"Alright, boys." Skipper slams his hands down on the kitchen table, making all of us jump slightly. I've just accepted the fact that I'm one of the boys at these "meetings" because I know Skipper isn't going to change his ways. The only saying applies: accept what I can't change, and change what I can't accept.

"I've got recent news that Blowhole is planning an attack." Skipper's eyes flit towards me. "Against who, what, why, or how, I don't know. I think it's safe to assume he's going to be targeting us, but normally he would have contacted us by now to tell us all how we're idiots for not seeing his stupid plan. This time is different. He's getting help, which he never does. He's planning big, bigger than he normally does, and he's quiet about it. I don't like it. We need intel, stat."

Everyone nods understandingly, and I just raise my hand slightly. "Can I ask who Blowhole is?"

Skipper huffs and throws his arms in the air. "Well, obviously he's not a good guy. A villain. Do you need any more information on him? No? Okay. Just hope you never meet him."

"So… can I leave then?"

"No. We need you on this task just as much as you need us. Sit there and listen."

I grit my teeth together slightly but nod accordingly. I don't need to argue about it here, not in front of everyone when all their attention would be on us. I don't need an audience to argue with my father.

"Good. So, we need to upgrade our defences on all entrances into the HQ. We can't have anyone try to enter the base that isn't one of us. From here on out, I'm upgrading Liberty's security clearance. Kowalski, you plan out the attack, how to upgrade our defences, and see if you can figure out what Blowhole is planning."

"Yes sir," Kowalski says as he's jumping out of his seat to run for his lab.

"Rico, weapons check. Make sure every weapon we own works one hundred percent. Make sure we have ammo, lots of it. Clean, test, clean, test, and clean. Any weapon that might have something wrong, give it to Private for inspection. He'll confirm if the weapon is faulty or not. Private, if a weapon is faulty, give it to Kowalski for a fix. While you're waiting, help Kowalski by putting up the defences he plans, and make sure everything is classified. No intruder must get ahold of any of his plans."

"Aye aye, Skipper." Private and Rico salute Skipper before running off to do their assignments. I sit quietly, watching over everything. Skipper picks his coffee mug back up and gestures to the hallway.

"C'mon, you're coming with me."

Well, that terrifies me more than a little.

He takes me into a room that I've never been in — a room that only my new "upgraded security clearance" allows me to be in currently. It's dark and creepy, sending chills up my spine. The floor has blood spatter stains, blood puddle stains, and sweat stains. The walls are covered with padding that is supposed to help break your fall, but it's old and torn. The whole room has a sort of stench to it, causing me to wrinkle my nose as the odour assaults me. What in the hell is this room?

As if reading my thoughts, Skipper says, "Training room." Oh, that explains everything, thanks! I stand there like an idiot, confused as to why the hell he brought me in here when he sets his coffee cup down. No sooner did the soft clink ring out from the mug hitting the rusty metal table, he snaps into a fighting stance. The look in his eyes makes me forget the room I'm standing in — he's looking at me like a predator looks at its prey right before it pounces for the kill. My feet go cold almost instantly.

"If you're gonna be in my house, under my roof, you're gonna learn how to defend yourself."

I nod slowly. "O-Okay…" I swallow and breathe deeply. Stay calm. "Mom… kinda showed me a few moves. Mainly just how to incapacitate them so I can run, but… other than that, I don't know anything."

"Show me what you got."

Without another word, without any warning, he throws a punch. I jump out of the way and dodge as best as I can, trying my best to remember what Mom taught me. It has been so long since I actually practised since she showed me how to do this, that I struggle to remember. So many things have happened since then…

As Skipper throws punches, it's like I'm thrown back into the beginning of high school. I remember Mom doing this with me — clearing out the living room and teaching me to defend myself against attackers. I block them, and it's like we fall into some chaotic dance.

Mom didn't talk about Skipper much. Sometimes she would tell stories about something they experienced in high school together, tell me something funny or some relatable story that just so happened to have him in it when I was going through something of my own. But there has only been one time when Skipper mentioned Mom. It irritates me — I want someone to be able to talk to about her, someone to be able to relate to how she was. Someone else that knew her so she could live on in spirit. But it seems Skipper just isn't that person, because whenever I bring her up, he shuts down. He doesn't want to talk about her, ever.

