The Escape

My eyes were closed but still it was too bright. I tried to bring up a hand to shield them, confusing myself for a minute over which muscle was which. I managed to turn my head away from the bright lights in the ceiling as my eyes began to open.

For a long moment I stared at the walls. They were lined with metal sheeting. Not thick. Just a few inches, an ant on the opposite site told me. If the walls were hollow, there weren't any bugs inside.

The room couldn't be much more than eight feet to a side. There was a television set into the wall, a toilet in the corner, and the door, with only a little window two thirds up.

The room was one of many, all arranged in a neat row down a hall. Some had thicker walls than mine, but none so thick as those lining the handful of cells a floor below. Guards stood watch in the hall. I recognized the taste of their uniforms: PRT officers.

Was I in the PHQ? No. The traffic outside made that impossible. The PRT headquarters downtown, then? I was a few floors below ground level. I thought I could make out the shape of the lobby above.

There were people in the cells neighboring mine, but I couldn't tell who they were. Terry? Madison? Sophia? Or had Sophia gotten away? She'd gone incorporeal just before I lost consciousness. She'd been about to leave us behind. Not just me, but her brother, too…

I made my fist relax and attempted to forget about Sophia. I scanned up the building. It was full of people bustling about, many working in little cubicles, others working in offices.

There were so many voices. I tried to make sense of them all. I needed to know—

I tried to calm my breathing. Tried to imagine the walls were yards away instead of feet. That the bright light was the sun shining upon me. That the bed was mine at home. But however much I tried, the walls were still there, my bugs rendering them immovable to my mind; the bright lights failed to bring any touch of warmth to my skin; and thoughts of home—

Would they bring Dad? I wanted them to, didn't I?

I tried to sink into my swarm. The cacophony washed over me. Wait— A voice. I recognized it. I tried to move closer…

"—really think I'd lie to you, Colin?"

It was Miss Militia. Who was she talking to?

"Everyone lies, Hannah," came the reply. Armsmaster. "If they have good enough reason."

"There is a Master," said Miss Militia.

They were in a small room. Rough carpet floor. Metal desk. Upon the desk were dozens of instruments all tasting of metal. A few pieces of plastic here and there. Something that might have been a phone. Was it Armsmaster's office?

"And if the effect doesn't wane?" asked Armsmaster.

"Master effects can be permanent," said Miss Militia. Was she pleading with him?

"It's possible," said Armsmaster. "But unusual."

"It fits," said Militia. "With what she did to— I can't let him go again."

Was she talking about Elisa? I wondered if she had spoken with her daughter since Harrow's.

"We can't hold them forever, Hannah," said Armsmaster.

"There are Thinkers, even Masters that can help, who can reverse—"

"Piggot wouldn't like that," said Armsmaster.

My insides became as stone, heavy and immovable, my breathing stalled and my muscles tense. The thought of someone messing with my head like that, of them overwriting the truth because they thought me delusional… a wave of nausea threatened to take me, but I shoved it back down.

"There's precedent. If… We'll figure something out, Colin," said Miss Militia. "We have to protect—"

"I want to talk with them," said Armsmaster.

"It's too dangerous," said Miss Militia. "If it's a contagion—"

"That hypothesis has proven unlikely," said Armsmaster. "If it had been, Lustrum's teachings would have escaped our efforts to contain it. The risk should be minimal if Gallant assists—"

"You can't expose him, too," said Militia. "I think one of them could be the Master, Colin. I swear I recognize the girl from the files. Maybe a daughter."

There was silence for a minute. Not quite silence: instruments rattled and metal scraped against metal as Armsmaster dragged something large and heavy across his desk.

"Fine," he said.

"Trust me, Colin," Miss Militia begged.

Armsmaster grunted. Miss Militia stood in the doorway, but Armsmaster no longer seemed to be paying her any attention. Metal began to clink against itself; a drill began to whir. Finally, she left.

Terry had wondered what Miss Militia's plan could be. I'd thought that, whatever it was, we'd not stand any chance against it. I'd assumed that the PRT and Protectorate would be behind her all the way.

