Glassmaker

by JellyfishBlues

Taylor eats things she shouldn't and then makes money, and in between eating things and making money, Taylor mends some bridges. Taylor/Lisa

(1)

Even much later, after months had passed, Taylor would be unable to explain what possessed her into taking that first bite.

There she was, fresh from hell; half-delirious, half-manic, smattered in foul smelling blood from shoe to throat. She'd fallen on all fours. Her locker door, that big green slab was beneath her. But the green paint, the undercoating, the graffiti and smears of crusted blood, it had all burned and gone. The sturdy sheet of iron that was left spread beneath her hissing waves of cherry red and gold. The linoleum around her shattered. The molten iron roiled and belched. Behind her, her locker sagged into itself, the wall behind it coughing thick black smoke and flames.

Taylor fell back onto her haunches. Around her, the corridor smoldered. The fires climbed. Moments later alarms blared to life over the intercom.

It was nighttime now. Taylor curled up on her bed, her back to the headboard. A fingernail moon was out, the stars were up, every light in the house was off, in hers and beside hers and across the street, and she sat in that perfect dark, a spoon cupped in her hands. She took a breath.

The spoon collapsed. A puddle of red-gold light bloomed in her palms, pleasantly cool to the touch. By that light Taylor saw her hands, her knees, her feet, the foot of her bed. Beyond that, the suggestion of a dresser, the back of a chair, a cluttered desk, and finally the far window with her own reflection in it. Taylor bit her lip. What a ghastly underlit face it was…

Taylor turned away from her reflection and watched the molten steel, for minutes or maybe hours. If she looked close enough she could almost see herself in it. But this reflection was different. Warmer. Flattering somehow. She gently blew on it and watched the surface ripple with strange viscosity. She wondered what would taste like. Salt and pennies? Would it be warm? Too hot? Soft? Smooth or grainy?

Taylor lifted her hands to her lips. The sensation that flooded her mouth was – like taffy, the inviting way that her mouth began to water and the steel played against her tongue. The flavor was unlike anything she'd ever experienced, salty, chalky, earthy, sharp and cold and smooth and-

Gulp

. . . . .

They were calling it arson. Talking about charges and 'we'll do this when we find whoever did that.' Standard affair for anything that happened in Winslow - Wile E. Coyote came in and painted the illusion of concern over a tarp. More likely than not nothing would come of it. Still the chance remained - it wasn't like they couldn't figure out who – It was her locker.

Taylor probably should have been concerned. But she hadn't been to school in days, closed for repairs as it was, and the weekend was just ahead. School seemed like a different world. Different from her own, separate and distinct, and that was the world with problems, not hers. She felt no guilt or stress, no pressing urges to confess or run. She had begun to think like that more, lately.

Time passed simply for her. Taylor slept at night. She rose in the morning. Her father seemed conflicted, but when they talked at those breakfasts and dinners, she was smiling, and so for the moment he asked no questions. Those first days Taylor roamed the house, sampling the odds and ends that wouldn't be missed.

Cluttery things like wood or plastic were awful. Just awful. Blegh.

Metal was thoughtful. like chocolate and black coffee. Not bad. Not great. Filling. Missing something.

Oh, but glass. Glass was sweet. Like cotton candy and hugs and good dreams and lazy Sunday mornings. It chewed and stretched like soft taffy, and in the right light the sun would catch and spin inside it, caught fast. Taylor could watch it gleam for hours, coaxing it into shapes in her palm. If she could resist the urge to eat it. She rarely could.

Gulp

. . . . .

She hadn't gone to school Monday, shit was missing, and honestly her excuses were getting worse. Her dad could only pretend to believe her for so long.

Barging in that evening saying, "Taylor did you – augh wow your room is an oven!"

"I'm cookin' up dreams, dad."

But could he blame her? If he knew how it felt – the soft satisfaction dripping down her throat like velvet.

Tuesday over breakfast asking, "Taylor what happened to the bathroom mirror?"

"Oh it uh – broke. I'm fine I just was, I – I took it to the dump – took it to dumped… I dumped it on a corner. Somewhere else. So you wouldn't… cut yourself on it."

It was harder to feel guilty. Maybe if she tried, if she really tried. But her head was swimming most times. Soothingly warm and easygoing, so unconcerned with her own public standing it was as though she was dreaming.

Wednesday afternoon looking two shades concerned. "Taylor what happened to the microwave?"

"That's a good question father I'd better go investigate."

Was she eating enough? She hadn't had much actual food in what seemed like days. Was that alright? She felt alright. Better than alright. Warm and tingly, every second of every day.

Thursday morning waiting for her. "Taylor, what happened to t – "

"Bye dad!"

But her happiness could only counteract mandatory schooling and 'everything being fucking broken' for so long. Judging by the face he'd made when she ran out the door, that length was nine days. So she'd been getting more impulsive, so what? You know what else was impulsive? Like. Tigers or something. And they totally had their shit together.

The point was, she had to stop eating her house.

It was with this in mind and not much else that Taylor found herself prowling around the skeleton of Brockton Bay's shipping industry.

Huge abandoned warehouses, stacks of tanker-sized shipping crates, crunchy gravel-sprinkled tarmac, dandelions and thistles, mosquitoes and cicadas, and in those rare instances where she had an unobstructed view of the bay she could see undulating waves of masts and rusted hulls, a second ocean just above the first.

There was no route. She went whichever way looked the least sketchy. But it was night in Brockton Bay's docks so that was an exercise in futility. No one seemed to be out, except her, which was strange but welcome, and she decided not to question it.

Taylor tried brick. It was a complicated taste, like running your paper cup through the whole soda bar. In this metaphor this included the iced tea, a classic novice mistake. The taste didn't want to leave her mouth. Taylor flossed the brick remnants with her tongue and spat the glob of molten rock at a puddle, then squawked and ran away giggling because holy goddamn shit ass was it loud.

But those industrial size glass panes! Wowzers. Taylor took a chunk from a warehouse she was nearly almost maybe positive was abandoned and nibbled as she wandered, the glass liquefying around her teeth as she bit down.

As she ate, and ate, and ate some more, completely lost to hedonism, her head seemed to blow up, feeling heavy and fuzzy, and her chest began to tingle, hot flashes coursing down her, leaving her flushed and stumbling.

Taylor giggled.

Things went downhill, or perhaps uphill from there. She felt hot. Unseasonably hot, and thirsty and hungry. She roamed the docks as a belligerent drunk: kicking bottles, cackling, spitting glass at mosquitoes, all those things that drunks do. She left an imprint of her face melted into the side of a warehouse. Every impulsive and intrusive thought was fully realized. But as the night went on the veneer began to peel away.

Was it day? Night? It was harder to think. Her internal monologue got quieter and quieter, and now it didn't seem to be there at all, and she was simply… simply was. This was not entirely unwelcome. The complications, and aches and worries all peeled back, and it was only her, just her. No Emma. No dad.

Cackling.

Spitting.

Skipping.

Tilting?

Swaying…

The day-night spun and swirled. Was that the sun coming up? Stars burst behind her eyes, her ears rang and ached, every sound seeming to come from right beside her, and as she stumbled to her knees it seemed as though she were in a hurricane, a calamitous racket of crashes and gasps, battering at her sides.

She saw her own hands on pavement, fingers splayed and bloodied from where they'd split on something sharp. But that wasn't quite blood, was it? It looked like a demented oil slick; coils of glimmering red and silver and orange. It smoked as it spread on the pavement.

Taylor's mind surged in like pounding headache, hissing forwards, and for a brief moment filling her head to burst, searing hot and cold and terribly loud. She wanted to scream. She tried to scream.

Why the hell did I come out here

What is happening to me

What did I

Why did I

Am I dying

I'm scared

I'm sorry

I don't want to die

I-

Something grabbed her and yanked and she was flying back, through twisting lines and swirling fractals, hands and legs and eyes and alien things; senseless pulsing flesh laid out in mountains and valleys. It pulled her under, smothering her. She gasped and it flooded her mouth, wiggling, clawing down her throat.

Taylor blinked. She was on her hands and knees. She was warm, but the night was deliciously cool. She was alive, still. Not dead. That was good. Not dead was good.

None of the frantic, heart pounding terrified thoughts from before had carried through. Instead that space between her ears was quiet. She could almost cry. That quiet…

She stood and wiped her hands on her pants. When she checked, she found that beneath that swirling, hissing blood lied smooth unmarred skin.

The time was - Taylor looked up - probably around two in the morning, going by the light. Taylor was tired. She should get home.

. . . . .

Danny was asleep on the couch. How he'd managed to sleep with that much worry on his face Taylor had no clue. Was it proper to wake him or to let him sleep? If he slept like that he'd wake up with a crick in his neck.

Taylor poked him good. Poke. "Dad."

Danny jerked awake with a grunt, rising unsteadily once his brain caught up.

Taylor hugged him. "Love you. Go to bed."

Danny contributed to the hug on autopilot, saying things and making sounds that a human might make at three in the morning, two seconds after waking up.

Taylor said, "Goodnight." She went to bed. Holy hell was it comfortable. "Wow," said Taylor, wrapped in fireplaces and clouds.

She was up again four hours later and no worse for wear. Danny was at the table when she entered the kitchen.

He said good morning.

Taylor said good morning.

She sat down. He'd made her fried eggs. They weren't bad, all things considered. And it was remarkably nice of him, given how tired he looked. Also considering that the little skillet had vanished Wednesday so he'd probably had to use the saucepan. Pretty pro, dad.

He asked how she was.

She said great.

He said good.

Clattering forks. Rustling paper.

He asked if she was going to school.

It was Friday, right? Yeah, sure. Why not.

She asked about his work.

He said things were chugging along. Like a very old, busted steam engine.

Taylor sighed contentedly.

The teapot whistled. He stood and filled an old French press.

He asked if there was anything she needed.

Taylor beamed. "I got all the stuff I need right here, pops." It was the truth. There was an all-she-could-eat buffet out there, near the water's edge. Also perhaps in the water. It was a two birds one stone situation if she could make it work.

He smiled. Some of the tension left his face.

Taylor washed her plate. "Have a good day at work." She stepped foot out the door.

"Taylor, backpack."

"Oh right. Thanks dad."

It was a complicated expression that saw her out.

. . . . .

The school was open again, fortunately. It'd have been a wasted bus trip otherwise. The metaphorical foot of Winslow was all tarps and char and smoke damage. The whole place smelled like burning, even from the edge of campus where Taylor walked.

She got to class.

People talked.

Taylor sat.

Bells rang.

Gladly said things.

Bells rang.

The day passed like that, a blur of sit talk ring bell sit ring bell talk, and then suddenly it was lunch.

Though in fairness it couldn't really be called lunch. Taylor envied Hollywood high schools, with their sneeze-panes and actual food variety. She loaded her tray with spaghetti and plastic forks.

Taylor found a seat at an empty table and prodded her meal, not really feeling the lunch vibe. Seriously, what was she supposed do to with plastic? Open a plastic store? Stupid. But actually smart, because this place having metal utensils? That would be stupid. As was opening a plastic store.

Shadows fell across the table. Taylor looked up. She recognized these people.

"What are you doing in here?" Emma asked. "You know pigs are supposed to eat outside, right?"

Insults aside, that was actually a good question. What was she doing at school? A favor to her father, but beyond that Taylor wasn't sure. She remembered dreams of English and teaching and having a little apartment to call home. But that was before, when Emma was with her, not against her. After that was always so nebulous, put in terms of stomach-this and turn-the-cheek that, outlive, outgrow. 'To where' never had an answer.

Emma said something horrible. Sophia sneered and was physically imposing, and yet also… slightly off. Was her heart not in it? It didn't look to be. Madison was there as well, being Madison.

Taylor knew she should react somehow, but she hadn't been listening. First due to introspection, second due to something about Emma's lip gloss and the way it just… gleamed as she talked.

"Well?" asked Emma, having kept on talking while Taylor tried to figure out what was going on.

"You've got pretty lips," Taylor said, honest and a shade fond. For a moment she drifted back, caught in nostalgia as Emma worked up a zinger. "Do you remember when we practiced kissing?"

Emma blanched. Sophia quirked an eyebrow. Madison drifted back a bit. "It doesn't even really feel that long ago. Three years, maybe?" She snorted. "Tongue. Like, you don't think it's going to be that loud right? But then here comes dad clomping up the stairs-"

Emma cut her off with a probably biting remark involving the word 'freak,' Taylor knew because she caught the sharp 'F' – Emma had this way of saying F's that had made her giggle nine times out of ten. Taylor bobbed her head to the side, full of sass and marmalade: "Fah-reaky. And really, what was he worried about? What did he expect to find? It was just us. Like he wouldn't have been happy for us were that the case, you know? You were already family."

Emma, the closest a human can come to being spiritually parried, made noises that didn't quite resolve into words but came appreciably close all the same.

Taylor looked at her. Really looked. Angry was a bad face on her. But this wasn't quite anger, not just. Anger wasn't supposed to burn that much. And anger didn't look like it was about to cry.

They'd drawn a crowd. A movie crowd; butts down feet up, awaiting entertainment. Taylor could understand. She knew how things like this were supposed to go. How they'd always gone. Madison was off in the wings, there in spirit if nothing else. Sophia hadn't moved, but she was resting on her heels now, away from the conversation.

Emma said something. Something pretty terrible, going by a nearby eavesdropper's scandalous gasp. Taylor didn't hear it. She was watching the lines play over Emma's face.

Taylor stood.

Emma stepped back. Then a glimmer of frustration flashed across her face and she took two steps forward, her jaw clenching to hide the tremors, something strange flashing in her eyes as she rounded the edge of the table and waited for Taylor there.

Taylor walked around the table. Now they stood face to face.

Emma said something more.

Taylor hugged her. In the two seconds that it lasted Taylor noticed how much taller she was now; Emma was nearly a full head shorter. Her hair smelled like strawberries. She was small, or maybe Taylor was long, the way her arms fit around Emma with room to spare. Taylor remembered getting pencil lines drawn on their doorway, Emma standing on her toes, nudging the tip of the pencil higher up with her head like they couldn't all see it.

Then Emma shoved her to the floor, snapping her from her daze. She looked furious. Tears beaded in the corners of her eyes.

Taylor propped herself up on her hands. Emma took her tray of untouched spaghetti and emptied it over. She said something, her lips still hypnotizing and gleaming, and then she stormed away, out of the cafeteria. Madison followed hot on her heels. Sophia lingered.

Taylor rose to her feet leisurely. Spaghetti and sauce slopped down her shirt. Sophia approached. When Taylor had gotten enough off to her satisfaction she glanced up and noticed Sophia there, waiting just inside her personal space.

"Do you want a hug too?"

Sophia's eyebrows rose. She shot a meaningful glance at the spaghetti sauces stains. "No thanks."

Taylor hummed. "Well." She looked down at herself. "I should probably go."

Sophia hummed. "See ya later, Hebert."

. . . . .

The weekend came and went. Monday afternoon found Taylor playing hooky.

She had been thinking about her future. What she really needed was money. It was all that anyone needed.

The house needed money, too. She could see the writing on the walls. More importantly, she could see the writing on their mail. Bills. So many bills. Now she understood why they didn't have phones; he couldn't afford them. She wanted to help.

Taylor had ideas of how her power could be used for profit. But she needed to investigate.

Firstly…

Sunday night, after Danny was off to bed, Taylor skulked around the docks again. This time she took her backpack. She filled it with slabs of glass and metal, a smorgasbord of clears and greys and rusted browns.

She also explored a great deal. Not for any grand reason, just the siren call of the inner child that delighted in finding new places, new caves and forts, and the adventure of it all. She melted her way into shipping crates. Opened big thundery warehouse doors. Drew a flower on a wall with her finger. She toyed with the idea of swimming out and poking around those dilapidated boats, but no, she'd save that for a full moon. And a swimsuit.

Secondly…

Monday afternoon Taylor went to the boardwalk. It was all beachfront and stalls and hot-dog vendors. The vibe was that of a giant vaguely-elitist farmers market. Probably the best place for her to sell odds and ends and not need to worry about permits or advertising. The light there was good, too. Clear in the morning, gold in the evening. Shimmery. The kind of light that would catch and spin.

"Excuse me," Taylor said. The T-shirt vendor turned. "Hi. Could you tell me if there are hoops I need to jump through to get a stall like yours?"

He smiled. "Well you'll need a table. And a beach umbrella, something to keep the sun off you."

"Okay," Taylor said, committing that to memory. "What else?"

"That's it."

Thirdly…

A cursory internet search revealed an unhelpful list of compounds that, when combined with molten glass, would produce colored glass. But… Cobalt? Gold? Uranium? Where was she supposed to get uranium?

A day passed in their garage, Taylor sitting cross-legged, kneading mixes of glass and random metals together. She found that combining the compounds by chewing them together made them significantly prettier. But also significantly more delicious. Such was the duality of man. Or something.

Honestly there were probably videos of the subject but it was more fun to just screw around and see what happened.

She tried her metal stash, she tried vitamins and metal-ey sounding supplements from around the house, she tried money, nickels and pennies. The glass spun with blues and violets and yellows, the colors keeping separate somehow instead of muddying together into brown or grey. No reds. She got a beautiful, fiery orange, but no reds. Another time, then.

By the end of the day she a modest selection of products. Amulets, paperweights, small vases. Boring but reliable, and they'd shine like no one's goddamned business.

Goddamn. Look at 'em go. Taylor ate a little glass bear. "Shit."

. . . . .

Tuesday morning found Taylor setting up her little folding table near the ass end of the boardwalk. The best spots were taken or too official looking for her to seem anything but a sham.

She found herself parked between that friendly T-shirt vendor from before and a struggling artist; the man sat in a wicker chair framed by wall dividers that were cluttered with frames and prints.

The first day was uneventful. A woman passing by summed up the situation, remarking, "Eh," as she shrugged and then carried on. Taylor empathized. She didn't look particularly legitimate, sitting at her no-shade table in a T-shirt and jeans.

Later that day came her only and most baffling sale.

An older woman picked up her heart pendant. At least it was probably the heart, it could also have been the bird. Her sculpting was a work in progress.

The woman held it to the light. She tapped it with her nail. She weighed it in her palm. She also sniffed it, Taylor was the least sure about what that was about. Finally she asked, "How much is this?"

Taylor said, "Two-fifty."

The woman handed her two hundreds and a fifty.

Taylor, having meant two dollars and fifty cents, said, "Um."

But the woman was gone. Taylor watched her fast-walk away, hurrying off into the distance like she'd stolen something. "Alright."

She closed shop and bought a proper half-tent and card stock.

Taylor set up shop again the following morning, feeling prim and proper beneath the shade of her half-tent.

Things sold slowly and without incident.

That afternoon a pretty blonde stopped by, all green eyes and freckles. She held a pendant to the light. "Oh wow. What is this?"

Taylor's eyes narrowed and she leaned forward in her chair. "A bird? Or – he might be a bear. My sculpting is a work in progress, sorry."

"Oh," she said. "That explains the wings? Or is it a heart? I meant what's it made of."

"Glass."

"Glass?"

Taylor nodded. It was glass, after all. Glass mixed with some metals she'd salvaged for color, but that was just how glass was colored. The internet told her so. And would the internet lie? Answer's no.

The blonde pursed her lips and then held up the birdbear. "And you make these yourself?"

Taylor nodded.

"Huh." She returned the bearbird to its natural habitat, looking over the rest of Taylor's table as she did. "I've never met a glassmith before. Neat. You must have some serious equipment to get this kind of quality. What's your setup?"

Taylor wouldn't know where to even begin with that lie. "Trade secret," she said. "Or whatever."

The blonde smiled unnervingly; sly and wily. The look suited her. "Well, I wouldn't know what you were talking about anyways. Just curious. Say, how old are you?"

"I'm 15."

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Yes."

She laughed. "Well what are you doing out here, then? Shouldn't you be off having fun? That's what skipping school's all about."

"This is fun," Taylor said. And it was. Those green eyes were ten shades of gorgeous, moreso when they flickered with I know something you don't.

The blonde's grin softened. "You really need the money, then?"

"It wouldn't hurt."

"Do you take commissions?"

"I don't see why not."

"Neat." Bottle green eyes glimmered as she smiled. "Cause. Much as I like Mr. Bearsy here-" she jostled the pendant look at that sucker gleam "-I'd like something or a more… birdy, flappy variety."

"I can do flappy birds," Taylor said. "That said it might come out more triangular than bird-ular."

"I find that risk acceptable. How much is this going to run me?"

Taylor shrugged. "Twenty bucks?"

Another angular smile. "Let's say fifty, and you need to work on your pricing."

"I do?"

"You do." Green eyes roved her table. "A shade amateurish, but endearing, and fantastic color." She gestured from left to right, jabbing a finger at each of her price tags in turn. "Twenty, forty, fifty, eighty."

Taylor, looking at the same objects and price tags as the girl was, asked, "Are you sure? That seems…"

"I'm sure – what was your name?"

"Taylor."

"Lisa. And yes, I'm sure. Even that's pretty modest, honestly."

