I had only ever opened up about my gender issues to two people. With Emma, I'd expected confidence and gotten stabbed in the back for it. I hadn't been explicit about it - I didn't even know the whole of it myself, back then - but she knew more than enough details to approximate the truth in retrospect. When I'd admitted I wanted to be like her older sister, Anne; confessing I was terrified I'd grow up bald like my dad or big like my granddad; trying on each other's clothes "just for fun." Either she understood and was intentionally using it against me just to tear me down, or she didn't quite get it and was trying to "fix" me. Given she hadn't yet blabbed about the more incriminating bits, I assumed the latter. I had yet to decide if that was better or worse.

After that precedent had been set, when I'd been least trusting and most desperate, Charlotte had proven a glass of water in the desert. With her, I'd expected confusion or disgust and received support instead. My last-ditch effort had turned a friend I shared classes with and texted sometimes into someone I relied on, who didn't always get what I was going through but tried anyways. In turn, she relied on me to deflect the attentions of Winslow's Neo-Nazis, keep them from causing trouble for her for being Jewish. I wasn't the most intimidating physical presence but oftentimes just having someone else around was enough, and I'd been told I could level a pretty mean glare to boot.

Case in point, the pale, wiry kid in a red shirt and black jacket that'd been hovering around where we were sat on the steps in front of the school withered and scowled before heading elsewhere.

"Yeesh. Where did you even learn to do that?" Charlotte asked, fiddling with the mechanical pencil in her hand.

"Dad's a beanpole in charge of gorillas, and according to him no job doesn't have assholes. He gets a lot of use out of a good 'don't fuck around with me' stare." I pushed my glasses back up. "That's one thing I'm glad to inherit from him."

She nodded and turned back to the worksheet. She had it spread on the cover of a textbook that was in turn perched on her lap. "Hey, what did you say for thirteen? It was the trenches, air support, and tanks, right?"

I lowered my book and peered over at her sheet. "The one about the death toll at the Somme? All you need to mention are the trenches and the machine guns. How it turned the battles into a long-term deal."

"I thought the thing was that it was the first battle with tanks. The guns part was more an overall issue." She flipped the sheet to the front, then flipped it back. "And it was already the answer to number four!"

"I know. Trust me, I had Mrs. Peters for World History before this. That's just how she is. She probably didn't even make this worksheet herself."

She shook her head. "Okay, but I'm gonna talk about the tanks too."

I shrugged and turned back to Plath. "If you want, I guess. Couldn't hurt."

Students that'd stayed after school for extracurriculars were passing by us now, dissipating into the rest of the city. A thin breeze stirred bits of crushed leaves on the grass. Over the buildings the sky had taken on the slightest ruddy tinge, a promise that it'd cook into a rich, savory sunset in a couple hours. A squirrel climbed up a tree, then scurried back down to try another.

I took the moment in with a breath before it could pass me by. I was trying not to take things like this for granted anymore, these little tastes of easy companionship. It'd been a fixture before, as expected as night giving way to day. Now I knew what it was like to go ravenous for it. I wanted to hold what I had close, sacred. I liked to think I was getting the hang of it.

A green minivan pulled up to the sidewalk and Charlotte perked up. "Okay, Mom's here." She tucked the worksheet between the pages of the textbook and stuffed it into her backpack. "Thanks for waiting with me, Tay. Keep working on you-know-what, alright?"

I replaced my bookmark and set about putting my own things away. "Fine. I'll probably need you to show me anyways, though."

"I know you will." She made her way to the street, tossed her backpack onto one of the van's middle seats and climbed into shotgun. The window on that side crawled down so she could half-shout, "See you later!"

From the driver's seat her mom gave me a smile and a little wave.

I raised my voice just enough to be heard, responded, "Bye Char, Mrs. Blum," and watched them drive away. I slung my pack and headed a different direction, to the bus that would take me most of the way home.