But now, I had to wonder if she had a plan at all. And if she didn't… what would have happened had we taken Sophia's advice and contacted Armsmaster? Would things have turned out better? Would I be in this cell, now?

I stood. As my feet touched the slick, cold cement of the floor, I realized I wasn't wearing my shoes. I wasn't wearing my clothes at all. Instead, I wore a gown not unlike the one I'd worn in the hospital just a couple months back.

Behind me was a desk. How nice. The cells downstairs didn't have such luxuries. On the chair was a set of sweats. Some other things, too. Slippers, toothbrush, tampons. I pulled on the sweats and slippers.

I began to pace. One stride, turn, two strides, turn, one stride. My fingers ran along the wall, feeling the metal surface turn to the glass television and back.

Had Sophia been right? My fingers twitched, and I felt a thousand bugs do the same. It was probably too late, now. Armsmaster had agreed not to talk with us. But maybe…

There was only one way I could reach out to him. It wasn't a choice I could unmake, and it was a choice whose consequences I could not guess, but only hope for. It was a choice every part of me screamed not to make, but…

I stopped my pacing midstep, my fingers bending slightly to grip the edge of the doorframe.

Slowly, haltingly, my bugs began to move. A line of ants crawled up the walls and into the lab in which Armsmaster was still tinkering. Up the desk's leg—they moved so slowly—and then onto the surface, each leaving a trail of pheromones behind for more ants to follow.

I wound them into a pattern of letters. It didn't take long. I only had to lead an ant or two: the rest followed the trails on their own. I wasn't sure if I was shaping all the letters correctly, or if I may have gotten one or two backwards or upside down. I hoped it would be recognizable.

Not Mastered. Help.

I could feel the letters shifting and moving as the ants walked. Now and then I made little adjustments as they stepped out of line.

All there was left to do was wait and hope. It had been, I supposed, a leap of faith.

A mechanical clock ticked a few stories down in some sort of break room. I counted the seconds. It took ten minutes for Armsmaster to notice the message.

His chair skidded against his office's carpet floor, falling over with a loud clatter behind him. He edged towards the corner of his desk and the thing that might have been a phone.

Did he reach for it? I couldn't tell. His torso twisted, only to stop suddenly. A moment; a tiny, pained sigh; a muttered curse. Finally, he continued the twist.

Rattle of handset against housing. Click of a button, then three more.

"Need Gallant," he said, brusquely. "Observation room, level B3."

Think. I had to think: not thousands of thoughts, but one at a time. Breathe. Concentrate. If Armsmaster was coming to talk with me—he was, wasn't he?—I had to know what I was going to say. Where I would start. How to get him to believe not only that I believed my own words, but that those words represented truth.

I pushed away the sound of metal scraping against metal as Armsmaster grabbed whatever he'd placed upon his desk. Attempted to tune out him walking down the halls and over to the elevator. He fiddled with something. His phone?

Several PRT officers began to move in the hall outside. A few approached my cell. One pressed something. A beep, and the television turned red. A few seconds later, the door slid open.

Two officers stood in the doorway, with two more behind them. One held a pair of handcuffs; another a taser. The others held strange guns that I suspected sprayed the same foam that had been used to immobilize me before.

I opened my mouth, but—

"Do not speak," commanded the taller of the two in front, as if reciting from a script. "Any attempt will be considered a threat, and countermeasures will be used."

"Turn and face the wall," ordered the shorter. I lifted a foot— "Slowly!"

I turned as slowly as I could. I could feel each breath leaving my mouth—

"Hands," said the first.

She secured the cuffs around my wrists. They weren't tight, but the bands were narrow enough that they dug in uncomfortably regardless. I took a deep breath only to get a jab in the shoulder blades. Right: no surprising moves.

"Walk," she commanded.

We moved down the hall, around a corner, and into a room too large for the small table that sat within. On either side of the table was a chair.

They sat me in one of the chairs, redoing my cuffs in front of me. I tried not to look at the two-way mirror. On the other side, Armsmaster was talking with someone I assumed was Gallant.

"—may be able to hear us," Armsmaster said. My cheek twitched.

