E.L.F


"- express the deepest gratitude for the aid of India's allies during this trying time while being mindful of the challenges it faces going forward." The subtitles at the bottom of the TV screen scrolled by, white letters on a black band. The speakers were muted and what few lights remained intact had been dimmed to one setting above off, drowning everything in shadows that flickered back and forth save for one spot of light pulsing. The heart monitor was in the corner, a half dozen colored waving lines scrawling a black screen in the sharp shapes of a frantic heartbeat. The windows were closed, not that it did any good with the glass still blown out, letting a biting cold wind snake through the curtains. Ice crept along the walls and floor and at times, the wind sighed.

There was a ghost in the corner.

"-Minister would like to reiterate that at this time, there has been no new information on the incident, but talks have been opened with the US President regarding future cooperative efforts."

"Yeah, I bet." Annabelle Kemper shifted in her chair, pulling her PRT issued jacket a little tighter around her. She fished out her phone from a pocket. "India isn't the only one, you know. Internet is going crazy over you, kid. Well - " she checked herself with a rueful smile. "No one really knows what to think, you know? Farseer made a splash. Check out PHO, it's like an international bazaar exploded on it. We've got Germans, Russians, I think that's Italian? Portuguese? And Chinese…"

The soft beeping of her heartbeat answered for Taylor Hebert.

Annabelle bit her lip and snuck a glance.

Toss a hot dog into the microwave, leave it on for a bit too long. Until the skin of the sausage bursts open, steaming.

Apply that to the skin of a fifteen year old girl.

Taylor had torn off the bandages again, exposing blackened lines of puckered burns with glimpses of bone white beneath the ruptured muscle. Most was still covered by gauze, some of it leaked through with bright red blood. Her eyes were firmly covered with blindfolds that did nothing to hide the tracks of pale, plastic acid burn grooves down her cheeks. They had to put the IV in her neck after she ripped the last one out and the blankets had been carefully, gingerly replaced, swamping the girl's thin frame. The spot of light in her chest pulsed with a warm light, casting her thin face in sharp relief. Every so often, Taylor flinched and grimaced with pain in her sleep, but didn't make so much as a whimper. She suffered in silence and in a very real way, that was worse than the screaming. There was nothing they could do for her, the doctors had said. There were warnings all over her medical file. Unknown biology. Unknown reactions to pain medications. Saline to keep her hydrated was all they had been willing to commit to, while keeping their 'options' open for a feeding tube and a round of prayers.

"I'm not trying to be, you know. They've got like a billion people now and I'm sure most of them are lovely but the Chinese government?" She brushed a lock of blonde hair back behind her ear and absently wished for some ear muffs. Or a hat. "There was this thing two years back, Hot Wire or Hot Flash or Hot something - anyway, energy manipulator, okay? Disappears while in Laos and its this - this incident. CUI tried to tell us he's a recaptured fugitive, right? An American citizen with powers literally kidnapped with this bullshit paper thin excuse - "

There isn't a movement so much as the lighting in the room just shifted a little. It sent that familiar spike of ice down her spine. It was the same feeling you get when you turn down a dark alleyway in a bad part of town and you start to consider how many ways things could go wrong. With practised ease Annabelle Kemper ignored it.

If she were to run from every might haves, could haves, she would have run from her job and kept on running.

She turned to face the ghost and found its cat eyes open. Pale eyes that might have been blue in better light had one hell of a thousand yard stare, but nothing beat Taylor Hebert's burnt out eye sockets alive with lightning and ash.

"I'm just saying," Annabelle continued. "Someone with a CUI calling card? Stab them in the face first, ask questions never."

She was paraphrasing official PRT policy.

Semi-official policy.

The ghost's right ear twitched.

"It's been - shit how long has it been?" Eight hours? Nine? She checked her phone. Eleven? Christ. "People are starting to put it together, with Leviathan actually dead! Do you know how amazing that is? And like what was different this time that we couldn't do last time and - and we've got names."

Just cape names. What started out as a list of over fifty had gradually dwindled down, repeated over and over on boards and in the news, until just the same names were said. She didn't care much about the others. Some Indian capes, some German ones, this one Nordic guy.

Farseer.

"If we ever get around to making a statement, a real official press release on what the fuck happened and it was you?"

It would change everything.

She couldn't hold back the jaw cracking yawn. Eleven fucking hours. She glanced out the broken windows expecting to see the beginnings of dawn behind the Brockton Bay skyline. It was still pitch black, because it was still the dead of winter.

