I started running every day. I liked it, the way it made me feel, the idea of pushing myself, and maybe before too long I'd get a chance to chase after someone. But even if I didn't, it was still worth it. I could hardly call it a bad thing, even if I hadn't exactly been the most athletic girl before. There was something to say for something I could love, something to say for just turning off my thoughts and worries and running.
I didn't gain any physical prowess, just from my power. I was still a weak old Taylor, but I knew how to run, I knew how to push myself and pace myself, I knew the sort of diet you needed if you were going to run, and I knew how much running you needed to do to get in shape.
It wouldn't be fast, it wouldn't be automatic, and it'd take a long time for me to get even close to Sophia's level. She was a natural born athlete. Everyone said so, even my stepfather. Her stepfather.
There was something patently absurd in sectioning off memories, but it was something I insisted upon in the weeks to come, even as I relied more and more on Sophia's.
Whatever else you said about her, she had a sort of angry, anxious drive that pushed her forward, and when I stopped fighting it, when I allowed myself to use it, I got the same way. I could push my self-loathing outward, at others, and that made it better.
I started doing my homework, those last weeks, the ones where it mattered and tests were coming and my only chance to salvage my grades was slipping away. Getting bad grades was letting those fuckers win, when they were trying to ruin my life, so I didn't let them. It was boring, and all that academic mumbo-jumbo just wasn't that interesting to me-or at least, any interest was tempered by an impatience, a need to go go go that kept me from dwelling on things too deeply. Not that I wanted to dwell on things, that lay the way of laying in bed trying to force myself to get up.
And I used my new memories to at least guess at what Sophia and Emma were going to do.
Emma, god. I now knew, or I could guess, why she'd turned on me. I pitied her. And that was the right word. Pity, as one might a sick dog. There was contempt in pity, and while Sophia liked Emma, or at least liked who Emma was becoming, I, I didn't, not really.
There were many ways to rationalize it, but the simplest was that I wasn't one or the other, not when I was pulling upon it, calling upon those new parts of me, those new memories. Maybe even when I wasn't pulling on it, too.
Sophia would hate Emma, if she was able to do shit like that to her. Taylor, of course, would feel sorry for her. When I was miserable, when I pushed away my powers and denied myself out of some strange self-sacrifice, maybe I did, but most of the time, it was a melange, a mixture.
Sophia's mindset was easy, and it made sense. Oh, the more I thought of it, the more the predator-prey stuff rang false. But it wasn't about thoughts, it wasn't about a thousand and one rebuttals I could put together for it. It was about how it felt. Emotionally it felt true. I was a prey, but I could be a predator.
And yet, well, Sophia wouldn't have smiled and clapped her fucking hands if I fought back, she'd get angry and punish me, because it'd feel good to do so. She was a fucking hypocrite.
I could understand that, really.
Who wasn't?
Sometimes I got too anxious, too wound up in it, it turned wrong, like when you're running and you twist your ankle, but for the most part, it helped. I was better than I was before.
For all of that, I was glad when the last day of school came, and the last round of BS comments about my mom passed by.
When I got home, I stared at the kitchen, thought of the house. I didn't want to be here, I wanted to be doing something else.
I jogged all the way back to school, and then jogged home, not stopping for long either way. Maybe I shouldn't even take the bus, anymore, get some more exercise that way. Sure it was a bad neighborhood, but I could buy pepper-spray. A stun gun seemed a bad idea, from what I'd worked out of my power.
When I got home, though, dad was there. You'd think he would be grateful his daughter was finally bucking up and doing her homework, but instead, well, just listen to this:
"Taylor, where were you?" Danny asked, in his mopey voice. I could hear the microwave going. Reheating something.
"I was out. Running," I spat, "Getting in shape."
"That's fine, but it's late," he said, "And these aren't good neighborhoods."
"I can take care of myself, dad. You know I can," I insisted, "You don't have to treat me like a child."
It was his body language. I could read it so easily. He'd steeled himself for an argument, a big confrontation. He had something planned. I could storm up to my room, or I could argue back at him. What do you think I did?
"You're still my child, and I'm worried about you," he said, stepping forward.
Balding, a little pathetic. I still loved him, but, "Why? I'm doing fine. I passed that test yesterday, you know?"
'Why should I care?' Danny didn't say. Part of me, some sick miserable part that hated myself and everyone, wanted him to say something like that. So he could be like my stepfather, someone I just ignored. It was easier to just ignore people. Easier to not give a shit. And yet I did.
"And I'm glad for you, but I think there are things that aren't going so well. I talked to a friend of mine, he's a psychologist."
Oh, so a fucking bullshit artist? I grunted, glaring up at him. "A fucking psychologist?"