"She heard that," said Gallant. I felt something constrict in my chest— "And definitely heard that."

"Watch for the usual," said Armsmaster. "Abrupt emotional shifts in either of us, changes in—"

"Got it," said Gallant.

Armsmaster turned to a PRT officer. "Begin," he said. The officer nodded and turned to a computer. A mouse click, and then a camera's red light switched on.

The door opened. Armsmaster stepped in, his footsteps tapping gently against the floor. I took a short breath, then a longer one, grabbed my words, and—

"Going to read me my rights?" I asked. I expected him to tell me not to speak— but then, why bother talking with me at all? "Do I need a lawyer?"

"Your statements cannot be used against you," he said. "This is informational only. You may speak freely."

"Miss Militia thinks I'm Mastered," I said. "Or that I am a Master."

Armsmaster did not reply. He sat across from me. Placed his hands upon the table. Interlocked his fingers. Waited.

"I'm not a Master," I said. But then, that wasn't quite true, was it? "Not one like that. I don't— I can't control people."

I looked at him. I could see my face mirrored in his visor, and again behind him in the two-way mirror. I couldn't recognize my own expression. Hope? Fear? If the former, he made no move to validate it; if the latter, he did not attempt to soothe it. He remained silent, his expression calm. Serene, even.

"I—"

"You are not required to discuss your powers," he said, his voice softer than his words. "Nor to confirm whether you are a Parahuman."

The statement ought to have been a comfort. But it had stolen the planned words from my mouth, leaving me empty. Had he done so on purpose, to put me off-guard?

"I…" I looked to the side. Where had I been planning to begin? Had I managed to come up with a plan? I couldn't remember. "There isn't a Master. There never was."

Armsmaster did not move.

"The kidnapping," I said. "It was from Harrow's. I mean, uh… the Harold Stansfield Clinic, I think? The papers called it a hospital, but it wasn't. It practiced 'conversion therapy.' It's basically tortur—"

"I'm aware of the practice," said Armsmaster.

"Okay," I said. "Right. The child was— she was a trans girl. Miss Militia's daughter. I think Miss Militia sent her to Harrow's. To 'fix' her, I guess. Lustrum didn't kidnap anyone. She rescued them."

"Legally—" Armsmaster began.

"Fuck that," I said, only catching myself after I'd said it. My cheeks warmed. "Sorry. But I've read about it. It's effectively—"

"I said I'm familiar," said Armsmaster. "The Mastering wasn't the only allegation against Lustrum."

"It was the largest," I said. "And she didn't drug anyone either. Those drugs… the ones supposedly bio-tinkered? El— Miss Militia's daughter made them. It's her power, I think, like Miss Militia's is to create weapons. The pills even have the same green color. They were hormones, and I bet the thing about castration was—"

Something beeped. Armsmaster shoved himself away from the table and jumped to his feet before rushing out of the room.

"Have I been comp—" he began.

"Director Piggot wants to see you immediately," said Gallant. "No, she didn't say why."

Armsmaster turned, but Gallant stopped him.

"Also, sir," he continued. "You should know: the Stansfield clinic—"

"She can hear—"

"I don't care," said Gallant. "She's telling the truth about them."

"Understood," said Armsmaster.

He rushed off upstairs. Gallant returned down. I was taken back to my cell, the officers no less abrupt than they had been before.

I sat on the bed, trying to follow Armsmaster's progress up the elevator. He was halfway up when the alarms sounded.

"An alarm has been activated," a voice echoed through a hundred speakers. "The building is now on lockdown. Please remain calm and follow lockdown procedures. Thank you."

Armsmaster's elevator stopped. After a moment it began moving down again, stopping a few floors above ground level.

The PRT officers outside my cell tilted their heads as if listening to something. Earpieces, I realized after a moment. I couldn't know what was said, but I could guess. Two began to jog for the elevator, and two more for the stairs, leaving only two in the hall. They must need reinforcements. But where? Upstairs? Down? And why?

Something stepped on a bug outside. One of the PRT officers fell to the floor, then the other. Someone searched through their pockets, and then—

The beep. A few seconds, and the door to my cell slid open.

"Come on, Hebert."

