It would not have been hard for Felix to figure out my civilian identity from this trip. Honestly, it wouldn't be that hard for anyone to connect the dots. Simply look at the top income bracket in Boston, track down which people have sensible jobs, and spend a few weeks tracking the ones that don't. Maudlin did it as a lark, and while he's not the best example for which things are easy and which are difficult, he's also not the upper bound for Thinkers.
On the other hand, when I step out into the street and begin the walk to my car, I don't worry about being attacked by the Teeth, or Blasto sending a Made Man after me, or just about attempted murder in general. I stride with purpose, shifting slightly to let oblivious tourists pass and nodding politely to the locals who know better than to stand in the way of a woman in an expensive suit who doesn't seem worried about getting mugged.
They always say that admitting you have a problem is the first step to solving it. Replace problem with misconception and you get the gist of the issues most of the capes in Brockton Bay are struggling with. A gang war, the outing of an entire parahuman organization, and one of the worst Endbringer attacks in recent years, all in the span of less than three months? The Bay was a hell hole. It just didn't feel like it from the inside.
There was an initial push back against the sudden influx of capes into Boston. Gangs didn't want to relocate or share territory, the heroes didn't like the rocking of the boat, and everyone else was battening down the hatches for the inevitable shitstorm. I remember bracing myself for the impact, for another conflict on the scale of the Empire's fight with the ABB.
I snort as I dig out my key fob and depress the unlock button. A white BMW's lights flicker twice and I step out into the road to lift the scissor door and slide in, ignoring the wolf whistles from the sidewalk. A short moment later and I've pulled into traffic, an acoustic guitar and drums softly reverberating through the car.
What actually happened was four total cape fights and a number of one-on-one skirmishes that never really got past a punch or three, all with less total collateral damage than a single bomb from Bakuda, and only one fight didn't involve Brockton Bay natives. The Empire absorbed or kicked out a few gangs, New Wave showed everyone that they still had the firepower to play in the big leagues, and the rogues of Brockton Bay asserted their independence with prejudice. Almost overnight the half-joke, half-warning born in Brockton propagated. It didn't have a specific meaning, not really, but the idea was clear enough: damaged goods, steer clear.
I sigh as I brake at yet another red light. I'm still not sure if a hybrid sports car was the right decision, but the battery gives it more than sufficient range, good-to-great gas mileage, and it's pretty. An indulgence? Certainly, but that's kind of the point of having ludicrous amounts of cash. The light goes green and I slip forward with a very satisfying amount of power.
That's not to say that it's all been sunshine and daisies. Accord doesn't take no for an answer, and his orders always tend to be far more irritating than they're worth. He 'owns' the stretch of Boston my store rests on, and my art is the only form of payment he'll take. Every time a new parahuman triggers, they seem to think that my store is the place to go to get insights into cape life, and the sign I've hung with the Protectorate's number and a flow-chart of steps to take covering almost every likely scenario has done nothing to deter them. Those early months, when my reputation hadn't spread and I was powerful enough and isolated enough to be a target for the Teeth...
Those were rough.
Soon enough I'm back home. Gary looks up from his newspaper as I pull up to the entrance to the apartment parking lot and flash my ID.
"Taylor Hebert," I say, louder than I would normally. Gary peers at my ID, then nods, fiddling with a panel just out of sight.
"I'll let you through in a moment," he mutters. "Just gotta- there we go!" With a buzz, the bar starts rising. I give him a smile.
"Thank you," I say. He smiles in return, then turns back to his paper as I pull away.
It all worked out though. The Butcher fucked off back to New York, Accord eventually started deciding that my work was acceptable, and once Jackdice lost a hand and got thrown to the Protectorate for trespassing things quieted down. I still get visited by a maybe-hostile parahuman at least once a month, but more often than not it's either an out-of-towner who didn't bother to check the local PHO board and flees as soon as I make it clear that that I'm not fucking around, or a fresh cape that actually needs to talk to the Protectorate and join the Wards.
I exit my car, lock it, and head to the elevator. A brief wait, a muttered 'excuse me' as a haggard-looking woman with a squalling child rushes past me, and a button press later, I'm on the last leg of the journey home.
I had considered joining the white hats. I really did. Never as a Ward, the money from the Pale Garden was far too good for that and their rules of engagement were always a shade too conservative, but the Protectorate? Good pay, a social group that gets being a cape, a measurable and positive impact on my community. It checked all the boxes.
I just needed to wear a leash.
The door dings open and I shake my head, taking off my shoes carefully and shrugging out of my coat.
"I'm home!" I shout to the apartment, waiting for the response. Three, two, one-
"How'd it go?" Vicky shouts back from somewhere in the bedrooms. No one else, so Amy must still be at work.
"Pretty well," I shout back, suppressing a yawn as I head to the sitting area. "Who's doing dinner tonight?" I snag a book off the ground with a tendril of bone on the way to my favorite arm chair.
"Ames," Vicky says, floating into the room as she puts her hair up in a ponytail. "So, what sort of take out do you want?" I shake my head.
"Chinese," I say. Amy is many wonderful things, and a cook is not one of them. Vicky nods, yawning herself.
"Hope she gets back soon. Don't want to eat too late," Vicky comments, sitting down on the couch and giving me a searching look. I sit back quietly. She's the first to give, groaning. "You're going to make me ask, aren't you?"
"Ask what?" I reply innocently. She rolls her eyes.
"About the photo shoot. How did you pose? Was there anyone else there? Come on!" she whines and I feel a brief flash of awe. I raise an eyebrow at her.
"Aura," I chide, "and wait for Amy. I don't want to have to repeat myself." I open up the book as she continues to groan.
"Come on, not even a tease?" she tries. I shake my head, smirking slightly.
"Patience is a virtue," I say lightly. "And you can wait until the photographer sorts the wheat from the chaff, just like everyone else." Victoria sighs but gives up, grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. I tune it out and focus on the book, luxuriating in the power I have.
The Protectorate are employers. They employ parahumans and have them do what's basically heroing, but they're employers. That means they have rules. Regulations. Codes that must be followed, and ones that override whatever I personally believe. To satisfy John, I took a look at the handbook, all of it, and highlighted the parts I couldn't live with. Not didn't want to. Not didn't enjoy. Couldn't.
In two hundred some pages of small text and legalese, over the course of an entire month, I found maybe five total paragraphs that were so antithetical to my beliefs that I would never be able to enforce them. John took me at my word and hasn't bothered me about it since. They're corner cases, and small ones at that. More than the restrictions though, I like being my own boss. I like having an absurdly radical freedom, even if I've never used it that much, because the alternative is dreading the moment when I'm not free, waiting for the one instance where I can't do what I want, what I feel is reasonable.
I turn another page, slowly sinking back into a doze, letting the story and the TV and Vicky's running commentary wipe me out. I feel bone rise up, slipping around my clothes without tearing them, and fall back into calm, content with myself.