"Am I even - like, can Taylor hear me or am I just…?"

There was a blink-and-you-miss-it tug at the corner of the ghost's mouth that could have been anything from a smile to a sneer.

Then it fucking spoke.

"She cannot," the ghost said in a voice that flowed like water.

Annabelle stared.

"You speak?" Obviously. Taylor was in no condition to consciously direct a projection, but unconscious power use was just this thing with the girl to the point of having a power warning in her file. No one batted an eyelash when the projection didn't disappear when Taylor lost consciousness, but obviously they damn well should of.

She cast about for the unlikely scenario, because unlikely was the name of Taylor Hebert's game. "Are you independent?"

A beat of silence. "Yes."

"Sorry," her mouth said automatically. "It's been a long day so I'm kind of...slow." Another blink-and-miss tug of the ghost's mouth. "You're independent. Great." That was another five pages of paperwork, minimum. "So are you just hanging out or -"

The room twisted.

The shadows darkened and moved, forming monstrous silhouettes tearing into each other, crawling over each other, biting, scratching, clawing towards the bed.

They couldn't reach it.

The walls were see through. The windows were unbroken and shattered. The dim light of the shining oval in Taylor Hebert's chest was a steady pulse. The heart beat monitor beeped quietly as reality stopped making sense.

Before she could open her mouth to scream, normalcy reasserted itself. The shadows stopped moving. The windows were broken, letting in the cold winter air as the curtains softly flapped in the breeze. A headache battered its way to the forefront of her consciousness as her stomach flipped upside down and threatened to rebel.

"What the fuck -"

"Protecting," the ghost said as if nothing had happened.

Annabelle had a hard time focusing on it through the headache.

"Protecting her?" She managed to croak.

This time the tug at the corner of its mouth became a small, indulgent smile.

"Protecting you."

The chill that went down her spine then was more than ice. It was liquid lightning, jumping out from her spine to burn a numbing path to her fingers and toes. Her knees buckled and she half fell back into her chair.

When had she gotten up?

The heart monitor beeped from its corner.

"I - " Her voice broke. "I am...going to get coffee."

The ghost inclined its head, acknowledging.

Annabelle fled.


The coffee machine was a sleek stainless steel and plastic behemoth with a counter all to itself as it burbled away, brewing. The opposite side of the little nook had about twelve different roasts and four different kinds of hot chocolate along with vacuum sealed cups of cream, sugar and cheap little white spoons. Plastic mugs, the kind that had fold-out handles were stacked beside a modest cereal bar rack. Some pencil pusher somewhere had decided to splurge the hospital budget for the sake of their souls and Annabelle loved them for it.

The chill didn't go away with the first testing sip or two creams and a half packet of sugar, nor the third, but it was still soothing. It was something about the act of drinking coffee. It was about doing something so mundane it couldn't be anything but real.

'I didn't sign up for this shit,' Annabelle thought. Then she closed her eyes and groaned. 'I totally did though.'

"Hey, can I get a mug of that?" Something white and red moved in her peripheral vision.

"Sure." She was moving before she managed to get a clear glimpse of her new 'neighbor'. "Oh."

Panacea gave a little wave. "Yeah. Hi."

"Hi," Annabelle let out in a rush of breath. "I thought - you weren't due until tomorrow?"

Amy Dallon's eyebrows shot up. "For who?"

"I mean - " Annabelle floundered for a moment, thrown even as she berated herself for it. Taylor Hebert had been far from the only cape at New Delhi. Far from the only one hurt, probably not even the only one hurt as badly.

'She's my kid though.'

That's what made the difference.

"For Taylor?"

Panacea's mouth twisted briefly as her brown eyes flashed up to meet hers. "Is that what they told you?"

Alarm bells softly began to chime inside her head.

"I'm a handler," Annabelle said self-deprecatingly. "I fill out paperwork and make calls, mostly. A grunt. They don't tell me shit, really." She tried to smile, but she wasn't sure if it came out how it was supposed to. "It's okay, I probably got the details wrong." She didn't. She remembered the phone call, but if there was anything she'd learned over the years it was that being right meant fuck all sometimes. "It's been a long twenty four hours, for everyone."

Amy grabbed the mug as soon as it was full and turned to the other counter. The lack of a response rung in the air as Amy ripped open a packet of sugar and dumped it in. Annabelle held her tongue. It had been a long twenty four hours. Some people dealt with being tired, some people didn't and all you could do was figure out which was which and stay out of the way.

