Some more things I've learned, today; supply crates are worth transporting even when they're empty, Panacea smokes but doesn't drive stick, and I don't necessarily have to land on a still surface if I want to stay in place. I'm not sure how I feel about that last point, since it means I'm relegated to the top of the pickup's cab for our trip across town.
It's a slog, making our way from one side of the docks to the other. A lot of the streets this close to the Bay are either covered in debris from the flooding, damaged by the fighting...or maybe by Leviathan's passage. I haven't ranged very far from 'home' this past week, but trying to navigate at street level...it's like a maze. I guess it's not as bad as it could be, since Amy and the guy riding shotgun for her already made the trip once today; there's a minimum of backtracking and no need to go searching for a street that leads the right direction.
That still leaves us practically crawling along. Leaves plenty of time for an ambush. So I keep a close eye on our surroundings. And, judging by the sweeping cone of light below me, so does Amy's friend.
Of course, at the end of it all, we reach our destination without incident. Because paranoia doesn't always pay off.
I drop from the cab, stretch out some of the stiffness in my legs from crouching there for so long. Take a long look at the relief camp, so similar to the one we just left. A bunch of tents, portable fencing, chemical toilets. Lots of workers milling around...most of them haven't gone out yet, today. You can tell, because they're not sweating and tired, not covered in dust. No fresh wounds…
"Hey." Amy, sidling up behind me. "Are you done spacing out?"
Was that what I was doing? "I haven't slept." Following up on the drug thing had kind of hijacked my night. Plus, now that I think about it, "I also cooked some heroin into painkiller to make up for a stolen shipment." Which...I was working in an enclosed space. "Can you get a contact high from liquid heroin?" Isn't it usually injected? I don't know how that translates into anything else-
She's in front of me, glaring, and I bite my tongue before I can follow up on that question with any more. "Tell me that's some sort of joke." When I don't tell her that, she closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath, before letting it out through her nose in an obvious attempt to stay cool. "Hand."
"What?"
She pins me with another glare, holds out her own hand, and I kick myself for being obtuse. A glove comes off, and I offer my hand over…
"You're not high." Her eyes narrow, her focus shifting into the middle distance somewhere. "But you've got a cracked rib, and three metacarpals that've healed improperly." Even as she says it, I can feel prickling in the hand she isn't holding, pins-and-needles in my side. "Not to mention you've skipped at least two meals today and you're suffering early symptoms of sleep deprivation."
Yeah...none of that really surprises me, honestly. "I think I'm doing pretty well, all things considered."
Her grip tightens, for a moment, and she opens her mouth to say something. Apparently decides against it, a moment later. Focuses past me for another few moments instead.
"Your power deadens your sense of pain, right?" I nod, and she sighs. "Then pay more attention to yourself. Get your injuries examined, even if they seem minor. I'm not going to be following you around to give you a touch up whenever you let something go."
It's a good point. Something I hadn't really considered. She said bones had healed wrong, so obviously I couldn't just...depend on myself to heal from everything. "Okay."
"Good." She drops my hand, turns away. "Now come on. It looks like most of the volunteers are still here, so Aunt Sarah should still be around."
Right. Okay. "Lead the way." No response, but I follow anyway, pulling my glove back on as we go. It's...not a long trip. It seems like seconds later we draw up to a pavilion tent that seems to be providing shade for organizers, a handful of laptops...and Lady Photon.
She looks up when Amy steps 'inside'. Stills when she spots me, a moment later.
"Crow." She's edges around a table covered in binders and maps, in front of me before I can actually find a response. "You've been safe?"
Her eyes are bloodshot, skin pale. I can see her hands trembling, before Amy takes one. They share a pointed look, and when the older Cape looks back to me, it's obvious that she'd just gotten her own 'touch up'. That's what finally shakes me out of my stupor. At least, enough to work out an answer. "Mostly."
Lady Photon sighs, rubs at her face. I look away, watch Amy as she makes a quick exit. "'Mostly'..." Quiet. The awkward kind. "You were supposed to meet me."
