When I wake up, it's a jerky, sudden thing, like coffee and an electrocution. Before my mind is fully settled, a large, metal-clad hand settles on my shoulder. "Easy." The gruff voice from the fight. Right. I fought Lung. And won? "I've injected you with some mild stimulants." I finally connect it to the armored figure standing next to my bed. "You may experience heightened emotional states over the course of the next few minutes. As such, the Protectorate cannot use anything you say against you, nor will you be held accountable for what you say. Do you understand?" The visor looks down impassively, while the exposed skin forms a hard line.

Armsmaster. Leader of the local Protectorate. The seventh most powerful hero in the Protectorate, and the second best Tinker in the world. Standing at my bedside.

I jerk a hand up, worried for my mask. Bone clicks against bone, and I sigh in relief. Armsmaster notices and holds up his right hand.

"The Protectorate does not unmask capes unless necessary for medical attention. If that is done, the nurses will sign NDA's. Revealing a cape's identity is illegal in all but the most extreme circumstances, and nothing you have done falls under those categories." With every clause, I feel myself relax a little more until I'm laying back against the cool sheets. I idly shift the bone plates I have on me, searching for missing pieces. Most of them are still there save for my lower back, which is almost completely bare. I feel myself flush a little as I realize the implications. Mask on, they're professionals and they've probably seen better anyway.

"What-" I cough harshly before I finish. God, I'm thirsty. Armsmaster offers a cup of water. I take it and nod thanks, sitting up just enough to be able to drink. After swallowing some down, I swill and spit, trying to clear the vile taste from my mouth. Once I don't taste ash and sweat, I look up at the hero. "What happened? I remember getting clawed in the back, but after that..."

"Assault temporarily crippled Lung. You then stabbed Lung in the eye and put enough solid bone into his brain to kill him," Armsmaster says bluntly. Huh. It wasn't a dream. "We took you out from under his corpse and Isidis came in and fixed your body." I make a mental note to find some way to say thank you, creepy corpse-grafting powers aside. "Which brings us to the crux of the matter: Lung."

Fuck.

I put the cup down and sit up, sliding my legs off the bed and filling out all missing the plates in my armor, once more encased in my power. Armsmaster sighs and moves into my line of sight, blocking the door. "At the time of death, Lung was twenty-six feet tall. The Protectorate doesn't normally engage him when he is that large, partially due to concerns about collateral damage and partially due to lack of firepower." His frown deepens when he says that last bit. A sore point? "You forced us to engage, and while he is now dead, the rest of the ABB will be out for blood."

I stand up, managing to keep from wobbling. Half of that is the new lower back, certainly with more muscle than I had initially (definitely going to be thanking Isidis) and half is gratuitous use of my bone shell to force limbs to move to where they're supposed to go. I turn my head with my shell and look at the clock. Four seventeen. If I sprint, I might be able to get home before Dad notices I'm gone.

"In the interest of ensuring your personal safety and wellbeing, I'd like to extend an invitation to the Wards," Armsmaster finishes, moving to stand in front of me.

"I have to get home," I state, looking Armsmaster in the eye. "I will be more than willing to talk to you at a later date, but currently I have a life." A pathetic one, but it's mine. "One that requires me to be home before dawn. So if you would please step out of my way, that would be greatly appreciated." Some quiet voice in the back of my head is jabbering about autographs and brushing off the seventh best hero in the Protectorate, but I quash it down. The mask is still on, and I need to be home before Dad wakes up.

Armsmaster's frown is still there, but he steps back into the hallway. I nod and move past him. Huh. In heels and lifts, I'm actually taller than he is. He keeps pace beside me as I stalk towards the elevator.

"I would be willing to provide with transport to a location of your choosing," Armsmaster offers, staring straight ahead. "It would not have to be your home. Instead, a nearby neighborhood, from which you would walk."

Does he think I'm an idiot? "I would prefer for my identity to remain a secret," I respond coldly, stopping in front of the elevator and turning to face him. "Please stop digging for information." Take the hint, asshole. Again, the voice in the back of my head is telling me to shut up and listen. Mask on.

Armsmaster's expression changes from stern to surprised. "I was not attempting to divine your identity. I was simply offering a service." He presses the call button to the elevator. "Out of curiosity, how much do you know about the cape community?"


I end up taking the ride while Armsmaster gives me a crash course on cape politics. Identities are sacred, reveal them at your own risk. Endbringers and the Nine are big game, everyone works together against them in good faith. Don't be too aggressive, because then everyone on the other side will team up to try and kill you. Don't maim unnecessarily unless you want to be maimed unnecessarily. Don't kill. I let out a tired little laugh when I hear that last one. It seems absurd, that people with the power to level cities in minutes have a fucking social contract.

At the same time, it makes an odd sort of sense. Anytime you've got a group of people, you have quiet agreements. I don't go after your family, you don't go after mine. You keep things small scale, I won't bring Alexandria down on your head. As long as you only torment the unpopular kids-

In. Out. Mask is still on, and today is a good day. So far.

I get off about ten minutes from home. He gives me his card and offers to make an appointment. I give him my cape name and tell him that I'll call him when I have the time. He appears to takes the statement at face value and drives off into the night.

Once I'm sure that no one is looking, I sprint back home, hopping fences while thinking about what I've done.

