Chapter 2: The Mural
"No coat, Hebert?"
I frowned at Sophia. My fists clenched in anger, and in a futile attempt to strive for warmth. I reached for my swarm but its response was sluggish, the bugs not caring to move in the unseasonable cold that would only get colder as the afternoon turned to evening.
"And where would I keep it?" I asked. "In my locker?"
Sophia snorted. She checked her phone again—nearly five o'clock, now—and glanced down the street, but there was still no sign of Madison. Madison was the sort of girl who spent more time in extracurricular activities than she did in school, from piano and violin to soccer and field hockey— or, so I'd gathered from Sophia's ranting before class this morning. Why she bothered ranting to me I couldn't guess.
I cradled my head in my hand as Sophia cursed Madison yet again.
"…all be gone by the time we get there," I heard her mutter. I could only assume she was hoping for us to talk with someone, but she refused to say who. She refused to say where we were going at all. It had taken days of pestering to get her to agree to even show us.
The sound of tires grinding against damp concrete approached. A large, navy blue SUV rolled up.
"Finally," muttered Sophia.
The passenger door opened and Madison slid out of the seat, dropping two feet to the ground, her heels clicking loudly as they hit the surface. She waved to her mom, her hands kept warm by nice knitted mittens, and closed the door behind her.
"So, where are we going?" she asked. "A villain's lair? Is it Über? Tell me it's not Über."
"Few blocks. Not Über," said Sophia. "Not a lair. What kept you?"
"Ms. Matthews—my violin teacher?—well, her sister is Kate Matthews, you know, from Channel Seven?"
In lieu of response, Sophia sighed and began walking. Madison was not discouraged.
"And I was thinking," she continued, her voice filled with her trademark cheeriness, "if the newspapers had to yank stories about Lustrum, the TV stations would, too, right? So I asked Ms. Matthews, and we called her sister, and they did have to remove stories from their archives, but they never knew why. All Kate remembers is something about a kidnapping."
"So: nothing," said Sophia, not bothering to glance back at Madison.
I cringed a bit at how Sophia had put it, then laughed at myself for feeling sympathy for Madison. But Sophia was right: aside from confirmation that stories had indeed been pulled—which we'd already put together—there wasn't anything that we hadn't already gathered from the newspapers.
"I wasn't finished," said Madison, still just as obnoxiously cheery. "Kate said we should check the trial records, and that's where mom and I were just now. But at the federal court downtown—Birdcage sentences are always delivered through federal courts, you know—the clerk said they couldn't find any records of a trial for 'Lustrum.' He was pretty rude about it, actually. It's strange, because Armsmaster and Miss Militia arrested her, and the World had that writeup on her trial, so it had to have been here, right? I kinda wish Emma were on our team. Then Mr. Barnes could—"
She cut herself off with a glance towards me.
"Then again, perhaps it's for the best she's not."
I grimaced. I was definitely glad she wasn't on the team.
"So," said Sophia, again. "Nothing."
Madison shrugged.
No trial records, and the papers and stations had to pull their stories, and we still didn't know why. I growled in frustration, and Sophia shot me a strange look. Madison didn't seem any less optimistic.
"It's always good to have more sources, right?" said Madison. "Especially if we're going to fill fifteen pages."
"Don't remind me," I said.
We passed a textured cement wall whose rough white surface had been freshly sprayed with Merchants' graffiti. Sophia scowled at it.
"Better them than Empire, though," she muttered.
"Is this their territory?" asked Madison. "Are we meeting with them? Lustrum did drug stuff, right? Think she did it with the Merchants?"
Was that where Sophia was taking us? Wouldn't that be dangerous? My hand began to check for the pepper spray in my pocket—
"Not their territory," said Sophia. "They're just being bold. Stupid. A hero or two protects the area."
She sighed and slowed her stride for a moment to take in the graffitied wall, as if to better remember it. She glanced up and down the street. Sighed.
"Things were better under Marquis," she said. "Fucking New Wave."
How would she know what things were like back then? Wouldn't she have been five or so when New Wave had captured Marquis? Typical Sophia bullshit, I supposed.
"What's wrong with New Wave?" asked Madison.
Sophia seemed to consider what to say for a moment, as if it were too easy for her to say too much.
"Let's just say… I don't think Marquis attacked them," she said.
"But…" started Madison. "Do you mean they went after him? But what's wrong with that? Unless— out of costume? You can't mean at home? Isn't that against the rules?"
"Rules?" I asked.