"I know."
"I told you to find me immediately after the battle." It's more than scolding; she sounds...frustrated. Frayed. "With the Truce, and with us there, we could have talked to the Protectorate about the Bone Tinker."
...oh. "I'm sorry." And I am. I just hadn't thought. "I was distracted." Her expression takes a turn for the incredulous, and I swallow. "He sent his men after my dad. He's alive, but…" It hadn't been a sure thing, when I left him in that shelter. He'd lost a lot of blood. "...we don't have to talk to the Protectorate anymore."
Her expression twists, and she puts her hands on my shoulders. Squeezes. I can't tell if she's trying to be supportive, or making sure I can't get away if she doesn't like what I say next. "Crow, they need to be informed. We cannot have him wandering around in all of this…"
"I know that." I take a deep breath. Shake my head. "I took care of it."
Silence.
"Crow…" I cringe, look away as she pulls me aside. As her voice drops. "Taylor, what-?"
"He went after my dad." I'm staring at our feet. Scuffed boots. Bright and colorful, dark leather…"I couldn't let him get away again."
"Taylor…"
She doesn't say anything else. When her silence drags on, I shrug her hand off, and take a careful step back. "Assault visited me...he told me what happened." I still don't look up. Not enough to see her expression. "And...I'm sorry. I thought…" I don't know. Just that it had been easier to help my Dad and go after the Merchants than to think about tracking them down.
Another few moments pass, before she heaves a sigh. "Thank you." Only a faint tremor in her voice. "It's...hard. None of us is in a position to…"
"...grieve."
I finally look up, in time to see her nod. Eyes closed, lips pursed...I look away again when the first tear falls.
"Exactly." She swipes at her face, takes the time to compose herself. "I...we all knew the risks. Being a Cape family, being a team...fighting an Endbringer." My mind goes back to the handful of Capes I'd seen torn apart by Leviathan. All of them dead in the space of a heartbeat. Barely an afterthought, in the grand scheme of things. "But there's a difference, when it actually-"
When it actually happens. When you lose your family. When…
When you...when you lose a parent.
When you lose your mom.
I...fuck.
"Where's Victoria?"
Lady Photon looks at me, teary-eyed and tired and angry and sickeningly sympathetic, and I just...I think I'm going to throw up.
Instead, once I have an answer, I turn and leave. Ignore the way she calls after me.
xxxxxxxxxx
Victoria's place looks a little more lived in than mine does, these days. But that's not saying much. The front door being intact is definitely a step up. And-
-inside? It's quiet. Dark. No power, a little surprising...but it looks like somebody had the presence of mind to empty the fridge at some point. Lady Photon did say they'd been by to move Flashbang out last night. Maybe they did the same thing we did; taking whatever was important, moving to a central location. Somewhere they can keep each other close...
Upstairs. Victoria's door is open. Just a crack. Enough that the light is obvious. Padding down the hallway, moving closer step by step. It's not quite deja vu. It's too clear for that, as I stop in front of the door. As I edge it open.
There's the firelight, rippling under her skin. Bright enough to light the room...bright enough that it would be dazzling, if it weren't for the sharp things on the edgE of my vision, shAding my eyes.
There's the picture. A photograph, the frame creaks in her hands. That just barely audible over her shaky breathing. It's different, seeing the scene in motion. Seeing this with context. Knowing…
Knowing it's real.
I knock, quietly. Pull my mask off, as I nudge the door open. Her reaction is...more violent than I would have expected. She startles, the frame dropping. Glass shatters. Her eyes go wide, and she sweeps back and away, pressing herself into the furthest corner of the room. "Shit, shit!"
God. "Victoria-"
"Stay back!" I freeze, before I can do more than step into the room. "Fuck, fuck, Taylor, don't...I don't…" She stares. "I...you're not…?"
"I'm not what?"
Her mouth works soundlessly, for a moment, but then she edges out of the corner. "Taylor?" I keep still, as she drifts closer, by degrees. As she reaches out, just short of actually touching me. "Holy shit, you're not...bowing."