Taylor looked over her dominion once more, in all its glimmering delicious glory. Were they really worth that much? The woman from the day before had seemed to think so. "Well. Thank you - for the advice, Lisa. I'll have your flappy bird by tomorrow morning, same place. Stop by and pick it up whenever."

Lisa grinned. "See you tomorrow then, champ."

Taylor watched her whisk off, bemused and charmed. She re-wrote her price tags.

And hour came and went. Taylor passed the time tracing the fractals of light dancing inside one of the vases near the edge of the table.

She sold three pendants, a paperweight and a vase. Among them, confused mister bird-bear. She almost didn't want to let him go – but there he went, jostling away around the neck of another woman. Taylor wouldn't have minded, but it didn't seem like the woman had even wanted him.

Taylor bit her lip. Goodbye, sweet birdbear. A flight of angels carry thee to thine box in her attic.

Finally, the day came to a close. A hundred-forty-five bittersweet dollars warmed her pocket as she packed and left.

. . . . .

One cramped bus ride home later Taylor lugged her shop upstairs to her room.

Another less-cramped bus ride later Taylor was wandering around her new haunt – the boat graveyard. The sun was almost gone, the air cooling down, the sky was dark blue and getting darker. She had the whole day left, it felt like.

The distant tide called her. Taylor puttered around on the concrete edges of the docks and yards, the bay on one side, the docks on the other, waking along concrete dividers like balance beams.

She lost a solid twenty minutes trying to pet a stray cat. It possessed the sort of demeanor that left it casually pattering ahead instead of running, moving faster when Taylor did, slower when she slowed – preserving a taunting separation between them. It was one tricky customer.

As she wandered Taylor filled her backpack with even more odds and ends.

It got dark soon enough. Very dark, actually. She forgot a flashlight yet again, and so walked by the light of a handful of steel.

It wasn't terrifically bright. It probably did more bad than good - keeping her eyes from adjusting properly. But the dim orange light it cast was so eerie and candle-y, this thin circle around her that quickly faded out in to blackness – it felt like walking down a spooky hallway; delicious. Taylor crouched and skulked around like she was in a horror film.

She poked around those shipping crates again – the giant ones that get stacked on super-tankers; twenty feet long, eight feet wide, nine feet tall. There was a pile of them next to a defunct warehouse, and Taylor climbed up the pile, politely knocking on the ones she passed to check for occupants before making her handholds and footholds. No one responded to her knocks – how they'd resisted the allure of these clubhouses-in-the-making Taylor would never understand.

She reached the one at the very tippy-top of the pile, two and a half stories up, and melted her way inside. It was largely empty. Some dust and debris cluttered the floor – Taylor swept it out with the sides of her shoes. To make the crate hers, she cut out a square out of the wall with her finger, replacing it with a cobbled together sheet of glass.

It was tough work getting the big glob of glass to play nice. Taylor discovered that she could sort of – move it, when it was melted. Make it wiggle and ooze, or not wiggle and not ooze. She gathered the mass into her hands, keeping it balled up, like a big jiggly water balloon. It was fiercely pretty, and she lost about two minutes playing with it and making bloob bloob noises with her mouth - arguably the most fun she'd had since that morning.

She made it flat next, straining some part of her she hadn't known existed beforehand. And then, suddenly, the crate had its first window; a crystal clear portal to the bay, the surface of the glass rippling and swirling in unintentional fractals. When Taylor lookout out through it, the sliver of moon caught in it, trapped in its web, and traced out sharp white lines and circles, as though it were filling a hollow carving with incandescent liquid. Taylor wondered how it would look in the sun.

It got late. More late. Taylor shouldered her score and headed home, nibbling at a stick of rebar as she walked.

It was a long trek though bad neighborhoods. Taylor thought she might get accosted. She was surprised it hadn't happened already, she was in Merchant territory after all. But no one stopped her. It was strange, really, but she decided not to worry about it.

Danny wasn't up waiting for her this time. Taylor was relieved. He worried too much.

She wasn't tired yet, and so snuck down into the basement, adding her haul of scrap and parts to a pile in a corner. Next she sat down against a filled-to-bursting gorilla rack. Taylor recalled an order for a flappy, birdy thing from earlier that day, and set to work.

. . . . .

"Wow," Lisa breathed. The blue bird twirled on the end of a string. In the afternoon glare it looked like it was on fire, the way sparks seemed to gather in the center and pop. "Who's gonna wear who, huh? Pretty."

Taylor said, "…Hm?" How hard she resisted the urge to eat the commission would be her little secret. Provided Lisa stopped lording it over her like that. "Do you like it?"

"Very much. Ah, and here you are, master glass-smith." Fifty dollars in crisp tens changed hands. Lisa set the pendant around her neck. It suited her, but she had the features to make anything look good. "How's it, then?" She struck a pose.

Taylor was salivating. "I – uh… Great." Them glimmery collarbones, yowza.

Lisa smiled, seeming inordinately pleased with herself. "You up for another commission?"

"'Course I am," said Taylor. "Anything for my favorite customer."

"I'm thinking something to put on a hair clip. A little flower, bout yay big." She spread her fingers an inch apart. "What do you think?"

Taylor could picture it on her already; a simple metal clip holding back a lock of hair. She could see the flower on it. Green for her eyes; simple and elegant. Taylor liked it. "I like it."

They squared away the details. Lisa left with a parting wave, but Taylor's smile refused to leave, even when the older woman from days prior appeared in the distance and started shooting her suspicious looks. Did she have something on her face? Taylor checked – just that goofy smile.

The woman approached, looking over her wares. "These are new," she remarked, looking over a few vases.

Taylor nodded. "Made them yesterday – er - last week. Whichever sounds the most reasonable." Smooth.

The woman made an even more suspicious face at her. "You make these yourself, then?"

"I do."

"By yourself."

"Yeah."

The woman nodded to herself. Her eyes went to one of her new vases, and then to the card stock with the price. "You've raised your prices."

"I uh –" Was that poor form? Taylor had no idea. "Yes?"

The woman picked up a vase. It was blue and green - the same way the water in the Philippines was blue and green. Warm and alive, somehow. "Eighty, for this?"

Taylor checked her memory. "Yeah."

The woman hummed. She fished a hundred dollar bill out of her purse. Taylor handed her a twenty. The exchange felt oddly tense and standoffish, and once it concluded the older woman seemed to hang there, unsure if she should leave.

"Thank you," Taylor said.

The woman cleared her throat and left.

Taylor shrugged.

The rest of the day came and went without issue. Two hundred and sixty dollars warmed her pocket as she packed up her shop and caught a bus home.

Her dad wasn't back yet, same as yesterday. Taylor tossed her shop into her room and her money into a sock in her dresser. Then she caught another bus to a worse part of town.

Her haunt had been waiting up for her. It was eight or nine-o-clock. Bright enough to see by, but only barely. Taylor passed that indecisive gloomy period brightening up her fort on the shipping crate pile.

She ferried up backpacks of sand from the bay, heaving her backpack onto to crate-roofs like a shot-put, taking it up one level at a time and dumping it out inside, until a reasonable mound occupied the far end of her crate.

Inside, she working by the dim light coming through the window, and the glow given by small bracelets of molten glass she kept wound around her wrist. She made handles on the sides of the crate, then used those handles to reach the roof of the crate, melting a five foot section out of the roof and replacing it with smooth glass.

It was a long, involved process. Taylor got a lot of practice coaxing oozing glass across the ceiling to spread out into the hole – from the inside it looked like the sky was being devoured by some kind of alien blob monster.

By the time she was done the moon was overhead, a slightly bigger sliver than yesterday. She could see it through her new skylight, it and the stars, both clearer than in town. The inside of her crate smelled like burning. Taylor left it open to air out when she left.

It was fiercely dark still. In the areas with no streetlights Taylor fished a length of rebar from her pack and made it into a glowing whip. It was intoxicatingly woobly, undulating this way and that way as she padded along, and she amused herself by helicoptering it around, snaking it along the ground, dazzling herself in the dark.

Her father wasn't up waiting for her, and Taylor took care to be extra sneaky when she got home. She spirited away to the basement, not tired at all, and eager to get to work on things for tomorrow.

Taylor upended her backpack full of sand near her pile of cluttery odds and ends. Most of of the sand, at least. Ten pounds or so she kept in reserve. What if she got hungry later? Forward thinking, all part of growing up.

She snagged a handful of sand from the pile and went to work. Lisa was owed a flower, wasn't she?

Hm…

Well with eyes like hers it would need to compliment them. Taylor had her artistic integrity.

That left green or red. She didn't have a way to get a hold of gold ingot to make red. She'd hoped to find some on circuit boards and the like, but found exactly zero of any sort, for whatever reason. So the flower would have to be green.

Taylor bit off a mouth full of glass, then took a nibble out of a chrome-finished engine part, one she'd "salvaged" from a seductively shiny motorcycle.

Chew.

Chew.

Chew.

Bleuh. She drooled it into her hands. It was a pleasantly sharp emerald, leaning more towards light than dark. Well, actually it was cherry red with heat, but Taylor could tell. Good color. She flattened the blob into a small disk in her palm, and as she narrowed her focus the surface rippled like a Ferrofluid, blossoming up and blooming.

She called back the heat, and cherry red turned to glittering emerald. It was a simple daisy. Ovular petals sprouting out of a round bud; an inch across.

. . . . .

Taylor saw Lisa coming from ten seconds out, the girl looking fetching in a pretty blue sundress. So she'd been keeping an eye out, so what?

"Taylor!" Lisa called, tossing out a wave that Taylor enthusiastically returned. "Good to see you. How've you been?"

"Been great," Taylor said, beaming. "You?"

"Oh I get by," Lisa returned. "Well. The ceremonial pleasantries have been exchanged. Is it done? Is it? I'm excited. Can I see it?"

Taylor reached down into her bag beneath the table, hidden by the tablecloth on the front and both sides. She pulled out the flower.

Lisa let out a soft gasp, then fetched a simple metal clip from her pocket and handed it over. "I don't suppose you can attach it here?"

"I was planning on it." Taylor bent over and performed her magic beneath the table, pretending to be rummaging through her bag and using strange tools. She probably wasn't fooling anyone, and had the sneaking suspicion that Lisa could tell – going by the knowing smirk spread across her face. Taylor's work done, she handed Lisa the clip.

Lisa clipped a section of her bangs and smiled winningly, striking a pose. "How's it, then?"

"You look like summer." Like a summer spirit. Gold and green in a swirling blue dress. All she needed was a field of wheat behind her.

Lisa chuckled warmly. "Sweetheart. Here you are."

A crisp hundred dollar bill changed hands. Taylor frowned and tried to hand it back. "I can't-"

As Taylor's deliberations began Lisa grabbed a vase from the table, held it over the tarmac, and dropped it. Taylor winced in anticipation of the crash.

The vase hit the tarmac with thud, like she'd dropped a mallet. It didn't bounce or roll around. Just thump, the corner of the base hit the ground, a small spray of dusted tarmac heralding the landing. Then clunk, it fell on its side. Taylor's noise of alarm tangled in her throat at the anticlimactic ending.

Lisa put the vase back where it belonged, leaning over and whispering as she did, "Glass doesn't hurt the ground when you drop it, Taylor."

"… Ah." Speaking of, glass probably didn't glow like hers did either. For a moment she felt something like worry, the closest she'd come to it since that first night on the docks.

Lisa smiled easily, still leaning over the table, and the worry was gone, poof. How could Taylor worry with bottle green eyes gleaming like that? "So you can. Believe me, you can. You're trying to make money, aren't you?"

Taylor nodded.

"I've been where you are. You can do better." Lisa handed her a card. "Call me."

Lisa left with a wave. Taylor looked over the card. On the front was a phone number. On the back was a doodle of a flower. The petals were dollar signs. The middle was a smiley face. Taylor put it in her pocket, careful to keep it from bending or creasing.

An hour or so passed in silence. Then a woman walked over, dark haired and olive skinned. Around her neck – Taylor saw and almost gasped – birdbear?!

"Hey," the woman said, a smile blooming across her face as she took in Taylor's expression, and her stall. " I think you sold this-" here she jostled the necklace, birdbear sparked, "-to a friend of mine a few days ago?"

"I did," Taylor said.

"Good, good. I um." She cast a nervous glance around and then leaned in a bit. "Can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Uh, sure?"

The woman leaned closer still. When she spoke Taylor could see pearly white, perfect teeth peeking out from behind her lips. "I have another friend, and he took a look at – oh, I meant to ask to, what is he?"

"He is a birdbear, miss."

Another smile, and a chuckle. "Well, a friend of mine happened to take a look at Mr. birdbear, and noticed that he wasn't exactly… Normal?"

"...Okay?"

The woman pursed her lips and leaned closer still. "You wouldn't happen to be a parahuman, would you?"

Taylor replied, innocuously, "Um…"

"Oh – it's fine. I can keep a secret, I don't want anything. I just was worried for you. I'm pretty up to date on the cape scene. It's very dangerous for new tinkers, you know?"

New tinkers? Was she a tinker? More to the point - "Dangerous?"

The woman nodded. "Mmm. My friend works with the protectorate. We talk sometimes. The gangs keep an eye for new capes. They keep people stationed around docks and old industrial - most new tinkers end up salvaging parts around there when they're starting out. I would advise you to avoid those areas."

Taylor thought back to how she'd spent the last few nights and replied, "Um."

"Oh don't worry, you'll be alright, as long as you keep a low profile until you're ready."

Taylor cackling, spitting glass, swinging a whip of rebar around.

"UM."

"Well, that's all I had to say. I like Mr. Bearsy very much, by the way. And – here." The woman handed her a card. "My friend wanted me to give you this." And then she left, with a parting flash of those pearly white teeth.

When she was gone Taylor turned the card in her hand. It was from the local protectorate. She shrugged and put it in her pocket next to Lisa's.

Another half-hour passed. A little girl bought a starfish necklace. As she bounced off to her parents a familiar old woman approached, looking her table over.

"These are new," she said, gesturing.

Taylor hummed in the affirmative.

"You really do make these?"

"Yes, I do."

The woman looked over her wares once more. "Well I'll be…" She turned her eyes to Taylor, not suspicious for the first time since Taylor had watched her scurry away days prior. "How much do you make a day?"

Taylor shrugged. "Around two hundred?"

The woman fished a card from her purse, writing a phone number across the back. Then she offered it to Taylor. "How would you like to add a few zeroes to that number?"

Taylor took the card. The woman left with a matronly smile. Taylor turned the card in her hand. It belonged to a jewelry store she didn't recognize. The woman had crossed out the number printed on the card and written a different one beneath it. Taylor bit her lip. She put the card in her pocket with the others.

The day slowly wrapped up and came to an end. Taylor packed her shop and left, two hundred and twenty dollars and three 'business' cards warming her pocket on the bus ride home. She looked out the window on the ride back, mulling things over. Money. Safety? Green eyes and a smile...

It was clear who she had to call.

. . . . .

(2)

Taylor got home around seven, the sun was almost down. She stuck around this time, passing the hours in her room making curling glass ribbons and hanging them on strings by her window. The wind through her window spun them like corkscrews, and Taylor made more and more of the ribbons until they started to tangle in the breeze.

Danny got home from work. She heard his keys clatter on the table. Taylor hopped downstairs to greet him. They had a quiet dinner, it felt like he wanted to say something; that sense of anticipation in the air.

"How was work?" Taylor asked.

"Oh it was good," he said.

A far stretch from her mother who would kick down doors to broach uncomfortable topics, Danny took the other path of clutching them to himself, only releasing them when prodded incessantly.

Taylor poked him. "How are things?"

He glanced at her. "Hm? Oh, they're – fine, kiddo."

Taylor pursed her lips at him.

"What's that face for?"

Taylor screwed her face up into a ridiculous scowl.

He laughed. "Kiddo – do you want… Do you want more potatoes?"

Taylor let the face go. She wasn't her mother, and she didn't want to be. Maybe tomorrow. She could wait.

. . . . .

The following morning's breakfast was a repeat performance. She said goodbye when he left for work. Then she made a call.

Taylor hadn't used the house phone in upwards of ten months. It felt like garbage in her hand, hollow and clunky. She'd been spoiled by electronic displays. With every press of its fat plastic buttons she became more and more convinced she'd made a mistake. She wasn't even sure if all the buttons worked, and more than that, the non-existent heft of it brought to mind two cups tethered with string, the phones of her youth.

Basically, Taylor loved their phone.

She finished the eleven digits and pressed the clamshell to her ear.

…

A ring tone! Nice. They answered on the second ring.

"Hello?"

Taylor inhaled to speak-

"Oh, Taylor! Hey. How you doing? You just got home? Settle in first, there's no rush." Lisa's voice was tinny and choppy, courtesy of the ancient speaker. Still the sly slant in her tone carried over. Taylor momentarily pulled the phone away from her head to smile at it.

"I think I'm settled in. Comfy enough." Taylor put the receiver on the kitchen table and took a seat. "Wish I could take it to the couch, though.

"Oh you have one of those curly-que tangle-phones."

Taylor twiddled the cord. "It has character."

Lisa made a skeptical noise. "Well. You're calling about yesterday, aren't you? I wanted to talk to you about your business. Stuff I couldn't really get into there. Do you have time?"

"I do, yeah." Taylor did. "But – well. That's kind of what I'm calling about? Really I just wanted to talk to you again. I liked talking with you before. It was a lot of fun, even if it didn't last for long. I was kind of hoping we could be friends?"

There came a long pause from the other end of the line, and then Lisa laughed. It was the first time she'd seemed caught off balance. It didn't suit her, and so Taylor wasn't sure if she considered it a victory or a loss. "I uh. Wow. I – yeah. Sure. I. Do you. Um. Do you want to chat in person, then?"

"I'd like that."

Another laugh. "Okay. Um. Do you have a place in mind?"

Taylor did. "Yeah. I've been walking around the docks the last few nights, a little on the late side. Do you want to join me?"

"The docks – as in the docks up north? You know that area's not very…. Of course you do. You've been – no, you haven't been. Nobody? Really?"

Taylor said, "Um…?"

"No one's bothered you? Boat Graveyard?"

"Oh. No, I don't think I've ever even seen anyone. It's really weird."

"Well I was just going to say that an area with known gang-activity would be a bad place to meet - but admittedly that's most of the bay. Why there? In particular?"

"Well, because it's fun. It's… Cool? I like it." Lisa didn't respond right away and Taylor followed with, "We can go somewhere else."

"I… No. No, it's fine." She sounded sure of herself again. It suited her better. "I'll see you there."

Then Lisa hung up

Taylor pursed her lips at the clamshell phone, then clacked it down in the receiver. She hadn't told Lisa when or where to meet her, but suspected that she didn't need to.

. . . . .

And she was right.

The day fled past, and suddenly Taylor was hopping off a bus up north, making a b-line for the boat graveyard. It was earlier than she usually got there, there was still some pretty good light. The time was probably six thirty - dirty yellow heading toward gold. Taylor walked the usual path to her secret clubhouse, enjoying the light at her back.

She happened across a person crouching in an alleyway. They were dressed in dark, concealing clothing; jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled over her head, her face swimming in the shadow it cast. The hood turned her way, and Taylor saw a bandana was covering the lower half of her face. The only identifying feature left showing on her person were a pair of bottle green eyes.

"Hey," Taylor said.

"Hey," Lisa said. She stood and pulled the bandana down around her neck. A grin lurked beneath it. "You… should be wearing a mask."

Taylor's eyebrows quirked. "I should?"

"Mm. Here, I brought you one." Lisa handed Taylor a bandana of her own. Taylor accepted it, feeling honored somehow.

It was plain, thin black fabric, leaning toward scratchy - still the feeling of brilliant novelty swelled in her chest. Taylor tied it back above her nape, biting her lip, resisting the urge to hop up and down. Lisa pulled hers back up, and now they were bandits.

Taylor had to ask, "Why do I need this?"

Lisa started walking down the alley, gesturing for Taylor to join her. Taylor did, with an extra bounce in her step. They headed toward the bay.

"You're up on the cape scene," Lisa said, just ahead of her, "You know why, don't you?"

"Oh well, sure. I mean – secret identity and whatnot, but –"

"But you're not doing 'cape things?' Half-true." Lisa cast a look over her shoulder. "The reason I was comfortable coming out here is because you've claimed this part of the docks as your territory. And amazingly enough, no one seems to mind."

Taylor blinked. "I claimed – territory?"

"You did."

"When did I do that?"

"Over the last week or so."

Taylor wondered if that was fast or slow; the scale these things went by. "How did I do that?"

"Intimidation, mostly."

Intimidation, Taylor mouthed. She didn't remember doing anything intimidating. As she searched her mind for answers Lisa started to laugh.

"How your power appears to an outside observer aside, you just – you haven't made any moves, have you? Haven't attacked anyone? Haven't stolen anything? No one knows where you stand. Don't worry about it. Just… the mask helps. It's what people expect: capes and masks, they go together, see? Giving people what they expect keeps them from looking too close, keeps them relaxed. It helps, trust me."

Lisa hadn't needed to defend her position to thoroughly. Taylor wouldn't sell her bandana for all of King Tut's gold.

"So – hang on." Lisa stopped. "We never really had a proper introduction did we?"