"Taylor," he said, trying to keep his voice even, "Language…"
"A freaking gosh darn to heck doody-head, psychologist," I retorted, raising my voice a few octaves like I was some munchkin, a little sing-song. "Like you think I'm some crazy psycho, just cause I'm not-"
"Taylor," Danny said, "When I told him a little about you-"
"You what?!" I said, and stomped towards the exit, before stopping myself. What was I doing? I needed to calm down and think. This wasn't bad, was it, my dad caring was a good thing, it wasn't an attack. He wasn't my stepfather, and yet I couldn't quite believe it. "And?"
"He said it sounded like you were depressed," Danny said.
Okay, yeah, that made sense. But I didn't want to admit it, being honest. What right has someone to just shrink my head, put some stupid label on me. Antisocial, depressed. My stepfather did the same bullshit, after he stopped pretending to care. It went nowhere, because those shrinks, they think they know you, but what are they? A bunch of stuffed suits.
But, it seemed like I was depressed. I mean, at least, it all fit together and so why not take happy pills if it made me less pathetic. Worst it could do is nothing, and...and it'd make dad happy. "So he's going to get me some pills?"
"You just have to meet with him, and he'll probably assign you something. He's an old friend, I mean," Danny said, "So he'll do it for cheap."
For cheap. Because we were poor. Danny deserved a wage for wading through the shit that was Brockton Bay, that was for certain. It wasn't a job I'd envy, let alone be able to do.
Still, I felt grateful. I just didn't know how to...express it. "Oh, sure, that's great. What I really need is something to keep me active. And if you're so worried about me jogging out and about, have someone teach me kung-fu and buy me pepper spray."
"Christmas is coming up," Danny said, frowning.
Crap. I hadn't even thought about what his present would be. I'd need to find something. I had no idea what it'd be. A watch, or something? "Sure," I said, sounding perhaps a little more disinterested than I should. I'd already moved on, thinking about what to do next. I didn't have time to linger on unimportant worries. "What girl wouldn't want to learn kung-fu for Christmas?"
Danny blinked, leaning forward.
"No," I said, "That wasn't sarcastic." I gave a big grin, perhaps a little bit feral, and he smiled back.
"Thanks for hearing me out, kiddo," Dad said, shoulders sagging. He'd been prepared for a war, and instead he'd gotten a skirmish.
"No problem, dad," I said, "So what's for dinner?" I needed plenty if I was going to fuel my new goal. Exercise burned a lot of energy, and being able to fight, well, that'd take muscles.
The key to power, over oneself, over the world, is knowledge. Self-knowledge, and knowledge of the world. I don't remember where it was said. Some book? I read quite a bit, but I can't remember what might have triggered that thought, but it was true.
First I tried the most obvious thing of all: I hugged my dad and smiled and strained and tried all I could, and got nothing at all. He just smiled, a little baffled, and I don't think he got why I frowned and stomped off afterwards.
Since the afternoon up in my room, I've been thinking a lot. Planning. Testing things. The power seemed to work the same as before. I mean, I'd have to go out running to see if I could still travel the normal way, but that was one thing taken care of. It seemed I could slip into being able to use it unconsciously, but I could also 'pull' it up, but with it came the personality, and the longer I held onto it, or the more I 'pulled' the more it came up. I'd never gone far enough that I wouldn't respond to Taylor, that I...forgot anything. And pulling didn't seem to do anything, really, at least it didn't make me into an even more powerful Shadow Stalker. I got what she got.
If I was going to become a hero, I'd need a costume and a weapon. Not a crossbow. I knew how to use one, but it wouldn't be efficient without the instincts, and I would prolly eventually gain additional powers that might not fit with it.
Oh, and it was lethal and I didn't want to be tied too much with Sophia, I guess.
She didn't seem to be acting any differently, and while I was worried about her noticing, or worse others noticing because I'm sure some PRT stooge would probably have a problem with me copying memories of important people, I couldn't let that stop me. Still, best to be careful.
Pepper Spray might work on random thugs, but it wasn't likely to do anything against a Cape. More importantly, I needed to know who I could target and who I couldn't.
Because that's the thing: being a vigilante meant playing it smart, it meant knowing when to escalate and when to back down. Like a tiger, like any animal at the top of a food chain, you won by targeting those that are vulnerable. It'd do me no good, throwing myself at Hookwolf or Lung, or any of the heavy hitters.
And I didn't want to be a Ward. Now, I was pretty sure my every opinion via memories about them was biased, and certainly I could only applaud their work in making Sophia chafe at the bit. I'd find myself torn between smiling and frustration, sometimes, when I remembered some silly regulation that held back real heroes from kicking tail. That it also held back Shadow Stalker was just a lovely coincidence.
