Read aloud to me alt Taylor

by Kahlil Johnson

Dnd

48. B2

Insert calcium deficiency pun here*

Rigor Mortis 2.6

By the time I get home the sun is down and most of the lights in the neighborhood are off. Dad's not back yet but the answering machine has a message explaining he just had a new contract come in. I can hear the enthusiasm through the static, and I try to feel happy for him. I really do.

Dinner is cold meatloaf.

Once I'm filled up enough to stave off hunger, I head up stairs and start jotting down a shorthand version of the half-hour long conversation I had with Parian's lawyer (apparently named John Doe?). Terse, to-the-point, but polite, just like Parian said he would be. We've planned lunch for some time next week but in the meantime he's given me some things to think about as well as a few major rules for capes who don't want to get into trouble.

One is don't patrol. Looking for fights puts you firmly on one side or the other, and that means you're fair game if you're in costume. He's pretty sure that I can get away with killing Lung so long as I don't antagonize anyone further.

Another is that I need to go to the PRT and register as a Rogue. He also told me in no uncertain terms that a lawyer should be present and do most of the talking for me. There are a few different ways to get legally conscripted and plenty of everyday euphemisms that can end in mandatory power testing.

He also told me that getting the signatures from a person with a PhD in Parahuman Studies and a separate Doctor of Biology is all I need to assure people of the safety of my products. A quick stop by Brockton U should get me those, and then I get to fill out four different forms. Turns out taxes are a thing, and while Joe could subcontract that work out he recommends that I just do it myself. He gave a short rant about "filthy leeches" and "ruining the good name of the law," before assuring me that it wasn't hard and I could get it done in a day or two, tops.

At any rate it looks like I'm going to be printing out a lot of forms tomorrow. That, and busing down to the College. Good thing Dad won't be worried about me missing school for a while.

It kind of sucks that my parent's inattention is a good thing.

I fall asleep before Dad gets back from work, and when I get back from my morning run he's gone again, leaving a get-well note and some money on the table. I swallow down the loneliness and pick up my bag, throwing in a few black pens for the paperwork. Maybe I can make pens out of bone? Nah, too porous. The casings, maybe.

It takes half an hour to get to the library, which doesn't open until ten. I kill a few minutes outside paging through a copy of Lord of the Flies before an old, kindly-looking man opens up the doors and motions for me to get in. I give him a shaky smile and he flashes a grin back.

"No sense in you freezing out there," he says despite the fact that it's barely forty. "Long as you don't need to check anything out and keep it down, we won't have a problem."

I get a few funny looks from the other librarians as I boot up the computer next to the ancient printers but the old man whispers to them quietly and they turn back to the business of opening up. I roll my shoulders and begin the arduous process of picking apart the legislation surrounding parahumans and business.

Most of cape law is focused around adults, which makes a lot of sense because it is mostly adults who bother getting lawyers. On the other hand, triggers skew towards the lower end of the age bracket, and over the years there have been a number of cases where people who haven't reached majority have wanted to use their powers to get out of a bad situation. Last I heard Skylighter is working for the US military ensuring clear skies for the local airbase and Eighth Night is pursuing an extremely satisfying career of managing all the pests in the city of New York, and both of them were under eighteen when they struck out on their own.

I don't want to emancipate myself so that puts a limit on what I can do. That, and the IRS requires you to file income tax both in your civilian and cape persona if you don't want to reveal your identity. Alternatively, you can open up a bank account as a cape (provided you have committed no criminal acts) and simply spend money only in costume. I shoot off an email from a throwaway account to John Doe with some basic information I hope won't unmask me and get to work on the stuff I can do without a bank account. Which is a lot of box checking and writing.

By twelve I've filled out and understood four of the seven documents I need to set up a sole proprietorship with the NEPEA-5 exemptions and restrictions. Surprisingly painless apart from all the googling. One of the remaining pages is a sign-off from experts saying that my power is safe for commercial use and the other two require a meeting with a lawyer, a representative of the local PRT, and a representative from city hall. That's for next week. I wave goodbye to the librarians with a smile on my face. A few steps closer to doing something.

The bus ride to the college isn't long. Most of the students are outside eating lunch or relaxing on the field before classes. Perfect. I duck into a building, find a bathroom, and change into White Rose. The backpack is tricky for a moment but a quick bone shell should be more than enough to disguise it. I'll have to make a folder or pack of some sort in the future. I walk out of the bathroom and down the corridor, preparing myself for the public. In. Out. Mask on. Push.