Hadn't they, Taylor wondered.

"Business greetings don't count, there's always ulterior motives at play. Well – almost always. So." Lisa offered her hand. "It's nice to meet you, Taylor."

Taylor took her hand, her eyes crinkling as she smiled beneath the bandana.

After a long moment of silent handholding, Lisa said, "This is usually the part where you reciprocate."

"Oh – uh, right. Nice to meet you too, Lisa. Thanks for coming out here with me."

Lisa grinned crookedly. "My pleasure."

They walked and talked while the sky turned dark. Casual in pace. Aimless in direction.

"I'm sorry for hanging up on you, earlier," Lisa said. "And the tenth-degree. I like to keep a low profile. And most of my work is online. I've gotten used to signing off when I have what I need. But I'm a little out of practice dealing with people outside work."

"It's fine," Taylor said. "I was just a little worried you'd show up at the wrong place. And I'm pretty sure I'm more out of practice. I think I might be saying weird things sometimes?"

Lisa chuckled.

The walk pointed northeast toward the bay.

"I started out like you," Lisa said. Taylor walked along a raised lip of concrete like a balance beam. Lisa kept pace beside her. "Well, not started. But –I arrived there, at this…. Strange limbo. Not making a whole lot of money. Some. Enough to get by. Business was by word of mouth, then. I felt like a street performer. Selling a gimmick on the side of the road. But then I happened upon a client. An important person, friends in high places."

Taylor could imagine the type – some fat-cat with a cigar, stern-faced, sitting in a big office chair. And then when the doors to his office closed he danced like the world couldn't see.

"You're… Not far off?" Lisa said. Taylor wondered if she'd spoken that out loud. Lisa huffed a laugh. "I'm a cape too, Taylor. That's my power. Cold reading, super intuition."

Taylor thought and also said, "That's so cool."

Lisa shrugged. "It has its ups and downs. But – well, anyway. That's what it comes down to, most times. To move forward, make more money. Just knowing the right person, meeting the right people. That's what I was going to offer you; phone numbers, contacts. But you've gotten a few already, haven't you?"

"A few," Taylor said.

"A few, huh? Hm. Oh – protectorate, that's a given. Me. Some – woman? Older… Oh? A jeweler, then, or knows one. Those are decent options."

Taylor resisted the urge to clap, having gotten the impression that Lisa wouldn't appreciate being applauded. She was so cool though – Taylor felt like she was walking with a detective movie.

"Oh, I don't know," Taylor said. "I mean, yeah. I wouldn't mind working with heroes. Or the jeweler, I suppose. But I like what I have right now. I like meeting people. I don't think I'd be able to keep my little stand if I went with either of them."

"You need to make more money if you want to support yourself and your family, Taylor. That's all there is to it. And you don't strike me as the type to lean for scholastic pursuits now that this avenue is open to you."

She wasn't wrong. Taylor had been skipping class more often than not, and only tangentially paying attention during. Still she was hesitant to admit it. "You're probably right."

"I'm right about most things," Lisa said. A shade smug, but it worked for her, felt warm instead of sour. "It's nothing you have to decide right now. You're in a good place. Take your time."

Taylor weighed what Lisa had said and then made a noise in the affirmative.

"Although… If I can get in one last piece of advice - you might want to tell your parents – your father. Sooner rather than later. He's the good type, isn't he?"

"The best," Taylor said. Something flashed in Lisa's eyes.

"That's good. You'll be better off."

"Yeah. Yeah I know. I just…" Taylor sighed. "I don't want it to be just a surprise. I want it to be a good surprise. 'Heya pops, I'm a bajillionaire I bought us matching yachts let's goooooo.'" Lisa indulgently cracked a smile, and Taylor considered the previous almost-dour mood well and truly shanghaied. "Well not really that. We don't need that sort of thing. But I'd like to help with the bills. With the house. He could use a break."

Lisa shook her head in disbelief. "You are…" That sentence trailed off into a breathy sigh, and then she clapped her hands, declaring, "Enough of this – heavy talk. What do you do for fun out here?"

Taylor thought about it. "Well I've been trying to pet this cat but he's just not having it."

"I'm in."

. . . . .

They skulked around looking suspicious for upwards of half an hour, only tangentially looking for Taylor's elusive stray, talking about nothing in particular.

Taylor finally caught sight of a familiar tail. It was dark now, the sun well and truly down, only a thin sheet of light making it around the bend of the horizon. Still it was light enough to recognize that spotted white fur. Taylor flagged Lisa down against a wall nearby, pointing as she hissed, "There he is."

Lisa's eyes narrowed and she crouched down next to Taylor, speaking under her breath. "Him? A Calico… He's neutered. Escaped housepet – no, bad disposition. Bad house. You don't want to pet him, he's a scratcher. And he has fleas."

Taylor shot her a glance, "Fleas? That's not good. Is he alright?"

"Well he's itchy. Other than that he's alright."

"Okay. I'll have to buy some flea medicine later."

"You… He's not your..." Lisa gave up on that line of dialogue. "He's not going to let you put it on him without a fight."

"That's alright." Taylor stood away from the wall. The cat heard her, turning to cat at her with its glowing-in-the-night cat eyes, and then pattering off into the gloom. Taylor pursed her lips at where it had stood, making plans for tomorrow.

Lisa pulled down her bandana, and Taylor could see her visibly biting her tongue to keep from saying something. Then she said, "You will get scratched."

"That's okay. I'd scratch me too I think."

"It will not endear you to him."

"That's okay too."

"You… You are ridiculous."

Taylor looked at her. "I am?"

Lisa tried not to smile and failed. She pulled the bandana back up. "It's pretty late. Getting past my bedtime. But I think I've got one more stop left in me. I believe you have a lair?"

Taylor led Lisa to her lair, delighted that it had been called such. When they got there the moon was over the bay, a slice instead of a sliver this time. By that light Taylor helped Lisa up the sides of the crates. They walked into the crate at the top of the pile, through a hole in the side.

It was darker within. The skylight helped, and the window helped, but the corners were black. Lisa's shoes crunched on loose sand and particulate as she stepped in, her eyes locked on the window to the bay. "Oh wow… Did you make this? What am I saying of course you did…" Now her eyes went to the giant skylight, tracing over the lip where glass transitioned to metal. "Pretty."

Taylor went further inside, idly grabbing a handful out of the side of the crate for some light. The metal flowed over her hand like a glove, and that light softened the shadows in the corners, not quite chasing them out. Lisa inhaled, stepping closer into the ambient warmth.

"Thank you," Taylor said to Lisa's compliment, looking over her crate fondly. "I know it's not much right now. A work in progress. I really need some chairs?"

Lisa walked to the window, looking out at the bay. "What will you use it for?"

"Use it for?"

"Mm. Why are you making this?"

"Oh - just for fun."

Lisa chuckled quietly. "You would."

"What? Is that bad?" Lisa didn't answer. "I don't know. I'd like to eat lunch here? When it's – more. More done. I would…" Taylor walked to the end of the crate, undoing the seam on the doors and shoving them open.

The crate wasn't quite pointed directly out, and so the view wasn't everything it could have been. A stretch of warehouse cluttered up the right, but as her eyes roved left it was a sliver of the bay, then ocean, ocean, more ocean; deep blue in the night. That end of the crate jutted out from the pile, hanging over empty air.

Taylor carefully took a seat on the edge, swinging her legs back and forth. "I would sit here. And if someone was with me, they would sit – here, next to me. And we'd have lemonade. Or maybe… Hm. Maybe I'll make a patio."

Lisa walked over and took the seat next to her, giving a little extra berth to Taylor's molten metal hand. "Warm," she commented under her breath.

"Mm."

Lisa looked out over the bay. "It's a good view… You know… except for the boats."

"I like them."

Lisa glanced at her. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. They feel like… like adventure." Taylor stared out at them in silent contemplation. Moonlight spilled down her bandana. Her hand lit her side gold and orange. A goofy grin slowly worked over her face, one that Lisa could feel without looking. "Do you ever get that feeling? This… yearning for exploration. I love it."

Lisa hummed. "You know why they're there, don't you?"

"Of course," Taylor said. "I didn't like them once. Because of that. And my dad's job, and people's jobs… But… But I don't see it like that anymore."

A silence stretched between them. It was just the hissing bay and crickets, and they passed a few minutes in silence, appreciating the moment.

"It's late," Lisa said. She looked over at Taylor. "This was nice."

Taylor pulled her bandana down and smiled at her. "I'm glad."

Lisa pulled her own bandana down and returned the gesture. "Let's do this again, sometime."

Taylor thought her face might actually split in half. "Yeah."

She helped Lisa down the crates and walked her to a better part of town. They pocketed their bandanas. Lisa called herself a cab. Taylor waved at its rear-lights until it those beams of red vanished around a corner.

The walk home seemed to pass in an instant, and suddenly she was locking her front door behind her. Danny was in bed. Taylor snuck upstairs and into bed herself. She pressed her cheek into her pillow, luxuriating in the laundry-soap smell.

. . . . .

When Taylor made it downstairs Danny was at the stove. The french press was steeping, a pan was hissing. He was all dressed up for a day at work, only his tie left to complete the ensemble.

"Morning," Taylor said. She sat at the table.

"Morning," he said. "Sleep well?"

"Mm-hm."

"Good."

Things hissed. He pressed the french press and compiled his morning concoction.

"You going to school?" he asked.

Taylor wondered if it was a school day. Or what day of the week it was. "Sure. Or – yeah."

"Okay."

Things stopped hissing. He put a plate in front her, and a plate in front of him, taking a seat.

"Taylor… I… Is everything alright, with you?"

"It's great," Taylor said. And it was.

He tried to smile.

Taylor ate her scrambled eggs. He at his scrambled eggs.

"How's work?" Taylor asked.

"It's…" He sipped his coffee. "It's work."

Taylor hummed.

He shrugged.

Taylor remembered something. "Dad!"

He startled, choking on his eggs. "Ghhn. W - what? What is it?"

"I have something to tell you."

"Y - you do?"

"I do. I… Um." Taylor trailed off into thought, wondering how she should phrase it. "I don't know how to tell you this… I… I'm…"

He snuck a sip of coffee.

"Dad… I'm a caperoonie."

Coffee shot out his nose.

"I'm sorry," Taylor said as he wiped his face on his sleeve. "I was always going to tell you. I just – I wanted it to be a surprise. A good surprise. I can make things, really pretty things. I've been selling them at the boardwalk. I make good – well, I make okay money. I want to help with the bills. Can I?"

Danny seemed dazed. "I um. Taylor – you don't." He caught his bearings fast. Taylor could see it in the slant of his shoulders; more sure, more grounded. "Don't worry about money, okay? That's my job. I'm just… I worry about you, kiddo. I – I knew."

"What - you did? How?"

"Taylor, I know I can be inattentive but I'm not blind. And… A few days ago someone with the protectorate got in contact with me and we had a – a long talk." He trailed off for a moment. Taylor snuck a sip of his coffee. There was absolutely no chance he noticed. "Taylor, have you… They told me… People get powers when they're in – in bad places. Please, is everything alright?"

So this was what had been bothering him. He sounded upset. Taylor didn't like him upset. "I'm happy now. I was unhappy, before. I was having a bad time at school, and – I missed mom, sometimes. I still do, sometimes. And I know it hit you harder than me. But I'm okay now. I'm great now. Things are better. And I still have you. So you don't get to worry either, okay?"

He hid his mouth in his coffee cup. Once he'd taken a long draw, the cup clacked down, and he looked like there were very many things he wanted to say and ask, and what he settled for was:

"Taylor."

Taylor looked at him.

"You're my daughter."

Taylor smiled. "You're my dad."

Breakfast ended with the promise that they would speak more later. He said nothing of her nighttime roaming, and Taylor took that as implicit permission. She hugged him goodbye and caught the bus to school. Her backpack was loaded down with about ten pounds of sand and nothing else, something she only realized when she stepped off the bus. She wasn't worried about it. She wasn't worried about anything.

Ring sit talk bell ring sit talk

Suddenly it was lunch. Taylor loaded her tray with chicken nuggets and broccoli, taking a seat at an empty table. The broccoli could have also been cauliflower, and she spent the next few minutes trying to remember the distinguishing characteristics of each, only to come to the realization that there were simply some things in the world that she may never know. As she dwelled on this fact of life, familiar people sat at her table.

Sophia sat across from her, looking incredibly blasé. Madison sat beside Sophia. Emma sat next to Taylor, close enough for their elbows to bump.

"Taylor," Emma said, charming, and then she said more. Taylor heard the words, and they weren't very nice, but at the same time they didn't really mean anything. Not of them were true. Emma's lips gleamed as she talked, and hair glowed in the fluorescent light; the barest hint frazzled.

"We haven't had lunch together in a long time," Taylor said. "Feels like forever."

Emma sneered. "Why would I ever eat lunch with you?"

"I don't know, if you were hungry? And - you are right now."

Emma had no follow up. Neither did Madison. Sophia appeared to be genuinely just eating her lunch.

"Do you remember that thanksgiving a few years back?" Taylor asked. "We had dinner at your house and our dads got really drunk and obnoxious, and then your mom just walks in the room and-"

"Shut up!" Emma snapped, too sharp and too loud. "Just shut up, no one wants to hear you talk."

Taylor was trying not to laugh. "It wasn't that long ago, you have to remember. And then my Dad kept trying to sneak us sips of scotch. I had so much fun. I'm glad that we can eat together again like this. I'm glad you're still here."

Emma had no response. She seemed to be reaching for one very hard, but no words were coming. Her eyes were glassy. Taylor put aside her lunch, turning ask Emma, "Hey… Hey are you okay? What's wrong?"

Emma said nothing.

"Emma?"

"D – don't." Emma jerkily scooted away. Then she lurched to her feet, putting still more distance between them. Her eyes went to Sophia, but Sophia was eating her lunch. And her eyes went to Madison, but Madison had nothing for her. "You…"

Taylor stood. Emma hurried out of the cafeteria. Taylor took a step after her, but decided to let her go. Sometimes people just needed space.

"Is she going to be okay?" Taylor asked Sophia and Madison.

Madison stood and left after Emma without a word. Sophia watched her go, and then watched Taylor as she took her seat again. Their eyes locked over the table, Sophia idly chewing a mouthful of broccoli.

"Really, will she be okay?"

"Do you care?" Sophia asked.

"Of course I care. She's my friend."

Sophia chewed in silence for a long moment. "What is going on with you, Hebert."

"What?"

"I'm asking what's wrong with you. Are you taking drugs? Happy pills? Are you high, Hebert?"

"You can just call me Taylor, you know?"

Sophia's eyebrows narrowed. "Are we friends, Hebert?"

"We could be."

Sophia swallowed down that mouthful, mulling over what Taylor had said. Then she hooked her fingers under her lunch tray and flipped it. Broccoli and a helping of cheese sauce spattered across Taylor's face and chest. Around them the other lunch-goers laughed, but Sophia didn't.

"How about now?"

Taylor pursed her lips. "I don't get it. Do you want me to dislike you?"

Sophia didn't answer her, looking a mix of frustration and annoyance. She left without a word.

Taylor cleaned up in the bathroom. School went on until it ended. Taylor caught a bus back home. Danny was at work still. She stayed long enough to grab some money from her money-sock, taking off immediately after. She dropped by a pet store downtown and bought some flea medicine – ran her fifty bucks for a little carton of six tubes.

Then she was puttering around the docks, keeping an eye out for a little white tail. Ever the multi-tasker at heart, Taylor worked on her lair as she scoped the elusive fluffball out, ferrying packs of sand from the beach up to her crate. With that sand she spread out her skylight, replacing more and more of that dingy dark roof with crystal clear glass. Occasionally she would nudge open the doors on either end, peering out, looking for that tricky customer, but she never saw him.

It got dark. Taylor wandered around the shoreline. She assembled a mass of glass the size of a giant beach ball and tried to ride it up the raised concrete foundation of the docks, coaxing it along like a massive saddled slug.

It worked surprisingly well. Taylor tied her bandana around her face and suddenly she was at a rodeo – on the world's least bucking bronco. The slug comparison was perhaps too apt, going so far as to include the slimy-looking trail it left behind. Still Taylor hooted like an idiot once or twice, or maybe more than twice, as she slowly crested vertical bumps and took wide corners at a snail's pace.

Before calling it a night Taylor used the slug to create a slide down from her clubhouse, the end raised into a jump. She tried it once and ended up flying crazily through the air, only barely avoiding destroying herself on the landing. It was maybe the best thing ever.

Then she called it a night and went home. Danny was up waiting for her. Down waiting for her, technically, sprawled across the couch as he was. The television was on, turned to a three-in-the-morning stream of infomercials.

Taylor grabbed the remote from beneath his hand and shut it off. He startled awake with a snort, rising from the couch with a sort of hesitant creakiness. It was tough getting old.

She hugged him once he was fully upright and mostly cognizant. He returned the gesture.

"Go to bed," Taylor said.

"You go to bed." He grouched. "Was worried about you…. What're you – keep goin' out so late for, huh?"

"I'm safe, I promise. Now go to bed, okay? You have work tomorrow."

He went off to bed, remarking in a rumbly sleep-voice, "You are every bit your mother."

Not long after that Taylor went to bed herself, sneaking in an after-midnight snack in the form of a handful of sand from her backpack. Her nose scrunched up at the sweetness of it, and that sensation lasted long after she pulled her bedsheets over her shoulder and nuzzled down to sleep.

. . . . .

It was a quiet morning. Danny didn't inquire into what Taylor had been out late for. Instead he made bacon. Taylor considered this a fair trade off.

He went off to work and she went off to school – only she didn't. Instead she exaggeratedly marched out the door, declaring something about the thrill of science, and hid in their backyard until he left. She went back inside and called someone on the tangle-phone.

Lisa answered on the second ring. "Taylor, hey. What's up?"

"Oh nothing. I wanted to hang out with you. Are you free today?"

"I can be. What did you have in mind?"

"Well you know the park up near–"

"Sounds good. I'm in."

They met up at a park near City Hall. Taylor wore her usual school clothes. But not her bandana, even though she really wanted to. Lisa wore jeans and a tee. It was during school hours still so the pickings were good. They requisitioned the swings without challenge, hogging them as more and more kids arrived with parents in tow.

"Swings are amazing," Taylor said.

Lisa took a moment to comment, her eyes trained on the rest of the park. The season leaned towards fall; the grass and the trees were vibrant green, and the air was pleasantly cool. There was a little jungle gym not far from them, all hollow plastic and mish-mashed colors. A kid face-planted off the tiny slide and Lisa bit her lip to keep from smiling. "Mm…. Haven't been here in a long time. Four or five years, I think."

"That's a shame," Taylor said. "Same for me, though."

"Did your dad take you?"

"Mm. Him and mom. They still had the big-"

"That big metal slide?"

"Yeah!"

"That thing was the best."

"Mm. Mom would bring along a square of cardboard. You could get going so fast, it was crazy."

The swung silently in mutual remembrance.

"Shame about that kid's face," Lisa said. "He flew too close to the sun."

Taylor laughed and immediately felt bad. "Who took you?"

"Oh, I did the taking," Lisa said. "Dragged my brother here a few times." She didn't elaborate further. Taylor didn't pry.

They talked about nothing amazing for a while. Then a kid wandered over and asked to use the swings.

"Get lost kid," Taylor ground out, comically roughening her voice. "These're our swings now."

The kid ran away.

Lisa looked over at Taylor. Taylor said, "Oops."

The kid and his mom came back; him pulling her hand, the woman getting off her cell phone. She appeared justifiably upset, but what started as an angry tirade on her child's behalf was quickly derailed. Taylor ended up pushing the kid on the swing. "How high you wanna go?" She used the same gruff accent. "You wanna go to the moon, kid? I can do that for you."

The kid said, "You're weird."

The mom told him not to call people names and pushed Taylor to reconcile.

"And why aren't you in school?" The mom asked, judgmentally ominous in the way only other people's moms can be.

"She's homeschooled," Lisa said from the other swing, having refused to give it up. "And I have my G.E.D."

Taylor switched places with the mom, somehow convincing her to give it a try.

"You wanna go to space? I can do that for you."

The mom laughed. "You are the weirdest kid."

The actual kid started getting belligerent. Lisa ceded her swing to him, and suddenly Taylor and Lisa were pushing complete strangers on the swingset. A minute later the mom went for the flying dismount. She nailed the landing. Her kid didn't – or he did, but in an entirely too literal fashion.

"History repeats itself," Lisa commented knowingly. Then the kid stood, no worse for wear. "Nevermind."

The kid refused to leave without pushing them first. Lisa took the swing. Taylor took Lisa's lap. The kid didn't quite have assisted swinging down, and on his first shove he pushed them out of the saddle. Taylor caught herself, but Lisa didn't, and this resulted in a cascading failure that left them in a giggling pile on the tanbark.

Before they kid and mom called it a day the mom gave Taylor her phone number, saying, "If you ever feel like babysitting, or need a good word." Taylor put the folded paper in her pocket, slightly dazed at the turn of events.

Not long after that Lisa got a message on her phone and had to call it a day herself.

"I had fun," Lisa said.

"I had more," Taylor said.

