Chapter 3: The Note

I rounded the corner to my least favorite hallway, only to find something shoved in my face.

"Here," said Sophia, abrupt as ever. I knocked whatever it was away from me on instinct, and it fell to the linoleum floor with an odd 'flump.'

"Maim," I said, as she picked up whatever it was and held it aloft again. "I'm going to mai— what?"

It was big, bulky, and a grayish sort of navy blue.

"Frostbite, Hebert," said Sophia. "Your lead better be good."

I looked at the bundle skeptically, but couldn't feel any lice, fleas, or anything else untoward. I flew a bug over surreptitiously—a tiny little fly; Winslow was full of them—and even it didn't smell anything wrong or strange. I'd been practicing sensing through my bugs. I still couldn't see through their eyes—each time I tried, I got a gigantic headache—but I could hear and smell pretty well, now. I'd been trying to practice takedowns, too, for when I went out, but it was tricky without real opponents.

Hesitantly, I took the offered coat. It was a size too small for my tall frame—Sophia wasn't as small as Madison, but she also wasn't large—but it was better than nothing.

"Thanks…" I said, uncertainly. Did one say 'thanks' to one's hated enemies when they did something nice for the wrong reasons?

I clenched one of my fists. Was I angry? Probably. I had plenty of reason to be. She was acting so normal, as if she and her friends had never— She gave me a knowing smile, but I refused to make a scene. Not here.

"Gotten us in to see Dr. Thenison, yet?" I asked, a bit more snide than was polite.

"Still booked solid. Could crash an appointment," she said, flinging her locker closed with an obnoxious slam.

"We are not crashing someone's appointment."

"Maybe we could find someone who wouldn't mind," she said, a smirk tugging at her lips.

We collected Madison, and then Madison's mom collected us. Madison's field hockey practice had been cancelled due to weather: it was raining, and soon it would be snowing.

I'd thought most Winslow students took the bus, but as Madison's mom pulled the big SUV away from the cramped roundabout, I could see a long line of cars stretching blocks down the street behind us.

"Seat heater's the button on the left," said Mrs. Clements.

There was more than one button, but I didn't get a chance to examine them before Madison stretched across me to turn it on, before turning on her own. I raised an eyebrow at her, but she looked at me with a too-innocent smile that was just shy of taunting. I smothered down a scowl.

The first flakes of snow were starting to fall by the time we reached the coffee shop where we were meeting Laura Mirthton. The place was nearly empty, with only a lonely person here or there. Bouncy pop music that should have been obscured beneath conversation was instead too audible; I didn't like it. I didn't much care for the shop, either: the large windows let out too much heat, and a glance at the menu suggested none of the drinks were in my price range—not that I'd been planning on buying anything, anyway.

"Taylor?" called a voice, a bit too loudly for a coffee shop, doubly so for one so deserted. "Taylor!"

Laura Mirthton wore a sweater oversized enough that she seemed to swim within it, yet her personality and enthusiasm was great enough that the sweater still seemed to struggle to contain her. She bounced on the balls of her feet, her smile wide, and pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose—they had dislodged when she had jumped up from her chair to greet us.

"And are these your friends?" she asked

"Yep!" said Madison, before I could issue any denial. "I'm Madison, and she's Sophia. Taylor's working on a group project with us."

My skin felt like it wanted to crawl off me, but I was determined to stay calm. Friends, were we? I'm sure she'd make great friends with my black widows, too. Again, the displays of seeming normalcy were getting to me. Somehow, I managed to keep my face neutral as Laura motioned for us to join her in the corner booth.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it after, Taylor," said Laura. "For Annette's funeral. For you and Danny, too. I had to… well, anyway. A car accident, right?"

"Yeah," I said. People often asked, if they weren't sure. Even if they were. They could never know enough: was it a drunk driver? Was it a semi truck? Was it at night? In the rain? I didn't know why they asked. Maybe they were searching for some reason why it couldn't happen to them.

"She was coming back from the store," I continued, the words familiar yet out-of-practice. "There shouldn't have been anything out of the ordinary. She was just getting a new air mattress, for me and— me and a friend."

"Emma?" asked Sophia. My jaw tightened, and I stared at my fingers and the folds of their knuckles.

"She'd have been fine," I said. "But then I called her. And she answered. And…"

It was a story I'd told countless times, the words rarely changing. It got easier, with time, but it still wasn't easy.