I have a few vague memories of going to work with Mom, and the thing that struck me the most was how tall everyone was. I was ten then so of course people were taller, but it was more than that. The students were all filled with energy, making the colors seem a little brighter around them, motions a little more energetic. The boisterous, noisy people were gregarious, not irritating. The introverts tapping away at keyboards and scribbling away at journals were thoughtful and contemplative, not antisocial. Most of the kids dwarfed Dad anyway but their raw enthusiasm increased their size to epic proportions.

Now?

It's a mass of people I can barely consider the scope of once I pay attention to it. Yet I'm not scared of them anymore.

A few students stop and look at me, pulling out phones and whispering to one another. I snap a toe bone and force down some vestigial nervousness before walking into the crowd, trusting them to part before me. There's chatter but I fuse my ear bones together to deaden the sound. Eyes on the prize.

The Parahuman Studies wing is between the Political Science and Sociology departments and decidedly better funded. Makes sense given the cape demographics of Brockton Bay. It does mean I'll have to walk back across campus to find the hard sciences and get the signature from a biologist but this will work for now.

A quick look at the directory gives me an office number and a name. Dr. Fedorov, 208. I wander with purpose, doing my best not to look lost. No one's in the halls so the show isn't strictly necessary but it feels wrong to be aimless with a mask on. Eventually I find the stairs and get to the second floor, and then it's a matter of hoping they're in for lunch. I repair my ears and knock three times before the door is opened.

I'm not sure what I expected. A tweed jacket, maybe. A long grey beard, spectacles, and slightly absent eyes, staring off into the distance, concerned with esoteric subjects and impractical knowledge. Certainly not a twenty-something woman who would look more at home on the set of an action flick, with messy blond hair, a gymnast's build, and piercing eyes that glare up to meet mine, her head barely coming up to my chin.

"What do you want?" she asks, apparently unfazed by the appearance of a cape at her door.

I swallow down my nervousness and fold my hands behind my back. "I'd like to get a professional review of my power so that I might sell some things made with it," I say, unflinching. Maybe it takes breaking a toe bone to keep eye contact after I realize I can make out a bulge under her shoulder and then remember that Brockton U allows concealed carry on its grounds.

"Let's talk then," she says, breaking eye contact and heading back into the room. I follow, noting the scattered papers and books piled haphazardly with riveting titles such as Correlations between Triggers and Contextual Stressors and Master Effects. She motions to a chair with sloppily stapled papers on it. "Sit down."

I take the seat with all the grace I can muster and sling my bag down by my feet, pulling out the paper. She catches sight of it and holds up a hand, shaking her head.

"I need to know something about your powers and about you before I sign anything," she says. I nod and leave the paper on her desk. In. Out. Her face doesn't indicate any sort of dislike. Just interest and caution, like a zoo keeper with a new lion.

"Where should I start?" I ask.

By the time Dr. Fedorov (Nancy to people asking her for favors, apparently) is done interrogating me we've come to an agreement. She signs off on the form and in return I'll drop in on her seminar to answer some non-intrusive questions as well as stop in at a lab to provide an example of my power in use. Apparently getting a parahuman into the lab is nearly impossible. Given the amount of money a good college has access to I cannot imagine why that is a problem.

She sends me off with a handshake and a smile, and I give her a violet. While I didn't explicitly mind the conversation it felt odd being in her office. Like being a fly under a magnifying glass or a sample in a petri dish. I check the time on a wall clock and figure I'll have have to wait for the afternoon labs to finish up before I can get the biologist's signature. Looks like I'll be reading by a classroom for a bit.

Walking across campus still attracts attention, but less this time, and I don't bother to re-break my ears. None of the students approach me. Well, almost none. A blond with a heart-shaped face detaches from a group of students and starts walking next to me.

"Hey there," she says. I raise an eyebrow behind my mask. "You're the cape working with Amy, right?" she asks, and the pieces connect in my head. Blond, college age, knows Isidis in her civilian life. A member of New Wave. Laserdream, I think?

"You have me at a disadvantage," I say, keeping my tone cordial and not breaking stride. No sense in antagonizing Isidis's family, and I don't think she means to delay me.

"Right," she says, lightly rapping her head. "Crystal Pelham. Amy said you're White Rose, right?"