There were a few people already waiting at the stop when I arrived. One stood out to me, wearing a henley and beanie that were both medium grey, almost a dull metal color, but a subtle once-over cleared him as probably safe to be around. If he was Chosen, he'd have some gold on him to match the grey. I kept a little extra distance between us just to be safe and snuck a few glances as we waited, more out of indulgence than suspicion. He was even taller than me and it was easy to trace the lines of his muscles through his coat.

He almost caught me looking once and I turned away, cheeks burning. I scowled as the implications of what I'd been doing bore down on me. Knowing there wasn't actually anything wrong with it didn't make the ingrained shame go away. I didn't look again.

When the bus pulled in I chose a seat in the back end, settled my backpack in the adjacent seat and unzipped it to retrieve my book. I frowned, reconsidering, and put it back. I had enough on my mind without inviting Esther Greenwood's problems into the mix. I joined my hands in my lap and watched Brockton Bay go by, letting the light jostling and the engine's grumble clear my head.

Another vehicle caught my eye as it passed us. It was a PRT van, one of the newer ones that looked more like S.W.A.T. vans than they did their predecessors. Black, blocky and tough, featuring thick tires, reinforced windows, floodlights, and a hose ending in a large nozzle mounted on top. A winged shield bearing the PRT's initials was emblazoned in stark white on the side. It was a discordant sight, to see it tracing an ostensibly passive patrol route, and not just for the visual contrast against the regular cars.

Despite the fact that the overall organization was more a public relations entity than anything else, and even though the 'R' literally stood for Response, the PRT in Brockton Bay had evolved into an aggressive, active force over the last couple years. They coordinated strikes on gang hideouts and holdings, used intel from CI's and moles to preempt dangerous cape conflicts; patrols weren't really part of their new playbook.

Thing was, what they were doing here, sending vans to circle in and out of gang-occupied territories, acting like they were waiting for an excuse instead of finding one, wasn't them settling back into a passive role. This was a bait-and-switch. They'd done the same thing when they captured Menja: sent a lone van to "patrol" an area downtown, provoked an opportunistic response from their capes, and had backup and Protectorate members close in once they were committed. The report they'd released online had been cleaned up but it hadn't been too hard to piece together the strategy. Now, it seemed they were fishing for Chosen capes. They wouldn't get any bites, and they had to know that, but it'd remind them the Empire wasn't the only group watching close if they slipped.

I didn't plan on giving them reason to go after me once I started caping, but I felt it prudent to keep tabs on the PRT the same way I did for the gangs. Even once I was an established heroine I'd probably have a rocky relationship with them at best. Their director oversaw the Wards program, after all, and that spoke volumes.

A buzz from my pocket drew my attention. I pulled out my phone. Charlotte had texted me a link to a video guide for eyeliner. I put my phone away. I wasn't sure I'd get much out of it, and I'd meant it when I said it probably wasn't for me, but I knew I was still going to watch it.

The bus let me off and I walked the last ten minutes to my house. I might've taken the opportunity to get another run in, but I had plans for tonight and it would have been stupid to tire myself out first.

Dad's truck was in the driveway when I got there. I skipped one of the steps up to the porch, only remembering it wasn't broken anymore while I was unlocking the door. It'd been fixed months ago, and it'd be months still before I got used to that fact.

The smell of meat, spices, and what I thought might be zucchini greeted me first, followed by a call from further inside. "I'm in the kitchen!"

I detoured through the living room, finding the TV on. It was set to some news channel - Dad liked to keep it on while he was cooking for the background noise - where pundits with greying hair and bland, expensive suits were debating the political role and responsibilities of the Protectorate. Even they looked tired of the argument.

"-the numbers. Twelve percent decrease in property damage expenses caused by cape fights in the last three years. And then that money goes right to the things we should actually be worrying about. Education. Reopening trade. Making businesses feel safe enough to bring in jobs. That's what we're missing out on by taking these half-measures with funding changes."

"That's Eugene. Those numbers are from them giving up against the Elite. Of course there's not going to be property damage if they let crime go on without a fight, but that's not even an option for Brockton! The conflict will happen here whether the PRT is prioritized or not. What the half-measures have done for us is they drove Armsmaster to the Guild by stunting his budget. I don't want to see what going further gets us. There's-"

Nothing new. I heaved my backpack onto the couch and went to the kitchen.