Laura made that face people always made, whenever I told them. Pity. Sadness. The look of a heart breaking in sympathy, but rarely with any actual empathy.

"Yeah," said Sophia, her voice somewhere just shy of sympathetic. "Sad."

Madison's fingers tapped across the table, each hitting with a little thud against the gnarled wood surface. She made that little noise people do when they're about to change the subject—the strange sound of a mouth opening, a sort of inverted 'tsk'—then took a breath, and paused for a moment. Then—

"So… Um… We were wondering," she said, hesitantly, glancing at me as if to see how I was doing. Why was she bothering, really? "Did Taylor tell you about our project?"

"I don't know how much I can help," said Laura. She sighed slightly, as if she'd rather talk about other things, and her eyes briefly glanced around the coffee shop. "I don't really remember that much."

"Anything would be helpful," I said, trying to feel glad for the change of subject.

Laura's hands wrapped around her mug of coffee, and she watched the swirling patterns of foam on its surface. Her head bobbed back and forward in rhythm to the music I still didn't like.

"Met her?" asked Sophia.

"Annette was more into it all than me," said Laura, shrugging slightly. "I went to a meeting or two, here or there. But Annette… she was pretty serious about it, for a few years. Then, well…"

She gestured at me as she took a sip of her coffee. Steam rose from the mug as her breath moved across the liquid's surface.

"You were a handful," Laura continued. "Annette was always chasing you down. She couldn't look away for a minute. You were always climbing things and getting yourself into trouble."

I felt my cheeks heat. I could see the amusement on Sophia's face, though it seemed to be tinted by something else—discomfort? Why was she uncomfortable? She glanced at me, and her eyes met mine briefly before she tore them away to look at something out the oversized windows. I knew I should let Laura talk, but—

"We—" I started—

"You used to try to climb the steps at BU," Laura continued, cutting me off as if she had neither heard my attempt at interrupting her nor noticed my embarrassment. I felt my jaw tighten. "You remember? Big stone steps nearly as big as you were. Annette would stop you, but you'd just get more determined. Your face would go all—"

"Please," I started again, my voice more firm this time as I tried to stop her before she could say anything my classmates could later use against me. "We were hoping we could talk about Lus—"

"Just like that," Laura continued, pointing at my face. My hand hit the table, the anger I'd barely been keeping at bay all day flushing to the surface before I could stop it. But for all the force I used, the sound had still been little more than a slap, the wood holding firm, neither the table nor its supports so much as rattling.

"I'm sorry," I said, mortified. "I'm just—"

"I understand," she said. "It can't be easy for you, talking about Annette like this."

My eyes closed. She clearly did not understand. No, it wasn't exactly easy, but that wasn't what was bothering me. I—

"She was an out cape, you know," said Laura. "Lustrum, I mean."

"Like New Wave?" asked Madison, a smile popping onto her face. I found it infuriating, but maybe I'd find anything about her infuriating right now. Not just her. Sophia, too. She wasn't even paying attention. Probably texting Emma, again.

Laura laughed, a smug smile springing onto her face.

"She beat New Wave to it," she said. "Grace Sanders, I think her name was."

"Oh," said Madison, a revelation dawning on her. "Of course. Oh. My. God. I am such an idiot."

We know, Madison, I narrowly avoided saying, but Sophia said it for me without saying a word at all, glancing up from her phone and raising an amused eyebrow.

"It was a Birdcage trial," said Madison. "It would have been under her real name. Not 'Lustrum.' Of course there weren't any records. I should have searched by date—"

Laura scoffed, her hands accidentally nudging her coffee mug an inch across the table.

"Trial?" she asked. "And I'm sure they were just as fair as they were in the 1998 one."

She rolled her eyes.

"The 1998 trial?" asked Madison.

"Grace always insisted they hadn't stolen the drugs," said Laura. "Not that they weren't stolen, but Joanne and Sarah weren't arrested for possessing them, or even for buying them. What a farce. They were such a lovely couple, too… I don't think Grace ever imagined they'd get into trouble for it."

Laura sighed. Again, she looked down into her coffee mug, but there were no swirling patterns left, the foam all now either imbibed or dissolved.

I remembered my mom had said something similar once. She'd wondered if Lustrum had intended things to end up where they had. I'd thought she meant violence, but… She'd been talking with a friend. Had Laura been that friend?