But the rules, they weren't for me. I didn't think Armsmaster was really an ass, that had to mostly be Shadow Stalker-who wouldn't react poorly to her? Hell, Shadow Stalker would probably hate Shadow Stalker. And Miss Militia was a real American hero and so on, blah blah blah. But the Wards? I'd do no good in there with a bunch of immature, whiny children, and I'd be right there with Sophia and a buttload of regs. And stealing another Ward's power would just be asking to get brought in, right? If they didn't have a rule, they'd make one up.
So, I'd be a vigilante. I'd pick my targets, I'd take them out, and I'd make the world a better place. And maybe once I became an adult, I'd join the Protectorate...if I wanted to. Or start a team, or something.
I didn't want to think ahead. When I was in a bleak mood-for repeatedly I'd try to see how long I could cut away the confident, power parts of me, to be 'me' as I was, because I was afraid, because I was a coward who was sometimes scared of their own power-the future held very little of worth, and when I was in a better mood, or at least a more agitated one, I didn't care about the future.
The memories, the personality traits, the opinions and thoughts, they were a veritable stream of information, more than I could have ever gotten on Parahumans Online. There was this whole other world that mere civilians never got to see, a dark world that needed to see justice. And if I couldn't do it, who would? Brockton Bay was a morass, good people struggling against the impossible. My father, everyone, I had to do something for them and myself.
But it wasn't as simple as just fishing out files. The memories were organic, tinged with opinions and sights and smells, aches and pains, words and feels. And they didn't come as I called in neat, orderly rows. They mixed and pushed and shoved, a memory of a childhood reading a book with mom pushing up against getting into a fight with another kid or just lazing around, with my mother, back before she married my stepfather.
They didn't feel as if they were different classes of experience, one more real and the other more fake. And why should they, when they all had happened?
What disappointed me was that there were no new memories. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember anything after that December day where I'd grabbed Sophia's powers. As if I'd taken a photocopy of her, honestly. It was weird, but so were superpowers, so I wasn't really bothered. I'd hoped, though, that it'd let me have ongoing information, because then I could use it to spy and monitor villains.
Of course, bringing in a Nazi, even if it didn't have me goose stepping, was probably a bad idea. Even if I was completely sure how to activate my power-copying. It seemed to work by touch, right? But if I touched a Nazi, even if I didn't try to focus on it, would prejudice just bubble up? Would I suddenly think 'Of course Sophia's a thug, it's her urban youth upbringing'-only thought far less nicely-without even seeing past it. My mother was a feminist and an academic, my father organized union labor, even if it was a little fruitless. I didn't want to disappoint them, any more than I already had. It was bad enough to be a pathetic, weak sad-sack that needed hits of confidence like a fucking drug-addict just to push through my day, without also being some racist, fascist prick. Yet at the same time, my instinct was to go after the E88. The Merchants would be just as sleazy, and Lung and Oni Lee* were both tough and powerful, while Nazis, well, for obvious reasons Sophia hated the shit out of them.
And so did I. As much as I had even thought of them before Triggering, I hated Nazis and their ilk.
And if I just took the powers of one, I'd also have their memories. Their codes, their secret stashes of drugs, their whole network up until that moment opened up to me.
That's another word I looked up on Christmas Break. Asymmetrical warfare. You don't fight fair. Sophia hadn't fought fair against me, the gangs didn't put their dukes up and march bare-chested at the Protectorate, and I couldn't afford to fight fair against either her or that gangs that'd outnumber me by odds that should have intimidated me, but didn't. I didn't blame them, I didn't blame Sophia, but I'd beat them at their own game. They had stashes that they'd draw from for pushing drugs, they had places where money was counted and gathered, and I'd hit them. I'd crack skulls and bring their whole operation tumbling to the ground. Something something fulcrum moves the world.
I struggled with myself, as to whether I'd just straight up take cash I found, but no. I was trying to do better than Sophia. She'd made a good try of it, even if she was too brutal, but she hadn't had backup, she'd struck without knowing how to follow up. She'd bled the gangs, but no more.
I'd need to be able to call down the Protectorate on their heads, if need be, like some special forces operative calling down an airstrike, and that meant I needed to not be on their shit list as someone stealing blood money.
I admit, that wasn't a random simile, because over the break I got into thrillers and action adventures and the grittier cape stories. I liked to read, or at least I'd used to; but the older stuff, well, when I was mopey it brought me down too much, and when I was on edge, getting actual work done, it often bored me too fast. But something with a little action, a little bloodshed, a bit of a bounce to its pace? It helped, and it distracted me when I got bored of planning. Because I needed to plan, I wanted to fill journal after journal with power notes and plans and ideas and think about how to test jumping from rooftop to rooftop…
But I also got bored with it way too fast. Call it a downside to not getting stuck in a morass. It was, I suppose, a downside. But it's one I could deal with.