"That is my name," I comment. The lab building is coming up. "If I wanted to get approval for something, who do you think I should go to?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Depends on what for," she says, going along with the shift in conversation. "If you're looking for an extension, Professor Mina's probably the way to go. She loves helping people out. On the other hand, Rebelski is more useful if you're pursuing a research problem. He has all sorts of connections." She casts a glance at me. "Do you have a specific need or question? I might be able to help."

I open my mouth to answer but close it when I hear a noise. Something between a whine and a bass drop from a club. I try to hone in on it, and I sense Crystal doing the same beside me. Then the sound warbles and the sound of shattering glass erupts in the distance, with alarms following close behind. There's a boom a few seconds later, and smoke begins to come up in the distance. Then more.

I start running towards the chaos and Crys-Laserdream flies past me, face determined and solemn. A look that can't have come easily. Sometimes I'm glad my mask is so concealing. It makes appearing heroic easier.

I sprint after her, flexing my power in anticipation and hoping it will be enough.

UGH. TRAVEL. Only *checks calendar* nine more days?

And people wonder why I turn to the internet...

Last edited: Dec 25, 2017

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Threadmarks Interlude: s

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Dec 30, 2017

#674

So, this chapter is as long as a floating rib, but hang in there, you're getting an Omake that's 50% longer on New Year's.

Also, my "vacation" (read: time spent as an accessory for family photos) is nearly over. That means you can expect more regular updates and I can get back to writing for the entire day.

Interlude: s

When presented with change, there are two possible reactions.

One can fight against it. Whether that means building walls to guard you from it, using prepared contingencies to respond instantly to it, or literally beating the agent of change to death so that the status quo may be restored is a matter of semantics. At the end of the day, it is looking at the world and bending it to your will, spitting in the eye of the inevitable.

Or, one can work with the change. Switch sides at a critical moment, abandon a stable position to gather more power, or simply change goals to turn a setback into an unexpected windfall. When plans are derailed beyond all hope of salvation, when victory is doomed to be bitter sweet, a little reordering is often necessary.

With power and anonymity, fighting back is an expedient and effective way to ensure the dice fall in your favor. When there are multiple players or stealth is paramount...

Then the latter approach becomes attractive.

"Lung is dead?" I wonder out loud, expression concealed by cloth and an empty document on the screen in front of me in one timeline while I peck away at a keyboard in another while wearing an entirely reasonable grin. After all, a parahuman gang leader is dead, and that surely means safer streets. Given his responsibilities, Thomas Calvert is more than justified in his happiness. Coil, on the other hand, is in a more complicated position.

Lung would have had to be removed at some point. Not a figure of chaos per say but having a dragon capable of ashing a city stomping around is too much of a risk for long term stability. Previous plans relied on forcing Piggot to call in outside help or a sufficiently powerful explosive in a sufficiently discreet location. Far from foolproof, but eventually effective.

But now was not that point. He was supposed to kill off most of the E88 first, or a few Protectorate heroes. Then he would escape capture a few more times, remove some more problems, and eventually pick a fight with someone out of his weight class.

I begin typing up plans as Coil while I finish up for the day as Calvert. Changes need to be made, but this...

This could be an opportunity.

"We're going to be heroes?" Trickster asks, the confusion in his voice palpable even through the phone.

"That is correct," I reply smoothly. "Events have transpired, and I find myself needing to change the terms of our contract. Will it be a problem?" I ask. Refusing is not quite an option but the charade must be maintained.

"No, not at all," he says. "Just surprised, is all. I'll need to discuss this with my team, but I don't see it being an issue." Given the relatively low body count of your companions, I would be surprised if it were.

"I will see you shortly," I say before hanging up. Managing their fifth member will be a trial, but the four useful members of their little troupe will make for fine lieutenants. That, and they don't have many verifiable violent crimes attributed to them, making them the perfect candidates for a redemption story.

In the Calvert timeline I savor a slice of chocolate cake, a costless reward for a job well done. In the Coil timeline I pull out another phone and hit the third number on the speed dial.

Three rings later, Tattletale picks up. "What?" she asks.

"For the next week, use your power to find ABB and E88 store houses and weapon depots. You will not be going on any jobs," I add, then hang up. Let her puzzle out the meaning of that statement. The truth will be stranger than fiction.

I collapse the Calvert timeline and split them again.

In one, I de-mask and head home, ready for nine consecutive hours of sleep as Thomas Calvert. In the other I start examining Medhall offices and mark the ones that don't have air-gapped databases. I then sort them by potential value and risk of E88 response.