Lung's dead. Confirmed by the Protectorate. The ABB are going to need to make a statement to stay near the top of the heap. If they don't, the Empire or some other no-name gang will pounce. The best thing they could do is swift and brutal vengeance on Lung's killer.

I think about the other ABB capes Armsmaster told me about. Oni Lee, a teleporter that left behind clones with a penchant for suicide runs. Bakuda, an explosives Tinker who held Cornell hostage for receiving a bad grade. The synergy isn't hard to see, and it's one that bones don't do shit against.

My strategizing gets cut off as I come up on home. Funny, I don't think I was running that long. I shrug and come in the back door, using my bones to open the lock. After changing back into my pyjamas, I head back up into my room and lay down on the bed, ready to get an extra hour of sleep before school.

It's not happening. I figure that out after I turn over to look at my alarm clock for the umpteenth time and find that it's still not yet five. I give up and go back to thinking.

The rage has faded. Apparently fighting Lung to the death was enough to get it to quiet down. I probably won't have to worry about slaughtering anyone at school. I let out a breath and think about the upcoming week. Five days of verbal and physical abuse. Forty hours of being on guard, looking for escape routes, getting caught anyway, and leaving with my work destroyed. 2400 non-consecutive minutes of petty teenagers telling me why I'm worthless.

I think about quitting. I'd be free of the abuse, and what is school even teaching me anyway? Computer science is a joke, I have no interest in chemistry, I already know more about biology that the teacher does thanks to the research I did before I went out patrolling, and Current Events hasn't taught me anything that I can't get at the library. I could teach myself, skip all the bullshit, and I wouldn't have to put up with Emma. On paper, it sounds great.

I groan and roll onto my side, closing my eyes and trying to feel even a little bit tired. No matter how much I try to spin it, I can't see a world where dropping out ends up being the right decision. Dad wouldn't take it well. He'd want me to go to a good college, and that's hard to do when your transcript says 'quit school with poor grades and was home schooled.' Plus, Mom would roll over in her grave if she heard I was dropping out. It'd also take a hell of a lot more paperwork for the administration, and they'd like that about as much as they'd like to finally acknowledge that I have a problem.

That, and it'd mean they won. That I wasn't strong enough.

Fuck. That.

I notice some barely-subdermal bones that've pressed up. I push them back down, mournful that I can't use them to take some of the more serious blows from Sophia. I go over all the same arguments. If Sophia pushed me into a corner and the bone met the corner at the right angle, it would tear skin. Then, when the skin healed over in full sight of everyone else, I'd be outed. Simple. Then they'd all go to Blackwell, insist that I'd threatened them somehow, and the Protectorate would be on my ass faster than Velocity. Emma's dad would use his lawyering to get me 'Caged or sent to prison, and that would be that.

No. Better just take my lumps and wait for an opportunity.

When I look back at the clock it reads five fifteen. That's not such a weird time to wake up, right? Even if it's not, I'm still not sleepy enough to go back to bed. I sigh and head down to the kitchen. A quick omelet, with random veggies and bacon. I eat efficiently, barely tasting the food, then go out for a run.

I've been at it long enough that I don't start wheezing after just a few minutes. I haven't been going long enough to not lose breath, though. I ride the high of the pleasant, mild burn in my muscles, and before it becomes sickening weakness I take a break, slowing down to a jog.

Could I use my powers to run faster? Probably. Fuse the joints, then move them in typical running speed. It'd take a bit to get used to, though. That, and it wouldn't address the reason I keep running. Running with my power wouldn't build muscles. It would be taking the easy way out, admitting that I didn't want to do something, not that I couldn't.

I start running again.

By the time I get home Dad's out of the shower and frying bacon. He looks up from the pan and gives me a tired smile. It makes the wrinkles on his face look that much deeper.

"Up and running already?" he asks, absentmindedly pushing some of the bacon around the pan.

I shrug. "Woke up early and couldn't get back to sleep. Figure I'd run."

He nods politely and turns back to the bacon. I deflate a little, but honestly? This about as deep as things go. Neither of us were particularly talkative before Mom died, and afterwards we both just sort of... drew into ourselves. I figured if I didn't talk about it, I'd move on. And I did. Dad probably thought the same way, and threw himself into the Sisyphean task of keeping the Dockworkers' Union afloat.

We're both managing. Barely.

I grab some cereal and sit down at the table, waiting for the bacon. I can shower later. Cold bacon is atrocious, and we don't spend enough time together as is.

Conversation is light and sparse as we eat, but at least it's not awkward. Dad talks a little about the Union, and how it's doing. Never good, but there are variations of stagnant. Fine means 'bad,' acceptable means 'head above water,' and alright means that 'there hasn't been a backslide and we're waiting for the other shoe to drop.' Right now things are alright. I talk a little about some of the books I've read recently. The Count of Monte Cristo, Frankenstein, and the Great Gatsby.

Neither of us mention school. Neither of us mention the extra table setting that always goes unused. It's easier that way.

Eventually, the bacon is gone. We both sit there awkwardly for a moment, him with a cup of cold coffee dregs and me with a bowl a third full of milk. He at the clock and pushes away from the table, throwing back the last of the coffee.

"Well, I'm heading out now. Have a good day, okay?" The tired smile is back, but it looks a little less brittle than it did before we sat down. I smile back.

"I'll try."

Dad leaves and I drop the smile. Time to shower, pack whatever I need for classes, and step back into Taylor's life.