first thought I had was abouthow convenient it was that my enemies came with ready-to-invert bone spikes on their mounts. My second thought was about how quickly my mind jumped to murder when confronted with other capes.
On the other hand, murder may be a very reasonable reaction right now.
One third of the crowd scatters, putting as much distance between themselves and the incoming criminals as possible. A wise decision. Another third head for the nearest building, which happens to be my store. Fortunately, the people at the door seem to be keeping the mob from trampling anyone, and that group will be secure in the relative safety of the indoors.
And because this is Brockton Bay, the remaining third have their phones out and pointed at the approaching capes, spreading out in an even arc to try and get the best angle possible on the upcoming confrontation.
Lemmings.
I stand up and let the rest of my sandwich fall to the ground as the Undersiders halt a a few feet in front of me. Tattletale dismounts and wastes no time approaching me, strides long and even. Her smirk is gone, and tears in her costume reveal patches of skin that look like she's had a close encounter with a power sander. The rest of her group doesn't look much better. Regent's shirt is creased and crumpled with cuts and tears all across his chest, Grue's gloves have blood splattered across the knuckles, and Hellhound has a rapidly swelling bruise over her left eye.
"It wasn't us, we surrender, yadda yadda yadda. Now can-" She stops when I lift a hand and extend a small spike of bone from it. Regent shifts on his mount, freeing up an arm, Grue dismounts as smoke starts pouring off him, and Hellhound glares at me.
"No." I don't put any special emphasis the word. I just give a simple refusal. I am not getting dragged into this again. Not when I finally got out. Tattletale glares at me and keeps moving forward, keeps talking.
"Listen, all we need is protection until the PRT or the Protectorate come by to pick us up. I'll pay you ten thousand-"
"No." This time I punctuate the statement with an extension of the bone spike and a step towards her. "I do not want money. I do not want favors. I do not want a spot on your team. Go. Away." Even if it wasn't her (and that's a big "if"), I still wouldn't want to get involved. This is officially the part of the cape scene I am not going to involve myself with anymore.
Tattletale grits her teeth. "If you'd let me finish-"
"No!" I shout, but Tattletale keeps advancing and steps past the bone spike, getting right up in my face.
"The Empire also think that this was me and they're out for blood. The Protectorate is too busy dealing with the other seven capes who got outed in the middle of their workday, New Wave is halfway across the city, the Merchants aren't going to take a stand-up fight with the Empire, and none of the other independents have the power to help. So I'm asking you," she jabs a finger into my chest and looks up at me, heedless of the spined frills growing out of my armor and my rising desire to shred this wretch, "To help keep us alive until the big guns show up."
"So keep running and rendezvous with them at a later time," I hiss, slapping her hand away from me. "Or maybe join a fight in progress and help the Protectorate deal with it." The Undersiders are capes. They helped kill Bakuda. They can fight back. "You're criminals. Violence and blackmail are options."
Tattletale laughs hysterically. "You think we've had time for that? Bitch has been carting us around for the past two hours while I've tried to set something up. Turns out that's kind of-"
"Watch out!" Regent shouts, waving his hand. A silent stream of light blasts a divot the size of a baseball out of the street as Tattletale cowers next to me. I spin towards the source. An illuminated figure, shining like an avenging angel.
Purity.
"Run!" Tattletale shouts to the rest of the Undersiders. "I've got a plan!"
Apparently Grue either trusts her implicitly or considers her an acceptable loss as he nods to Hellhound, who wastes no time spinning her dogs around. The three capes flee, leaving me with the most wanted person in the city beside me and arguably the most powerful cape in the city above me.
"Step away White Rose," Purity says, her voice shaking with barely-restrained fury. "She crossed the line."
I place a hand on Tattletale's shoulder and prepare to shove her away from me. I want to not fight Purity, she doesn't want to fight me, and Tattletale went too far. She made her bed. Now she can lie in it.
"What, you're going to cave to a fascist just like that?" Tattletale's smile is back in place as she looks into my mask and ignores the talons I'm growing on my hands. "Wasn't the White Rose Party anti-Nazi? Are you really going to betray your namesake at the first sign of trouble?"
I freeze, looking at her, then to Purity, then to the cameras filming us, all of them waiting for my reaction.
Fuck.