They puttered about along the sidewalk until Lisa's cab arrived. She wrapped Taylor up in a hug before piling in, remarking under her breath, "You are a special kind of person."

She could have said almost anything and the hug would have felt just as warm. Taylor waved at the cab until it vanished around a corner.

Her whole day was ahead of her still. Taylor's shoulders squared with resolve.

She had a cat to capture.

. . . . .

(3)

Taylor walked around the docks, an opened can of tuna in her outstretched hand. She clacked the side of the tin with a metal rod. The sound was as a siren song to cat-kind, luring them in through foamy waves to be dashed upon the rocks. In this instance Taylor was perhaps the rocks, and the flea-medicine was also the rocks.

She stalked along alleyways and crunchy gravel-strewn tarmac, keeping her eyes peeled for a flash of that elusive cat. She found nothing.

Almost nothing.

"Shoo."

The possum approached, undeterred.

Taylor retracted the can of tuna, making it clear that it was off limits. "Go away. Shoo."

The possum hissed.

"Ack!"

The possum skittered at her.

Taylor ran away.

Her lack of luck made empirical sense. Cats were a peculiar mix of wise and bumbling; avoiding doom one moment and getting their heads stuck in things the next. Such was the way of the world. And so Taylor played the system, taking advantage of this perplexing duality. She put the can of tuna somewhere only a foolishly brilliant cat could get at it – on top of the first level of her shipping crate pile. Ideally it would climb up and get stuck on the top, unaware that it could just jump off and be fine. The odor of the tuna could be described as pungent, and she hoped that the wind from the bay would take the stink-lines to the cat, far, far away from her.

Taylor worked on her lair as she waited. Taylor began to turn that part of her crate that jutted out over nothing into a proper veranda. She pulled out the bay doors, she melted down the roof, she expanded the floor. She almost fell off. It was scary.

No sign of the cat. A seagull dropped by on his behalf, taking the can in his beak and attempting to waddle off with it, but Taylor was wise to his game and scared him off. Now she kept both eyes peeled, one for the cat and one for the sneaky bird-thief. She made a railing for the veranda, arguably the first thing she should have done. It felt much safer after, and Taylor passed some time leaning over the railing, looking at the ocean, relishing the feel of the wind on her face. She really needed some chairs.

It was near dark when she finished her veranda's chairs and table. The sky was deep blue headed towards black. As her final hurrah of the night Taylor made a staircase up her crates – finally a proper way to get up. They weren't much, just planks jutting out the sides of the metal in a vaguely staircase-ish fashion, but they worked, and they felt neat. She danced up and down them imagining they were piano keys.

. . . . .

Danny was in bed when she got back. He'd left her some of that night's dinner, a plate wrapped up in tin-foil, placed on the kitchen table where she would usually sit, with a nametag on top. It was sweet of him. Taylor ate the tinfoil and tossed the rest into the trash.

Aluminum was sort of like a marshmallow; the airy-nothingness of them, but minus the sweetness. Pondering and almost lemony. Taylor snuck a quick tear from the roll in their kitchen drawer, confirming the taste in her mind.

They had breakfast together the following morning.

"Hey pops," Taylor said as she entered the kitchen.

He was at the table this time; the coffee-and-newspaper-dad-combo. "Morning. Sleep well?"

Taylor puttered about the fridge aimlessly. She wasn't hungry, and if she was, would sooner walk to the beach. But she couldn't have breakfast with him from the beach. "Mm-hm. You?"

His mouth went to a corner of his face in contemplation. "Mmmmm – hm."

Taylor took a seat and started reading the back of the newspaper.

"I got another call from the Protectorate yesterday."

"Oh yeah?"

"They left a number for you. I wrote it on a napkin somewhere. I think I put it with your dinner – did you see it, by the way?"

The dinner – yes. The number – no. But she had their number somewhere, anyways. "I got it, thanks pops."

They talked about nothing. Casual and lighthearted. He drank his coffee. Taylor puttered about the kitchen, opening and closing things. He left for work. Taylor hugged him goodbye, wishing him well.

He hadn't mentioned anything about school one way or the other. As far as Taylor was concerned that was tacit permission, at least with regards to things she didn't want to do. With this in mind she collected her going-out gear: a bandana, a backpack half-full of sand, flea medicine, a can of tuna, and her bus pass. Truly she was ready to take on the day.

Before stepping out, Taylor went to the phone and dialed. They answered on the second ring.

"Taylor?" Lisa sounded sleepy. Taylor shot an accusatory glance at the microwave. It supplied the figure 7:32. "Mmn… Morning. What's up?"

"Oh nothing. Bad time?"

"Long night. Headache."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I can call you back later?"

"No, no. I'm good. I need to…" Lisa groaned. "Need to get out, anyways. What were you thinking?"

Taylor twiddled the cord, and she rested her weight against the wall, letting her head clunk against it. "Well I know we just hung out yesterday, but it got cut short, I think? I finished up my porch. My lair-porch, that is. It's really, well, pretty good. Do you want to eat lunch there later?"

"I… I'd like that."

Taylor grinned. "Cool. I'll um – I'll bring the food. Actual food, not just – sand."

A brief pause from the other end of the line. "You know, I knew that you ate those things, and yet still I am surprised."

Taylor chuckled. "You can try it if you want?"

"Don't want."

"Well what do you want?"

They bartered about what Taylor would bring for lunch, and whether or not she would be reimbursed, eventually settling on chicken salad and pizza sticks from a pizza place not far from her lair, and 'no.' Taylor's treat. Go away headache, leave this place, you are not welcome here.

"That sounds good," Lisa said.

"Yeah," Taylor said.

A pause formed between them: Taylor smiling goofily at the receiver.

Lisa cleared her throat. "I um. I'll see you later today? Around two?"

"Yeah."

"Good. Um. Goodbye. See you then?"

"Yeah."

Another pause. Taylor smiled goofily-er. Lisa laughed and the line went dead.

Taylor was out the door in the next breath, so light on her feet she could well have been floating. She caught a bus up north, plotting out her day in her head. She would pass time until afternoon, pick up the food, hang out until Lisa showed up, maybe she'd even find that cat. Maybe.

She arrived at her super-secret lair only to discover that it was already occupied. A group of five people were loitering around the base of her stairs, men in baggy pants, hoodies and bandanas - they'd stolen Taylor's look. They caught sight of her, and Taylor noticed the grips of gun poking out of their pockets as they stood from various crouches. Still she approached, undeterred.

The leader, probably, fixed her with a mild look. "Hey."

"Hi."

"So… Kid." He took a step forward, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. His right hand brushed up against the gun, but there were no signs of hostility in his posture. He was on the tall side, taller than her. Shrewd brown eyes peered out behind a fringe of hair, his skull-motif bandana tossing at his breath as he spoke. "You're the cape that started hanging out here, then?"

"Mm-hm."

"S'your name?"

Taylor skirted around them, unshouldering her backpack and placing it on the first step of her stairs, heedless of the way one of them men made to draw his gun and was stopped by another. "Tayyyyyy... Uh. Oh, my 'cape' name?"

The leader's stance loosened slightly. "Well, yeah."

"I don't think I have one?" She unzipped her backpack, fishing out a tube of the flea medicine and putting it in her pocket. "I haven't picked one, at least."

"… Alright." The leader walked closer to her, like Sophia had once, before, just inside her personal space. "What are you doing out here?"

Taylor blinked up at him. "Sorry?"

"What do you want? Why'd you make this?" He gestured up at Taylor sprawling be-staircased and be-terraced lair. "What are you doing? Are you recruiting? Are you starting up a gang? Are you looking for protection? What are you doing out here?"

Taylor hadn't been listening to him. Her eyes went wide as he talked, narrowing on flash of motion from behind him. As he finished speaking Taylor hurried over and crouched down by her stairs, pressing flush against the side of the crate. She hissed and gestured with her hand, "Get down, get down!"

They followed suit quickly and without question. A few of them pulled guns, one pulled a knife, the last pulled nun-chucks and had them slapped out of his hand.

"What is it?" The leader asked, inching toward the end of the crate, sneaking a peek around the corner. "You got competition, kid? Fuck… Fuckin' knew it. Who'd you piss off, huh? We ain't gonna defend you, kid. Merchants didn't last this long fuckin' around with-"

"Shh," Taylor hissed again, and he bit off the rest without comment. She crawled forward beside him and poked her head around the corner. "You'll spook him."

The tip of his gun lowered fractionally. "What?"

"The cat," Taylor hissed. She fished the flea meds from her pocket, opening it and popping the tube with the pointy cap. "Okay, no one move alright? I think this cat might actually be magic."

The leader's gun-hand lowered until the muzzle touched the ground.

Taylor gestured for him to be silent, her eyes focused on a swishing white tail. She got on all fours, army-crawling along the ground. She was making good distance, sneakily closing behind him as he licked his paw.

Then there came great crunching-stomps of boots in gravel. The cat perked and turned to her. His eyes narrowed haughtily, and he turned and gently pattered away. Taylor collapsed onto the ground, limp.

"A fucking cat."

"You spooked him," Taylor said morosely. "Aw man… I'm never gonna' get him am I…"

"Why a cat?"

"He has fleas."

"Fuckin' - so?"

Taylor stood and turned to him, brushing herself off. He had his hands on his hips, gun still in one hand, looking very put-off. "Well, I mean… Fleas are bad. So I've been trying to put some flea meds on him. But he keeps running away."

The leader seemed to mull something over, his eyes softening as he returned his gun to his pocket. "Are you for real?"

"What?"

"How old are you?"

"I'm f-sssseveneighteen. Eighteen."

He nodded. "Uh huh… Alright, come on kid. Take a seat, let's talk." He waved the other guys off, and then it was just Taylor and him. They sat on her stairs. Taylor took the third step up, her feet swinging, toes barely brushing the ground. He took the second step, his extra height canceled out so they were properly eye to eye if they turned.

It was still early in the day; the beginnings of a breezy perhaps-Friday afternoon. He pulled a carton of cigarettes from his pocket and lit up, putting the filter in his lips via a hole in the bandana. It looked silly, but Taylor held in her giggle. Curlicues of smoke rose from the end, and Taylor traced them out of the corner of her eye, watching them waft up and vanish.

He offered her the carton. Taylor refused. He put the carton away.

"Really, kid... What are you doing out here?"

"Just having fun."

"Fun?" He repeated, a shade incredulous, and looked around. "Here?"

"Mm-hm."

He took a long draw and let it out. The smoke unfurled from beneath his bandana. "You been in any fights?"

Taylor shook her head. "No."

He nodded. "Good… That's good. Smart. You in school?"

"Yeah."

"Keep it that way. Don't be a dumbass like me."

Taylor made a face.

He chuckled. "What, you don't think I'm dumb? Five grown-ass men sent out to fuck with a high schooler. If that ain't fuckin' dumb…" Another plume of smoke issued from beneath his bandana. "Sorry, kid."

"It's alright," Taylor said. "I understand. Or… I can understand."

"No, it ain't alright." He looked at his hands, fiddling with a lighter. "You're smart, kid. Keeping out of this shit. You know what I would'a done if I had powers? I think I would'a done dumb shit. Fights and drugs and whores… And I'd end up exactly where I am now, not a damn thing different." He flicked the lighter open. It rang out, this clicky metal sound, and then he closed it again.

"Alright." He rose. "I got what I need... You be careful, alright kid? It's dangerous out here, being a cape… Other gangs don't really come out this far often, but… You see 'em, you be smart, alright? Don't let 'em pull you into their bullshit."

Taylor smiled at him. He couldn't see her mouth, and so she made sure her eyes crinkled extra. "Okay. I'll be careful. Thank you."

He gave a slow nod. Then he left.

"Goodbye!" Taylor called. He waved over his shoulder.

There was enough time left before noon for Taylor to put the finishing touches on her veranda. Smoothing some edges, add some flourishes, make absolutely sure her chairs would be comfortable. Afterward she was off to the pizza place to grab their food. Chicken-salad and pizza sticks, and two lemonades. The take-out containers went into her backpack, above the sand but below the bandana.

It was a little past one-thirty when she stepped off the bus and tied her bandana back around. The sun was still high in the sky, warm on her back as she walked back to her haunt. She crossed a familiar face on the way.

"Hey," Taylor said.

"Hey," Lisa said. She stood from where she'd been leaning against a corrugated wall. She was dressed in concealing clothing again, her bandana tight around her face. She looked tired. Her eyes weren't quite as bright as they should be.

Taylor nodded toward where her base was and they started walking.

"Long night?" Taylor asked.

"Long night… It happens, sometimes." Lisa didn't elaborate further. Taylor let the walk pass in silence.

Not much later they arrived at her lair.

"You made stairs," Lisa said. Her eyes followed the twisting, coiling line of the steps all the way up to the crate at the peak, and then out to the new veranda hanging over the edge.

Taylor hopped ahead of her, onto the first step. It held her weight without complaint, and she gestured to Lisa from it. They hopped up to the peak, into the glass-top crate and out onto the veranda. The fixture was at least three stories up, and the view of the ocean was unobstructed.

Taylor put the food out on the table. Lisa took her drink and popped the cap. Then they were reclining back in their chairs, bandanas off, hoods down, facing the ocean and the gentle breeze. Lisa finally seemed to relax.

"I'm sorry." She took a bite from her paper-plate of chicken salad. "I'm not being a very good guest right now."

"It's alright," Taylor said. "Does this help?"

Lisa took a long draw of the ocean air and let it out. Her eyes ran out over the horizon. "Yeah. Yeah, it does."

Taylor vanquished a pizza stick. It was pretty good, just like her father's breakfasts were pretty good. But still it lacked that oomph of her other diet. Lisa seemed to be mulling something over, the air heavy with that special brand of contemplative silence, the need to say something, and so Taylor was content to let silence stretch between them.

"People don't give you enough credit, do they," Lisa said.

Taylor glanced at her. Lisa didn't return the look, focused entirely on chasing the last of her chicken salad around her place with her fork.

"I go by the alias AllSeeingEye online, sometimes… But you know what they should call me?" She speared a strip of chicken. "Homewrecker."

That wasn't the end. Taylor took a bite out of her glass blob and waited.

Lisa let out a long breath. "Just… Work troubles. It happens now and then. If I had a supervisor to complain to, I think I'd ask them why it is that eighty percent of the time, out of all the things I could tell them, people just ask for dirt, so they can smear it on things."

"I didn't think it was like that," Taylor said.

"My job? Did you think it was like a detective agency, or something?"

"That's exactly what I thought it was."

Lisa chuckled. "If only… No. I don't know. I hoped it would be, when I started out. And sometimes it is like that. But mostly, just…" She trailed off into a breathy sigh, fumbling around the right words, the kind that wouldn't sour the mood and still be true, and at the same time not leave her too bare.

"Don't worry so much," Taylor said. "I like talking to you."

Lisa made a pinched expression at her and then sipped her lemonade.

Things weren't fine, and something was left unsaid, something that mattered, clearly. Still Taylor was content to leave it be, for now. "I ran in to some people earlier," she said, flawlessly changing the subject. Her hand sneaked into her backpack and pulled out some glass.

Lisa fiddled with her food. "Yeah?"

"Mm. Some merchants."

"Oh." Lisa looked her over. "You're alright… So that's good. What did they want?"

Taylor thought on it. She balled the glass in her palm, coaxing it through shapes and fractals, struggling to remember if anyone had actually made any claims. "I… I don't know."

Lisa cracked a grin. "Alright… What happened..."

Taylor told her.

"Only you."

"Hm?"

"Only you seem to get into these kinds of situations. Are you sure that's not your true power?"

Taylor laughed. "I don't know, I mean... He seemed nice. Or, not bad. I think most people are good people. And sometimes all it really it really takes is giving them a chance. And when you do, they can surprise you."

Lisa didn't reply. She seemed to mull over what Taylor had said. The rest of their lunch passed in relative silence, neither of them bringing up topics of importance, and the conversations never lasted on for long. The ocean hissed. Birds cried. Taylor blew glass bubbles like she was chewing gum.

Lisa's phone beeped. She pulled it out of her pocket and checked the screen. "I… eugh. Yeah, I need to take this."

They wrapped up lunch after that, and when they were done Taylor took the slide down, sticking the landing like a pro. She looked behind her and saw Lisa peering down from the top.

"You coming?"

Lisa settled down into the top of the slide, her hands on the sides. "This is perhaps the least safe slide I've ever seen."

"I know, right?"

Lisa let go. She whooshed down the track and off the slightly raised end with a startled sound, catching herself with little stumbling hops to bleed off the momentum. Taylor caught her at the end, even if she didn't really need to.

"Thanks," Lisa said.

"Welcome."

They were standing close together. Lisa's eyes were dazzlingly green, and thanks to the dangerous slide, and also hopefully their lunch, they were not quite as tired as earlier. Lisa made a call. Taylor walked her to her ceremonial cab. They waited along the curb in a better part of town, side-by-side in the afternoon sunlight.

"Sorry for bailing early, again," Lisa said. "No one really tells you. When you start your own business, as much as the freedom is nice, you're always on call."

"It's alright. I had fun. We can just try again some other time."

The cab pulled up. Taylor wrapped Lisa in a hug, and Lisa returned it.

Lisa squeezed her. "Thanks for Lunch, Taylor."

Taylor squeezed her back. "You're welcome."

Lisa squeezed her again. "Really. Thank you."

"You're still welcome."

. . . . .

Taylor didn't stay out long that night. She headed home before twelve. The next morning Danny wised up to her game.

"Are you going to school today?"

What the hell, it was still a weekday? "Um, yes," Taylor said, faintly snide in her attempt to sound convincing.

He smiled into his coffee. "We can talk about a GED or something after school, or over the weekend, alright? But for now-"

Taylor pouted. "Yeah alright."

Danny left for work. Taylor shouldered her backpack and was out the door. She would get to see Emma, at least. It had been a day or two. She held to this thought all thought he bus ride to campus, that thought quickly becoming the only thing keeping her from pulling the cable early and bouncing off after more interesting things.

She stopped by her locker before the class started, hoping to pick up the odds and ends she'd left in it however many days ago. It had maybe actually been two weeks since she'd opened it. As Taylor looked at her locker door, taking in the new paint and new lock and new door, she realized that she hadn't actually opened her new locker once, nor did she know the combination. She bit her lip and tried her old combo.

…

Nope.

Well, shit.

"Oh look."

Taylor turned her head, and there was Emma. Just her this time. She looked tired. Her hair was slightly frazzled, not the smooth, sleek shine of yesteryear.

"You keep coming back."

Taylor jiggled the latch to her locker, hoping that maybe some magic would happen. "To school? I mean, I think I missed a few days."

"Yeah, I thought you finally understood. That no one wants you here."

"Well dad does, so that's at least one."

"And hey, if your mommy wasn't dead it'd be two."

Taylor looked over at her, bemused. "That's true. She'd probably be very upset with me, actually."

"Upset enough to cry for a week?"

Taylor pursed her lips. That one didn't quite work. "No? I hope not. That would be terrible. Honestly, I think the most upset I've ever made her was – remember when your dad picked us up from school, and I ended up staying over? But like, no one told her, and these weird coincidences had everyone missing her calls-"

"Just shut up. Is that all you can do? Bring up things we did when we were younger? You're stupid. We're done, do you understand? I dropped you. And it's pathetic that you can't let me go."

"I don't think it is," Taylor said. "Some of the best times of my life were with you. I couldn't let that go even if I wanted to."

"What the actual fuck is wrong with you." Emma stepped into her personal space. "Are you retarded? Are you literally retarded?" Emma went on to call her disgusting and revolting and other mean things. She was really on a roll. Working herself up into a frenzy, trying to tear Taylor down. Taylor watched her. The look, the attitude didn't suit her. Not at all.

They were close enough already. Taylor hugged her.

Emma jerked in her arms like she'd been electrocuted, and shoved her off, hard. Taylor's back bounced against the lockers.

"You fucking freak!"

The sharp 'f' was still there, Taylor could hear it. But it wasn't nostalgic this time. She sighed. "I know you remember."

Emma started up again, revving her engine, but Taylor stepped closer to her, gesturing for her to stop, and whatever Emma had started to say sputtered off.

"It wasn't that long ago. A year. Two years. You were my girl, do you remember? All the time we spent together, since we were kids. Sleepovers, and just sitting around, talking… My mom making us breakfast… Watching a late night movie and falling asleep on the couch. I didn't forget. I don't want to forget."

With every word Emma sputtered less and less, her handholds falling away, betraying her, and now she was reflexively backing away, preserving a distance between them. Taylor slowed her approach, and made her voice quiet.

"And I know you remember too. I can tell. Or you wouldn't care, would you? And I wondered why you changed. And I still do. What happened, Emma? Please, what happened? What can I do? You were there for me when I needed you. You remember that, don't you? I must have cried for a week straight. I kept getting snot on your shirts, using you like a tissue, but you never complained, not once. So it's my turn now. Please…" Taylor stepped forward. "Please, Emma. Just talk to me-"

Emma's hand blurred forward. Taylor's head jerked. Her cheek felt hot.