One packet of cream went in next along with a half packet of swiss hot chocolate. Amy stirred.

"I'm not healing her."

A thousand different responses leapt in her mind to Taylor's defense, not the least of which was the screaming why not?

She knew better though. Years as a social worker taught her a lot about confrontations. Years of legalities drilled into her head as a PRT representative meant she had a good idea of when and where to confront. It tended to piss people off if you confronted them on stuff, especially if they were being stupid.

"Okay," Annabelle replied.

"Okay?" Amy repeated. She stopped mid sip and turned, setting the cup down hard on the counter. "Okay. Aren't you supposed to be some kind of advocate?" The girl sneered. "What kind of handler are you?"

"Hers," Annabelle said. "Not yours."

Something ugly flitted across Amy's face then, but she couldn't say exactly what it was.

"But you'd want me to, right?" Amy nearly cajoled. "Heal her?"

"Sure," Annabelle shrugged, eyeing Panacea carefully. "Depends on why not though."

If it was just to make some kind of twisted statement on who deserved to be healed and who didn't, then Annabelle didn't know what she would think. Nothing flattering. It would be the kind of spite she would expect from anyone else though, almost literally anyone else, but she supposed that was unreasonable of her. No matter her powers, Amy Dallon was still a seventeen year old girl.

Their little nook gained another visitor before Amy could answer. A slightly above average height blonde woman in comfortable sweats and an expensive phone to her ear. With only one hand free, she still expertly poured the last of the kettle after a discerning sniff and crowded the other counter top to grab a cranberry cereal bar.

"I beg your pardon?" Carol Dallon spat into the phone trapped between her ear and her shoulder. The wrapper of the cereal bar crinkled in her hands.

The answering voice was small and tinny but Annabelle could just barely hear it.

"This is considered a matter of national security, ma'am. We are fully prepared to ask a judge if we need to - "

"Which you do," Brandish snapped back. "And it will be TRO'd so fast your ass will fucking skip." Amy's eyebrows flew up into her hairline and Annabelle was sure hers weren't the only ones. "The For Citizens Act does not grant anyone the right to compel service. We got rid of slavery years ago."

Whatever the other person on the line had to say, it must not have been very impressive judging by the look of distaste on Carol Dallon's face.

"Let me make this clear, Amy will not be healing anyone without her and my express permission. And you will not be calling me again without a search warrant or a subpoena."

And with that, she hung up. Dallon tore into the cereal bar packet with her teeth and took a rage filled bite of cranberry and nuts.

"Who the hell was that?" Amy asked, seemingly absorbed in stirring more hot chocolate into her coffee.

"PRT, Los Angeles," her adoptive mother said shortly. She was looking up into the far corner, chewing furiously, brows still furrowed in irritation. Her daughter stood beside her, but apart, facing the opposite direction with hunched shoulders and distant look in her eyes as she absently stirred. Carol Dallon was striking both in and out of costume. It didn't matter if she was in a business suit or sweat pants, her back was straight and almost vibrated with tension.

The two painted a picture Annabelle had seen before. Before the PRT, when she was a social worker in Boston during family sessions. She wasn't a licensed therapist, who's job had been to fix issues, but rather to identify potential ones. To find the broken or strained links.

Brandish's body language asked for no comfort, from anyone, and Amy's said that she had none to give. Was she seeing things? She was probably seeing things. It was beyond late. The most rational explanation was that both of them were introverted people, unused to or unwilling to reach out to others.

She returned her attention to her own cooling cup of coffee.

Carol Dallon sighed almost explosively. "How often are you up this late?"

Amy shrugged a shoulder.

"Amy."

It was the teenager's turn to sigh, glancing around for a clock before giving up and fishing out a phone from beneath the voluminous robes of her costume.

"Three out of seven?" Amy hazarded a guess and Annabelle took her next sip a bit too quickly. Three out of seven days? It was six in the morning.

Carol turned. It was a partial, aborted movement like half of her wanted to confront and the other half was shying away.

"That stops," was all the woman said and Annabelle couldn't bite her tongue fast enough to stop the idle

"Insomnia?" from slipping out.

Because if it was some kind of sleeping disorder or anxiety disorder you couldn't just order it to stop. It was the equivalent of asking a chronically ill person if they had just tried not being sick. It did not work that way, and insisting otherwise could easily cross the line to being actively harmful.

Amy's face blanched white, then flushed red. "I just can't, sometimes."

Carol opened her mouth, but after glancing around the little nook seemed to visibly rethink what she had been about to say. "Dr. Bouras says you visit. To heal?"

