I was thinking about Taylor joining Earth Delet's PRT, and how that might go. Then I thought about all the stuff I have to deal with in my job, and this came to mind.

Paper Beats Rock

"This is it, lady—Rockefeller Plaza. That'll be thirty-seven bucks." The taxi driver turned and looked at me expectantly.

Ouch! Next time, I'll figure out public transit, I swore to myself. I exited the yellow cab, along with my small, wheeled suitcase. Get all your stuff out of the cab before you pay, was my roommate's advice. I handed the driver a fifty dollar bill through the window.

"Welcome to New York!" With that, the driver took off down West 49th Street without giving back any change.

Son of a bitch!

Even in Manhattan, I could feel insects around me. I considered sending a swarm after that taxi driver, but there seemed to be mostly houseflies buzzing dumpsters in the immediate area, and after turning the corner, the taxi quickly blended in with all the other yellow cabs. Taxi cabs, delivery vans, limos, and buses dominated the streets, with only the occasional private car or bike messenger.

I sighed. I did insist on being treated like any other person, even to the point of flying into LaGuardia to meet with a PRT rep here in Rockefeller Plaza. Speaking of whom….

I looked around as I firmly gripped my luggage and began to walk into the plaza. Tall buildings surrounded me. There were people everywhere here, some walking purposely to destinations unknown, others sitting down to eat a lunch purchased from one of several nearby street vendors. There seemed to be an abundance of small restaurants around here as well. The tantalizing smell of food was reminding me I hadn't eaten since I left Centralia this morning. Should I text the PRT rep now, or get something to eat first?

"Taylor? Taylor Hebert?"

I turned around and found myself looking at a small woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, dark hair with a hint of silver strands, and dark brown eyes. I glanced up at the teeming multitudes in the area. Was I really that easy to pick out? As far as I could tell, she didn't have any powers.

"Yes, I'm Taylor Hebert," I finally replied as I regarded this woman.

"I'm Henrietta, your PRT Human Resources liaison," she said with a grin. "I was actually about to grab a bite, when I noticed a tall young woman standing around with a 'lost tourist' look about her."

My stomach rumbled. "Food sounds good," I responded as I looked about. "But I'm a bit lighter on cash than I intended. I took a cab to get here—"

Henrietta laughed. "Don't worry," she said with a wave, "we'll reimburse your travel expenses—eventually—but first we'll have to get you through the paperwork before you can file an expense report. Meanwhile, when it comes to lunch, I usually get something from a street vendor. They're definitely your best deal around here."

Darn. It didn't sound like she was buying me lunch.

With Henrietta leading the way, we walked over to a cluster of food trucks, Henrietta rattling on about the pros and cons of the different vendors. I didn't really listen that closely, but I did wind up with "New York style" pizza as the vendor emphasized, which was quite good. Things were looking up!

Lunch over, Henrietta led the way to a non-descript office tower about two blocks away. We pushed our way through a revolving door into the lobby, a large open area with marble floors and walls, a receptionist sitting behind a marble desk in the middle, and banks of elevators behind her. At first glance, things didn't look any different than your typical office building, but looks can be deceiving.

Enough spiders and flies had managed to get in to allow me to do a little surveillance of my own. There were the intentionally obvious security cameras, but I could tell there were many more hidden ones as well. The friendly looking receptionist had a shotgun under her desk. In addition to a couple of elderly looking security guards in uniform, there was a casual scattering of men in suits in the lobby, seemingly reading newspapers or playing with phones, but with serious looking lumps under their jackets. They were the real security. Off the lobby was a control room full of monitors and a locked cage filled with enough automatic weaponry to supply a small army.

"Let's get you signed in," Henrietta said brightly as we walked up to the receptionist. After showing ID and a confirming phone call to someone, I was given a visitor badge, which I was instructed to wear at all times. We took an elevator to the 31st floor, and stepped into an open area full of desks and bored looking employees.

That was the start of my nightmare.

Henrietta led me to an unoccupied desk, unlocked a drawer, and pulled out a large folder. "Most of what you'll need to do today can be done by computer," she explained, "but there still a few things done by paper. This is your new employee guide, which you'll need to read through. You sign the final page to certify you've read it. That page goes into your permanent file, but the rest is yours to keep."

"Hang on," I said as I sat, dismayed at the size of the thing. "Before we get started, can you point the way to the lady's room?"

In response, Henrietta picked up the desk phone and dialed an internal number. "I need a kit brought to 31BA17 please… yes, the new hire… thanks." She hung up and looked at me. "Someone should be here in a moment to escort you to the lady's."