The plan has changed, but not necessarily for the worse.

Dying is not an experience one can ever get used to.

"What the fuck?" I snarl at the computer in front of me as the Calvert timeline suddenly ends halfway through its commute. I split, call Mister Pitter to the room, and shoot him six times in the belly.

Collapse.

I split again, this time more productively. In one, I leave through a secret exit and start driving towards a safe house while in the other I dial up Tattletale.

"Tattletale, what's happening?" I ask, maintaining an even voice. Pointless against a Thinker of her caliber but the charade must go on.

"Bakuda's gone crazy," she says, a note of terror in her voice. If it's enough to scare her, then I must not be the only one at risk. "She's making a power play, thinks that this will convince people to take the ABB seriously, thinks that it will validate her, is currently planning on-"

"Stop," I order her, and savor the audible *click* of her teeth coming together. It is good to be in charge of something. "Save your power. This is not an unusual event. If," I stress, "Bakuda becomes a problem, I will call a meeting with the other villains in town, and we will plan on stopping Bakuda with them. Only then must you worry." While losing a timeline to a random bomb is inconvenient and irritating in the extreme, it is just a timeline. I have weathered worse. I hang up on her and call a trio of soldiers to my office.

I point to the rightmost one. "Go to an Empire bar and tell our informants to increase the frequency of information dumps." The more often the enemy knows something they shouldn't, the more often the ranks are swept for spies. A necessary risk when wars break out. She leaves, and I point to the second. "You, go to the Palanquin and tell Faultline I am interested in hiring her on retainer." This may become big enough to justify purchasing her services. An unlikely but possible event, and having her on retainer prevents someone else from employing her. He leaves, and I turn to the third. "You, check in to see if the Merchants are responding." Poor and weak people who steal from others who are weak and poor, but capes are capes. This may be the event that finally prods them into doing something so tremendously moronic that something disruptive happens.

I haven't maintained my stable position in this city by neglecting a Tinker who can make tanks from scrap, a sentient mass of disposable armor, and a man who can create railguns at will.

The third soldier nods as and moves to obey.

I force myself to remember the two ways to react to change. Fight back, or work with. With that in mind I pull up the dossiers of the Empire's roster and begin to think.

How many casualties can I get them to take in this gang war?

A/N: I've been thinking about setting up a Paetron. I don't really need the cash yet, but you can never start saving too early, and it would help me justify spending more time writing fanfiction. Thoughts?

Edit: A number of reviewers pointed out that a gang war is literally just another Tuesday in Brockton Bay. I have taken pains to adjust things into something that makes sense. This one's for you apple!

Last edited: Aug 22, 2018

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Threadmarks Burial 3.1

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Jan 6, 2018

#728

ARGH scheduling is hard! And I still have like three books I want to read!

Also, getting back on schedule.

Burial 3.1

The first bomb site we get to reeks of the sea.

The tourists always take a minute to close their eyes, flare their nostrils, and take in the scent of dead fish but when the aroma is with you day in and day out it fades into the background.

At least, not unless it's really strong.

The street is basically untouched. Nothing is broken, or shattered, or trapped in some weird Shaker effect. It just smells like salt. A few grains dance along the sidewalk, swishing and scratching quietly.

"What happened here?" Laserdream wonders aloud for the both of us, floating to the door of a cafe and pushing it open. I follow her, the scent of salt growing stronger as we travel along the short wooden hallway. She pauses after pressing through another door with "Coffee-nation Grounds" stenciled in black on frosted glass. What stopped her? I walk up next to her and look.

Inside, a line of clothes lying half covered in salt lead to an old-timey cash register with an apron draped across it. Salt dusts the countertop. Display cases containing small white plates and now-inaccurate punny name cards sit filled with mounds of salt. A stroller holds a little onesie, salt flowing from the hand holes and neck, with a green summer dress lying carelessly on a chair next to it.

I count the number of large piles. Five in the line, six at tables. One or two behind the counter, some number in the kitchen. Plus whichever restaurants were also in the blast zone. Plus whoever was blown away in the street by the wind.

Bad math puts the body count at something like twenty people. Probably more.

Beside me Laserdream pulls out her phone and calls someone, speaking in a shaky, hushed tone. I break a toe. Then a rib. Then several ribs, trying to push down the urge to go down to the docks, drag every vaguely-Asian person into the street and shred their limbs until they scream out the secrets of the ABB and lead me to-

"Um, White Rose?"