So it's not like I spent all the time up until Christmas preparing to become a Cape. I figured I could maybe throw together a costume sometime in January and get started kicking ass. But first, I had to figure out what to get dad for Christmas.
In the end, I got him a gift card to a shop he liked and a new tie. We had a little tree, a dinky little plastic thing, and we put a few small gifts beneath it and pretended to be surprised. Well, he pretended, I admit I was at least a little taken aback.
I think it's because with all the time I had to think, to stew in my thoughts, I'd started to just assume I wouldn't get much of anything. Sure, I knew my dad loved me, and I even loved him even at times he seemed a little...pathetic? But there was this lack of expectations.
And so when my eyes widened, it wasn't a show. I wasn't faking it, like I faked so many interactions with him already. "Are those…" I said, voice a little breathy.
"Yes, I figured if you wanted to get in shape, you'd need exercise clothing, and some weights-"
The weights were those little dummy weights you could buy for a few bucks at a garage sale, but I'd been meaning to get some, make it part of my routine. I was becoming a regular, well, exercise...enthusiast or whatever.
Reading, exercising, researching capes and exploring my powers: it was enough to fill the time, to keep me from dwelling on things too much.
"Thanks dad," I said, "And what's-
I reached down, picking up another package and opening it. There was a small bottle of some sort of muscle ointment and an address. 'Hardy's Self-Defense.'
"Self-defense lessons?" I asked, wondering whether that'd actually include, you know, asskicking.
"Yeah, he was a-well," Danny said, frowning, "He knew your mother, so he was willing to help out. I figured it was the best bet."
It was pathetic, the way I was so happy to be thrown scraps, like I was some sort of scavenger, rather than a predator, but I moved forward and hugged him, "Thanks dad. I mean, all of this will be useful." Useful for when I'm a hero.
"And I'm sure I'll get plenty with that gift card," Danny said, a slightly dopey expression on his face, "And how did you know I needed a new tie? I have a meeting in January, going to take another shot at convincing someone to clear up some of the ship graveyard, you know?"
"Another run at it?" I asked, and I admit I sounded incredulous. He'd tried several times before, talked to the mayor and even gotten some vague promises. Then some E88 thug wrecked a building or some cop got in trouble for being too rough on someone, and suddenly urban renewal was yesterday's news. I'd supported him, even looked over his papers once or twice, just to see if his presentation was clear and stuff-he could get way too technical, and I remember that mom had done that, when she was alive. Putting her talents to use, I suppose.
I'd been so hopeful, but now, well why shouldn't I be skeptical? I'd have to be a sap not to see a pattern here.
"Yeah. I think there's a real shot at it. There have been a few recent studies about Capes-"
Okay. I was bored, but I smiled and asked, "What study?"
"Well, it's nothing groundbreaking, but the power of gangs and the likelihood of a Cape becoming a villain is apparently directly tied to the economic status of an area and its capacity to help those with psychological problems. And money is the greatest factor in whether someone will get proper treatment. So if the mayor really wants to deal with Brockton Bay's problems, clearing the Boat Graveyard could be a start. I already hear there are some independent villains hanging around there, so it'd even help with that." He sounded hopeful, too hopeful.
While he stood around a miserable little fake tree, the E88 were out there worshipping their stupid fucking White Aryan Nazi Jesus, and the Merchants were making it snow with nose powder, and the Undersiders and that bastard Grue having their merry time, and who even fucking knew what Lung was doing? Meanwhile dad was dreaming that a little bit of money, a bit of work, and the world could be a better place.
Mom, mom had protested, she'd debated, she'd participated. Dad, dad just hoped. I snorted, leaning forward, "Yeah, like that's really going to convince him, if nothing did before. He's a prick, he's not going to even listen."
I stopped, and saw at once that he'd been trying to be optimistic, he'd been forcing himself to, to, well to do the same things I'd been forcing on myself. Fucking Christmas cheer. And then I'd come and been a damn bitch about it. I felt a surge of anger, but this time directed at myself. It was easy to say-and god knows I said it to myself later-that that was Sophia talking. But no, no it wasn't. Sophia was probably out patrolling or not bothering with Christmas or whatever.
I was here, talking to my dad, being horrible.
"I'm sorry, I'm just...I guess I'm a little cynical today," I said, giving a nervous little laugh, "I'm sure if we phrase it just right, he's got to do something. I mean, maybe go to the media, get people talking about it, or something?"