I'm forcibly brought back to reality as the rhythm of this fight-dance comes to an abrupt stop as Skipper throws something different at me — his weight. He uses his body weight to pin me (I'm assuming he meant to hit the wall but missed) against the ground. Being probably only two-thirds of his weight (being generous), I knew he had me. His legs are on top of mine, his arms have my wrists pinned, and I can tell when I'm had. I accept my defeat.

"You're good but not as good as you should be. We'll have to do some training."

I nod slowly. "I… don't see how training is going to help me with getting out from someone who's completely pinned me, but okay."

"I can teach you how to use their weight to your advantage rather than seeing it as a negative. There's a lot you need to learn, soldier, and I'm going to teach you."

"What if they manage to pin me like you're doing right now?"

"We'll get to that later." He gets up off me, reaching a hand down and helping me up off the floor. "Right now, we're going to focus on blocking and using their weight against them."

I nod. Well, I guess this was a father-daughter bonding experience, but definitely not the one I wanted. This, if anything, made me feel farther away from him than anything. Only a few more years, and I'll be out of here. Just a few more years.

After running through everything and training for what felt like forever, Skipper finally stops to check on everyone's progress. While everyone meets back up in the dining room, I use the opportunity to slip away into my bedroom.

I wipe off my makeup and pull my hair back into a ponytail. My muscles will be sore tomorrow from the extensive training.

I stare at myself in the mirror. Over the past few months, I've been using my makeup to cover up the scar on my forehead, but it doesn't get rid of it. I watch my reflection as I gently run a finger along the line. It's horrible, slightly raised, and discoloured from the skin around it. It's a brutal reminder of the crash, a reminder of why I am where I am today.

I turn away from the mirror, getting up to crawl into my bed. I can hear Skipper talking to the rest of them, but can't make out what he's saying. I can pick up words here and there, but nothing to make a coherent sentence. I listen to them with my eyes closed, and before I know it, I slip off into a slumber that I desperately need.

My consciousness kicks in in the middle of… something going on. I'm in Skipper's arms, his lips pressed against the top of my head as he murmurs my name, shushing me gently as he holds me tight. I gasp for air. My nose is really stuffy and I can't breathe through it. My face feels heated, and I can tell I've been crying. I automatically go to wipe my face off, but Skipper catches my wrists. I hear a mutter, and a cloth gently dabs my face.

Blinking my eyes a few times to focus on what's going on, I realise my entire room is in disarray. All my knick-knacks were on the floor, some broken. My dresser was moved, its drawers hanging open and some just on the ground. My makeup bottles were broken, spilt and smeared onto the floor, mixed with something red. My pictures were on the ground, face down, the glass more than likely broke as well.

Rico is dabbing my face lightly, wiping away the wetness. Kowalski is trying to clean up the multitudes of shattered glass as carefully as possible, and Private is moving the dresser back to where it's supposed to be. It's clear they've only just gotten started with cleaning.

Then, my hands throb in pain and cause me to focus on them. They're covered in blood, small glass shards lodged into my palms and fingers, my skin ripped and shredded. Panic seizes me and I cry out, putting together that the redness on the carpet is more than likely my own blood. What had happened here?

"Calm down, Liberty," Skipper softly commanded me, holding my wrists tight. "Everything is going to be okay. Just relax."

How am I supposed to calm down? How am I supposed to relax? My room is a mess, I'm in pain and bleeding, and worse, I remember nothing of what happened. I try to ask him, I try to tell him off, yell, scream, something, but all that comes out is sobs. He lets go of my wrists and picks me up, taking me into Kowalski's lab with Rico tailing behind.

Skipper pushes a chair over to a table with his foot and sits down as carefully as possible. He places me on his lap and very gently pushes the backs of my hands down on the table. Rico grabs some tweezers and disinfectant and begins his work of removing the glass.

It takes a good twenty minutes. My face is shoved into Skipper's shoulder as he holds me, his hand resting on my side. I can feel his thumb moving back and forth, a comforting movement for something that is probably absent-minded for him to do. He holds me tighter as I whimper when particularly large pieces are removed. Finally, Rico begins to wrap my hands in gauze, I finally look at the table.

Blood spots it, there's a jar with the dislodged glass pieces in it, my blood covering every one of them. I quickly look away. I pull my hands towards myself, pulling them close to my chest as if that'll make everything better and all the pain go away.