I freeze my chain of thought. "Yes?" I reply. There will be time for murder later.

Wait, what?

"...Nevermind," she finishes, going back to her phone and speaking quietly again. Something about patrol schedules and the Protectorate. I take another look at the room, empty but for us and salt. Something churns within me and I move out the door, make my way to the nearest dumpster, and puke my guts out. The smell and taste of bile cut through the aroma of half-decayed garbage wafting from the rancid trash. I notice that I can't smell the salt through the cloying musk.

The thought of the onesie filled with salt brings another wave of vomit to my lips.

Just... why? Money? Dead people don't pay. Revenge? Who is worthy of this level of collateral and frequents a fucking coffee shop? There has to be a reason behind it. Something I'm not seeing. It'll be... not better, when I figure out the motivation. But maybe figuring out how it all fits together will eventually let me keep a meal down.

By the time I'm done voiding my stomach Laserdream is off the phone, the PRT have established a cordon up and down the street, and the only thing coming up out of my body is a slimy, clear fluid. An officer is standing silently near the end of the alleyway, gun held across their chest. Right. Crime scene. First to it. They probably have a lot of questions.

I snap a toe bone to sharpen my mind and move towards them. My knees go weak, and I stagger for a moment. The guard moves towards me, a hand leaving their weapon to offer me support.

No.

I seize control of the bone around my legs and steady myself while bringing one arm up to deflect the assistance.

"I'll be fine," I say, and snap a bone to keep the quiver out of my voice. "Now then, do you need me for anything?" I ask, channeling my inner Jane Eyre.

"Just your account of what you saw, ma'am," an oddly high and feminine voice answers, unused hand falling back to her weapon. "If you could talk to Officer Caspen, he'd like to ask you some questions."

I nod wordlessly and let myself be led to Caspen. His helmet is off, and the grey at his temples stands out against his coal black skin. We go through some simple questions and after a few minutes he dismisses me. Which would be a relief, but I have no idea where to go. Eventually one of the PRT soldiers taps me on the shoulder and asks me to leave.

So I move. Slowly, then faster and faster as I fall deeper and deeper into my power, trying to bury the thought of salt beneath as many layers of bone as I can.

I don't remember how I came across the second bomb site. I do remember being told by some first responders about how I have to double check every piece of debris and that shifting them can sometimes do more harm than good. I let them order me around, making lattice pillars between the ground and collapsed walls then expanding them. When there's not enough room for that I dig, the careful eyes of a grizzled EMT warning me when he sees the rubble shaking.

We pull three corpses out of the building and six people who aren't much better.

I don't throw up this time. I'm not sure I like that.

Once they're pretty sure no one else is left in the ruin they tell me the location of another bomb site. They ask me to help. Like I wouldn't.

I leave a marigold for every person still breathing and get moving. Two limbs aren't fast enough, so I try four. Then six. Then I stop counting and focus on moving to the next disaster.

Credit where credit is due, the firefighter trying (and failing) to put out some black flames that are flickering far too slowly to be natural doesn't bat an eye when a multi-limbed bone thing collapses into a six-foot knight-errant in front of her. She has me scrape the Tinkertech fallout into a box and then sends me off to the next location. A conventional bomb, but bigger and hotter.

A few minutes later I'm elbow deep in dirt and ash trying to get to a sobbing voice behind half a dozen charred beams. Then someone tells me to get out of the way, Vista's here. I retreat and watch in awe as a gap the size of a flute balloons into something I could walk through with clearance on every side. A soot-stained child is pulled out by a weeping mother, and the two get escorted to an ambulance by a police officer speaking in soothing tones.

I don't remember much of what I read about Vista, the youngest and longest serving Ward in Protectorate ENE. A Shaker with the ability to warp space, limited by the number of people in it. An abstract description that covers most of the details.

That doesn't tell the whole story though. Vista is very much a girl, a full two heads shorter than me in my armor. And yet here she is, white costume going grey with dirt, a grim set to her lips as she expands miniscule gaps into paths to freedom.

Looking at her surrounded by destruction is like looking at a blue rose in a mass grave. Fundamentally wrong on half a dozen levels and yet there probably isn't a better place for her to be.

Then someone grabs my elbow and points me at a a smaller lump of collapsed building and there's no more time for literature.