"F – fuck you, Taylor," Emma said, fiercely trying to look angry, but her voice was shaking, her snarl fracturing in the corners. "Fuck you." Then she left, aiming for her usual deliberate stride, but there was an obvious hurry in it.

Taylor let her go. She wasn't her mother. Not right now, at least. Right now patience was more important. And she had time. They both had the time.

School dragged on. Her confrontation with Emma slid into the back of her mind, overtaken by more pressing things. Like how she didn't have a pencil, or any paper, or really any scholastic materials at all. Once school ended Taylor caught a bus to her lair up north.

. . . . .

Conventional means had failed her, so now Taylor resorted to her last, most desperate gambit.

She created a thin metal box, and a stick, and some wire, and these, together with a can of tuna, Taylor assembled a most devious trap. A box on a stick with a pull-away wire. She set up the box in an alley a block from her secret crate base, taking cover around the corner.

The wire was coiled around her hand, and her arm was ready, so ready to tug. This cat would be de-flea'd, tonight. Maybe.

It was this reckless determination that allowed Taylor to maintain her silent prostration for upwards of two hours. It started getting dark.

She amused herself by pulling globs of glass from her backpack, and letting them loose on the ground, still tethered to her like she was walking pet slugs. She made them duel for her amusement. But all that really happened was they fused and became one mega-slug. She ate it. As Taylor chewed on her most fierce of combatants, someone cleared their throat behind her.

Taylor said, "Ahhck!" and rolled over onto her back. She inadvertently yanked on the wire, and there came the distant tinny crack of her box falling onto the tarmac. But alas – it trapped only air.

Miss Militia looked down at her; the both of them totally rocking the bandana look.

"Hello," Miss Militia said.

"Mish Milithah?" Taylor said, and then swallowed. "Ahem. Miss Militia, hello."

Miss Militia seemed to be trying not to laugh. "Am I interrupting something?"

"No, no," Taylor hurried to say. She stood and brushed herself off. "Well, kind of. I'm not having a lot of luck."

Miss Militia sneaked a glance around the corner. "With…?"

"I'm trying to catch a cat."

Miss Militia's eyebrows remained raised.

"So I can help with his fleas."

Still raised.

"But he's avoiding me."

Miss Militia didn't seem to have a response for that. She cleared her throat, donning the heavy cape of professionalism. "I believe you are the cape who's made a claim on this area?"

"Yeah, people keep saying that. I didn't really do anything, though."

"Alright... Well, I am here on the behalf of the Brockton Bay protectorate, and also as a favor to a friend. Do you have time to talk?"

"Of course," Taylor said, "Just let me prime the trap again."

Taylor reset the box and stick, and took her place around the corner, her back to the wall. Miss Militia remained where she was. Taylor gestured for Miss Militia to sit next to her. After a moment of hesitation she did, first swiping away a few bits of gravel with her boot. She was wearing a duffle bag over her shoulder, and she put it down between her and Taylor as she sat.

"It's nice to meet you," Taylor said, offering her free hand. "Really just super cool to meet you, actually. In person."

Miss Militia took her hand. "It's nice to meet you, too." There was a brief pause, and her eyes crinkled. "I like your bandana."

Taylor's face scrunched up like she'd eaten a lemon. She replied thickly, "I like yours too."

The sun was almost down. The light was dusky gold. They sat in the shadow of the warehouse, a column of light extending from the alleyway beside them.

"From what we understand, you've been out here for a few days now, at least. Has everything been alright?"

"No problems," Taylor said.

"No fights? Harassment?"

"No, people seem to leave me alone. I mean, I did have a run-in with some Merchants earlier, but-"

Miss Militia cut her off. "Merchants? What happened?"

Taylor told her.

"What?"

Taylor recapped for her.

"No, you... Merchants, right? They were with the Merchants? The gang?"

"Yeah, I think so. I never really asked, but I think they did mention it."

"Huh."

"They seemed nice." Taylor saw a shadow moving in the alleyway and poked her head around the corner. There was nothing there.

"Well, that's… good. I suppose. Before we go any further, there was the matter of..." Miss Militia fished something out of a pack on her hip and held it up.

Taylor actually gasped – birdbear! Then her eyes ran over Miss Militia, taking in the dark hair and the olive skin. "You were Miss Militia?" In retrospect she felt a whole lot better about that sale, now. She always knew he was destined for greatness.

"I was," Miss Militia said. "A friend of mine ran mister… birdbear, I believe, through some tests. And he would like to extend a trade offer to you."

Though Taylor made a face at the word tests, picturing needles and x-ray's and pokey-proddy machines, she realized that this was likely not the case and answered in the positive. "Okay. What does he want?"

"He would like a square foot of this material, as thin as you can make it. And in exchange-" Miss Militia jostled the duffle bag between them, "you get this."

Taylor poked the bag. "What is?"

Miss Militia seemed to smile. "Open it."

Taylor unzipped it. The duffle bag was full of square panes and clinking, cluttery things. Rods and wafers and containers with twisty tops. It probably weighed about thirty pounds.

"It probably doesn't look like much," Miss Militia said. "But from what I understand these materials are very difficult to come by without funding."

Miss Militia hadn't needed to explain at all. Taylor ran her fingers over the edge of a series of square plates. She could tell that they were special just by looking at them. One was deep shimmering blue, another was steely grey, dark black, silver. She picked up a container with a twisty top. It was filled with a coil of gold, the type used for soldering. It was gold, glimmering gold!

Taylor realized she was drooling and slurped. Her eyes went to Miss Militia, deadly serious. "I agree. Tell your friend I love him."

Miss Militia laughed. "Well. You know where we're located. You can take the bag now, just get the material to us as soon as you can."

"I can just do it now, would that work?"

"Yes?" Miss Militia said. "But don't you need-" She trailed off when Taylor reached into her backpack and pulled out a handful of molten glass. "Um."

Taylor pulled down her bandana and took a bite. "Oh, did you wan' any color?"

Miss Militia said, "No. Did you just put that in your mouth?"

Taylor blew a bubble. It didn't so much pop as sadly-deflate. "Yeah."

As Taylor continued to chew, maybe eating just a little of it in the process, Miss Militia remarked, "Many things just started to make more sense."

Taylor pulled the blob out of her mouth and stretched it between her fingers, slowly stretching it out and flattening it down in the air. It turned out Taylor could make it surprisingly thin, and so the commission ended up larger than anticipated; less the size of a floor tile and more the size of half a beach towel. She cut it into quarters and lined them up in her hands, then passed the stack over.

Miss Militia accepted the stack. "Thank you. So… that is how you make these things?"

"Mm-hm. The pretty stuff, at least."

Miss Militia's eyes fell to her hip-pack, birdbear residing within. "Huh."

"Was there anything else you wanted?"

"Oh, yes. Just a few questions. Have you considered joining the protectorate?"

"I have. I'm on the ropes, at the moment. Weighing some options."

"Good. You do have options, don't forget it. Would you be willing to stop by the PRT building downtown for power testing in the future?"

Taylor mulled it over. "Maybe? Would I get to explore?"

Miss Militia nodded. "We would show you around."

"But would I get to explore?"

"Well, no?"

"Oh."

That was the end of that line of questioning.

"Have you picked a name?"

"Like a cape name? Nah. I don't want one."

"Really… Usually that is the first thing new capes do, especially ones around your age. Alright. Well, that's all. You've been very forthcoming, thank you."

"You're welcome. You're off now, then?"

"Yes."

"Alright. Well it was really cool meeting you – again, technically."

"Likewise."

Taylor pulled one of the little squares of metal from her new duffle bag and took a bite. It was – murky. The smell of mahogany in taste form. She wasn't sure if she liked it or not. As Taylor contemplated this, Miss Militia stood, and Taylor sneaked a glance around the corner at her box-trap. It was empty still. But it was only a matter of time. Boxes were as magnets to cat-kind, and that Tuna was giving off literal stink lines, even in the dark. It was inevitable.

Miss Militia watched Taylor's face cycle through these thoughts, and hesitated where she stood, shifting her weight back and forth. "Actually… Would you mind if I stuck around, a little longer?"

Taylor eagerly patted the ground beside her. Miss Militia took a seat there once again, seeming more at ease now.

"Do you… eat those things?" she asked. "Metals? And glass?"

"I do," Taylor confirmed around a mouthful of mystery-metal.

Miss Militia pulled up a knee and rested her chin on it. "What do they taste like?"

That sparked a very long, very in depth conversation. Taylor sampled things from the bag, making faces as things were too sour or too salty, or too delicious or too awful. Miss Militia asked her about other things, mundane and ordinary, and Taylor answered her earnestly. Before long it was properly dark; the sun all the way down, the moon up over the bay. The wire was coiled around Taylor's hand, and she was ready to spring the trap.

"Why don't you want to join?" Miss Militia asked, quietly. "The protectorate, that is."

Taylor took a thoughtful bite from a different plate. She took a handful from it, too, coiling it around her wrist. It glowed beautifully. "There was a time where I would have wanted to. Recently, even. Very recently. I'd have been kicking down your door, asking where to sign."

"What changed?"

"I changed." Taylor took another bite. "I had a lot of anger in me, I think. Or something like anger. Frustration. Confusion. So it wouldn't have been so much 'I want to be a hero,' as 'I want to hurt someone and be right.' Does that make sense?"

"It does," Miss Militia admitted. "A lot of sense."

"Well... Good. Or, not good. But accurate. As for now… Well." Taylor looked over at her. "Why did you join?"

"Why?" Both of Miss Militia's legs were drawn up, her arms crossed over her knees. She ran a hand over her hair, and left it there, her fingers curled around her nape. "It's…"

"You don't have to tell me."

"Oh, it's not like that, don't worry. It's just not very flattering. I was very young, and in a terrible place. At the time it was my only option. The only option that wasn't horrible. I don't regret it. But, all the same, I would not be used for a Protectorate commercial, if that makes any sense."

"It does," Taylor said. "Lots of sense. My dad said that people get powers in bad places. So you can't be the only one with that kind of story, right?"

"I suppose not."

"Mm. Well… As for now, why I'm not really keen on the idea… Oh, hold on. Shhh..." Taylor heard something. Miss Militia went to speak, but Taylor held up a hand to quiet her. She could hear it clearly now, the rumbling purr cats sometimes made when they ate. She sneaked a glance around the corner-

TAIL!

Taylor yanked on the wire. The box fell. For a moment there was only stillness, then the box started jostling about.

"I did it!" Taylor cried. She patted down her pockets and retrieved a tube of flea meds. She popped the cap, got it ready, and then and only then did she approach the box. It was go-time. She was pumped. Miss Militia followed along behind her, unnoticed.

Taylor took hold of the box, mentally preparing herself for what was to come. She lifted a corner up. There was a flash of fur. She grabbed it and caught it. It was the cat, but it wasn't, too. There was none of the pride, none of the bravado. No haughtiness, no taunting. It squirmed and writhed in her hands, clawing and keening with abandon. Taylor grabbed it about its shoulders, struggling just to keep it from wriggling away.

Miss Militia appeared before her. "What do you need me to do?"

Taylor went with it. "Tube in my sweater front pocket, get it."

Miss Militia did. "What now?"

"A thin strip between his shoulders, how much toothpaste you'd put on a toothbrush. Part the fur, try to get it on the skin."

Taylor kept the cat steady, ignoring the frantic clawing and hissing. Miss Militia parted the fur between his shoulders and applied a strip of flea medicine.

"Okay," Taylor said, "Stand back." Miss Militia took a step back.

Taylor let him go. The cat seemed to spin in place, a blur of limbs and fur, and then he was bounding off into the dark, devilishly fast. Taylor fell back onto her butt, her energy suddenly leaving her. "Wow."

"He really did not like that," Miss Militia said.

"No he did not," Taylor agreed. "But it's fine. Things are like that, sometimes."

"Are you alright? He clawed you pretty bad."

"Hm?" Taylor looked down at herself, only now noticing the stark lines drawn across the backs of her hands. They weren't bleeding, not bleeding blood at least, thought it would have been hard to tell in the moonlight. Instead a glowing goo was slowly oozing out, incredibly viscous, congealing into beads along the wounds. Taylor ran her tongue along the cuts. It tasted strange, unappealing somehow. When she pulled her hand away the cuts were gone.

Taylor decided not to worry about it. She turned to Miss Militia. "Thank you for helping me with him. You didn't have to. This is probably pretty far below your pay-grade."

"I…" Miss Militia decided not to worry about it as well, apparently. "You're welcome."

Taylor stood and brushed herself off. "I'm done for the night, I think."

"Likewise."

"It was nice talking with you," Taylor said. "You're as nice as I thought you were. I'm glad."

Miss Militia didn't seem to know how to respond. There was a soft smile lurking beneath her bandana. "Have a good night, Taylor."

Taylor beamed. "You too."

. . . . .

(4)

The duffle bag took her shoulder. Taylor carried her backpack in her hand. It dangled by the little strap on the top, swinging as she walked. She got home late. Danny was on the couch again, the television on and mumbling in the background. She shut it off and woke him up.

He sucked in a a breath through his nose. His eyes opened. He noticed her as he stretched and cracked his back.

"I keep telling you to go to bed," Taylor said. She took his hands and pulled him off the couch. He was neither that old nor that tired, but accepted her help without comment. "I'm fine. You don't need to worry."

"I'm always gonna worry about you, kiddo. That's not gonna change."

"Don't change. Just stop worrying."

Danny laughed. He clunked up the stairs, remarking, "Wow you are your mother."

Taylor followed suit soon after, unloading her backpack and duffle bag in her room, by her folding table and half-tent. The pile of things was getting bigger.

Taylor went down the stairs the following morning.

Danny was up, but not business-y. No suit, no tie. Still coffee, though. The french-press loomed beside the kitchen sink, gently wafting steam. Yesterday's newspaper spread in his hands, crinkly and newspapery. "Morning."

Taylor opened the fridge for some reason. "Mornin' pops."

Their breakfast routine proceeded as usual. Only, he didn't mention anything about school or work, and so Taylor felt a compulsion to ask, "Uh, what day is it?"

"Saturday, kiddo."

Taylor gasped loudly.

"Yeah that's right – you're free."

As Taylor took a seat and sagged back into her chair, mentally going over the sheer number of activities she could fit into that freshly vacated time-slot, Danny asked, hesitantly, "Did you have any plans?"

"No."

"Do you want to… Do something later?"

It had been a very long time since he had asked her that. "Yeah."

He seemed very out of practice. "Do you want to… Um. See a movie, later? Maybe get lunch after?"

"Yeah!"

He startled.

A halfhour later they piled into his truck and left. The radio was on, a little quiet, leaving room to talk. He didn't know what the theater was showing. Taylor didn't even care at all. The conversation flickered, airy and casual.

They were at a red light when a sick filthy beat came on over the radio. Taylor turned it up and started waggling her shoulders, shooting him a look. Recognition flashed in his eyes, and he started waggling his shoulder too. And now they were both waggling their shoulders, stonefaced.

"I don't understand this music," he said.

"Not s'posed to."

They pulled up at the theater and bought tickets to the quirkiest sounding title. The movie was terrible. Just awful. The showing was nearly empty; just them and a smattering of singles, all evenly distributed across the lots of empty chairs. To make up for the poor showing he started making extra terrible dad jokes.

"We should have gotten popcorn," he whispered, "I would just get corn. And it would be pop-corn."

Taylor laughed maybe a little harder than she should have.

"W - we should have gotten snacks," Taylor said, still cracking up, "But I – I would just – T – Taylacks."

He definitely laughed harder than merited.

The jokes descended in quality from there, somehow. They left before the showing finished, and went through a fast food drive-thru on the trip back. A bag of fries and burgers took the cupholder. The fries would not make it home.

"How's school?" he asked.

"It's fine," Taylor said.

"You missed a lot of time. Has everything been alright? You're caught up?"

"Oh, no not at all. I have no idea what people are talking about."

He laughed even though he probably shouldn't have. "Well I'm not going to force you, but I - I would prefer you got a high school degree – or an equivalent. Just that, at least."

Taylor shrugged. "I wouldn't mind. I've heard it's a good idea from some other people too."

"Have you looked into getting a G.E.D?"

Taylor shook her head. She had been concerning herself with much more important things, such as cats and making little figurines duel for her amusement.

"I figured… Well, I have looked into it. It's not hard. Supposedly it is the easiest test you will ever take. Register online, pick a place, show up with a pencil… We can... Set it up later?"

Taylor nodded slowly, noticing something. "We can."

He snuck a fry.

"Mom would probably be upset with me, I think," Taylor said.

"Oh would she ever."

Taylor snuck a fry. "She'd want me to go to college, right?"

"For sure. That was her thing."

Taylor looked at him, a fry poking out of her mouth. She kept looking at him until he understood, and the atmosphere of the car changed. The music was quieter, the engine louder. She heard him sigh.

"You're different." He was focused on driving, his eyes always on the road when they were moving, never looking away. Taylor wouldn't ask him to. "You're happy, now. Happier than I've seen you in a long time. I don't know why. I don't care why. I wasn't there for you, I know that. So I lost that right, to tell you what to do. I just want you to be happy. That's all. So... Really, Anne would be mad at me, not you."

Taylor put her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, I think she'd be plenty mad at both of us."

He sighed again, a shade thicker. "Oh, would she ever."

The fries didn't make it home. The burgers did.

It was eleven thirty. They lounged around the kitchen table and finished off the fast food. As Taylor crumpled the burger-wrapper and tossed in the trash, their phone began to ring. She went still, as did Danny at the table. As one, she and Danny looked at the ringing phone, startled and suspicious.

Taylor was already standing, so she volunteered. "I'll get it." Click. "Hello?"

The response was immediate. "Hello, this is Armsmaster with the Brockton Bay Protectorate. Is this the Hebert residence?"

Taylor's mouth opened but no sounds came out. She looked at the receiver, but it was a phone receiver, so how would it help her. She looked at Danny, but he had not developed super-human hearing powers since the last time she looked at him, so also didn't know what was going on. "This is Taylor?"

"You spoke with a coll – a friend of mine. Yesterday, I believe? You expressed interest in exploring. I would like to extend you an offer to explore the Rig, contingent on a few tests in my workshop. Would you be interested in that?"

"Say again please?"

Armsmaster repeated himself.

Taylor made a dry, raspy sound. Danny had mentioned calls from the Protectorate in the past, but this seemed quite the escalation. "Yes. That sounds - awesome, and amazing."

"Ah, excellent!" He sounded thrilled. Taylor hopped a little. "Do you need a ride to the ferry station?"

Taylor almost said 'no' but caught herself. Public transportation was fine and well in the same way nutrient paste was; and here she had a potentially delicious option. Or at least a not-bland one. "Yes please."

"Alright, I will arrange a ride from your address to the ferry station. Would you prefer the rest via speedboat or helicopter?"

Taylor's face split into a smile. What a question. She mulled it over. "Boat, please. Sounds more fun."

"Boat it is, then. When would be a good time?"

Her answer was immediate. "Right now?"

"You are still a minor, is your father… I believe Danny, avail-"

She turned to Danny, and extra little bounce in her movements. "Can I go to the Rig today?"

He replied without missing a beat. "Like the Protectorate Rig? Yeah, sure kiddo. Have fun."

And so it was that Taylor restlessly squirmed about their living room for the next twenty minutes. She didn't know what she was waiting for, so every passing car and sudden sound perked her ears and had her running to the window to look. A woman walking a dog. A van speeding on past. One time it was literally nothing. She was maybe going insane.

And then a rumbling engine-sound approached and came to a stop. Taylor just about teleported to the window. It was a sleek motorcycle with one passenger, an extra helmet strapped to the back. Taylor watched as they dismounted the bike and pulled off their helmet. Black hair and olive skin.

Taylor gasped her most loudest gasp yet. She was out the front door in an instant, offering a garbled Byedadseeyoulater as she slammed the door behind her. They approached each other in the driveway, Miss Militia offering a wave and a smile as they drew close. She was out of costume. Her teeth were dazzling.

"Hello again, Taylor."

"Hey," said Taylor, quickly.

"Are you ready to head out, then?"

"Yeah."

"There was the option of bringing one of the vans, but I believed you would appreciate this more?"

Taylor nodded viciously.

Miss Militia put her helmet back on. Taylor put on the spare. They hopped on the bike, the engine rumbled to life. It was different than a car, Taylor felt as they pulled away. So open to the road and the world. No plushy seat at her back, no headrest, no armrest. Just a set of footrests and a waist to hold on to. The aura of freedom rode with them. For a brief moment Taylor wanted to tell Miss Militia to take the long way. Get on the highway, crank the throttle, let's go back in time.

But Miss Militia was a cautious, careful driver, doubly so with a passenger to take responsibility for. Taylor wouldn't ask her to compromise that, even if she wanted to. Wow did she want to.

"What do I call you, by the way?" Taylor asked at a light.

The light changed. Their feet went back on the footrests. The engine purred to life. Miss Militia called back warmly, "Call me Hannah."

The trip was relatively short and straightforward; a line through downtown to the midway ferry station. The bike rarely got above thirty miles an hour. No weaving through traffic, no engine revving. Still Taylor could not keep the giggles down. I should get a bike, Taylor thought.