There were papers my mom wrote on the nature of nonviolent resistance. Now, I admit that I definitely wasn't planning on handing out hugs once I was a hero, but just cause my mom didn't punch people didn't mean she didn't fight, didn't mean she was some victim. Getting the media to gab gab gab their BS about your cause was the only way to get ahead, if you weren't willing to attack the bad guy directly.
Okay, she'd said it far more eloquently than that, but that's the gist of it, if I remember it right.
I didn't know if it would work, but...it's something, right?
I moved forward, even though my first instinct was to go out running or something. Let all those nerves wash over me, be pissed off over some little argument. and all of that wash over me. A good run, well, sometimes it was like just sweating out your frustration. Till you felt satisfied, till you'd pushed yourself so far you didn't have the energy in you to be a bitch.
I wrapped my dad in a hug, and I could feel him soften into it. He ruffled my hair, which annoyed me a little bit. I let it pass, and for the moment I felt content. Not happy, not angry or sad or anything else.
Just...okay.
The room was way too small, and the guy had clearly seen too many movies, because the damn place looked exactly like what you'd imagine a shrink's office to look like. Only grubbier because it was some small building in one of those 'semi-okay' parts of town where occasionally someone got beat up or robbed, but where Capes didn't prowl the streets. Often.
Mr. Donald Vane, that's what the little plaque said.
He reminded me of dad, a little. Maybe it was the way he was balding, or his frown, though he was pot-bellied, short, and had one of those droopy mustaches that probably got dirty every time he drank coffee. He was sitting on a chair, and there I was on a couch.
Ready to have my head shrunk.
"So, doc," I said, tapping my fingers against the fake leather of the couch, "Are you gonna ask me about my childhood? Whether my mommy loved me?"
"I am not that kind of psychologist, Taylor," he said, and then gave a big, rumbly laugh, "I admit, the couches probably didn't help. Danny said you've been exhibiting some signs of depression. Is that true?"
"Yeah," I said, "I've been experiencing a depressed mood and a loss of interest and pleasure in life activities for the last two weeks on end, and I've been experiencing a depressed mood most of the day, diminished interest in most activities, significant weight loss or gain, insomnia or sometimes sleeping too much, agitation or psychomotor retardation-"
"Taylor, if you're going to list out the DSM-IV for me," he said, "At least don't do it straight from the book."
I grinned. I knew he'd get it. "But I wasn't done," I said, "There were a few more-"
"It doesn't help any if you don't treat it seriously," he said, leaning forward.
"If I get the pills, that'll help, right? So why should I care otherwise"
"I'm a cognitive-behavioral therapist, but I also have experience in psychopharmacology. The first combination of drugs might not be in a strong enough dose, and some drugs don't work well for some patients, and there are side-effects. Studies show that a combination of drugs and talk therapy can be good for you."
I crossed my arms. Blah blah blah. I was already getting antsy, and so I stood up.
"Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," I spat, "I just need to move."
"I believe we can note down irritability and agitation."
"It's not irritability when you're annoyed for a good reason," I argued.
"And why is that?"
"Because I could be out there...exercising. Studying, doing something rather than cramped up in here."
"You think that when you're not moving, you're doing nothing? I know you might have some trouble taking me seriously," he said, "Because you've come in here already with the cognition that this is a waste of time, that it's all...well what's the word? A bunch of shit."
Honestly, I was sorta shocked he'd just outright said what I'd been thinking the whole time.
"Maybe," I admitted, blushing a bit. I shouldn't be so rude, even if he probably still was some bullshit artist.
"Yeah, and maybe some of it is, but the thing is: shit's real. I mean, being more simple, the way you think about things matters, even if it's all just in your head. You come in here not expecting much, and you won't be getting much. But if you can figure out better patterns of thinking, ones that aren't so negative, it'll help you. There are some exercises, but first, why don't we talk? Have there been any troubles lately?"
"No," I said, crossing my arms, still pacing a little.
"Nothing at school?"
"School's fine." I didn't even think about it: it's just what I said. Hell, it's what Taylor said and what Sophia said. I remember my mom joking about it: 'How was school? Fine. What did you learn? Nothing. It's good to see they're teaching you all sorts of exciting things, but that's what all my friends say it's like. Teenagers, huh Taylor?'
"So not so well?" he asked. "I won't tell anything you say to anyone else, unless someone's life is at stake.
"I said school was fine," I snapped back. "It's flowers and rainbows and puppies licking my face, and the teachers all win awards and they're going to be in those stupid movies about teachers and the school's not a shit-hole filled with gang-bangers, and I've been elected valedictorian and…"
I took a breath. I hadn't meant to say all of that. I hadn't meant to say half of it. And, confidentiality? Hah. He'd blab the first time Danny talked to him, I bet.
"Have any of the kids been bullying you?" he asked.