"The Unwritten Rules," said Madison, reverently. "Things capes won't do to each other. Like killing, or attacking out of costume. Definitely no exposing secret identities."
Sophia snorted.
"Not that organized," she said. "But yeah. No way their story's not B.S. Protectorate covers for them, of course. Don't think Piggot likes it much."
She didn't explain why the Protectorate would cover for New Wave, or why New Wave's story must be B.S. If I asked, Sophia would probably just mysteriously say she knew people, again. Or maybe she, like Madison, read too many conspiracies on PHO.
Sophia slowed to a stop. Turned to face us.
"Those rules?" she said. "They apply today. Got it? Meet someone, see them again? You never met them. And you don't out them. I will kill you."
She looked me dead in the eyes, holding my gaze for an uncomfortably long time, then shifted to Madison, whose gaze she held even longer. Madison nodded hurriedly.
"Good," said Sophia, more of a grunt than a word. She spun back around and rounded the corner. None of us said anything until we stopped in front of a building a few blocks later.
It was less a building than a strange sort of house, three stories plus a basement and covered with wood siding that had been salvaged from rot by a comparatively recent coat of paint. Only a foot or two of grass, yellow for the winter, separated it from the sidewalk. The few bugs that had ignored the building's pest control and made their way inside could taste where old, damaged wood made way to new; where still more damage—some that even tasted charred—had been painted over; even bits here and there which had been left as-is. Well maintained on a budget.
The BBQ: Brockton Bay LGBT Center.
The sign on the door could easily be missed. The text wasn't large, and was hard to make out between the many taped-up event posters surrounding it behind the glass, most advertising events such as 'BBQueen,' 'The Bi-Bi Weekly Book Club: Bi Books for Bi's and Friends,' 'Transpire: Trans Social Hour,' and my favorite: 'Let's Go Build This: DIY.'
I was tempted to sign up for the DIY classes, but I still wasn't sure why we were here. I glanced at Madison—why was I exchanging glances with Madison?—but she didn't seem to understand any better than I did.
Sophia yanked the door open, and something inside chimed with an annoying, cheery ring. She didn't bother holding the door. She made to walk past the front desk and down the hall—
"Excuse me," said the young man behind the front desk, his rolling chair skidding across the floor as he stood to intercept. "May I help you?"
I was a little surprised when Sophia stopped. She leaned slightly away from the man. He gave her a strange look, a frown curling beneath his beard, his bespectacled eyes scrutinizing her as if he almost recognized her, but didn't quite.
"Yeah," said Sophia, after a moment. "Wanted to talk with someone about the mural."
"The mural?" he said. He blinked. "Oh. Uh… maybe…"
He glanced back at the front desk, his eyes searching for help, but he had been its only occupant.
"You should sign in," he said. "And then maybe Lexi can help you, if she's in her office. She's our manager, she'd know who you should talk to. Lexi! Lexi, these girls wanna ask about the mural! Lexi!"
He motioned us over to a clipboard, and grabbed a pen for each of us out of a flower pot. Beside the pot was a bowl of miniature chocolate bars. I pointed at it and glanced at the man, but he'd vanished down the hallway, presumably to find Lexi.
I jumped as one of the chocolate bars bumped against my hand, its metallic wrapper crinkling noisily.
"Just take one," said Sophia, shoving it against my hand again.
Lexi, it turned out, had left for the evening. Sophia sighed irritably and shot Madison a glare.
"You can still take a look," said the man—Greg, he introduced himself. "You know where it is? Just down the hall on the left. You couldn't miss it if you tried."
The annoying, cheery ring chimed again, and Greg promptly forgot about us as he turned to greet the newcomers: a group of three who all seemed to know each other.
Sophia sighed irritably and rolled her eyes.
Madison's heels clicked and clacked against the hallway's parquet floor. To our right was a gift shop; through its windows I could see a variety of stuffed animals—a unicorn caught my eye—along with various other knick-knacks, some books, and an abundance of flags of different designs, most of which I did not recognize. To our left were a few offices, including Lexi's, doors all shut.
And then there was the mural.
Fire. A building ablaze in the night. Less of a building, really, and more of a house; this house, the one we were in.
It was painted in a style meant to look simplistic: sharp, sweeping lines meeting each other at angles. And while the shapes were indeed simple—flames, skyline, sky—through them, you could feel the transition of flame to smoke, the distinctive Brockton Bay skyline peeking through as mere silhouette.