They arrived at the ferry station fifteen minutes later. Miss Militia parked her bike in the public lots. A small boat waited for them at the station, a little off to the side at a private pier. It was a police-cruiser looking thing, the type of boat that gets made into bathtub-toys. The wheel at the helm under a sleek air shield, framed by screens and gizmos, a wide flat bed, the edges lined with booth seats, big enough to sit eight or ten.

It was still early in the day. Just past twelve, Taylor would guess. The sun was up, the air was warm, the bay spread out in front of them, choppy and glittering. In the far distance the Rig waited for them, beckoning.

The captain waved them on and they hopped aboard. The boat took off at a fair pace. It felt different from a car as well – like she was on a motorcycle again, but this time there was only an expanse of road in every direction.

Take us out to sea, captain!, Taylor really wanted to say, Let's find the edge of the earth! But she had even less sway here, and so squashed those impulses down. She settled for leaning over the edge and sticking her hand in the water, casting up curtains of spray. It was delightfully cold, and the salt-smell hit her like a cooking dinner would; alluring and savory.

The Rig was getting bigger as they approached. It was a refitted oil rig. At the time of its construction it came in two parts: the first was this big, four-legged turtle looking thing. It seemed to stand atop the water, its main blockish body big enough to fit two 747 airplanes side-by-side with plenty of room to spare. A platform with a big crane sat beside it on legs of its own, the two of them attached by a thick bridge.

Now, many years later, the crane had been salvaged, turned into a communications tower; its top bristling with antennae and dishes instead of cables and hooks. The main platform had all the mining equipment salvaged as well, and the top built up higher; the internal rooms expanded into proper quarters and labs. It looked halfway between an oil rig and an futuristic apartment complex, all the more appealing for it.

Taylor could see ladders and scaffolding coiling around the structure as they drew closer. She started to wiggle in her seat. "Armsmaster said I could explore, right?"

"He did," Hannah said. "He put in a request and got you a special access pass. Speaking of-" she pulled a little ID card out of her pocket and handed it over.

Taylor clipped it to her sweater. "How will that work?"

"Well, there will still be a few off-limits areas: the prison floors, personal quarters, unless invited in, and a few odds and ends that will no doubt warn you in advance. Other than that –" Hannah cast an imperious look at her, "Lead on and I shall follow."

The Rig was still getting bigger. It felt almost alien; the shape of it, the sheer size; the massive square legs jutting out of the bay, holding this Aircraft-hangar-large structure fifty feet over the water.

"I can go on those scaffolding looking things, right?"

"Oh they're fixed structures – and yes."

The boat finally pulled up alongside the Rig, turning and puttering between two of the legs. The main structure loomed above them, leaving them in its shadow. The captain called back from the helm - about eight feet away from them, "You want the elevator or the ladder?"

The elevator would come down where the drill would have, spitting them out inside the Rig, while the ladder would keep them on the scaffolding route, curling around the outside. The answer was obvious. "Ladder!"

"Okay good." The rest was a stage whisper, " I don't trust that goddamn elevator."

The boat pulled up near one of the legs, each side of the leg bigger than the boat was long. There was a ladder bolted against it, extending down into the water and up to the structure. The metal was splotchy with rust. The water chopped at the bottommost rungs. Taylor hopped onto the side of the boat and started climbing. Hannah followed behind her.

They emerged onto a base platform, surrounding the whole fixture. Taylor waited until they both were aboard before picking a direction and heading off. That direction: right. She took them across scaffolds, up ladders, turning here, turning there; more concerned with the ocean at her right than the walls and windows at her left.

"Where is everyone?" Taylor asked.

"Inside," Hanna said.

Taylor stopped and shot her a glance. "Inside? Why? Working?"

"Well, yes. Also these are used as emergency routes. In case of power outages, fires... Not closed off, they just don't see much foot traffic."

"… Baffling."

Taylor carried on. They were getting higher. There was a little observatory-looking tower at one corner of the Rig, and the scaffolding extended up to it like the emergency escape of an apartment building.

"Why were you so set on exploring, anyways?" Hannah asked. "Armsmaster was set on getting you here, somehow. You could have asked for just about anything, you know? Not just... wandering around this place."

"Is that a joke? I've wanted to see this place in person since I heard of it, however many years ago. Who gets that chance? Workers and… PRT staff, and… Protectorate parahumans, like you. No one, practically. I've been messing around with my power since I got it, I don't need a lab for that, but at the same time I never had anything against it. So why wouldn't I accept that trade?"

Hannah seemed slightly taken aback. Taylor carried on.

Slightly rusted ladder rungs. Resonating, clanging scaffolding. Railing with just a hint of give. All this old metal coiled around new beep-boop things, it charmed her. Finally, they arrived at the highest peak of that part of the rig, and Taylor took a seat there, her legs over the side of the scaffold, straddling a strut of the railing. Hannah took a seat beside her.

They faced the wide, endless ocean. The sun was still high in the sky, the breeze strong and cold, carrying with it the smell of salt. That strange field that the Rig projected kept the seagulls from settling on it, and so they fluttered in packs around some invisible boundary, their calls muted and their shapes small in the distance. Taylor and Hannah were in some other place, separate from the normal world. The isolation made it feel new. Taylor pressed her cheek to the cool strut of the railing and drew a breath through her nose.

"Do you ever come up here?" Taylor asked.

There was a brief pause, and Taylor grinned at it. It was the casual pause of contemplation. "No, not really… Mostly just… Inside, and about."

"Mm? Why's that? I think I'd be out here every chance."

"When I was first stationed here, I was out here, semi-frequently. But. Well, I have a very good memory. The appeal doesn't quite last if you know it like the back of your hand, you know?"

"Yeah, I guess." Taylor said.

"Still... I never did climb all the way up here."

"Oh that's fine. I just... If I ever happen across a ladder, I get this urge to climb it. Even if it's just poking into the ceiling of a grocery store."

Hannah chuckled. "I understand."

"Thank you for the ride, by the way. It was fun... Like, a pretty lot of fun."

"You're welcome."

Taylor took another long breath through her nose. "What a view, huh?"

"No kidding… "

A brief silence stretched between them.

"I never really asked, how long do I have to wander around?"

"A few hours, at the very least. Your pass lasts the whole day, technically, but Armsmaster would prefer to see you as soon as he can."

They didn't stay up there much longer. Taylor burned the sight into her brain, filing it under Do Not Forget. They headed back down, Hannah leading the way this time. She led Taylor inside the Rig.

They walked through hallways with cameras and swiveling nozzles, and came upon a big room full of tables, benches, and a line of glass sneeze guards. There were a few people there, men and woman in PRT gear, minus the helmets. A few of the staff muddled about behind the sneeze-guards. "Cafeteria," Hannah said. "Hungry?"

Taylor had the sneaking suspicion that she would be eating later. "I'm good."

Down more hallways, framed with closed door after closed door. "The Rig isn't particularly tour-friendly," Hanna said. "Living quarters, cafeteria, labs, a few storage rooms…" Prison quarters… Missile silos… "You've seen the most interesting parts by now."

Hannah wasn't wrong. Things were usually pretty mundane once the veneer peeled back, and the Rig was no exception. But that didn't mean it wasn't amazing. Taylor could see the bay outside the windows they passed, the day still bright and beautiful. It was a shame none of the windows had sliders, but that would probably defeat the purpose of bulletproof glass. "Do you live here?"

"I have a room here. And a room at the PRT building downtown. So I kind of live at both?"

"Which is your favorite?"

"Oh here, definitely. Bigger, quieter, a good view."

Hannah could have justified her opinion with 'Because it's awesome,' and Taylor would have accepted her reasoning without question. "Where am I supposed to meet Armsmaster?"

"His lab. If you're ready I can take you there. It's a bit out of the way."

Taylor was ready. Hannah lead her down more halls and turns, and eventually they were at Armsmaster's lab. As Hannah rang a buzzer, Taylor observed that his lab shared more in common with a bank vault than a lab. The door was big and solid, a hand scanner and other biometric checks spread where the doorknob would have been.

The door hissed like an an airlock and opened, and a man emerged from behind it. He was in casual wear, just his blue helmet and well-groomed beard left to brand him Armsmaster. There was a stripe of grease on his cheek. His looked at Hannah first, noticing her lack of bandana.

"I trust her," Hannah said.

He nodded. "Alright. Thank you, by the way."

Hannah smiled. "You're welcome."

Now Armsmaster looked at Taylor. "Taylor! Welcome." He offered his hand. "It's good to meet you."

Taylor took his hand absently, her head in the clouds. "Grease to meet you too."

Neither of them noticed the mixup. "Ah - let's get on with it, shall we? Come in, come in."

He stepped back. The door swung open.

Armsmaster's lab was about the size of two classrooms. There were tables everywhere. Wall-hooks bristled with servos, wires and tools; heavy machinery lined the walls like arcade cabinets; lathes and presses and other things Taylor had no names for. Armsmaster's trademark armor was on a display rack, the left leg gutted, wires and blinking things drooling out. "Pardon the mess," he said, rummaging about in a series of drawers, "I was working on something."

Taylor slowly followed him in, dazed. "Coooooool."

"Do you mind if I stick around?" Hannah asked, poking her head in around Taylor.

Armsmaster and Taylor responded at the same time.

"By all means," he said.

"Cooool," Taylor said.

Hannah took a seat on one of the many stools littering the floor. She pulled up her legs and spun around, further cementing her place in Taylor's heart as most bestest Protectorate hero ever.

"I had a few planned experiments – well, no, not quite experiments," Armsmaster still rummaged about through drawers of who-knew-what, retrieving things and tossing them onto a nearby table. "That material you gave me? In short, it is the most efficient insulator I have ever seen. Quite ridiculous. Dragon called it… Oh what was the word she used…."

He trailed off in thought, chuckling in realization moments later. "Offensive. And so…" He walked to a mostly empty table and plopped a few things down, beckoning Taylor over. Taylor pulled up a stool and took a seat. "There were just a few things… I won't waste your time."

Taylor wondered how such a thing would even be possible, but decided not to comment on it. She clapped her hands on the table. "Okay. What's up?"

"Here, take this." Armsmaster handed her a black rock, reminisce of a little piece of coal. "I would like to see if you can turn that into a liquid – But! Before you do anything…" He stood and arranged a series of blast shields, cordoning Taylor off into the corner and leaving him, Hannah, and the rest of his lab behind it. He flipped as switch. The ventilation system kicked on with a low thrum. "Okay, ready."

Taylor decided not to worry about it. The lump softened and collapsed, and she made it a ball in her hand. "Oh wow-!" It was dazzlingly bright. Hard to look at, almost. The ventilation system kicked up a notch; air tousled her hair.

"Oh wow…" Armsmaster said to himself, looking on intently through the clear part of the blast shield. "Could you make that into a sheet, like you did with the other material?"

Taylor popped it into her mouth and chewed. It didn't taste very good. Kind of bad, even; like the bitter of dark chocolate but without any of the sweetness. She made a sheet and made it solid. Armsmaster disassembled the blast shields and accepted the sheet from her.

He took it to a weird machine, looking at wavy lines and graphs on the display. "Oh, I probably should have explained first, shouldn't I?"

"Yes," Hannah said, flatly, while Taylor shrugged. He saw neither of them.

"That was about two dollars' worth of graphite – or, carbon. Typically, carbon sublimes – that is, turns to a gas at its melting point. Liquid carbon can only exist under significant pressure… And yet, there it was; liquid carbon in your hand… Under no pressure."

"Sorry," Taylor said.

He laughed. "Oh, and, carbon sublimes at around 3,900 Kelvin. For reference, water boils at 370 K, and the surface of the sun is 5,800 K."

Taylor made an appreciative sound. "Neat."

"That is neat," Armsmaster agreed, his eyes narrowed on the screen, a shade too intensely. "That's very neat…"

A long stretch of silence followed. "So… What's the news?" Taylor asked, "Am I a wizard?"

"More or less." He detached the sheet from the machine, sounding almost resigned. "I gave you two dollars of drawing-grade graphite, and you gave me five-thousand dollars of layered graphene."

Taylor eyebrows perked at the mention of the large sum of money, but before she could ask further Armsmaster turned and said, "One more thing I wanted to test, if you wouldn't mind?"

"Uh, no. Not at all."

He asked her to chew together another piece of graphite and a brittle, blue-gray metallic metal. She made the sheet. He took it to his machine. "Oh my…" He let out a breath and rubbed his mouth. When he spoke again his voice quiet, almost wavering. "You made a semi-conductor."

"Sounds semi-good, eh?" Taylor chuckled. "I'm pretty funny."

That marked the end of the investigation.

Armsmaster – or, Colin, as he removed his visor and introduced himself – saw her off, informing her that she would receive a check in the mail for her work, and that he would be getting in contact with her again very soon. He also asked her not to tell anyone about the results.

He looked tired. There were big bags under his eyes. And he was pale. Clammy, almost. Physically he looked good: fit and strong, fed and groomed, and yet somehow he managed to look unhealthy. Taylor couldn't imagine how he'd kept the technical conversation going in such a state, but she didn't comment, and neither did Hannah.

They got on a boat headed back to the ferry station. It was late in the day now, five or six. The light was a shade darker, more saturated. The bay still gleamed though, no less beautiful. The pilot took the trip slow at Taylor's request.

"He looked tired," Taylor said to Hannah.

"He probably was."

It was a strange sensation, finding out your heroes were people with problems just like everyone else. But it didn't make them any less inspiring. "Does that happen a lot?"

"Mm." Hannah spread her arms over the back of her bench, relishing the sea air. "He doesn't get much sleep. He's a… a coffee person."

"Tell him to sleep more."

Hannah cracked a grin. "I do tell him."

"Well then tell him to get out of his lab, too. Just for a bit." Hannah raised a brow at her and Taylor hedged, "Take him up to that awesome scaffold spot. I think he'd appreciate the break."

Hannah shot her a mock-sullen look. "I make no promises."

The boat ride ended. They hopped on Hannah's bike and zipped off to Taylor's house. Taylor waved as Hannah sped away, and the sound of her bike slowly faded into the distance.

Danny was on the couch, lounging in sweats, looking glad for the break. Taylor took the other end, sprawling along the remaining space.

"How was your day?" He asked

Taylor doubted that there were words in the English language that could describe how she'd felt on the boat ride there and back, or on that fairly dangerous highest-point scaffolding. She settled for, "Amazing." It would have to suffice. "Oh um… Also, we might be getting a check for like, five thousand dollars or something, in the mail..."

They both stared vacantly at the television. He started to laugh.

. . . . .

It was still the weekend the next morning; some strange alien day called Sunday. A call came during breakfast. Taylor was poking around in the cupboard, busy picking up cups and then putting them right back down, completely caught up in planning out her day, so Danny answered.

"This is Danny… Hm? Oh, yes. Just a sec." He turned to her. "It's for you. Someone called Lisa?"

Taylor gasped and took the phone from him. "Hello?"

Lisa's voice answered. "Hey Taylor, how's it going?"

Taylor leaned against the wall, twiddling the cord. "Good. Great. How are you?" I was just going to call you, Taylor didn't say.

"Oh I'm good too. Um… Alright, look. I'm inviting you over for dinner. Is that… Are you game?"

Taylor gasped again. Gasping was fun, people should gasp more. "Yes, totally. I'll bring snacks."

"Don't bring snacks. Wait, you mean - yeah, brings snacks. I'll pick you up at six?"

Taylor smiled goofily. "Yeah."

"Okay. I'll see you at six, then. Bye."

"Bye."

Taylor made no move to hang up. She heard Lisa huff a laugh through her noise and the line went dead. She put the phone back on the receiver.

"What's up?" Danny asked.

"I'm having dinner with Lisa tonight."

"A friend?"

"Mm. I like her a lot."

"You need a ride?"

"Nah."

That was the end of that discussion, for the moment. The whole day was ahead of her still. The microwave told her the time was 8:17. That meant Taylor had nine whole hours and forty three whole minutes left to have fun before she had to be ready to do even more fun things. What a conundrum.

She caught a bus to her secret lair, bringing along her new duffle bag full of mystery and wonder, and like five pounds of sand. Her lair needed something. She liked the stairs, and the veranda, but it really needed more color and windchimes. With her duffle bag full of mystery metals, Taylor set about fixing this.

Taylor made glass bubbles and swirls, and hung them on wires from the roof of her veranda. They came in blues and greens, and finally also in reds. Brilliant, fiery reds; they made her warm just looking at them. She passed the bulk of her remaining time there on her veranda, turning bits of metal into hollow tubes, clanging them together and finding the ones that sounded the best. It couldn't be too loud or too resonating, because then when they were all going it would just be this racket, like a bunch of gongs going at once. It had to ring sweet and short.

The chimes were done. She hung them on the corner of her veranda, on the side facing the bay. The breeze nudged them and they rang out, clunky. Taylor headed home.

. . . . .

Taylor got home early, at least half an hour before she needed to be ready to – eat, she guessed. She searched her dresser for her most fanciest clothes, realizing five minutes into the search that she was already wearing them. "Oh well."

She played the waiting game in the living room; wise to its alluring wiles by now, and so she tricked herself into calmly lying on the couch and waiting for the doorbell. This calm lasted right up until a car pulled a little into their driveway behind Danny's truck.

Taylor peered out the blinds. Lisa stood from the driver's side of a brown sedan.

Danny was somewhere in the house. But Taylor didn't know exactly where, so she settled for shouting, "Bye dad!" and then perking her ears. A moment later she picked up his distant reply, Bye Taylor! She was out the door in an instant, her bag over her shoulder.

"Hey," Lisa said, thankfully dressed to Taylor's level of casual. "You ready to go?"

"Yep."

"Alright, hop in."

The piled in her car. Lisa backed out of the driveway and they puttered off. It was six-fifteen, the dashboard said. The sun was at their left, gold and warm. It spilled across Lisa's shoulders and into Taylor's lap. She rolled down her window and let the air in. "I didn't know you had a car."

"Mm. Well, yeah, I do." Lisa's tone was like she'd admitted something shameful. "Just prefer not the drive when I can avoid it."

"Traffic?"

"Nah, just. One less thing to worry about, you know?"

Taylor didn't know personally, but could empathize.

They arrived at Lisa's house not long after. It was a little two-bedroom flat in one of the better parts of town. Lisa unlocked the front door and showed her in. "How do you feel about twice baked potatoes?"

"I feel good about that," Taylor said.

Lisa snorted. "I'll get things started. Feel free to look around, anywhere you want."

Taylor took her up on that offer.

It was a house. Just a normal house.

The kitchen with the old electric stove, the silver sink, cabinets and drawers, a big countertop. Lisa fiddled about with the oven-half of the stove, the potatoes on an oven sheet, all prepped and ready.

The living room, with a couch, and a little stand with an old television on top. No cable-box, just a connector for a laptop and an Ethernet cable.

The bathroom. It was a bathroom.

Taylor found Lisa's bedroom. The door was open, still she felt the urge to cling to the doorway and lean in, hesitant to actually set foot inside. It smelled nice, faintly flowery. The bed was by the window. Taylor saw the bird she'd sold Lisa hanging in that window, slowly spinning on a string. Taylor smiled. Birds belonged in the air, after all. He probably glowed in the morning, and only a fool of a bandit would dare enter Lisa's house with him guarding her at night.

Taylor found the other bedroom. It was the only room with a closed door. For a moment Taylor stood on the boundary, her hand hovering over the doorknob. As she was about to turn and join Lisa in the kitchen, she heard Lisa say, "Go ahead, it's not locked."

Taylor opened the door. It was dark. She flipped on the lights.

The room was Lisa's work office. A few tables stole the floor, cluttered with electronic equipment and folders. A laptop, printers, a police scanner? Speakers and a microphone, and an expensive looking camera. A few big corkboards hogged the wallspace, all cluttered with pinned-down pictures and maps and articles. Chaos, of sorts. But there was a deliberate quality to the mess.

"Welcome to the crime room."

Taylor turned her head, and there was Lisa just behind her, leaning against the doorframe with a pensive look on her face.

"Crime room?"

"Mm… So, what do you think?"

"It's…" Taylor looked the room over again. There were no personal effects. No framed photos, no knick-knacks. Even the paint was plain. That besides, it was missing some red string, tying those pinned up pictures and articles into a nonsensical web. "It's detective-y. I like it. I think it needs a little more color, though." Lisa didn't reply. When Taylor turned she found Lisa smiling at her. "What?"

Lisa nodded toward the kitchen. "Help me with dinner?"

Taylor headed to the kitchen. Lisa shut her office door and followed.

Dinner was salmon, spinach and baked potatoes. The potatoes would take a while. They decided not to wait for them. Lisa fried the salmon. Taylor clumsily cooked the spinach.

"It's not going to burn or anything," Lisa said.

Taylor poked the spinach with her spatula, as though to question it. "Are you sure?"

Lisa flipped the salmon. Taylor flipped each individual leaf.

"Just stop – here." Lisa playfully shoved her over.

"Alright, you do that, I'll stare at the salmon."

Taylor stared at it until Lisa told her to flip it.

The greens went in a bowl. The salmon went on a plate. They took the food to the living room. Lisa grabbed a laptop from her bedroom and hooked it up, streaming an old movie. The couch was big enough to comfortably fit two, and they each took an end.