"Yeah," came out of Amy hesitantly.

"I don't want you healing while tired." Carol said and immediately held up a hand to forstall argument. "I don't want you healing while tired," she repeated. "I don't want you getting used to healing while tired and I don't want you to feel like you have to heal, even when tired."

"I'm not going to make a mistake," Amy said.

Carol's blue eyes flickered. That had scored a hit somewhere.

"That's not the point."

"That's the only point."

"Amy, it's association," the woman pointed out. "If you make a habit of studying while tired, you are going to associate studying with being tired. I don't want you feeling like you are doing a late night session healing all the time."

That drew Panacea up short. "Oh."

A sardonic twist came onto Carol's lips. "I am going to ask again, how often are you up late?"

Amy's gaze found the ground. She didn't answer.

Carol breathed in through her nose like a bull, nostrils flaring.

"I see." Carol said flatly. Her eyes cut across and Annabelle found herself clutching her cooled coffee cup to her chest when Brandish looked over her. "Handler?"

"For Farseer," Annabelle confirmed. "I've been informed that treatment from New Wave has been - " she searched for the word - shitcanned- and then searched again for the diplomatic one. "Postponed until further notice?"

Amy was stirring again.

The tactile, repetitive behavior struck Annabelle as odd. How much stirring did the coffee need? It wasn't until Amy took a sip that she could see why.

Amy Dallon's hands were shaking.

"That is correct," Carol was saying. It was delivered dispassionately, a bland voice for a bland delivery. "It is nothing personal."

But it was personal. For the girl lying in a hospital bed covered in electrical burns with burned out twin ashtrays for eyes, it could not be any more personal. Some of her thoughts must have shown on her face, because Carol Dallon shifted with slight unease.

"It's complicated," she offered.

It's complicated.

"It's complicated," Annabelle repeated. She drained the last of her coffee and tossed the cup into the half-full garbage can. "Explain it to me. Bad power interaction?"

"I can't," Amy whispered. And then again, louder. "I can't." The next words seemed to burst from her chest. "I can't stop seeing it! Her organs, her cells, her blood, her DNA! And it doesn't - I can - I can almost see it. The missing piece."

Her hands trembled.

"I keep thinking that all I need is another glimpse and I'll solve the puzzle. I just need to touch her." Her eyes tracked unerringly towards Taylor's room.

Carol stepped in her line of sight. "Which you won't."

Amy shook herself and tossed the half finished cup of coffee away. "I won't. It won't be - I mean, I can't fully see what I would be doing anyway. There's like, a quarter of her DNA missing. I might fuck it up and then where would we be?" Amy said with dark humour. "She's better off with someone else, or shit, she's a Trump." Amy waved a dismissive hand. "She can figure it out."

"She unconscious," Annabelle pointed out and was rewarded with a nasty little smirk.

"Since when has that ever stopped her?"


I bit back the scream as the feedback tore my left pinky finger right off my hand in a shower of purple sparks and bright red blood. Iyanden caught the severed digit with one hand and my flailing arm with the other. The pain numbed immediately, letting me swallow the scream down to join the rest festering in my stomach.

He held my hand gently as he worked on reattaching it and I watched him. I tried to feel what he was doing. I tried not to feel like a failure.

It was a mixed success.

Iyanden had his pale hair pulled back in a high ponytail that just highlighted the sharp planes of his thin face. His plain scholarly looking robes were splattered with my blood and singed in a few places from misfires. I don't really know if that was his name, but it was what the others called him. He didn't seem to mind when I called him that, so Iyanden it was.

Learning well, he sung.

"No, I'm not," I said.

His right ear flicked back and forth in an expression I was beginning to think was amusement. The barely there smile he flashed just reinforced that interpretation. Maybe he was mocking me. Maybe he found it genuinely funny. Maybe it was both.

Only finger, not hand, he pointed out. At my dubious expression, his ear flicked again. Quit?

I flexed my hands. I was still missing my right pinky and about half of my toes. My eyes. I was a goddamn mess kept together by willpower and something. They said I could fix it. That I could heal myself. And the Eldar seemed so sure, I could not help believing them. I wanted to learn how to do it. I needed to learn how. And really, what was a little dismemberment now compared to being a match for Panacea later?

Ynnashar?

"No," I said and steeled myself for more pain. I asked what that meant once. What they called me now. Ynnashar. It probably meant slug or something. They wouldn't say. "I'm not quitting."

I reached out to the ocean.

And it was hungry.