I came peacefully.

I wanted to run, I really did. But this was a trained, skilled Protectorate hero, and I'd only beaten Rakshasa out of dumb luck. Incarnate would have no problems catching up with me if I ran, and if I fought she'd incinerate every bug I sent at her. I had my own opinion on whether I'd actually committed a crime already, but I knew resisting arrest would only make things worse.

As for talking, I knew the face of an authority who'd already made her own conclusions. Nothing I'd say would change her mind.

My thoughts were dark as I was cuffed and loaded into the back of a PRT van. Part of me hoped I could clear up the misunderstanding, that I'd get points for coming in without making a fuss, but the more realistic part of me knew there was no point. I'd gone through the same charade a dozen times at school. Why bother hoping for something different?

The adrenaline had worn off, fully exposing me to the pain of all the injuries I'd accumulated from my night out. An ache in my left shoulder from where Zhang had punched me, which wasn't helped by having my arms forced behind my back, bruised ribs from Rakshasa's spear, and my wrists were beginning to chafe from the unyielding metal of the handcuffs. Worse than all of that, though, was the exhaustion. What time was it? One A.M.? Two? And yet it felt like I hadn't slept in days. Even if I hadn't gotten arrested, Dad would have to be blind not to realize that something was wrong.

The van rattled to a stop, and I was not-too-gently unloaded from the truck. A quick look around the parking lot revealed that Incarnate was nowhere to be seen - had she gone with Rakshasa? Wasn't she supposed to read me my rights? - before I was shoved inside the building. The hallways were empty save for the odd PRT agent, given the hour, and it was a small mercy that I wouldn't have to be paraded in front of the gawking public. I was marched through the silent white halls, down an elevator, and into a holding cell. They took me inside, uncuffed me, and then I was alone.

A holding cell, not an interrogation room. There was a cot in one corner, a nasty-looking toilet in the other, which smelled as bad as it looked. No toilet paper, either. I wandered up and down the cell a few times, looking for anything I might have missed though there was clearly nothing interesting to be found. No windows. No lightswitch. Nothing hidden under the bed. Nothing to distract me from my own thoughts. With a sigh, I finally laid down on the cot, breathing through my mouth to avoid the smell and staring at the bright fluorescent lights on the ceiling, and wondered how I could possibly fall asleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, their faces flashed before me: Zhang, his nameless friend, the red-and-white fox mask of their murderer. Alive one minute and dead the next, for the high crime of getting a little too drunk at the wrong place and the wrong time. Dead because I'd wanted to get a gun and a handful of gangbangers off the street. Dead because Rakshasa wanted to be better safe than sorry.

I dozed fitfully. The mattress was little better than the floor, and every time I managed to drift off a little bit I was awoken by nightmares of blood and foxes and guns and dead men, and somewhere in the middle of all that I realized I couldn't even remember which of the two was Zhang. There was no clock, no other way to measure the passage of time under the unchanging fluorescent lights, but however much sleep I got, it wasn't enough.

By the time a PRT agent came to check in on me a few hours later, I wasn't in much of a state to verbally defend myself, but at the very least I had a plan. When the heavy door finally clanked open - morning, probably - I immediately stood and declared, "I'm a minor, I'm not saying anything until I have my dad and a lawyer."

Actually giving them my dad's number was one of the hardest things I'd done in my life, but it wasn't like I had much choice in the matter. If I said nothing they'd unmask me, and then he'd know just the same.

Another period of dozing later and the door to my cell opened again. My dad rushed in, only to stop when he got a good look at me. I knew what he was seeing: the bug mask, my brown and black costume, my hunched, defeated posture.

I could see him drawing conclusions in his head, and I took off my mask. "Hi, Dad," I said weakly.

"They told me you're a villain, Taylor," his eyes searched my face, looking for some marker of innocence. "They said you killed two people last night."

"What?!" I exploded. "They're trying to pin those on me? That was Rakshasa!"

Dad blanched. "What in God's name were you doing anywhere near her?"

This was absolutely not the way I wanted Dad to find out I had superpowers. I averted my eyes and bit my lip, trying to find the best way to explain. Instead of an elaborate tale of my heroics, what I gave was a somewhat awkward summary of my attempt at heroism and the disaster that followed. The ABB kids, how one of them got help, Rakshasa's arrival, the case of mistaken identity, and the fight. Then of Incarnate's appearance, and the second misunderstanding. As I spoke, I could see his building anger, as my dad became really quiet and really still, the way he does when he's trying to hold it back until he can explode at the right people.

"As for Rakshasa, I wasn't trying to kill her," I replied at last, aware of how bad that sentence sounded. "She thought I was someone else, I thought she was going to kill me, I didn't know she was allergic to bees, and before I could get to her with the Epipen, Incarnate was there."

I took a quick breath, and continued before my dad could get a word in. "But I'm not a villain, it was my first night out, I hadn't even picked a name!"

"They're calling you Swarm," he spoke slowly, probably still trying to process everything.