What? "No?" Why would I-
Ghk. I wheeze, as she squeezes the breath out of me. It's not an exaggeration to say that my ribs creak uncomfortably from the pressure. For a second, all I can think is that Amy's going to be so mad at me for breaking those again. But...then Victoria starts shaking, her grip weakening until she's clinging more than crushing. And I remember why I'm here.
"I'm sorry." I'm already having trouble, blinking away my own tears. "I'm sorry…"
She collapses, and I follow her.
The crying puts questions firmly on hold.
xxxxxxxxxx
The memorial isn't crowded, but there are still more people around than I'm comfortable with. Walking around in broad daylight, all of them aware of me, it makes my skin crawl. But that doesn't matter right now.
"Just for a little while. Please?"
These two don't get angry, or annoyed, or...whatever. They walk off, arms linked together in solidarity. I watch them go. Watch the others I'd talked to making their way out...a couple of them stopping for whispered conversations, pulling friends and family (or maybe even strangers) along.
I get back to it.
Slowly, Captain's Hill clears off. And once the place is empty...I look up. Squint against daylight until I spot Victoria, a bright smear against the sky. She's watching, of course; has been since we got here, I'm sure. So it's easy enough to signal her. Give the all clear.
She's still hesitant, dropping down. It's...wrong.
We don't really talk, as we make our way to the monument. We haven't really talked since she'd pulled herself together enough to ask me for help.
I read the names over her shoulder, as she traces her fingers down the line. As she pauses on Manpower / Neil Pelham. As she circles around to another side. As she stops, finally, on Brandish / Carol Dallon.
"...I fucking hate these things." That isn't what I was expecting, and it takes me a second to actually grasp her meaning. A little longer to decide maybe she's not actually looking for a response. When the silence lingers just a moment too long she curls her hand into a fist, tapping her knuckles against the black stone. "These…'memorials'. What the fuck are they even memorializing, here? Their names? 'Look, here's a list of two dozen people oh and by the way they're all dead'."
That's kind of a sad way to look at it. But now I can see it, too. Just a list. A fancy, expensive list. Polished to a shine, while the city keeps on crumbling down...shit. That's maudlin. Still. "There's no context." That's the real problem. "No point in remembering who died fighting an Endbringer if the only thing you're 'remembering' is a name."
"Context...yeah." Victoria nods, slowly. Lets her head drop forward, to rest against the monument. "There's Carol Dallon. 'Brandish'. Some Cape that died. Who's gonna see this and think…'oh I remember her, she was a great lawyer'. Or...or 'right, Brandish, she helped put Marquis in the Birdcage'." She trails off, pushing against the monument. Shaking. "Maybe she was married. Maybe she was a mom. Maybe she couldn't bake for shit so she'd...she'd make Christmas cookies out of...out of a fucking box…"
She doesn't resist when I pull her away, or when I walk her to the nearest bench to sit us both down. "Were they good box-cookies?"
It's hoarse, and tearful, but it's still a laugh. "The best." She sniffs, wiping her face on the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "Fuck. Just when I think I'm done with the waterworks…"
"I know the feeling."
She nods, slowly. Nudges me with an elbow, before leaning into me, resting her head on my shoulder. "It doesn't get better, does it?" Quiet, as she picks at her nails, at the threadbare cuffs of her sleeves. "That's the advice you always hear, right? 'It gets better'? But it won't, will it?"
I think back, to my own crying jag. To the days, the weeks, the months after. I think of the smell of perfume and textbooks, and the sound of a flute being played in the next room, and I have to swallow down a few tears of my own.
"Not really."
"Okay." She nods again. Scrubs at her face one more time, before rocking forward and pulling me off the bench. "Okay...so fuck sitting here and feeling sorry for ourselves. Let's clear out and let some other visitors do that." And then she's lifting into the air, shoving her hands in the pockets of her sweatshirt and offering me a grin that's almost literally blinding. "Race you to the Boat Graveyard."
That sounds like a plan I can get behind.