"Grace was… infectious, almost," said Laura. "It was very exciting, having her here—she wasn't from Brockton, you know?—and she was so passionate. You could tell she meant well. You could see it on her face. Even if you didn't always think her plans would work, you always wanted them to."

"Sounds like a Master," said Sophia, glancing up from her phone again.

Laura laughed dismissively, but didn't bother responding. She downed the rest of her coffee like a shot of whiskey, and slammed her mug down to the table with enough force that I was surprised it did not shatter.

"You need to try their pastries, Taylor," she said. "And— Madison and Sophia, right? They're so good. The raspberry and cream danish is amazing. My treat!"

We didn't manage to get her to say anything more about Lustrum. As usual, I blamed Sophia, and as usual, she deserved it.

"What's got you all touchy, Hebert?" asked Sophia as Laura pulled away in her little hybrid, leaving us behind shivering in the snow.

"You," I said. "Both of you."

"We've been nice," said Sophia, her voice oozing condescension.

"Nice?" I asked. "Nice? You stuffed me into my locker, with— with—"

"With— with— what, Hebert?" asked Sophia. "That was last month. It was fun. Who cares?"

My eyes locked onto hers as I felt the fury ignite behind my lungs.

"Who cares, Hess?" I asked, the words coming out as a hiss. "What if I stuffed you in that locker? Would you care, then?"

"Like I said, you never fought back," she said, more defensively than last time she'd said it, a flash of irritation crossing her face. She pulled her coat more tightly around herself, and glanced at Madison for support.

"I couldn't," I said, nearly shouting. "And even if I could, I shouldn't have to, just to be—"

"Hey," said Madison. "Let's—"

"And don't you act so innocent, Madison," I said. "You—"

"Yes, I was awful, I'm sorry, yada yada, happy?" she said. "Look, it's really cold out. Can we at least get moving? The courthouse closes in an hour. I bet we can actually find records on 'Grace Sanders' and—"

"Nah," said Sophia, holding up her phone and giving it a little wave. A snowflake or two caught on the screen and melted. "I've got something better."

"Better?"

"Told you," said Sophia. "I know people."

"People," I said, doubtfully, trying to force down the resentment I was still feeling. Hadn't she been bullshitting?

"Wanna meet a hero, Hebert?" she asked, a smug grin I was dying to punch marring her face. "How 'bout two heroes?"

My eyebrows raised, unsure how seriously to take her. Madison was not so restrained.

"Heroes?" asked Madison, as shocked and delighted as I had ever seen a person. "Really? When? Who? Can we meet Clockblocker and Dauntless?"

"You don't wanna meet Clockblocker," said Sophia. "They're sending us a car and everything. Should be here any minute."

"Don't they use vans?" asked Madison. "I thought the PRT used vans. Those funny black ones—"

"Nobody likes those," said Sophia, a statement belied by Madison's disappointed frown.

A car and everything? Why? And why would two heroes drop everything just for her? Who, exactly, did Sophia know? Was she secretly Director Piggot's daughter?

I tried not to allow myself to feel jealousy, as I refused to be jealous of Sophia Hess. Besides, soon I'd be a hero, and that was better than meeting one, any day.

The car ended up being an SUV not unlike the one belonging to Madison's mom. I'd have expected it to be black, but it was instead white, and unmarked but for a little logo stuck to the glass.

"It's a bit nicer than the PRT ones," said the driver, an older woman with thinning gray hair, as Madison noted that the logo was that of the Protectorate rather than the PRT. "I drive those, too. We're all one family in the end, you know."

I expected it to be a short ride over to the PRT building. Instead, we went east, near where the old ferry station used to be. And then—

No way.

I craned my neck, trying to get a better look out the window. There was nothing under us but water, down a dozen feet below, rendered unreal and iridescent by what must have been a forcefield bridge.

We were going to the PHQ. I tried to see up ahead, to where the retrofitted oil rig stood wrapped in more glass than any oil rig had the right to be. Where the library downtown had been trying too hard, the PHQ's sweeping lines were effortless, its structures glowing and shining victoriously through the iridescent bubble that surrounded them.

The driver pulled us into a little roundabout. There was no overhang, and as my eyes followed rivulets of water up the side of the forcefield bubble to where they began as falling snow, I realized no overhang was necessary. And as we exited the vehicle, we found another benefit of the forcefield: it was warmer outside the car than it had been within.

