It's Sunday and the shop is as quiet as a graveyard.
I knew that the grand opening wasn't fantastic and that the chase was going to cause problems. I just didn't expect to go from packed to completely empty in three days.
The manager tried to sugarcoat it by saying that the fact a cape fight had happened in front of the store would actually bring back some of the business when the crazier denizens of Brockton Bay stopped by, hoping to see a repeat. I nodded politely as the fourth hour passed with five customers total, only three of whom bought anything. She deserved that much.
Sunday is a church day, so perhaps people are simply at services. Few people go shopping in the morning anyways. The evening is for lovers, and love means buying flowers. I have plenty of reasons to be optimistic.
That doesn't make the shop feel any less empty.
When I woke up this morning, I told Dad I was going to go out into the city for the day to celebrate passing the GED. He laughed and told me not to count my chickens before they hatched, then gave me fifty dollars for food and some luxury purchases. Once he went off to work I grew out my armor, ran to the Pale Garden and started the same routine as Wednesday, this time performing to an empty street. I didn't have the same level of excitement as I did on opening day, but the painter still showed up and we still made some art. There just wasn't anyone around to appreciate it.
It's almost a relief when Armsmaster rolls up on his motorcycle. Almost.
I stop working on the sphere and absorb it back into my armor. Painter guy (since we actually had time to breathe and no one was around, he introduced himself as Jared) notices the hero and gives me a questioning look. I nod once and he moves into the shop, out of earshot. With some semblance of privacy ensured I turn to the approaching hero, clasping my hands behind my back and taking a moment to center myself.
In. Out. Mask on.
"Hello Armsmaster. What brings you here?" More than likely it's the near-stabbing of Tattletale Velocity witnessed, but I should probably still observe the formalities. Armsmaster has his halberd at his side, non-threatening but ready for use at a moment's notice. I'm not sure how much I like him being on guard around me.
"Velocity informed me that he found you threatening Tattletale after Purity had flown off." Frank and to the point. Maybe a bit rude, but it gets the job done.
It's also an uncomfortable subject that makes me thankful for the armor holding me still.
"Are you planning on bringing legal action against me?" John's a phone call away, and if the Protectorate want to make a deal of it I'd rather bring him in sooner than later. Fortunately, Armsmaster shakes his head.
"No, but I would like to take this opportunity to discuss training with you. Not the Wards," he clarifies. I raise an eyebrow, forming a growth on my mask to mirror the motion, disturbing the gentle ocean wave patterns it's composed of today.
"Do you usually go this far for a single Rogue?" I ask rhetorically. Another type of recruitment attempt, different key but the same song. Armsmaster shakes his head.
"Normally, Rogues are a less aggressive and don't have such obviously confrontational powers. This leads to fewer engagements as they end up going out less and picking their fights more carefully. Increase either variable and the likelihood of recruitment or conscription rises dramatically. Increase both, and the length of their independence can be measured in weeks." He looks pointedly at me. I stay silent. After a moment he continues. "There is a program called MIRIS that attempts to support Rogues in society through various economic and social measures. In light of your odd case, Dragon has proposed a more militant version where Rogues are given some self-defense training by the local Protectorate to better resist forced recruitment attempts."
"That makes no sense," I state flatly. First, why would the Protectorate train random capes in how to be properly violent? That's just asking for a more dangerous breed of criminal to arise in response. Second, if anyone is willing to engage in such a program, they can probably get basic lessons from any number of places. The population who'd be interested in such a service are already being served, and entering a saturated market is a waste of time and resources.
"My thoughts exactly," Armsmaster agrees, "But it's an excuse to teach you how to take down criminals without cutting them open."
I stare at him, thinking about what he just said and wondering whether or not I should tear him apart for his slander and make an object lesson-
I flex my ribs. Stop. The messenger. Don't shoot the messenger.
"When have I done so?" I ask as calmly as I can. I need to find out if there's truth to the claims. If my rage is justified.
If it's not.