Dad was at the stove, stirring a pot of something. He craned his neck at me. "Hey, champ. You're home late."

"Hey Dad. You're home early."

He turned back to the stove, grinning. "I had the day set aside to meet with Christner's aide, but he didn't put up much of a fight."

"Really?"

He lifted the ladle to his lips and sipped, then reached for the spice rack. "His campaign contributors are lighting a fire under his ass to beat out Boston. The Graveyard shift gets as many hours and hires as it needs. And to think, it only took a measly ten goddamn years."

I frowned. "They're still calling it that?"

"What, not clever enough?" He sprinkled a pinch of something into the pot.

"It was called Lord's Port first, right? If it's going to go back to that after its cleaned up, why not call it the Lord's work?"

He chuckled and pointed the ladle at me. "That's not half bad! I might use that."

"All yours. What's cooking?"

He stepped aside to give me a view. "Just trying a new soup recipe. Some sausage and zucchini deal. It's about done if you want to grab some bowls."

When I'd set the table and he'd turned off the TV and served the soup we both took a minute to turn the flavor over before talking more. The peppers were a touch limp and there wasn't enough onion, but all in all it wasn't bad. He wasn't a natural at cooking but he could make a simple meal well enough and really, the fact that he was trying something new at all warmed me up more than the food.

"So," he said between spoonfuls, "did you spend some time with Charlotte after school?" His eyebrows rose meaningfully.

"Yeah. We did homework."

"Mm. Should I expect her here again soon?"

I lowered my spoon and glared at him. "We're not dating."

He raised his hands, looking the picture of innocence.

I kept up the glare for a moment, then went back to my bowl. "Monday or Tuesday. You'll probably be at work."

"What, ashamed of your old man?"

"Yes."

"Ouch." He smirked.

I rolled my eyes.

We ate the rest in silence. It wasn't exactly awkward, but it wasn't the same as what I got with Charlotte, either. It was our resting state together, now. Things were fine while we could ride the momentum of a conversation, but only so long as we skimmed the surface of things, kept to the day-to-day happenings, ventured just the shallow issues. I couldn't bring up the real problems and he didn't know what they were to ask, and there were good reasons for that.

I couldn't tell him I had powers. First, he'd be hurt that I'd kept it from him for months. He already blamed himself for how we'd drifted apart after Mom died and this would only compound that guilt. Second, he'd never let me go out on my own. I figured he'd make me choose between joining the Wards or not caping at all, and I wasn't sure I'd be able to sneak out at a reliable rate.

I couldn't tell him I was a girl, either, for the same reasons in different contexts. I'd have to if I wanted to get on hormone replacement therapy, but statistics on how safe people like me weren't would be an internet search away and he'd feel like he always had to worry about my safety. Worse, the fact that he'd not recognized what was going on with me would eat him up inside. It wouldn't be his fault - by the time I'd realized it myself I'd already mastered deflecting his concern - but that wasn't how he'd see it.

He'd only just started to feel good about how his job was going. If I dropped either bombshell on him right now that'd crumble as collateral, tainted by proximity, and I wasn't sure he'd recover from that.

We finished eating. He put away the leftovers and went to the living room to watch TV. I rinsed the dishes in the sink and climbed the stairs to my room. Neither of us said anything.

I locked my bedroom door, then double-checked that it was locked. It wasn't time yet, wouldn't be until night fell and Dad went to bed, but I needed to indulge my anticipation a little, tide myself over while I waited.

I approached the door to my closet the way a prisoner might a sleeping guard's keyring. It opened slow- minimal noise. On the floor of the closet there was a pile of clothes, ones I hardly wore. Underneath that pile was a pair of black workman's boots and a bag a lot like the one I used to store my gym clothes. Inside was a folded bundle of thick grey material, and hidden in the folds was a black cyclist's facemask and a pair of high-quality swimming goggles. The lenses of the goggles were tinted silver and had the slightest reflective sheen.

I held them up, looked into them, and saw myself, blurred and half-defined but there.

I smiled.