Skipper pulls my hair out of its ponytail slowly, carefully, not wanting to hurt me any further. His hands run through it, playing with it while talking to me softly. He's going to protect me, he says. I'll never be harmed again under his watch.

After an hour of cleaning, everything is calming down. I'm emotionally exhausted and physically can't cry anymore. Glancing at the clock, the big red numbers tell me it's three in the morning. I have to get up in a few hours to go to school.

"You can sleep in a little later this morning," Skipper says. "Rico can bring you into school when you wake up. I'll explain everything when you get home tomorrow."

I just nod simply, too tired to argue that I want to know now. Instead, I close my eyes and rest my head on his shoulder, while he holds me close and strokes my back. For the first time since my mother passed, I feel safe. Sighing deeply and relaxing, I slip into darkness once more.

I wake up at six out of habit. In those few hours, my room is back to almost brand new. My knick-knacks are out of place, but everything else is cleaned up. There's barely any evidence that something terrible happened this morning.

Except, of course, my hands are still wrapped. Oh how I want it to be a freak dream, but alas, it wasn't.

I wipe my eyes with my blanket and get up slowly. I get dressed as if everything is normal (although I can't do my makeup, it still takes me a while to find all my clothes since some drawers are placed differently). Is my mind going a million miles an hour, or staying still? I honestly don't know. The last time I felt this disoriented was when I woke up in the hospital after the crash. My brain couldn't process what was going on. Now, my brain can't process what's going on, because I don't even know what happened.

After getting everything ready, I finally walk out into the living room. Dad is sitting on the couch, the grip on his coffee tight once again. He's lost in thought again, but this time the others aren't in the usual dining room/living room area. A bit weird, but not really what I'm focusing on right now.

Wait. Dad? No no. Not Dad. Skipper. Apparently, I'm still messed up from the night before if I'm calling him Dad. I shake my head a bit and sit next to him on the couch.

After the minute-long mildly awkward silence, Skipper finally breaks it. "How are you?"

How am I? That is a loaded question. A question I don't really have time to unpack right now. So, I move on. "What happened last night?"

Skipper leans back on the couch, avoiding eye contact. "I'll tell you when you're home tonight."

"I want to know now." I'm grouchy — I can tell just from how sour that statement made me. I cross my arms in an effort to show him I'm not backing down.

"You'll know when I tell you tonight."

"Skipper—"

"I said no," he states firmly, taking the tone that usually says "end of discussion."

But I'm not ready to let go. Something snaps inside me, and I stand up, my voice raising a bit with my anger. "I want to know! I got hurt last night because of something, and I want to know what the hell hurt me!"

Skipper places his coffee on the table quickly, and I watch some splash out of his mug as he stands up. "Don't you raise your voice to me, young lady."

"I want to know, and you're not telling me. What the hell happened last night? Why can't you tell me now?"

"I'll tell you tonight, end of discussion."

"I want to know now, Skipper! For once, can you please do something for me and tell me!"

Skipper growls under his breath as he starts to get angry. "For once? For once? How about me giving you a roof to live under? How about me giving you food to eat? How about me planning out where you'll go to school where you'll be safe? How about—?"

"How about you actually acting like a father and helping me through my mother's death?! Mom died in my arms and you haven't done jack squat to help me through it! All you've done is ignore me and ignore the problem and do nothing about it! It's not just going to go away!"

His eyes turn to slits. "Ever think I'm going through something, too? Huh? Ever think that I'm dealing with her death too?"

"No, I haven't, because you abandoned my mom when she needed you the most!" I find myself yelling. "Mom and I needed you to be there, and you weren't! Did you even think about my mom when you broke up with her to be in the army? Do you know how fucking heartbroken she was to lose you, only to find out two weeks later that she was pregnant? She was crushed, broken, and she needed help! Her parents never offered any help, basically told her she was on her own and that's what she got for having sex outside of marriage. She sent you a letter telling you she was pregnant, and you never called, never wrote back, never even tried to contact her once. You abandoned us, and I can't forgive you for that! So don't give me that 'I'm going through something too' shit because you didn't care about my mom!"