"The night of May first, morning of May second. You assaulted an ABB storehouse and encountered Hookwolf. While all fatalities do match his MO, there were a number of lacerations that were too clean to be his work. Few were deep but several scarred." He delivers the words quietly and without rancor. That makes it a bit easier to process as the spike of self-loathing and fury at my lack of control hits faster than I anticipate. "You have only killed once, and it was in self-defense. When you have used excessive force the results have not been life-threatening. I genuinely believe that the Wards program is the best way for you to learn how to use your power in the least lethal manner possible, but you have said no to that repeatedly. I hope that this compromise is more palatable and will allow us to help you keep from causing the excess harm that would lead to your inevitable incarceration." His tone never changes throughout his little speech, nor does he look away. I'm not sure if it's because he considers me a peer, if it's because he doesn't see me as enough of a threat to bother posturing for, or if he is simply a naturally passionless man.
I take a deep breath, warping my ribs to make it deeper than it could be normally, deep enough for my vision to go fuzzy around the edges. I hold it until the carbon dioxide burns and I feel a little more centered. Then I let it out in a long hiss.
No matter how the training goes, this will place me at least partially in the corner of the Protectorate. News of the program will get out, somehow, and people will start thinking I'm taking sides. That means the stupid villains who want to fight the "heroes" will come gunning for me as a way to fight a Protectorate proxy who's hopefully less skilled. One or two bad fights will convince me of the advantages of having a professional team at my back and sell me on a steady Protectorate job instead of being self-employed and dealing with villains on my own.
It's far more aggressive than Assault and Battery's pitch. On the other hand, Armsmaster is also using a hard truth to sell it.
I'm not in control.
I killed a man on my first night out. It was justifiable, but it still happened. I've crippled another without noticing, though that could be counted as malpractice on the part of the paramedics rather than explicitly my fault. The scarring can't be explained away except as "maybe a minor issue." Armsmaster doesn't know it, but I'm technically an accessory to first-degree murder, even if the victim was on her way to getting a Kill Order.
I'm not in control. Part of that is the murder-thoughts, part of that is not knowing when I'm seriously hurting people. I'm being offered a way to try to get a handle on my power, a way to both prevent future lawsuits from angry gangbangers and a way to reduce my chances of accidentally leaving someone bleeding out in the street. I shatter a few toe bones and swallow my pride.
"I want to discuss a few terms," I say slowly. "And I'm not going to commit to anything without talking to my lawyer."
Armsmaster nods. "I would expect no less. Is there a particular place that would be more suitable for this discussion?" I look around at the empty sidewalk, but see his point. No need to risk exposure.
"Time?" I ask, a sudden wave of exhaustion flowing through me. Like I just put down a huge weight, but the energy I had been using to carry it left me with it.
"Twelve seventeen," he says. I bob my head shakily.
"Are there any good restaurants nearby?"
"Two blocks east and three south is a deli that has received numerous commendations for its corned beef." I nod. Not exactly high dining, but enough for a quick outlining of terms.
"Can we talk over food?"
I get a few concessions. Nothing in writing because neither of us understand contract law, just some vague outlines about what the lawyers should be arguing over.
The location will be both neutral and private. Not the PRT or Protectorate HQ, not anywhere near my shop, and nowhere remotely close to the city. Chances are I'm going to have to commute for an hour to get someplace secluded enough, even with my Mover rating, but this way maybe I can delay the revelation of my involvement with the PRT. That, and if they extend the program to other parahumans, I don't have to meet or work with whatever new recruits they pick up.
I don't have to unmask to them, but in return I'll have to provide some collateral. We didn't agree on what that would be, but something like a dead drop with my civilian identity that I'd get back after I graduated from the program seems to be the best option.