Had someone told him something? Was he in on something? My mind leapt immediately to paranoia and blame. But it wasn't paranoia if people were out to get you, and half the school was, and the other half didn't give a shit, and that went for most of the teachers too. Why bother even telling them when you know they'll just shrug and say 'that's the way kids are.'
"So what?" I said, then...wait, why'd I say that. Shut up, I told myself, deflect deflect! "It's just stupid school shit."
"That has you failing classes I'm pretty sure you could pass in your sleep? You're a smart kid, Taylor. Probably could even go to Arcadia, if it wasn't for the endless waiting lists. That's what Danny says, and while he's certainly got some cognitive biases there-"
"Like that he's my dad," I said with a bitter laugh.
"I'm sure he's more right than wrong, here. Maybe that's my own bias," he said, with an expansive shrug, "So, kids are being assholes, and it's getting in the way of you living your life?"
I wanted to just storm out of here. But...some of what he was saying was making me think, and I probably needed the drugs or something. I mean, it was a weakness, needing to rely on a bunch of pills, but then wasn't I a weakling, at least some of the time?** Even Sophia was weak, sorta. Or at least, there was a lot of bullshit back in her memories, and she certainly wasn't exactly the picture of a strong and healthy teenager with a sound mind in a sound body. She was strong, and she was weak too. Maybe that's what it meant to Trigger, but Sophia had never looked too far into it. She hadn't been one of those prissy losers who took college classes about capes. She had practical, real knowledge. Blood in the gutters, word on the street. And now I had it.
So why should I have a problem with some school bullying? He should just shut up, the fat little balding marshmallow.
"Maybe, but I'm sure I got it handled. It's just people, kids being kids-" I began.
He gave that stupid little belly laugh again, "I bet that's what they want. I mean, the people bullying you, they want you to think that there's no way out, or that it's normal. It's the way they work. Psychological warfare. I was in the army for a while, did you know? Then I worked with the VA, helping vets."
"Psychological warfare?" I asked. I definitely liked at least half of that phrase.
"Yes," he said, "So what I want to try to do, in addition to figuring out more details about your potential depression, is help give you tools to fight back."
I already had tools: superpowers and Sophia. But I nodded, "I...guess?" I definitely wasn't trusting him with everything, and I sure as hell wasn't even mentioning anyone by name, not even 'this one former friend of mine.' But even if it was all a bunch of nonsense, well, he was nicer than I thought he was. I'd hardly been a sweetheart to him, though really, he probably deserved it. But he was a trooper, that was for sure. Maybe he'd even killed someone before, if he was in the army.
Just because most shrinks were full of it didn't mean all of them were, right?
I didn't spill my guts. That would have been stupid, but we talked for a long time, probably well past what dad had paid for, honestly. He had a weird sense of humor, and he seemed to flip between squeaky clean and surprisingly upfront. It almost gave me a headache, talking with him for too long, but he talked to me about 'cognitive-behavioral exercises' and said he'd get a prescription written up for "An SSRI, the side-effects should be relatively mild, and not anything you should have to worry about, compared to the downsides."
Some cheapo-brand Prozac.
There were jokes about that, how everyone was popping it all the time, and now here I was, going to become some pill addict. No, no, it wasn't like that, but it was hard to...I mean, it was a crutch, right?
Well, but I was crippled and a little fucked up, so why not. Happy pills were probably what I needed, and if not, I'd just toss them.
Cognition, on the other hand. I started looking it up online. Just articles and the like, and maybe it'd help. Maybe it even sorta made sense of some of what was going on. Cognition said all sorts of things, but it was all about the mindset. Like Sophia's 'predator' thing. She was such a moron she thought fucking wolves were lone predators, but because she was thinking like she was powerful and in charge, it sorta made her like that, a little? Or maybe a lot. It could make me the same. Fake, real, maybe Mr. Vane was right about it not mattering much.
So the problem was less the memories, and just more the way I thought about things when I was pulling on her power. I viewed everything through her assumptions about the way the world worked and what was good and what was bad. I had her cognitions, or however you wanted to put it, even if really they were mine now.
Of course, well, it's not that simple, is it? Because the point of all of the research online was that it wasn't as easy as saying 'I need to not be so negative about myself.' Or 'I should try not to be a bitch to people who don't deserve it like my dad, even if he is sometimes almost as pathetic as me.' It's something you had to train, see? But I figured I could figure out how to control it. Find ways to think about the world that, maybe, weren't either too pathetic or too brutal.
I was in the flush of naive optimism, in the assumption that by working out with training weights, I'd become a badass, and that by reading a few online articles I'd become a master of my mind.
Winter break was nearing its end, I'd started on these 'self-defense' classes just before I got back, and I needed to be ready.