"I loved her!" Skipper shouts loud enough that it echoes through the apartment. "I loved Kitka so much, but the army needed me more. I never got a letter about her being pregnant, and every time we met up she never once mentioned you! I didn't even know you existed until she — she passed!"

"I don't believe you."

"Sometimes I think there's a reason she kept you away from me. I think she kept you away from me because you're an ungrateful and selfish bitch!"

I clench my jaw and growl, tears springing to my eyes out of anger and pain. I grab my bag and walk out of the apartment, screaming "Bastard!" before slamming the door shut.

I faintly hear Skipper yell "Don't you walk away from me!" as I run down the flights of stairs, running outside just in time for the bus to pull up. I wipe my tears away with my sweatshirt sleeve as I flop down in my usual seat. Just as the bus starts to pull away, I see Skipper run out the front door, but I look away as the bus heads towards its next stop.

I go through the day like normal, ignoring the people (mainly Bada and Bing) who asked about my hands. Even if I did know what happened, they didn't need to know. Throughout most of the day, I couldn't focus on anything. My mind kept going back to the fight with Skipper, back to my mom, back to the crash site, back to what Skipper said.

I think she kept you away from me because you're an ungrateful and selfish bitch!

I managed to push through it, though, making it seem like I was paying attention all day. But now, in the last hour, I absolutely need to pay attention. Dr. Harris is still making me extremely nervous and paranoid, and I need to make sure nothing funky happens.

Walking into the last class was weird, because I'm dreading going home, but I also do not want to be in this class. I sit in my normal seat, looking around the room. Everything is mostly the same, but there are a few items that weren't there before. I squint when I see a picture hidden in a bookshelf, and my heart stops in my chest as I realise that it's a picture of my mother and me. How in the fuck did—?

The bell rings, and he walks in. He does the normal teacher thing by taking attendance, but I know he's looking around the room carefully at each one of us. I don't let him know I've seen the picture. I just keep staring forwards, fidgeting with the wraps around my hands as we lock eyes for a moment. I hate this.

Dr. Harris is the one to break the lock before moving forward into class. He's talking about some sort of diabolagizer, and it was all in all… strange. For the most part, kids aren't concerned and don't really care much, just wanting to move on and wanting to go home. I know, however, this more than likely isn't in the syllabus. It makes me wonder what exactly he's going to be doing with this sort of information.

He spends the class going over how to read diagrams and explaining how the grading process will work for this project, and then the bell rings for school to end. The class, having already gotten all their stuff together because everyone's eyes were on the clock, immediately start shuffling out of the classroom. I move to do the same, filing away any information to ask Kowalski if he's ever heard of a diabologizer and if he knows if it'll do anything when I hear my name in a sickeningly sweet voice.

"Liberty Peregrine, will you stay back, please? I need to talk to you."

I walk up to the front of the class as he begins to draw on the whiteboard. My eyes follow along with the marker, my brain trying to figure out what the hell is going on. It's a bunch of nonsense — it's a bunch of lines and squiggles going everywhere. This… looks like a three-year-old got a marker and went ham on the whiteboard. Maybe this isn't as sinister as I believe it's going to be. Maybe this is going to be ungodly stupid.

Then, he picks up the eraser and starts wiping things away.

Slowly, systematically, he's erasing random lines and squiggles. The way he wrote it, the way he's erasing — he's done this before. This is something he's used to doing, as there was no hesitation in the mess of doing this. Why on earth would someone practice something like this?

All in all, it took about three minutes. In the end, a very clear message displayed across the board.

I AM DOCTOR BLOWHOLE.

I gasp and quickly hurry backwards, knocking into desks behind me. I don't know how he managed to distract me so much that I hadn't noticed the words forming a lot early. This makes way too much sense. I could almost feel reality slapping me across the face. This is why he's been following me everywhere. He's the guy we are trying to catch. This is the guy Skipper tried to warn me about. This is the guy that made his face go whiter than paper. This is the guy we've been trying to catch. I was so off-put by the "no questions" rule I hadn't even thought to ask questions about what he looked like.

A mistake that could cost me a lot more than I can even think of right now.

He takes a step forward, and immediately I know I need to get the hell out. Escaping is my first priority, and then I need to call Skipper as soon as I can. But as soon as I turn to run, a hand wraps around my torso and a cloth is shoved against my face.

"Nighty night, little one."