"Sophia! Are these your friends?"

My eyes widened. My mouth dropped open.

"Holy crap! You're Miss Militia!" exclaimed Madison, bounding forward and clapping her hands rapidly, the fluff of her knitted mittens flumping against each other.

Miss Militia laughed. I supposed she got that a lot.

"Yes! I am," she said, mirroring Madison's glee in a manner that, from anyone else, would have seemed mocking. "You must be Madison. And Taylor?"

"Uh," I said. "Yeah. Taylor Hebert. I, uh, hi."

What was wrong with me? Thankfully, Madison was more than exuberant enough to make up for my awkwardness.

"Do you really make weapons?" she asked. "Can you show me? Where do they come from? Can I have one?"

Miss Militia laughed again. Did she practice making it melodious? She held out a hand, in which sat a small knife. And then that knife swirled into black and green light, before reforming into a baton, then a gun, then a strange sort of grenade, and finally back to the knife.

"I wish I could let you have something," she continued. "But if I gave away weapons I'd have to eat a lot more than I already do—I go through so many bullets, let me tell you. Besides, what would your parents say?"

"Bet Emma doesn't know about that," I muttered. I liked the idea of knowing something she didn't about her own team's topic. Sophia snorted beside me. "Suppose you'll just tell her, though."

"Maybe," she said, with her usual shrug.

"Maybe?"

"She's competition, isn't she?" said Sophia.

I was distracted from Sophia and Miss Militia by the arrival of another childhood hero: Armsmaster.

"Is that— is that the Halberd?" I asked, pointing at the weapon he held like a staff, forgetting to do so much as say hello. Why had I asked that? I knew what it looked like; I had no less than three Armsmaster action figures at home, along with— Well, perhaps I was trying so hard not to think about certain things that I forgot to think at all.

"Don't embarrass me, Hebert," muttered Sophia. I twitched, but kept myself from balling my hand into a fist.

"I mean—" I started again, trying to let my irritation push me through. "I'm Taylor. Taylor Hebert."

How was I going to be a hero if I couldn't even interact with other heroes? Would it be easier when I wore my mask?

"Good to meet you," said Armsmaster, nodding in a way I felt was intended to be stoic and impressive. He continued, his head turning from mine. "Militia, should we go up to the room?"

The two heroes guided us through the PHQ's lobby—a beautiful sort of utilitarian design—up an elevator, down a hall, and finally into a conference room titled "Hero."

A full wall of the conference room was glass, from the floor up to the ceiling, flush, a solid pane stretching from wall to wall. Beyond it, shimmering through the blueish warm glow of the forcefield, was Brockton Bay, the snow seeming to fall peacefully down upon it.

We took our seats around the long, glass table, on which sat several stationery pads bearing the Protectorate logo, along with some pens that I could tell looked more expensive than they actually were.

There was a thunk as Sophia pulled a lever beneath her seat and something unlocked, allowing her to lean back. I decided not to copy her; it didn't look comfortable, but then, that was like her: a lot of effort to appear lazily carefree.

"—picked them up from downtown," Miss Militia was saying, her voice full of exasperation. "It'll be a miracle if they don't catch a cold."

"There's no evidence that cold weather leads to illness, Militia," said Armsmaster, his own exasperation nearly matching hers. I'd have expected him to speak robotically, but his voice had a casualness his words lacked. "Now, I think you three had some questions. I apologize: there's a lot we probably can't tell you, but maybe the view will make up for it."

I glanced at Sophia, then Madison, but as neither of them seemed inclined to take lead, I decided to again try my luck at speaking to heroes.

"It's, uh, it's about Lustrum," I said. "We're supposed to write fifteen pages on her. So far, we've barely found anything."

Armsmaster's mouth set itself into a thin line. Miss Militia leaned forward, her eyes pinching in sympathy.

"Have you considered asking your teacher if you could do someone else?" Miss Militia asked, as if broaching a sensitive topic, and as a flutter of irritation pulled my mouth into a frown, I realized it might just be. Something about the idea of giving in, of throwing up our hands—

"Why?" I asked. "And why's there so little known about her? We can tell records were pulled, even from television and newspapers, but the usual reason for that is Master powers, right? Lustrum wasn't a Master, was she?"