Taylor gasped once the actual movie started playing. But her mouth was full, so she choked a little, and then she coughed and something shot out her nose. "Ack!"

Lisa choked on a bite of spinach. She covered her mouth as she giggled. "What's that about?"

Taylor cleaned herself up with a napkin, pointing at the screen. "Nightmare Before Christmas!"

"Yeah?"

"I love this movie!"

"Well good."

The mood was set. The movie played in the background.

"I remember from a little behind-the-scenes I saw," Taylor said, "They showed the town, and it was super tiny, all the characters were like six inches tall, and the director had this little shelf of Jack heads, like thirty of them, one for each expression, and he was complaining about how many heads they went through. I wanted one so bad."

"Oh yeah? I believe it. How old were you?"

"Oh this was like four months ago."

Lisa laughed.

The movie reached the middle.

The food was gone. The plates took the coffee-table. They were each spread out a little more; Lisa's feet up on the couch, Taylor sinking a little more down into the cushions.

"I remember reading this article," Lisa said, "Claimed that Oogie-Boogie was an allegory for fascism, and Jack was this strong-arm of the west type character, bumbling and dangerous even as he tries to be helpful."

Taylor pursed her lips. On screen, Oogie-Boogie made worm-faces at Santa Claus. "I could see it. What's the Mayor in that allegory? The guy with the spinny-head and two faces?"

"Oh, he's just a Mayor."

The movie neared the end.

The plates were by the kitchen sink, the baked potatoes in the fridge, wrapped in saran wrap. They each took an arm of the couch, resting their heads on their respective arms, their feet mingling in the middle.

"I feel bad for Oogie," Taylor said.

Lisa made a noise. "Well… He got a pretty raw deal, sure. Being a… Worm. In a sack of other bugs... Or is he all the bugs? What a confusing existence."

"He was so talented, too. Made all those machines, and the nut-cracker guys with the pop-up guns… And he knew how to work them all, and…"

"Truly their world is less with him gone."

Taylor breathed a sigh through her nose, bidding farewell to old Oogie-Boogie.

Lisa started snickering.

"What?" Taylor asked.

"You're ridiculous."

Taylor poked Lisa's foot with hers. "Nooo. It's sad. He even like, literally died in a fire. Like an actual pit of fire. That's so awful."

"And all he wanted to do was – kill Jack and wreak terror on the human world. Poor Oogie."

"Well I mean, there's an amount of flamboyance that comes with the territory of a fantasy setting, especially when it's aimed at young children, but I think if you get rid of the cartoon-villain goals and motivations and substitute in more internally-driven, complex replacements, and like, look at the setting as-"

Lisa laughed at her.

Taylor tried not to laugh too. She poked Lisa with her feet. "Noooo – because, because we're only ever given this one unflattering epoch of Oogie-Boogie's life, and-"

Lisa laughed harder.

"Noooo!"

The laughing, feet-poking fit came to an end around the time the credits started. Taylor didn't want to call it a night. Lisa must have caught on, or, hopefully, didn't want to call it quits either. She put on another movie; a silly rom-com about nothing. They took their ends of the couch, watching in comfortable silence.

"Thanks for having me over," Taylor said, not lifting her head from the couch.

Lisa poked her with her foot. "Glad to have you."

The movie ended. It was late, then. Late by people-who-needed-to-sleep's standards, at least. They put their shoes back on and headed out, Taylor's duffle slung over her shoulder, neither of them really acknowledging the end of the night. It was just a car ride, and tomorrow was another day. It wasn't goodbye. Just goodbye for now.

Just before Lisa locked the front door behind them, Taylor stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Oh, wait. Um – hold on." She brushed past Lisa, mentioning, "Forgot something, I'll just be a sec."

Lisa waited patiently. Two minutes later Taylor came out again. "Okay."

They hopped in her car. Lisa drove her home.

The trip took twenty minutes, and they were in no hurry. Lisa pulled up at Taylor's driveway, walked her to the door and wrapped her up in a hug.

"Goodnight Taylor."

Taylor squeezed her. "G'night."

Lisa didn't pull away. Neither did Taylor.

"Thank you," Lisa said.

"For eating your food?"

Lisa squeezed her. "No, you goof."

The hug lasted a little longer.

"I needed something," Lisa said. "And you, you're just… Sweet."

Then Lisa was off to her car, and Taylor was waving goodbye, watching her taillights fade off into the night.

. . . . .

Lisa pulled into her driveway and let herself in. She went to her office, to one of her corkboards. There was a new addition; a little Jack Skellington head on a wire, made of emerald green glass, that goofy curlicue grin pointed at her.

. . . . .

(5: final)

You couldn't spell 'Monday' without 'terrible.' Or, you could. In fact that was the only way you could spell it. As Taylor dwelled on this failed joke, Danny spoke from the kitchen table. "Morning."

"Mornin' pops."

"It's a Monday."

"I could feel it in my bones."

"Yeah I'm not thrilled either. To work with the both of us."

"Be strong, father."

"You too, kiddo."

She snuck a sip of his coffee. He took a strip of her bacon. Then he was off to work, and she was off to school, neither of them having looking into G.E.D.'s, or how one set about chasing one. But it wasn't all that bad. School could be fun. Taylor was convinced that School could be made fun, somehow. There just remained the matter of how. She thought on this during the bus ride over, and as she walked through the gate, heading through familiar halls and doors.

"Hey Emma," Taylor said, passing by her.

Emma made a particular face at her, and said something not very kind. She didn't look good. Frazzled and unkempt. Relatively speaking of course - she still looked good. Emma wouldn't leave the house otherwise. But Taylor knew her well enough to see how off balance she was. It was a little concerning.

Taylor continued on to class. Emma and whoever she'd been standing with went about their own day.

Sessions passed until brunch. Taylor happened across Emma in the halls on the way to the cafeteria. She was alone, presumably waiting for her, going by the way her head snapped up at the sound of her footsteps. Emma approached, making Taylor stop by standing in front of her.

"Hey," Taylor said.

Emma's nostrils flared. She grabbed Taylor's arm. "Come with me."

"Okay."

Taylor let herself be led along. Emma took them to one of the safer girl's bathrooms. She checked the stall doors, still holding to Taylor's arm. When she found them empty, she turned to Taylor and shoved her back against the sinks.

"I don't need you," Emma said.

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't need you," Emma said again. "Fuck you, what is wrong with you?"

"I still don't really-"

Emma reached out and shoved Taylor's shoulder, the motion looking horribly forced. Taylor stumbled back into the line of sinks again, catching herself on the counter.

"Don't say hi to me! Don't ever fucking talk to me!"

"But I like talking to you."

"What the fuck is wrong with you!" Emma stepped into her, pushing her again. But Taylor was already resting against the counter, so only her upper body moved, twisting with the motion. "I'm not your friend, you retard!"

"I think you're my friend."

"I'm not! I hate you!" Emma sounded petulant more than anything. She could hear it too, but it only seemed to make her angrier. "Fuck you, I hate you!"

"I don't think you do." Taylor remained where she was, resting her weight on her elbows, propped up against the sinks.

"I put you in your locker, Taylor! Do you remember that? Do you remember how you screamed? That was me! That was my idea, I put it together, and if there was any justice in this world you'd have died in that fire, and no one would ever have to look at you again!"

Taylor had no response. Not right away. Emma seemed to gloat in that silence, swelling up, some of her composure returning at the achievement.

Taylor stepped away from the sinks. Emma shoved her back before Taylor could hug her, that hint of composure gone in a flash.

"Stay the fuck away from me!" Emma sounded more desperate than angry. She could hear it on herself, too, going by the look on her face. "I don't need you!"

Still Taylor said nothing. She saw the anger, and the frustration. But more than that, she saw something like fear spread across Emma's face; widening her eyes and forcing her back. "I think you do."

"I am strong!"

"It's not weakness to need someone."

"F – fuck you!" Emma's eyes were watering. She was stuttering. "Fuck you, I put you in that locker! Cry again! Cry like you did when your mom died!" Taylor stepped closer. " I don't need you, Taylor!"

Taylor hugged her.

Emma cried out. The sound was awful; this sharp, keening wail, furious and terrified, and as she cried out she slammed her balled-up hand onto Taylor's chest, and shoved her back.

Time seemed to freeze for a moment; Emma standing there, still hunched from her shove, breathless and red from exertion. Taylor looked down at herself, her eyes settling on the steak-knife, its wooden handle jutting out just below her collarbone. Emma paled.

"Ow." Taylor said it more out of habit. It didn't hurt. Just a sharp coldness, like an ice cube pressed to her skin. She grabbed the handle and tugged. What was left of the blade slid out; wrapped in an oozing sheath of glowing orange. She touched the blade and made it solid, so it couldn't burn anyone, and put it on the counter behind her. Then she prodded at the wound below her collarbone, poking a finger through the hole in her clothes. Her arm moved without complaints. The hole was smoothing over. She was fine. "Emma… What…"

Emma watched this whole event take place, and stepped back again, her eyes comically wide as she stumbled over herself. When her back met the bathroom stalls she slid down against them.

"Emma?"

Emma pulled her knees to her chest.

Taylor took a step forward. Emma shook. "Emma… Hey, hey…"

Emma clapped her hands to her ears. She hid her face in her knees.

"… Emma?"

. . . . .

It was a quiet affair. Taylor left the bathroom just long enough to make a call with a front office phone, after that she hurried back, staying with Emma until her mother came. Taylor and Zoe led her out to the car; Emma clutching at herself, her head bowed. They helped her into the passenger seat, and buckled her in when didn't herself. Zoe gently shut the door.

"What happened?" Zoe asked.

Taylor gave a small, helpless shrug. "I really don't know. Will she be alright?"

Zoe looked through the car window, at Emma's form in her passenger seat. "I hope so." Zoe walked around the hood and got in, and then they were driving off, Taylor watching them go from the sidewalk. She went back to class.

Taylor would call her later. She made the plans in her head. When she got home she'd stick around, wait for the best time, for the dust to settle. She'd make the call just before Danny got home she'd make the call. She entertained these thoughts throughout her classes, tracing wood-grains across her desks and tapping out worried beats with her nails.

Lunch came. Spaghetti again, in name only. Taylor packed a tray and took a seat at an empty table. A few minutes later Sophia clacked her tray down and took a seat.

"Hey Sophia," Taylor said, her heart not in it.

"Hebert."

Taylor prodded her spaghetti with a plastic fork. It made wet noises.

"So… Emma's gone," Sophia said.

"Yeah."

"Something happen?"

Taylor looked at Sophia properly, not just the glancing acknowledgement of before. There was a strange look on her face; sly, knowing. "We had an… argument."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"You finally hit her?"

"What?"

"Did you hit her? She hit you, didn't she? So? Little baby Hebert finally do something?"

Taylor put down her plastic fork and collected her thoughts. "No... No, I didn't hit her."

Sophia snorted and started to eat. "Figures."

Taylor watched her in silence for a moment. "Did you have something to do with that?"

"What if I did?"

Taylor didn't reply immediately, and Sophia took that moment, her voice mocking. "Oh yeah? What if I did? Well, really, honestly, I didn't do much. You drove her plenty crazy by yourself, you know? Her own skinny little White Whale... So? You gonna hug me? You gonna talk to me, sweetly? Are we gonna make out? Ho-boy, spooky shit."

Taylor waited until she was done. "I would ask you why."

"And that's the thing, isn't it? All you can do is ask, and hope that people answer… Poor little doormat."

Taylor breathed a long, drawn-out sigh. "Sophia… I never really understood you, before. But I think I do now."

"Oh yeah? Is this the part where you talk at me?" Sophia grinned at her, then resumed her lunch. "Go ahead, I'll wait."

Taylor let the patronizing tone settle. Then she spoke, softly; low and mild. "Okay... Okay, so... You seem like the type to respond to every insult with insult… You never let anyone get the best of you. You never let anyone take an inch, because that way they can't take a mile."

"Oh hey, I agree with that," Sophia said.

"And so you're safe. Your heart is safe. But in doing that, you never bare yourself to anyone. So no one ever gets in. So the only person you actually care about is yourself. And so every day, no matter where you are, at home, at the dinner table, at school… Even when you're surrounded by people you know, you're still alone.

"And that's a way to live. Certainly it's a way to live. It works for you. Maybe you like it. Maybe you take pride in it. The isolation. The independence. But please don't force that on someone else. Please don't force that on me, or on Emma, when it does that to her. You're supposed to be her friend. That's cruel. That's so cruel. And I want you to know that it's never too late to change, if you're willing to give people a chance."

Sophia ate her lunch, throughout, and once Taylor was done she seemed to mull something over. "Hm? Oh, are you done now? Is it my turn?" She was aiming for casual, careful to seem just as animated as before, but she wasn't, and she couldn't, and they both knew it.

"Yes, I'm done."

"Okay. Counterpoint." Sophia made a show of thinking; furrowing her brow and gesticulating with her fork. "Fuck off? I'm gonna go with fuck off."

Taylor didn't fuck off right away. "Do you want the hug, first?"

Sophia looked at her, a hint of her true feelings bleeding through in the flatness of her voice. "Try it."

Taylor collected her tray and left.

The rest of the schoolday passed without incident. At least it probably did. Taylor's mind was on other things. Picking the proper course of action, the one that would help the most. Should she tell Zoe and Alan what happened, or should she keep it to herself. Taylor had no idea.

When she got home she went straight to the kitchen. She picked up the phone, clicked in a number she hadn't dialed in a year and a half. It rang so long Taylor thought she'd be booted to voicemail, but at the last moment someone answered.

"Hello?" Zoe didn't sound great. Together, sure, but in that way an adult could pretend to be when something was truly weighing on their mind.

"Hey Zoe, It's Taylor. How is she?"

There was a pause as Zoe searched for the most diplomatic phrasing. "She's… in her room."

"Oh."

"It's been a long time since we talked, hasn't it?"

"Yeah. A long time."

"Are you… We haven't had you over, either. Do you still talk with her?"

"Sometimes. We had a little… a little falling out, a while back."

"I'm sorry to hear that. You were great together."

"Yeah, I know. It... It wasn't my idea. Can I talk to her?"

"Oh I don't think she's in any mood, Taylor."

"Can you just ask her? Please?"

Zoe sighed. "Alright. Hold on."

Taylor heard her walking down the hall, up the stairs, knocking on Emma's door, opening it when there was no reply. Then Zoe pressed her hand to bottom of the phone, muffling whatever came next. A few moments passed in silence.

"Okay," Zoe said, her voice in mom-quiet mode now, for Emma's sake. "She'll talk to you. Here."

Taylor heard plastic shuffling as the phone changed hands, then Emma's door shutting as Zoe gave her privacy.

"Hey, Emma."

Emma didn't reply. Taylor rested her weight against the wall.

"How are you?"

No reply.

"That's okay. You don't have to talk. I didn't tell anyone. About earlier. I'm not going to. So you don't need to worry about that, okay? If you don't want to. I promise. Or – or I can tell them, if you want me to. Or you can. It's…" Taylor wasn't doing a very good job. She paused to gather her thoughts. "I'm fine... We're fine. And I don't think that would help, so. So this is enough for me. I forgive you. I forgive you a million times over. Just tell me what I can do. Tell your Zoe or Alan. Tell someone."

No reply, still.

"Emma? We… You know, we're all here for you. I'll be here for you. If you want to talk to me, just call me. If it's late. And you... I'll be home every night. I'll hear the phone, I promise."

A sound… A sharp inhale. Shifting bedsheets. Emma hung up.

Taylor sucked in a big full breath, and let it out. She clacked the phone back onto the receiver, debating whether or not she should pick it up again, dial her, kick down her door. But her world was bigger than Emma now, and Taylor imagined that if there existed some maximum quota of allowable daily interference in someone's life, she had well and truly exceeded it. This is what she wanted to believe, at least, but found she was unable to completely put it to the back of her mind.

Taylor sat at the kitchen table, ragdolling into her chair, mulling things over. Ten or so minutes passed. A call came while she ruminated.

Taylor picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Taylor?"

She recognized the voice. "Hannah. Hey. What's up?"

There was a brief pause as Hannah digested the subtle lack of vibrance in her voice. "I'm calling you as a follow up to your visit to the Rig yesterday."

"Okay."

"The Protectorate is extending an offer to hire you part-time, but you would need to register at the local PRT office as a rogue, first. To that end, we'd be willing to help you along at any step of the process, if you want."

"That sounds… Good, I think? What do you mean by 'help along'?"

"Well, registering as a Rogue is pretty much a non-issue, so all it really means is transportation and legal-council, if you ask for it."

Taylor heard and latched on to a particular word. "Transportation?"

Twenty minutes later a rumbling motorcycle pulled up in front of their driveway. Taylor was out the door, greeting Hannah as she pulled off her helmet.

"Ready to go?" Hannah asked.

"Yeah."

Hannah passed her the spare helmet. As Taylor wrestled it on, Hannah said, "We expected you to take a few days to consider it, you know? You don't have to rush into anything."

Taylor got the helmet settled, and clacked her fingernails on the visor, feeling like an astronaut headed for the moon. "It's okay. I've been meaning to do something, with my power. And – well I think I could use some air, right now. Go somewhere, do something. "

They hopped aboard. Hannah pulled the bike off the curb and onto the road.

"Is everything alright?" Hannah asked at a stop.

At the next stop Taylor replied, "I don't know. I hope so."

Hannah's helmet turned so she could look over her shoulder at her passenger. Then she flicked on her turn signal, taking a right instead of heading straight.

Taylor noticed the detour. "Um, where are we going?"

"I think I'd like some coffee first. There's a pretty good coffee shop up north, and they do pastries too. It's getting a little late in the day, but I think they'll have something still. Would you mind?"

"Ah. No. Not at all."

"Of course, we will have to hop on the freeway."

Taylor wrestled the cheer up from her gut and gave her best gasp. The anticipation toyed with her. She saw on-ramps in every parking garage, every expressway, mocking her. But then they were taking a right, down a strip, accelerating, trees and shrubs and big concrete dividers whooshing past. Air whistled in the ears of her helmet, and she turned her head left and right, watching the scenery run behind her, watching those ignorant fools in their pleasant, safe sedans in the other lanes. They knew nothing of exhilaration.

Hannah took an exit. They pulled in front of a little hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Hannah kicked down the stand and they hopped off, Taylor's legs a little weak.

Hannah got a cup and a chocolate chip cookie. Taylor got a cup and the last bear claw. There was one little two-chair table outside the shop, empty now, and they took a seat there. Hannah sipped and nibbled. Taylor did the same.

"I got in an argument today," Taylor said, broaching the questioning silence. "With a friend."

"That is never fun."

"Mm." Taylor replayed the event over in her head. "She was… Very upset with me. And… In a very bad place, afterwards."

Hannah gave her a flat look. "I honestly cannot imagine anyone being upset with you."

Taylor sighed. Their conversation occupied her mind, both Emma's and Hannah's. The rest of the world shrunk around them, until there was only them, and their food, and Hannah's bike some feet away. The coffee cup was warm in her hand. Taylor took a sip, reminded of its presence. "I don't really understand it myself."

"Is she your age?"

"Mm. We're just a few months apart, is all."

"Okay... Well. I was never quite a teenager myself, in the proper sense of the word. But, present company excluded, I don't think you can look to the fourteen-to-sixteen age bracket for rationality." Taylor snorted. Hannah gave a soft smile at that hint of cheer. "When you're young things like that seem much bigger than they actually are. I think she just needs some space, and some time."

Taylor didn't reply. She mulled over what Hannah had said.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to preach at you."

"No, no. Thank you, really. It's… I've been thinking like that, too, but I'm not sure of it, so it's good to hear it from someone older than me. Thank you. And thank you for the food, and the ride. All this stuff."

"Mm. You about ready to head back?"

"Yeah."

They crumpled up the little wax-paper sheets and tossed them in the trash, then they hopped back on Hannah's bike and were off. Onto the on-ramp, onto the freeway again. It felt more free this time, with less weight on Taylor's shoulders. It felt like an old rock anthem; the bike rumbling to some unheard beat, yearning to go faster and faster. But Hannah remained a safe driver, unfortunately, and they drove well within the limit. Taylor should get a bike.

Then they were at the PRT building downtown. Taylor filled out a few forms, signed a few lines, and then she was done, Brockton Bay's newest registered rogue. Hannah took her the final stretch of her trip, on one last bike-ride home. Then she was there, hopping off the back of Hannah's bike, tugging the helmet off her head, revealing the broad smile beneath it. They strapped the helmet to the back of the bike. Hannah pulled away back into traffic. Taylor was headed for her door; her rough morning a little less pressing.

Danny's car was in the driveway. He was in the kitchen, home a little early from work.

He seemed to be doing some manner of paperwork. It involved files and pens, and an old calculator. He also could have been doing taxes, or perhaps investigating paranormal phenomenon.

"Hey dad."

"Hey kiddo."

"Home early?"

"No, I wish." He clickety-clacked the calculator and scribbled something down. "Just brought my work home with me."

"Ha, homework."

"Ha? Well where's yours, then?"