I knew how Sophia thought now, and I knew how Emma thought, by way of Sophia. They'd have something ready for me, after the break. They'd been too passive, just a few shoves, just a few rounds of playing silly little social games. But it wasn't enough, no, it couldn't be enough it wouldn't be enough for me. She'd be getting antsy, wanting to do something, and while going out and busting criminals was good for a little, well?
I wasn't going to start bullying other people, but I understood her mindset. Intimately. She'd have something planned. It took a startling amount of willpower not to just up and punch her, but I knew it'd be stupid. She'd win in a fight, she had training and instinct and reflexes and physique on her side-right now, at least-and even if I won, she wouldn't say 'Now you are a predator' and give me a thumb's up. She'd beat me down, harder than ever, until I stopped fighting back.
A person like her, whatever else you can say about them, they don't lose, they don't give up. They're dedicated to whatever they do.
The time'll come when I'd show that bitch just what I can really do, but that wasn't going to be soon.
So, I went to self-defense training in another cruddy part of town. I had the memories, the lessons in my head, but I didn't have the instincts, the reflexes honed from training. So it'd take a while, I bit.
Hardy Smith looked like a hardass, encouragingly. One of those guys who kicked the shit out of people for frowning at them. White, with a buzz-cut, somewhat heavily muscled, wearing a shirt and a pair of jeans. "Good morning," he said, a little gruffly, "I'll be your teacher in self-defense."
"Great," I said, mostly meaning it. Mostly. "So what are we going to learn?"
"How to walk like you aren't a victim, when and where to go, how to use pepper spray, and then maybe if you take to that," he said, sounding bored, "We could try a few choke-holds and the like. Your father probably wanted you to have a bit of knowledge of how to take care of yourself, right?"
"Nope," I said, already a little annoyed. He was just assuming things, even when they weren't true.
"No? That's not the Danny I know, then. Never was a bold man, especially not when standing next to Annie."
I clenched my hands, grinding my teeth, "My dad's fine." I took a step forward, "I asked for this myself."
"What for, Taylor? I mean, really, it's a little odd, some girl like you doing something like that," he said with a shrug.
"Don't act like you know me," I said with a scowl.
"I knew your mother, and if you keep up that attitude, you'll pay for it," he said.
"What?" I asked, stunned. He couldn't be threatening me.
"I'm the one teaching you whatever you're going to learn, so be respectful or get out and then your dad's paying for nothing, right? So what are you doing here?"
"I want to learn how to fight," I said.
"Ah, you don't want self-defense?"
"The best defense is a good offense," I retorted.
He shrugged, "You'd be surprised. I guess you just came here because he knew Annie knew me, then? Rather than going to one of those McDojos where they ask you to take a fly out of their hand and train half of the ABB in martial arts?"
"I want to learn to be stronger, to be in charge of myself," I insisted, "I hoped this would help."
"Well, I suppose if you're so eager," he said, "Why don't we try some basic exercises. You're certainly more full of fire than I thought."
I growled, annoyed already. Get on with it, already. I was wasting enough time.
As it turned out, he definitely was a hardass. And an asshole. Whereas I sorta went with the flow when I was around the psychologist. I'd see him once more before I went back to school. I didn't trust him, but then, who did I trust? Sure as hell wasn't going to tell him anything important, but maybe he had special psychologist knowledge of how to manage your powers, if I could find a way to just trick it out of him.
Hardy, on the other hand, I didn't just let myself be me, I pulled on Sophia as much as I could. Vicious, determined, considering how much bigger and stronger than me he was, he still worked me over, showing me pins and locks and punches, clearly far, far beyond me physically. Even if I became a total badass, I'd need a Brute power to keep up with people more experienced. Maybe Glory Girl, and certainly she'd make a heroic counterpart to the way that Shadow Stalker was-understandably, of course-a vicious vigilante.
Maybe she was some goody two shoes, but-
Well, she was strong. But I had no idea on how to start, or what would happen if I had two...well, if I became more.
So I trained and swore under my breath and cursed the fucking asshole, but came home bruised and exhausted and happy and grinning and ready to go back.
The look on my dad's face, god it was priceless.
Two days before I went back, I finally got the drugs. The little pills. I read the side-effects. Potential loss of appetite, anxiety, call the doctor if you get hives, etc, etc. Decreased libido is likely.
Well, that wasn't much of a loss, was it? Shadow Stalker didn't care that much about sex, and what did the sex drive of some depressed, lanky, ugly girl even matter? If it made me better, then why should I care? I had eyes-or at least, I had them now-but boys hadn't really been that important in my life so far.
So, bottom's up, and here's to not being so weak!
Back and school, I wondered at their intelligence. God, they were so damn predictable. Clustered around my locker, nearby, just waiting.