"Sophia?"

"Not leaving Terry here," she said.

Seriously? Not that I could blame her for wanting to rescue her brother. Had she known they'd consider bringing in a Master to 'fix' us? The nausea from earlier resurfaced as I wondered what all such a Master might try to 'fix.'

But Sophia couldn't actually hope to escape, could she? And then there was Armsmaster. What would this plan do for our chances with him?

"Not escaping," she said. "You are. And Terry and Elisa."

"But Armsmaster—"

"Not risking Terry," she said.

"Madison—"

"Got away. For now, at least. If she's very lucky, things'll work themselves out before she's caught. She told Kate everything, and I— it's not important."

Sophia grabbed my arm. I suppressed my instinct to yank it away. She pulled me out the room and down the hall. We passed the two officers; each had the tip of a dart embedded in their shoulder. My eyes dropped to Sophia's other hand, in which she held a crossbow already loaded with another dart.

She let me go, exchanging my arm for a phone she'd clipped to a belt loop. She tapped it against a reader. It beeped, and its light glowed green. Sophia continued down the hall, already moving to the cell two doors down.

"Could use some support, Hebert," she said. "Use your spiders or something. Keep watch."

The cell door still hadn't— oh. There it went. I peered inside. Elisa peered back, wide-eyed. I shrugged.

"Come on, I guess?" I said.

I don't know why I'd expected Elisa to object. Perhaps I'd thought she would on principle, as the only adult in the room. Perhaps I had wished she would. Instead, she followed me out the door to where Sophia was already waiting with Terry.

"We have about five minutes," she said. "You should be able to get out through the tunnel on B1. Sensors have been cut. Take this."

She hefted a bag from the floor and shoved it at me. Why me? Why not her brother?

"Money. Phones," said Sophia. She turned and gestured for us to follow her down the hall and over to the stairs, passing two disabled security gates along the way. How had she disabled them? "Some clothes, too. They won't fit you. Contact Faultline first. Half the cash's for her. If things go to shit she'll set you up semi-legally. Legally as she can set up escapees, anyway."

"But—"

"Know what they do to Master victims? Ones like they think you are?" Sophia asked her brother, stopping to look him in the eyes. He shook his head. "Good."

I looked down at the bag in my arms. This plan hadn't been for us, had it? It wasn't the sort of plan one concocted over the course of an hour or two. She'd been planning this for awhile. For her. She'd had help, too. She'd have had to, to sneak us out of a locked down building like this.

Elisa glanced at one of the guards, her eyes lingering on the dart in his shoulder. She flexed her hand, and a syringe filled with eerie green liquid formed in her grasp, held as if ready to stab. I wished I still had my—

"Can you make pepper spray?" I asked. Apparently she could. Would the spray be green?

Somewhere above us, Armsmaster had left his elevator and begun searching the third floor room by room. He seemed to be heading for a locked room at the end of a hallway, in which my bugs tasted guns. An armory? Had Sophia triggered an alarm there, somehow? I checked for the bug I'd placed on Miss Militia, but it must have died.

"And you?" I asked Sophia.

She shrugged, then stopped. Gestured at the stairwell door. Level B1.

"Told you," she said. "I'm not escaping. Turning myself in. Loudly. Get things sorted out if I'm lucky. If not… should give you some time. Tunnel's through the parking, over to the left. Comes out in a garage a block away."

I clenched my fist. Looked at the door.

This was a terrible idea, but before I could change my mind I made the decision: I shoved the bag at Terry and turned to Sophia.

"I'm going with you."

"No."

"Don't have time to argue," I said. "Two capes can keep them busy better than one."

"I'll stay, too," said Elisa. "She wants me."

She gave Terry a half-smile: sad; apologetic. He began to say something, but—

"She's my mom," said Elisa, shaking her head. "And you…"

She trailed off, but I understood what she meant. What would be the point of us all staying? We might as well all try to run together, even if we wouldn't get far.

Terry nodded slowly, his cheeks pulled back as if in pain. I thought I could see tears begin to pool beneath his eyes.

"Thank you," he told her, quietly. "For… everything, really."