"Escort?" I replied, confused and incensed. "I'm not five years old. I think I can handle a bathroom on my own."

"Sorry," replied Henrietta with a laugh. "I should have explained. You need to provide a urine sample for the mandatory drug test."

"Drug test!" I exclaimed. "No one said anything about a drug test!"

"Is there a problem?" Henrietta replied coolly as she held my gaze expressionlessly.

"Yes! No! Yes, because I see it as a privacy issue, and no, it's nothing to do with drugs. If you knew anything about my past, you'd know I fought against illegal drugs back on Bet!"

"Nevertheless," replied Henrietta, "If you want to join the PRT, it is a requirement."

"I thought the PRT was just getting started here, and wouldn't have a lot of Mickey Mouse crap," I grumbled, an expression I recalled Dad used a lot, back before Mom died. I didn't understand it then, but I sure did now.

A woman stepped off the elevator and headed our way, carrying a plastic bag.

Henrietta shook her head. "The PRT is a division of Homeland Security," she said, perhaps a bit regretfully. "With all the baggage that comes with it."

"Miss Hebert?" the woman with the bag said with a fixed smile. "I'm to accompany you to the Lady's."

I rolled my eyes. "Lead on," I said with a wave as I stood up.

The moment I spotted the bathroom, I sped up and entered first. The woman followed right behind me, unfazed.

"Here," she said as she pulled a plastic cup out of the bag. "Fill it up to at least this line…" She pointed at the cup. "…and hand it back out of the stall. Do you want these?" She held up a pair of disposable gloves.

"I got it," I grumbled as I snatched the cup out of her hand and stepped into a stall, slamming the door shut. I could hear her snapping on a pair of gloves as I dealt with the stupid little cup. The next thing I discovered? The hard part isn't filling the cup; it is to stop filling the cup.

I handed out the cup, and the first thing Nurse Bitch did was to stick a thermometer in the cup. She sealed it, noted the temperature, the date, initialed it and put it in the bag, then sealed and dated the bag as well.

"You're good to go," she said with a phony smile before going her own way.

At least the worst was over now, right?

I returned to the desk, sat down, and began skimming through the employee guide. Thankfully, the points they wanted to emphasize were bold headers before a paragraph got into details. I just read the headers, then signed the back page.

I handed the back page to Henrietta. "Is that it?" I inquired, hoping that was all.

"A few more things," replied Henrietta as she handed off another piece of paper. "You need to sign this NDA."

"N-what?"

"A Non-Disclosure Agreement. You agree not to disclose PRT proprietary information to the public without prior approval."

That sounded pretty basic. "Okay," I said as I signed off.

"Then there's the acknowledgement of your terms of employment," Henrietta said.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"As a cape, you are being hired as an exempt, at-will management employee."

"And in non-HR speak?" I inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"As a management employee, you cannot join a union. Exempt means no overtime pay, and at-will means you can be fired at any time for any reason with or without cause."

"Well I'm glad we cleared that up," I said sarcastically.

Henrietta leaned forward. "Don't worry too much about that at-will thing," she said confidentially. "In practice, you have to be a real screw-up to get fired around here."

"Whatever." I signed.

"Next there's the Agreement to Arbitration," Henrietta continued. "Translation: If you and the PRT are ever in dispute, you agree to arbitration instead of suing."

Ha! If I ever have a dispute with Dalet's version of the PRT, I wouldn't be suing, but all this legal crapola was making me increasingly wary. "Are we done?" I asked as I signed.

"Oh no. There's the Intellectual Property agreement. That mostly applies to Tinkers, but everyone must sign. Then there are the training exercises on the computer to complete: the Code of Conduct, the Records Retention Policy, the EEO and Harassment training, Diversity training, Employee Resource Group awareness training, compliance training for managers, about fifty hours of contingency assignment training, time recording, expense report policy and training—"

There was more, but I didn't hear it. Somewhere in the middle of that litany, I simply shut down, unresponsive.

Taylor. Skitter. Weaver. Khepri. I had done it all. I orchestrated the death of Scion, the closest thing to a true god all the worlds are ever likely to see! Me! I did that!

This was too much. I stood up and walked out. Henrietta may have been trying to say something. Probably was, now that I think about it. I left the building and walked blindly, not knowing what direction I was headed until I came across Central Park. It occurred to me later I had forgotten my suitcase. I didn't care; it was just another complication.

I've been living here ever since. I know they're looking for me, but they won't find me. I figured out how to shield myself from Dad. And if by chance they do find me, they'll wish they never had. It's simpler this way.