In front of the building stood a woman, her long hair flowing behind her, her face strong and determined. She wore cargo pants and a shawl of a top, and on her face was a distinctive mask that seemed to glow.
Her hands swung a flag. It was one of the very flags I'd just seen in the gift shop; it waved through the air victoriously, the colors of its five bars shifted by the orange light of the fire.
It was the same woman we'd seen in the newspaper.
Lustrum.
"They made something positive out of this place."
We spun around to find a woman: twenties, dark haired, and with a sad sort of smile.
"I was sent here, when I was a kid," she said. "Before it was here. Harrow's, we used to call it. Thought they could 'fix' me. 'Conversion therapy,' they called it."
Sophia recoiled slightly, her face twisting into a hateful scowl.
"Abuse," said Sophia.
"My family would send me again if they could," said the woman. "Made me go through the wrong puberty, too. I'm still paying for that. Even the best medicines can only do so much. The rest's expensive."
She held out a hand, in which sat a small green pill, flat and scored. She popped it into her mouth, beneath her tongue.
"Did you know Lustrum?" asked Madison. "That's her, right?"
The woman turned her attention back to the mural. She regarded it for several seconds.
Had Lustrum tried to burn this placed down, once, before it was the BBQ? If so, was that even a bad thing? Illegal, sure, but evil? I supposed it depended on her reasons.
"Caged when I was sixteen," said the woman, her words slurred a bit as she tried to keep her tongue stationary and the pill beneath it. "Heard it was a farce of a trial, though. Like Canary's, maybe."
I wasn't sure who Canary was, but Madison seemed to know, judging on how her eyes lit up. Before I could ask, she asked a question of her own.
"Are you Lexi?" asked Madison.
"Elisa," said the woman, shaking her head. "Lexi's the manager. I just help Dr. Thenison, sometimes."
"He prescribes the, uh…" Sophia said, motioning at Elisa. "Right?"
"Hormones," said Elisa. "Endocrinologist."
Elisa seemed to give up on holding the pill beneath her tongue. She swallowed it with an awkward-looking gulp.
"Are you Taylor?" she asked me, suddenly.
My eyes darted towards Sophia, and I felt myself tense. My response came out as a sluggish question.
"Yes…?"
"Professor Hebert was one of my teachers at UB," she said, her sad smile softening. "She always did her best to help, you know? I remember when… I always wondered if it was my call—"
She cut herself off abruptly, her eyes widening with the realization that she should not have spoken. But it was too late to take the words back, and I felt my eyes close on their own accord and my heart sink into my chest.
"I'm so sorr—" Elisa began.
"No," I cut her off, forcing myself to speak, trying to keep my words as even as I could. "It wasn't your call. It was mine. I was talking with her when… when it happened."
I tried to make myself think about anything but that day.
"Know anything else?" said Sophia, as if I had said nothing. "About Lustrum."
"You should talk with Dr. Thenison," said Elisa. "He was around, back then. He helped found the BBQ."
But Dr. Thenison had left for the evening—Sophia shot Madison another glare—and when we tried to see if he had time available to meet us over the next few days, we were told he was booked solid, but that we should call sometime tomorrow while he was in to see if there was a time into which he could squeeze us.
Elisa went home, leaving just Sophia, Madison, and I, along with Greg behind the desk. He wasn't a great conversationalist.
"Who's Canary, anyway?" I asked Madison.
She and Sophia were sitting on the fluffy green couch across from the front desk, each on their phones as they waited for Madison's mom to arrive and drive them home. Even if I had a ride, there wouldn't have been space for me to sit.
"And you're a nerd?" asked Sophia. I didn't bother roll my eyes: the muscles would get sore.
"You know, the singer?" said Madison. "Bad Canary? Paige Mcabee? She's on trial. She's probably going to be sentenced to the Birdcage."
"A singer? And she got three strikes?" I asked, unable to picture it. Maybe there was a reason she was called 'Bad Canary.'
"Oh, there's no three strikes for her," said Madison. "She told her ex to fuck himself, and he took it literally. It was just after one of her shows. He must have been there and heard her sing—that's how her power works. They won't even let her talk in court, not even for her own defense, and her lawyer's an idiot. PHO's going nuts about it being unfair. Well, half of them, at least. The rest say she's like the Simurgh. She's got feathers and everything."
What forums on PHO did Madison frequent? I only ever poked around a couple, but at least in those not everything revolved around the Simurgh.
"So what, Lustrum tried to burn down… whatever this used to be? Harrow's?" I said.