I felt as if I was missing something. I probably was. Maybe it was the sort of thing I was meant to miss.

He opened the door. Glanced at me, then Sophia.

"I…" he tried. "Sophia…"

"Yeah," she said. "I know."

One last look. Then he was gone.

Armsmaster, still on the third floor, suddenly stopped his search. He stood still for a moment as if checking on something, and then— "Check B3."

"They're coming," I said.

"Won't be happy with me," said Sophia. "Did like you said. Uploaded everything. Did it from my Shadow Stalker account. Maddy said she'd try to spread it."

Was that why Director Piggot had wanted to see Armsmaster? I wasn't sure how to respond, so instead I checked on the PRT officers moving about the building. The doors to our stairwell were locked, but the officers were breaking through with loud bangs that I didn't need my bugs to hear.

"Come on," said Sophia. "Don't want them finding us here."

She charged up the stairs, Elisa and I following behind. We arrived at the door to the lobby. Sophia tapped a button on her phone. The lock disengaged, and we exited the stairwell.

The lobby was eerily empty. How had Sophia been planning to—

"I'm here!" she shouted. "So's Elisa!"

I don't know what I had been expecting Sophia to do, but whatever it was, that had not been it.

My head turned at a shout. It had been a name, the same name I'd seen written on the envelope last night. And the voice—

Miss Militia.

PRT officers swarmed in from doors all around us. My bugs counted dozens. They raised their weapons. Most had the same funny guns as before. A few more had tasers.

But only half the agents were aiming at Sophia, Elisa, and I. My eyes followed the barrels of their guns over to Miss Militia, and only then did I realize that she herself was armed with a gun. Only, hers was not foam-spraying. Instead, it was a plain handgun, just like the one she'd shown Madison last week. And it was pointed at my head.

I tried to lift my eyes from the barrel once. Twice. Finally, they reached Miss Militia's own. She kept glancing to Elisa; she looked like she wanted to approach her daughter, but she did not move.

"Stand down, Militia." Armsmaster had arrived. He stepped through the crowd of officers, his face strong and stoic as ever, his Halberd at ease by his side. "Stand down immediately."

Her hand began to lower at his order, the aim of her gun sinking across my chest and down to the ground. I began to relax. Then she raised the gun again. Armsmaster didn't notice. His eyes were not on her; instead, they rested upon Sophia. He fiddled with something on his Halberd—

"They've Mastered him, Armsmaster," said Miss Militia, her voice quiet. "I'll do anything for him."

Armsmaster's interest in Sophia disappeared in an instant, his focus suddenly for Miss Militia alone. His stoic expression had vanished, replaced by one of utter shock.

"Stand down immediately, Militia," he repeated. His hand gripped his Halberd more tightly; my bugs could hear his gloves scrape against its rough, textured grip. "Stand down or I will be forced to engage."

She did not lower her gun. I wanted to move. Wanted to reach for my pepper spray, wanted to have my bugs swarm her, wanted to— but I couldn't, not with her finger ready to—

"She's the Master, Armsmaster," said Miss Militia. "She has to be. I checked the files. She's the daughter of one of the suspects—"

"You have three seconds, Militia," said Armsmaster, raising the Halberd. "Three—"

"Everybody stop!"

Everybody did.

A woman walked through the crowd of PRT officers. Director Piggot. Her steely gaze glanced across me and over to Elisa and Sophia, then to Armsmaster. Finally, they rested themselves on Miss Militia.

"Back off," she told the officers behind her. "Give us space. You too, Armsmaster."

The Director regarded Miss Militia. Her eyes lingered on the handgun for a long moment, before briefly darting off to the side as if trying to solve a puzzle. Finally, she brought them back to Miss Militia herself.

"This is a mess, isn't it?" she said, calm and steady, as if over spilled afternoon tea. "Would you please lower your weapon, Miss Militia?"

Miss Militia's hands were shaking. My eyes followed the tip of the gun as it wobbled side to side.

"I checked the Lustrum files," said Militia. "Her—"

"Mom, please." Elisa stepped forward slowly. A few PRT officers began to raise their weapons, but the Director waved them back down. "There was never a Master."