"Incarnate came up with it while she was arresting me." I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice.

Dad dropped down to sit on the cot, lifting a hand to rub at a headache. "I guess it's too much to ask for a cape to do their job right considering the state of this city."

"I'll say," I muttered.

"Have they interrogated you?"

I shook my head. "No, nothing. They stuck me in here for the night, and before they could do anything this morning I told them to call you."

He stood up again, pacing as he thought aloud. "I bet we can get Alan to take on your case. Or he could connect us to someone at his firm if this is too far out of his area. And if they want an arm and a leg for it, then an arm and a leg is what they'll get. I swear, Taylor, I won't let them take you."

He pulled me into a tight hug, which I responded to just as fiercely. For the first time since Mom died, I had a real dad again. I had someone on my side.

"But after you're out of here, we will be discussing the consequences for sneaking out to fight crime."

Well. Mostly on my side.

After our reunion, two stony-faced PRT agents came to bring me from my holding cell to the director's office. The elevator stopped halfway up the building, and we were joined by Armsmaster, who kept one eye on me and one hand on his halberd.

Finally, we reached the top floor. Director Emily Piggot, Parahuman Response Team ENE, read the silver plaque on her door.

Armsmaster knocked once, then opened the door.

I could tell by the first glance that the Director would not be a pleasant woman. The room was sparse - no photographs or personal memorabilia or even a houseplant to warm up the room. There were two wooden chairs facing her desk, which would put us lower than her when we sat. Typical power plays.

The Director herself was an obese woman with bleached blonde hair and a hawk's gaze, looking at us from behind steepled fingers.

Armsmaster moved to the corner of the room and the PRT agents departed as Dad and I sat down in front of her desk.

"Let me handle this, Taylor," murmured my dad. "Just follow my lead, and don't say anything unless one of us addresses you directly."

I nodded. This was negotiations; hopefully, he'd be in his element here.

"Mr. Hebert, Ms. Hebert," Director Piggot acknowledged us.

"Director," my dad replied in kind.

"I'll get straight to the point: I understand that you'd like to keep your daughter out of juvenile detention. A jury trial would be time-consuming and expensive, so I believe it would to both of our benefit if we could settle this matter outside of court," she said. "The alternative is a lengthy and expensive criminal trial, where your daughter, if found guilty, would face one to three years in juvenile detention at a minimum."

"I think we skipped a very important point," Dad retorted. "That your hero arrested my daughter after falsely attributing the crimes of a major villain to her."

"It's not my place to decide who killed those men without considering all of the necessary evidence," Piggot replied neutrally, but in the background Armsmaster couldn't quite conceal a wince. Dad must have seen it too, based on how the corners of his lips crept upwards.

"Setting those two aside for now-" continued the Director, and I counted that as one victory, "-her powers nearly killed Rakshasa, and would have done so if Panacea had not been at the hospital to reverse the late-stage anaphylactic shock."

"She's a first-time offender, it was clearly self-defense, and the woman that she did harm was a major villain, never mind that Taylor was attempting to provide aid when Incarnate arrived. I seriously doubt a jury would convict her for that."

If it did turn into a jury trial, unmasking and all, we could probably wave goodbye to any chance of Mr. Barnes defending me in court once Emma caught wind of it. I could just imagine Emma gleefully testifying about how I was a liar and a delinquent in school, so it was no wonder I turned villain. I felt sick even thinking about it.

"Normally, a measure of forgiveness is provided for unintentional harm to others during a trigger event and shortly afterwards. Given the quality of her costume, I find it extremely unlikely that your daughter triggered within the past seven days. We've pinpointed two likely trigger events: 2008, and this January. When did you trigger, Ms. Hebert?" Director Piggot turned her hawklike gaze to me.

"January," I answered quietly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Armsmaster nod at the director.

"Then given the circumstances, this offer is lenient, Mr. Hebert. Your daughter nearly killed someone last night - if not for the intervention of Panacea, she would have succeeded. The Wards program is about teaching young parahumans to use their powers responsibly, something your daughter has proven herself unable to do on her own."

I glared at the Director, and the silent sentinel of Armsmaster behind her, who was guilty by association. What was I supposed to do, lay down and die?

"If you did choose to sign up, the information would not be made public. As far as the media would be concerned, you are a recently-triggered parahuman who decided to join the Wards."

But Dad wasn't going to play ball.

"Out of the question," he replied instantly, before I could jump up and voice my own objections about being forced to work with the cape who had me arrested for no reason.

Piggot continued, undaunted. "-Another option is the Protectorate Affiliates program, utilized by New Wave, which gives registered heroes access to Protectorate and PRT resources, including joint patrols and a direct hotline to our console, which would help to prevent any more unfortunate misunderstandings."

Dad nodded slowly. "We'll consider it."


Just getting this up to date with the Spacebattles version. I'll spare any followers here the excuses about not writing, because the real answer is I'm just bad at actually putting words on a page.