What, did they think I couldn't smell a trap from a mile away? Emma was just a weakling, and Madison a nobody. And Sophia? She'd get hers, but now wasn't the time. So instead of going to see what they were doing, instead of springing their trap…
I went to class. I didn't need to see my locker. World Issues, more babbling when some loser brought up a cape battle between Dissonant-now there was someone Shadow Stalker would have teamed up with, weak power or no-and some of the Merchants.
Because it was one of the jocks, that stupid prick standing up there, that so called teacher let the discussion spin out. What was World Issues about a typical vigilante smash-and-grab, even if someone got a video and Dissonant had gotten himself triple-teamed by the Merchants. He'd still probably gotten some of their money before being run off, if I knew how he operated, and I did. He did the same thing as Shadow Stalker, and just like her, that meant he never really had the Protectorate or anyone else at his back. A lone wolf, again. Which meant he had to fight smart or he'd get his ass kicked, like he'd done this time.
I was bored out of my skull, and I'd started doodling in my sketchbook. God, would the fucking guy-Mr. Gladly was full of shit, both of me would agree with that-shut up about this and that and the other thing? None of them knew jack shit. Not like me, I'd been…
No, I hadn't been out on dozens of patrols. I hadn't been on one. The last thing I needed was to get cocky, I told myself, waiting for the right moment.
Taking a breath I stood up and walked to the door.
"Taylor, what are you?" Mr. Gladly began.
I was out the door before he finished.
I hurried to my locker. I didn't have long, but maybe there'd be time before Sophia reacted.
I opened it, and god.
It was horrible, and a little brilliant. Disgusting, and fuck if I didn't care about not being gross. And they'd been making those jokes about how I wasn't even really a woman, or not beautiful, and right there were bloody tampons. It was, it was ironic or something. The sort of clever thing I bet Sophia and Emma had dreamed up together.
I almost could appreciate the amount of time and effort that had to go into this.
If I wasn't fucking pissed at those goddamn bitches. If I surprised Sophia, surprised her with her own power, I probably could get a good hit on her but it wouldn't be a good enough hit and wasn't I supposed to be better than that? But why, and why should I care?
Fuck. Fuck. I didn't even bother thinking, useless mopey sad little thoughts when what I needed was so obvious.
There was a clarity in even blinding rage.
No.
I wouldn't get anything done like this. It was wrong, I was supposed to become a hero or some shit, not start a fight with Shadow Stalker and she'd call me a villain and mock me to my face and get rid of my identity.
Yet there she was, right in front of my, grinning a little, not far from class.
"What, Taylor, did you have to go somewhere?" she asked, hands on her hips.
"I was just seeing what you cooked up," I growled, "You fucking bitch."
"Aww, someone has a-"
I walked forward, hands in my pocket. Hardy had told me if I really wanted to be dangerous, I needed to not be so goddamn obvious with my attacks. Sophia, she didn't expect much out of me.
I shoved her, hard, against a locker. I felt something strange. I pulled, and my stomach jumped and leapt as if I was going to throw up, but I didn't. My arms ached and for an instant I stared at her, more pissed and surprised than hurt, scowling at me as I slipped past her, into the classroom.
Shit.
That could have gone a lot better. I couldn't let it wait that much longer.
If I got into another such situation, with Sophia, I wouldn't be able to hold myself back. I knew it. I knew that I knew it, and even if part of me didn't care...part of me did. I needed a release valve.
Guess I'd have to speed up plan No Name. If I didn't get jumped by Sophia first. Or if she didn't tattle to the principal and suddenly I'm the violent bully. No. Emma would do that, but Sophia, she would want it to wait, see if she couldn't do a bit better than that.
I flopped into my chair, breathing heavily, and Sophia slipped back in.
"What were you-" he asked.
"Had to go to the bathroom," I said, a little weakly.
"Well, you could have-" Mr. Gladly began.
"It was a feminine issue, you know, certain time of the month..." Sophia said, voice harsh, a little sarcastic. As she spoke, I mouthed it. She'd...she'd planned on saying that if I somehow got out of the locker and she saw me covered in the blood.
Just where is that bitch going I better go get her, she'd thought just a few minutes before. Still fresh, almost.
The class broke out into titters at that.
I watched Mr. Gladly try to regain some small measure of control over the class and failure as I gloated. I could copy it again, I could pick up any memories I missed even if I was shaking a little. I knew she wouldn't be able to hurt me, that she had practice and other things to do. For the first time in forever, I looked at her with the same eyes she looked back at me all the time. I knew her secrets, I even knew something that could destroy her, if I timed it right, if I was smart about it. And if there was one thing I was, one thing even that sad sack was, it was smarter than her.
And so I looked on Sophia Hess with the eyes of a predator.