"But Lustrum… she ruined you," said Militia. "She gave you those pills—"

"Lustrum saved me from where you sent me," said Elisa. "But she never gave me any medicine. I'd never even met her until she broke me out."

Miss Militia laughed a bitter laugh.

"I found one of those pills. Floor of your room, beneath the nightstand," said Miss Militia. "Can't you see the lies they put in your head?"

Elisa closed her eyes for a moment. Took a breath. Held out her hand. In it sat the syringe she'd created earlier, filled with its viridian liquid. The PRT officers stiffened, and Miss Militia's eyes narrowed.

A moment later, the syringe vanished in a swirl of green and black energy that seemed almost alive, before coalescing into a small scored pill, still green, then to a pill just like Terry's, and finally back to the syringe.

"I was the same age as you, Mom," said Elisa. "When I triggered. Going through the wrong puberty… it can be traumatic, you know?"

Beside me, I heard Sophia breathe in sharply as Miss Militia took a quick step back.

The PRT Director raised a calming hand. She looked to Elisa, her head tilting slightly, strands of her bobbed hair dipping across her face. Was she trying to decide whether to allow the conversation to continue? She whispered something to an officer behind her, who whispered something back, shaking his head. She grimaced.

"Please," said Militia. She called Elisa by that name again. "Please come home. I love you. I've always wanted what's best for you. I just want you to be happy. Not— not like this…"

"I left for a reason, Mom," said Elisa.

She left? I'd assumed Miss Militia hadn't seen her daughter since Harrow's, but that hadn't been 'leaving,' exactly. More of a rescue. If she left… She'd have to have been an adult, first, which would mean—

"She was trying to help, wasn't she?" I asked, tearing my eyes away from the gun and over to Elisa. "My mom, when she crashed… She was trying to help you get away. The air mattress wasn't for Emma, was it?"

Elisa tilted her head in my direction. The pained look upon her face was answer enough.

Everything seemed to shrink. The cacophony from my bugs died away; the crowd of PRT officers seemed to fade to nothingness. There was only Miss Militia standing in front of me. Her gun was no longer relevant. Now, all that mattered was—

"Did you kill her?" I demanded. "Did you kill my mother?"

Militia drew back as if struck. I was vaguely aware of the Director jolting forward, only stopping herself at the last moment. Frustration crossed her face as she again hissed something to one of the officers behind her.

"No, I—" said Miss Militia. "I'm not a— I never— I didn't. How could you think I'd—"

Her breathing was quick and unsteady. Her eyes moved erratically in tiny, quick movements. She looked as if the world were collapsing around her. Did I believe her? I didn't know. I needed to know, didn't I? I needed—

"You're the one holding a gun," said Sophia, gesturing to Miss Militia's shaking hand. Militia's eyes followed her motion, and so too did mine. I tried to focus on it; tried to remember what mattered—

"You don't want to kill anyone," said Director Piggot, her words calm and reassuring. "Do you, Miss Militia?"

Militia shook her head slowly.

"Why don't you lower your weapon," continued the Director.

And then it was over.

In a swirl of vibrating green and black, the gun changed to a knife. PRT officers swarmed Miss Militia, coating her hands-first in layer upon layer of sticky foam.

I let out a breath. My legs began to give way, and I let Sophia catch me.

Director Piggot let out a relieved sigh. A group of PRT officers approached with something—a forcefield generator?—but she waved them off.

"Not needed, now," she said. She gestured to Sophia, Elisa, and I. "Get them to Upside."

What was Upside? It couldn't be bad, I realized, as Sophia let out a shaking breath.

Upside, it turned out, was a conference room on the top floor. It was not as impressive as the one at PHQ, but its seats were more comfortable.

Sophia and I each collapsed into a chair. I tried to say something, but I didn't know the words.

"I needed a hero, Taylor. When she caught us—" Sophia's voice was the softest I'd heard it. "And even just now, downstairs— I—"

She made a funny sort of laugh, tiny and relieved, and gave me a soft little smile.

"I got you."

A/N: Thanks to EtchJetty, Reyemile, and Juff for helping beta