It didn't all go my way. Armsmaster wanted me to meet the Wards, go on a ride-along with a member of the Protectorate, and talk to a Protectorate-employed therapist. A blatant attempt to use social groups to manipulate me, and when I pointed it out he also offered that making allies among future Protectorate members probably wouldn't be bad for business. Be that as it may, I'll pass on high school with superpowers. That, and I don't want to be seen openly siding with the Protectorate. After giving him a blunt explanation about why even appearing to side with the Protectorate could make villains want to fight me he dropped the subject, unhappy but satisfied with my explanation. The last point is still up in the air, and the bigger concern for him seems to be getting me in to see someone period.
"White Rose, I am the leader of the Protectorate East North East. I can count on one hand the number of parahumans with more influence in the Protectorate than me. I still attend a monthly session."
"One more reason for me not to join the Protectorate then." The woman behind the counter making sandwiches was remarkably unimpressed when two six-foot plus capes walked through her door during rush hour and asked for a private room, but the man seating people was a little more awestruck and got us a table in an otherwise empty room inside of five minutes. After the food arrived, Armsmaster activated a noise canceller in his halberd so we could talk freely.
"The sessions cut into an already full schedule," he concedes, his corned beef on rye with pickles and enough mustard to kill a horse long forgotten on the plate in front of him. "On the other hand, it's not a matter of convenience, it's a matter of health. Randomized trials and observational studies have shown significant and non-trivial correlations between regular therapist appointments and the overall mental stability of the participating parahumans." He doesn't seem to be phrasing it maliciously, but I do wince internally at the unintentional jab at my own fragile self control. Admitting you have a problem may be the first step, but it still feels worse than any type of shattered bone.
"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole point of this program is that I'll get Protectorate-grade training without the responsibilities. Meeting a shrink sounds like one of those responsibilities that I was specifically trying to avoid." I managed to not kill the Trio for three months after getting super powers, my relationship with my father is getting better all the time and I have a job. Therapy is for people who need help, and I've helped myself already.
Armsmaster sighs. "It's not a responsibility, it's a safety precaution. The point of this program is to train you how not to hurt people. While the Protectorate can provide the proper techniques, you also need to be in the right mental state to use them, and that can only be recognized by an individual bearing a license from the state. We don't want to teach you how to safely subdue a unpowered individual so it's easier for you to kill them."
I resist the urge to bash my head against the table. He granted my first two requests easily enough and accepted my first two refusals with good grace, but apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. "I. Don't. Need. A shrink."
"In that case, I'm asking you to sit in a room with a person who bears you no ill will for an hour every other week." Armsmaster takes a sip of water before speaking again. "I would be willing to accept a third party therapist, but the funding of this program does require that you attempt to improve your mental health."
"Even if there's no problem with it?" I sigh, turning away from his visor to look at his sandwich. I finished my turkey on wheat but I'm still feeling a little peckish.
"Even then," he answers, pushing his plate towards me. I take the peace offering and use it to buy time.
I've been examined before, but it's always been in the context of how I interact with other people. John wanted to know if I'd break his rules, the Protectorate if I'd break theirs, Hookwolf if I'd follow his. The only time it was ever about me was when Doctor Fedorov started trying to pick my brain after I idly mentioned how I was calmer after acquiring my power, and it took a not-too-subtle mention of bone spikes to get her to back off. More of that sounds about as pleasant as a sharp stick in the eye.
Once I finish his sandwich I lean back in my seat and sigh. The delay didn't help; I still don't have any idea how I'm going to convince Armsmaster to let me skip therapy. "I don't think we're going to get anything further done here. How about I call my lawyer and we set up a meeting later?" Procrastination won't solve the problem, but maybe something will occur to me in the coming days. Armsmaster nods and rises from his seat.
"That sounds agreeable to me." We exit the deli shortly after, the mob of civilians out front that's only partially our fault parting before us. Armsmaster turns to me and extends a hand. "Thank you for your time." He says it quietly enough that no one should be able to overhear it.
I take his hand and nod. "Thank you for the opportunity." I don't feel thankful, but it would be rude to not reciprocate. That, and this could've gone much worse.
Now it's time to-