Last time Taylor checked her backpack had five pounds of sand, a wire of gold and her bandana. "I honestly couldn't tell you."

He chuckled and then groaned. "Oh geeze, I'm doing a bad job."

Taylor waved him off. "Nah."

He ruffled some paper.

She opened and closed the fridge.

"Everything alright?" he asked.

"Hm? Well, yeah. I think. Why?"

He made a pursed-lip face at her. She returned it instinctively.

"Did you have any plans later?" he asked.

"No, none."

"Do you want to… Cook a fancy dinner, together, tonight?"

Taylor's brain took a moment to parse what he'd said. "Like with a cookbook?"

"Yeah."

"I. Yeah. Yeah, that sounds nice. Let's do it."

He finished up his homework while Taylor searched the house for their cookbook hoard's resting place. In truth it wasn't really a hoard, there were three of them. But they were phonebook-big, and very old. Taylor plopped the one she remembered best onto the table, and they flicked through the pages, looking for something appealing.

They settled on Cheesecake. It wouldn't be ready to eat until much later, and also in no way constituted a 'dinner,' but he'd stopped flicking through pages there for a reason. Annette wrote in her cookbooks, and that page had gone through substantial revision. For a few words she'd actually dotted her 'I's with hearts, even though such an act likely brought great pain upon her English-teacher heart.

Danny brushed a finger down the instructions. Taylor said nothing. She watched the quiet nostalgia play across his face.

"Three bricks of cream cheese and a tin of Mascarpone?" Danny chuckled. "You know your mom could be a real lunatic sometimes."

Taylor laughed.

All told, their epic Cheesecake adventure took the next three hours.

The trip to the grocery store and back, the fumbling around for the mixer and cutting boards and a rolling pin, so many odds and ends they hadn't touched in a long time. The sink filled with dirtied utensils, the counter was lightly dusted with flour. It was past seven when the cheesecake came out of the oven. Taylor fished it out with her bare hands, nearly giving Danny a heart attack. When he'd calmed down they looked down upon their creation, shoulder-to-shoulder by the stove.

"I think it'll be good," Danny said. "Yeah?"

"Yeaaah." Taylor nodded. "Well, I mean, maybe."

"Right, maybe. But hopefully."

"I'm not very confident."

"Is it the right color?"

"I don't know. How did she do this?"

"I don't know. I think she might have been magic."

"It would explain a lot."

The cheesecake went into the fridge.

"Oh right," Danny said, "Dinner."

Danny cooked himself dinner. Taylor brought down a sheet of metal and ate it at the table.

"A lot of things just made more sense," he said. "Uh. How is… That?"

Taylor smacked her lips, adopted a thoughtful expression, and shrugged.

It got late, by people who had work the next day's terms. Danny stayed up a bit longer, lounging in the living room watching late-night television. Taylor was there with him, boneless, occupying the other side of the couch.

Something funny happened on screen. They could tell from the laugh track. Danny said, "Hah... I'm – bed."

"G'night."

"G'night."

He was off, and Taylor was left there, that earlier rough patch of her day almost completely in the back of her mind. She hung around the couch, sinking down a little more, claiming the portion that had freed up by stretching out her legs to maximum, really getting the toes involved for ultimate-stretch. A quiet impulse hit her. There was one more thing she wanted to do before calling it a night. Taylor went to the phone and dialed.

Lisa picked up on the third ring. "Taylor, hey…" She sounded wide awake, thankfully. She sounded pleased to hear from her too, even more thankfully. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Taylor said, murmur-quiet for Danny's sake, even though she probably could have gone with her normal voice. "Just wanted to talk to you."

There was a pause, during which Taylor imagined she could hear Lisa's eyes slowly narrowing, and then Lisa made a long, suspicious noise. "What happened?"

Why is everyone psychic today, Taylor wondered. "Well, nothing? I mean, something. But that's really not what-"

"I'm coming over."

"What?"

"See you in twenty." Lisa hung up.

Taylor put the phone back on the receiver. It started to ring immediately. She answered.

"Hello?"

It was Lisa. "I forgot about your dad. Also that was rude of me. Can I come over?"

Taylor collected her thoughts. "Yeah, I - I want to have you over. It'd be fine. It's pretty late, though?"

"I'm always up late, don't worry. See you in a bit."

Taylor smiled a quiet, late-night smile. "Cool."

"And I'm not gonna pry. I'm not gonna – wooo. Not gonna-" Lisa made other psychic noises. Taylor could picture her gesturing with her free hand. "Promise."

"Okay."

"I'm serious, I won't."

"I believe you."

"Okay bye."

"Bye bye."

Taylor leaned against the wall.

"Hang up the phone, Taylor."

"No you hang up."

Lisa hung up. Taylor put the phone back, pouting.

True to her word, there came a soft knock at their front door twenty minutes later. Taylor undid the amazingly loud locks and opened the door. Lisa stood on the doormat in comfortable clothes, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She'd already had her shower for the night. She smelled nice. Her hair was just a bit damp, back in a loose tail. When Taylor hugged her a lock came loose and tickled her nose.

"Hey," Taylor whispered. The air of her voice blew the lock of hair away, but it came right back.

Lisa poked her shoulder with her chin. "Hey," she whispered back. "Why are we whispering?"

"M'being sneaky."

"Are you not supposed to have people over?"

"I have no idea."

"Bad Taylor."

"Well you offered."

"So turn me down."

"But I wanted to see you."

They pitter-pattered inside, Taylor inching the door shut behind them. Lisa took off her shoes and put her backpack by the the couch. At Lisa's direction they went to the kitchen and concocted the quietest batch of hot chocolate Taylor had ever taken part in. They set up camp in the living room. Lisa pulled a laptop out of her backpack, and used her phone to somehow give it internet.

"It's the future," Taylor hissed into her hot chocolate, the mug cupped in her hands.

"Do you just not have any technology?"

"Noooo..." Taylor said, mysteriously.

The movie started. They were side by side on the couch, the laptop on the coffee table. It wasn't quite as cozy as it could be, and this bothered Taylor. She looked over at Lisa, keeping one eye on the film. "We need to make a fort."

Lisa looked at her, pausing the movie as she did. "My god…"

Taylor assembled all the available cushions and pillows and sheets in the house. There were nine; six thick squares from the couch, two from the sofa chair, and Taylor's pillow. They made their grand fort on the living room carpet. It had to be assembled around them, such was the size of its entrance, and once it was done any movement would no doubt bring it down atop them, potentially spilling their hot chocolate and closing the laptop. Basically it was the best thing ever.

Taylor didn't know what movie they were watching. She was only half paying attention. The sound from the speakers was small and tinny, turned just loud enough to hear. The screen brightness was down too, and the living room lights were off for ambience. All these things meant that she could feel and hear Lisa next to her, as they sat shoulder to shoulder.

"So… Long day?" Lisa asked, her voice that rumbling sort of quiet.

Taylor leaned into her, just a little. "Just the morning. But… I had a really great day. And a great night, too."

"Mm…"

The movie played. Taylor started getting sleepy. Just the first bits of sleepy, the way the fort became warmer and quieter, and their cushion-chair setup became softer. Lisa leaned into her, just a little.

"Is it still bothering you?" Lisa asked.

Taylor took stock of herself. "No... Not right now."

Lisa rested against her head on Taylor's shoulder. "Good."

Taylor rested her head against Lisa's. Her hair was soft. She was soft. They stayed like that until the movie ended. The screen went black, faintly lit. They didn't move right away, or even speak.

Taylor broke the silence first.

"I should go to bed."

"Mm," Lisa hummed. "Should get home, too."

Taylor rubbed the top of her head with her cheek. "You awake enough to drive?"

"Oh yeah... No problem."

"You sound tired."

"You made me sleepy."

"Sorry."

"We should move."

"Yeah."

Neither of them moved. Taylor breathed in through her nose, letting out a contented sigh. "I like your shampoo."

"Me too."

Taylor chuckled.

"Why is that funny?"

"I don't know." Taylor couldn't stop smiling.

"We should get up," Lisa said. She didn't, though.

"Don't worry," Taylor said. "I've got this."

Taylor fell over onto her. Lisa squawked. The fort collapsed.

Lisa collected her things while Taylor reassembled the living room. Taylor saw her out, gently closing the front door behind them. They gave their goodbyes on the porch.

Taylor squeezed her, not feeling the need to say anything. Lisa squeezed her back, saying nothing, too. They pulled apart, looking at each other. For a moment neither moved. Then Lisa pulled away, a shade reluctant. Taylor leaned against one of the porch pillars, staying there until Lisa's car turned a corner and vanished.

. . . . .

The following morning Taylor had a slice of cheesecake for breakfast. Danny had a sliver with his usual odds and ends. They left the house around the same time, her off to school, him off to work.

Emma wasn't at school. Taylor didn't see her in the halls. Or in class. Or at lunch. That was understandable. She would need some time.

After school cut for the day Taylor headed back home. She went to the kitchen, to the phone, dialing up Emma's number to check on her. No one answered. Taylor glanced at the receiver, suspicious of it, then hung up and dialed again. No one answered.

Taylor muddled about in the living room, turning on the television and flicking through channels, not giving any of them enough screen time to tell if it they were a show or a commercial. Enough time passed. She shut of the television and called again. Someone answered on the second ring.

"Hello?" It was Zoe. She'd been crying. She sounded sick. Nauseous. Taylor could hear that warbling guitar-string phlegm in her voice. Taylor frowned, her stance shifting as she focused more intently on the phone.

"Hey, Zoe, it's Taylor. I uh. You don't sound great. Is everything alright?"

There was a brief pause. Then Zoe said, "What did you say to her, yesterday?"

"I'm sorry?"

"What did you say to Emma yesterday?"

"Um… I told her… If she wanted to talk to me, she could call me."

"That's all? That's all you told her?"

Taylor sucked her teeth. "Yes, yes that's all. Please, what's going on? Is she alright?"

"No." Her voice broke. "She's in the hospital."

Taylor felt the weight of those words settle in her chest. She seemed to float for a moment, weightless from the neck down. "Can I see her?"

"I don't think-"

"Please. I know how it looks. But I promise you, I – I think I can help. I want to try."

Zoe gave the same pause that she had the day before, deciding whether or not Taylor's word held up after a year and a half of silence. "Okay… Okay, is your dad home? Do you need a ride?"

"No, I can get there on my own. Don't drive worried, alright?"

"Alright... I'll let Alan know you're coming."

Taylor caught a bus to the hospital. She spoke with a nurse at the front desk, and another nurse came and led her to Emma's room.

It was white. The tile. The overhead lights. Emma's gown. She looked terrible. There were dark rings around her eyes, her hair was tangled; her frame painfully small and fragile-looking on that too-big gurney. She sat up against the head of the gurney, her legs in the sheets, her arms resting atop them. There were thick bandages around her wrists. An IV drip fed clear liquid to the crook of her arm. Still, as bad as she looked, Alan looked worse. He took one of the chairs near her bedside, halfheartedly messing with his phone in the oppressive silence.

Emma didn't react at her entry. Alan did. He glanced at her.

"Hey, Taylor."

"Hey Alan."

He didn't have a follow up. The nurse shut the door behind her. The thrum of low conversations and footsteps present in the hospital cut off, muted even further. Taylor could hear the occupants of the room breathing.

Taylor walked to the chair beside him and took a seat, each footstep clapping against the tile, oppressively loud. "Have you been up all night?"

"Mm."

She heard his stomach complain. "Have you eaten anything?"

"A nurse... Brought me a donut. Some coffee."

"You don't smell great."

"I know."

"I think… I think you should call a cab."

He turned his phone end-over-end in his hands.

"I think you should go home. Take a shower. Eat something. Maybe even sleep for a few minutes… And when you come back… I think you should bring Emma's favorite hairbrush. And her favorite face wash, and hand towel. I think it's still… That ratty one, with the bleach stains, and the flower. And you should sneak her some fries. Fast food fries. If you ask for a newer batch really nicely, they usually throw one in for you."

He didn't reply.

"I'll stay with her until you're back. I promise. But you need to take care of yourself, too."

He looked at Emma. She didn't look at either of them.

"Alan?"

"You're right," Alan said. "I haven't seen you in a long time, Taylor... You're all grown up."

"I'm not. Not really."

He stuck around a few minutes longer, saying goodbye to Emma and telling her that he would be back soon, and he'd bring a splash of home with him. Then he was out the door, dialing a cab.

The room was even quieter with him gone. Taylor gingerly picked up her chair, moving it closer to her bedside, careful not to let the legs raise a racket on the tile. Emma was looking down at her lap, her expression vacant. Taylor scooted to the edge of her chair, getting her face just into Emma's field of view.

"Hey, Emma." It could almost be called whispering. "I'm sorry we just… talked around you, there. You probably don't feel much like talking. Don't worry. That's fine. I understand."

Emma turned her head away, looked down at the side of her bed opposite Taylor.

Taylor put her hand on Emma's wrist, moving very slowly, her fingers gently curling around the bandages. Not applying any pressure, just resting a fraction of her weight, letting her presence be known. Emma's hand curled, her fingers twitching.

"You… You did it horizontally, didn't you? You know… You need to go vertically. The tendons... get in the way. And then it clots too fast. I felt lied to, when I found out. But… That's Hollywood for you, huh? Destroying little girls' self-esteem, and then hamstringing them when they're overwhelmed."

Emma didn't respond.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, that probably isn't funny. I'm sorry."

"Don't…" It could be called an exhale, only the barest hint of shape to the word. Taylor waited for Emma to continue, but she didn't.

"Alan will be back in a while," Taylor said. "I don't know if you were listening. I told him to bring some fries. That probably… Doesn't sound good, right now. But once you're a little cleaned up… I'll brush your hair for you. And it'll smell better."

Emma made a sound. Taylor waited.

Emma whispered, "Please go."

"I'm sorry. But no, not this time. I have to wait for your dad, at the very least. I'm sorry."

"Stop apologizing to me." Emma's voice was a little louder, a little firmer.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop."

"I will. I'm sorry, I'll stop."

"This isn't funny!" Emma looked at her, her eyes red.

"I know. I'm sorry, I know."

"You win!" Emma said. "You're stronger than me! You always were! And that never fucking changed! I'm just some pathetic, minging little shit, and you were almost rid of me, but I couldn't even do that right! You win, Taylor!"

"I'm sorry, Emma."

"Stop apologizing to me!"

"No. No, I won't. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't know."

"Get out! Just get the fuck out!"

"Did anyone else call you? When I called you, after school, from then until now, did anyone else call you? Did anyone visit you?"

Emma looked very much like she wanted to shout at her again.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Emma. I didn't know it had to be me."

"Get-" It started as a yell, but her breath failed her mid-word. "-get out. Please, just get out."

Taylor stood and took a seat on the bed, Emma telling her no, no, stop, please stop, and even as Taylor pulled her into a hug, she resisted. She was feeble, though. Her arms shook. Tears welled in her eyes. Once her head settled over Taylor's shoulder, she stopped pushing her away. Instead her fingers balled up in the fabric of Taylor's sweater, clutching at her back helplessly.

"Why won't you just leave me alone?" Emma's voice cracked as she spoke, her voice hot. That was the trap of trying not to cry. "You have power. You don't need me. Stop… stop fucking with me. Please. Please, you win... You win. Please, please just…"

"You keep saying that. I don't feel like I won."

Emma took a shuddering breath. Taylor rubbed her back.

"It's okay… We're okay. Just listen for a bit, alright?" Emma held her tongue. Taylor continued, after a moment.

"I do have powers. You're right, I do. And they did change me. They made it easier to think. They got rid of this… this noise. That I'd had. This constant noise. All these worries and doubts, and… and they came from nowhere. There was no reason for them. So they were gone. But that's not why I'm here. I'm not here to lord them over you. I never wanted to hurt you, or mock you. I'm sorry if it seemed that way."

Emma pressed her face into Taylor's shoulder. Taylor collected her thoughts.

"I almost died, a little while back. Because of them, I think. I don't really know what happened. But I was so afraid. And I realized, after, you know… Emma, from the moment we were born we were going to die. Us. And our parents. And our friends. Everyone. And we're never going to know how much time we have left. We don't get to know that.

"And I realized that I could spend the rest of my time hating you, for what you did. Or I could forgive you, and have you with me. And I would rather have you with me. It was you, you know? You took care of me when mom died, because dad couldn't. You were the person who stuck around, even when I told you to stop, even when I yelled at you to go.

"I don't care. I don't care about any of it, any of the things you said or did. I'm alive. We're alive. We're alright. I forgive you. I forgive you a million times over, and I'll keep saying it until you believe me. I remember how we used to be. How we could be. And there are so many things we could still do, so much fun we could still have together. So please don't go."

Emma shook and sobbed into her shoulder. Taylor held her, not complaining when Emma's head turned, and her tear-stricken face brushed her neck. Not complaining when Emma clutched at her, so tightly Taylor lost her breath. Taylor held her until she calmed down, and stayed with her until Alan got back.

He'd brought the things she told him to. She hung around still, sitting with him as Emma cleaned her face in the bathroom.

"She's going to be alright," Taylor said.

Alan's eyes were focused on something in the distance. But he'd heard her, she could tell.

"She needs to see someone. She needs help. And I think she'll accept it now. I think she'll go, now."

"I know," Alan said.

"She's going to be okay. I believe in her."

Alan didn't respond.

"Alan."

Alan looked at her.

"You're going to be okay, too. It just takes time."

He looked to the pile of things he'd brought. The change of clothes, the hairbrush, the bag of take-out fries. "Thank you, Taylor."

Emma emerged from the bathroom. She'd cleaned up her face, but she still looked very small. Taylor and Alan rose as one. Taylor stopped, though. She hung back. Alan wrapped Emma up in a hug and walked her to her bed. They were talking now. She was crying. He was crying.

Taylor left the room, and eased the door shut behind her.

. . . . .

Taylor felt lighter now.

Her haunt was lighter, too. Taylor visited it that late afternoon. She took the bus, her usual seat, with the windows cracked. The sun was already heading down, the light dimming, the horizon turning gold. Her chimes were going when she arrived. Her decorations were gleaming, sparkling shades of red and blue and green, and everything in between. She walked up her stairs to the veranda and took a seat, reveling in the air on her face.

She invited Lisa there the next day. They met up in front of a pizza place, early that Wednesday morning.

The first thing Taylor did was sweep her up in a hug. "Hey."

Lisa got her chin comfortably wedged on Taylor's shoulder. "Hey."

They ordered some food and walked to her crate, each of them holding a bag, occasionally bumping shoulders. Then it was up the steps, through the interior, and out to the veranda. Lisa plopped the take-out containers on the table. Taylor popped two soda caps. They sat on the table this time. It wasn't super wide, so they had to sit close, and they regularly bumped elbows as they ate. But Taylor didn't mind.

Taylor finished her food first. She put her plate and plastic fork aside, then leaned back on her hands and watched the water. Lisa did the same when she was done, leaning into her, just a little. Taylor shifted her weight, returned the sentiment.

"How did it go?" Lisa asked. "Your thing?"

"I think… I think it could have gone a lot worse. But everyone's alright… And. We'll get better."

Lisa looked at her. Her eyes were dazzlingly green. "I'm glad."

There was something raw in her voice. Taylor didn't question it. She grinned. "Me too."

Lisa's eyes flickered down, and then back up.

"And thank you, for coming out here with me," Taylor said. "And coming over monday night. I really like spending time with you."

Lisa bit her lip. "Me too."

Taylor smiled goofily. The wind blew. The windchimes rang.

Lisa said, "Just kiss me you doofus."

Taylor couldn't help but laugh. She inched forward, tracing over Lisa's eyes and freckles. Their foreheads clunked together. Then their jaws clunked together. Then finally their lips half-met, brushing for a moment. Over the course of the next five minutes, they realized that neither of them knew what they were doing, and also that neither of them minded at all.

Taylor walked Lisa to her cab. They hugged goodbye, like they had been. But it felt warmer, now. Lisa kissed her again, before she got in.

Taylor hopped-skipped to the bus stop, catching the cloud-bus to cloud-ville, her lips tingling the whole ride home.

. . . . .

Emma wasn't in school until Monday. Taylor saw her in the cafeteria, walking alone, looking unsure. She waved her over. Emma approached after a moment of hesitation. She didn't take a seat right away, just hovered by the bench.

"H - hey," Emma said, a bit hoarse.

"Hey."

"I… Can I sit down?"

"Of course."

Emma sat. She stared down at her lunch, poking it with her fork.

"How are you holding up?"

"I'm alright," Emma said. "I'm…" She seemed to struggle with the word. "Better."

"I'm glad."

Emma's lip quivered. Her mouth flapped uselessly for a moment, as she struggled to say something. What eventually came out was, "I'm sorry, Taylor. I'm so sorry. I..."

Taylor stood without a word, walking around the table to sit beside her. She put an arm around Emma's shoulder. "It's okay... Me and dad are going to try to make lasagna later. Or - 'lah-sahg-nuh,' excuse me. We're having some people over, too. Not a lot. Two or three. They're really nice, you'd like them. Do you want to come over?"

Emma was too choked up to trust her voice. She nodded.

. . . . .