Miss Militia glanced at Armsmaster, and Armsmaster's scowl deepened.

"There's reason to believe she was working with one," he said. "But that Master was never found."

Was it my imagination, or had he spit out the word 'Master?'

"You really should talk with your teacher," said Miss Militia. "I'm sure she'll understand." I refrained from correcting her use of pronouns. "Looking into Lustrum… it's not safe. Not even for heroes, and definitely not for children."

I wanted to bristle at being called a child, but I knew such indignation was the surest sign of childishness that one could show. Sophia exhibited no such restraint, and rolled her eyes.

"I'm serious, Sophia," said Miss Militia.

"Miss Militia is right," said Armsmaster. "This Master's apparent abilities are… significant. If the reports are correct… He's the sort that can play with your mind. You'd never even know you were under his control."

He seemed to shudder at the thought, an unpleasant, sickly frown crossing his face.

Madison leaned forward, her curiosity warring with concern and a touch of fear.

"What… what did he do? And what did Lustrum do?" she asked.

"You don't want to know," said Miss Militia.

"Please," I said. "We— we can handle it."

"They always say that," she said, sighing resignedly. Finally, she looked me in the eyes, and spoke as directly and simply as she could. "Lustrum kidnapped a boy, had him drugged, and let her Master have his way with his mind."

I felt a breath escape me. Madison's face turned to horror. Not even Sophia was left unfazed: her seat tilted forwards as her eyes dropped to the table, and I could see her swallow thickly.

"But… shouldn't people know?" I asked. "The LGBT center downtown, they have a painting of her—"

"Our hands are tied," said Armsmaster. He shot Miss Militia an irritated scowl, but I wasn't sure why.

She gave another sigh.

"Look," she said, pulling a pen and one of the stationery pads towards her, and began to write in orderly all-capital letters. "I can write you a note for your teacher. I'm sure she'll understand, and if she doesn't, you can let us know, okay?"

Again, I didn't bother pointing out our teacher was Mr. Gladly. Miss Militia slid the sheet over to me. Why me, and not Sophia? Was it because I'd been the one asking the questions?

"I'm sorry we can't say more," she said, scooting her chair back and standing. "Armsmaster, can you show them out? I have to prepare for the briefing."

I sighed. It had been another short meeting in which we'd learned less than we'd have liked.

Was this it? Were we going to give Mr. Gladly the note? Were we going to give up? Just like that?

We made to follow Miss Militia out the door, but Armsmaster held up a hand. He leaned over the table, his armor whirring, and scribbled a note of his own.

"She's right," he told us. "It's not safe. If anything happens, or if you find out anything more, please bring it directly to me."

He handed me the sheet of paper—me, again?—on which he'd scrawled a phone number. I glanced at Madison and Sophia, nonplussed. Something about the whole exchange left me uncomfortable, and before I could stop myself, I tagged Armsmaster with a fly.

Hallway, elevator, lobby, and then we said our goodbyes, us leaving by the same doors through which we'd entered, and Armsmaster heading back upstairs.

"That was weird. Right?" asked Madison. "That thing with Armsmaster. It was weird."

"Does it matter? Are we even still doing this?" asked Sophia, her voice unsure. Had I heard it unsure, before? "But yeah. Something's up. No way he's not—"

"Shh!" I said, holding up my hand. I closed my eyes, trying to—

"What?" asked Sophia, defensive.

"Shh," I repeated. "I'll explain in a bit, but—"

I cut myself off as I tried to listen through the fly I'd placed on Armsmaster. It was a bad idea, spying on a hero, but I couldn't convince myself not to. He'd arrived on a floor near the top, and gone into an office and sat down.

"Well?" he asked.

Someone sitting beside him responded, but the fly couldn't make it out. It could barely make out what Armsmaster himself was saying.

"Don't want to go to the Director," he said.

I thought I heard a huff, along with another response, all muddy and strange through the fly's hearing, but I was sure it had been Miss Militia's voice.

"What am I supposed to do, Hannah?" he asked. "They—"

Shit. I forced myself to stop listening. If I was right— I tried to wipe the name 'Hannah' from my mind.

I shook my head and blinked a couple of times. Sophia and Madison were looking at me oddly.

"What?" asked Sophia.

"Nothing," I said. "Sorry. Just… having a weird thought. But yeah, Armsmaster's definitely not telling us something. Something big."