"I don't think that was its name," said Madison. "And apparently."
"Good," said Sophia. "Fuck them."
"But why?" I asked. "I mean—" I rushed to clarify as Sophia turns a glower my way "—not that it wasn't good! Just… why did she do it? What were her reasons?"
"Don't think the victims cared what her reasons were," said Sophia. "She got them out. Good enough."
Again a frustrated growl escaped me.
I shook my head and sighed, making to leave. I'd left a note for Dad at home, but it would still be better to be back before he arrived: he always liked to worry, even if I did have my pepper spray on me. I'd need to take a bus north towards the Boardwalk and connect at Seventh to—
"Where you going, Hebert?" asked Sophia.
I took a deep breath and turned back around.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"You not to get frostbite," she said.
"Oh, and you care?"
"Can't type with frostbite."
Of course. She had her priorities straight. It was funny, really. She had no real reason to hate me, but didn't care if I was hurt so long as I was useful. I had every reason to hate her, but still didn't want her hurt. Well, not too badly. Well, nothing permanent, at least, as tempted as I might sometimes be to kill her.
"Maybe I don't care," I said, the anger rushing out of me before I could stop it. "Maybe frostbite's better than being around you. Thought of that, Hess?"
Sophia laughed, and Madison rolled her eyes.
"Mom's driving us home," said Madison. "You live in the Docks, right?"
I almost expected they'd drive me down past the ferry and kick me out, but I suppose that wouldn't have gone over so well with Madison's mom. Instead, she drove me right to my neighborhood, and I arrived home to an empty house.
The conversation with Elisa replayed itself in my mind, starting over again each time I tried to stop it.
Most days, I tried not to think about Mom too much. But some days, I supposed, I didn't get a choice. I didn't like remembering the phone call. I could still hear the—
Again, I tried to stop the memories. The pain of reliving them was a pain hard to resist, but there was no point in it. There was nothing I had left to gain from its memory; no mistake left to internalize.
I almost forgot to check in on my spiders. The suit would be ready soon. Maybe a week, maybe three, but still: soon.
"Annette was a bit taken with her, back, oh…" said Dad. "A bit after we met, I think. She was involved for a year, maybe two. Maybe even met the woman, I don't know. Don't even remember if Lustrum was a villain back then. Capes switch sometimes, you know."
He chewed on his bite of drumstick, the end of the bone still held within his hand. He'd brought home a whole chicken from the store, still warm. A fleck of it was stuck in his mustache.
"Do we still have anything?" I asked. "Lustrum had to have had pamphlets, if she was so influential, right?"
"Don't think we do," said Dad. "I poked around the attic last year, but didn't see anything like that."
I frowned, and pushed around the pieces of chicken on my otherwise-empty plate. Neither of us cooked much, so dinner was usually a one-note affair.
Dad shoved his chair away from the table, its rough metal feet scraping away at the already-threadbare rug. He wiped his hands against each other, and then against his jeans, as he walked off towards the little roll-top desk that sat in the kitchen corner.
"You remember Laura?" he asked, as he fought the lid: the latch wasn't locked, but liked to pretend to be, and the cover would jam if you didn't slide the ends up evenly.
"One of your mom's friends," he continued, brushing some dust off the desk's surface. "You could give her a call. We should still have her number, in one of Anne's books, somewhere."
He pulled out drawer after drawer, only to realize that what he was looking for wasn't under the rolling top, but instead in the tray beneath the desk's surface. He didn't bother closing the lid.
From the drawer he pulled out Mom's old contact book. He flipped through a few pages.
"What was her last name? I always said they should sort by first," he said. "Oh, right. Mirthton. Laura Mirthton. She had a bit of a crush on me, you know?"
He gave me a wink as he slid the contact book over to me, and I gave him my least impressed look.
"Now, she may not know enough to fill your fifteen pages," he said. "But she's got to know something. Maybe she'll even have a lead for you, yeah?"
"I'm starting to think there's no such thing," I said. "It's like Lustrum never existed."
Dad's voice lowered conspiratorially, and his tongue slid across his teeth and out the side of his mouth as he gave me a quick grin.
"Or maybe… she never did," he said. "Maybe there was a Master, and he just made us think she existed!"
I shook my head. "Why?"
"Nefarious reasons, of course," said Dad. "Or, no! I got it: he did it to protect someone. Yes, to protect his dear estranged son from the evils of, uh… the Feminist Agenda!"
I chucked a chicken thigh at him.