Later, when the wounded are in ambulances, the dead are covered in white sheets, and I'm staring at nothing, Vista comes by and sits down next to me. We both just stay there, listening to the subdued chatter of the professionals.

"It's not usually like this," she comments idly. I turn to look at her, then adjust my gaze downwards. "They try to keep the kids away from the fighting," she explains, leaning her head back and looking at the sky, a note of bitterness in her voice, "But when things get really bad, they ask us for help."

"Anyway," she says, her voice shifting towards something closer to cheer, "This is the part where I pitch the Wards. Decent pay, good training, better back-up, and a whole host of other quality-of-life benefits. Armsmaster said that he had already tried selling it to you though, and not to press too hard. So, yeah. Just remember it's an option," she finishes, standing back up and heading towards a PRT van.

"Hey," I call out, getting up and following her. She turns, and I form a sunflower in my palm. Just the blossom. I snap it off and toss it up, the arc long and high. Some of the sky warps, and the flower falls directly into her waiting palm. I sketch a smile on my mask and get back to moving, this time towards the hospital.

"Three inches, finger width, two" Isidis says, holding out a hand. I dutifully grow and snap off the requested pieces, and she quickly presses them to the stump of an arm. The bones looks soft for a bit as they warp and fuse to the rest of the shattered limb, and once they're in place she dips one hand into a bowl of shredded flesh that reads "arms" and waves me away with the other.

"I'll be busy here for a bit, get to work on some of the compound fractures. I'll call you when I need you." The pile of flesh in her hand is already fusing to the bone and reforming into something usable. I nod and step out of the operating theatre.

The emergency room is packed. Not as bad as it was when I first got here but the less injured are still standing around waiting for treatment. Nurses rush to and fro carrying bandages and antiseptic to people coming in with open cuts while those who are waiting for more intensive treatment try to keep their moaning to a minimum. A doctor with designer bags under her eyes catches sight of me and strides over, stepping between a pair of gurneys carrying amputees towards the operating room.

"We've pulled the people with broken bones aside," she shouts over the crowd, jerking her head towards a different operating room. "Are you up for more?"

The room for people with fractures is maybe a five minute walk away, and it's less full than the last few times I've been here today, maybe half a dozen people. It's a strange feeling, setting bone right for once. Not an unpleasant one, but weird.

I have Isidis to thank for this development. A question about the smoothness of the fragments I was giving her turned into a question about my limitations. This led to getting a pair of surgeons to cut up the arm of a person with a compound fracture. I fixed his radius and ulna and then suddenly had new responsibilities besides feeding Isidis bone. I'm still slower at fixing breaks than Isidis, but she can't be in two places at once.

Part way through mending some ribs I realize that this could be a job. The pay would be decent, I'd be having a positive effect on the world, and I have friends already doing it. It might be a pretty sweet deal.

Then I imagine being here, day in and day out, doing the same thing over and over again. I imagine long days of low-interest, high-difficulty labor. I imagine fucking up and having to explain why a patient might need to stay in the ICU for longer because of me. I imagine doing it multiple times, until it becomes routine.

It sounds horrible.

How can Isidis stand it?

By the time casualties stop coming in it's well past seven. Someone brought food for the two of us and now we're unwinding in the hospital cafeteria while snarfing down cheap burgers. I resolve to demand better food next time. They can take it out of my paycheck if they have to.

"So, are you going to be a regular?" Amy asks in between bites of greasy meat and pint-sized vegetables. "I'd like to know if I should get used to having a 3-D printer on hand in emergencies."

I think about the number of times today I had to snap a rib to keep from vomiting. Then I balance it against the number of people who have to deal with stitches instead of casts and the number of people Isidis was able to speed through because she had me at her side. The battle between the collective good and an individual's right to determine their own fate isn't something I think anyone's fully figured out yet, and trying to wrestle with it myself is a bitter thing. I don't like that getting more options has reduced my freedom to choose. That it could put me back under other people's control.

"I have yet to decide," I offer, and Amy nods, taking another bite of her burger and shrugging.

"You've been in the game for, what, four days? It'd be weird for you to have an answer already. Not unheard of, which is why I'm asking," she says around a mouthful of food, "But if you don't want the pressure, then don't make the commitment. Anyway, things seem to have died down, so you can probably go home."

"Will you?" I ask. It seems like a poor decision for the healer to leave a hospital in a crisis.

"Around nine or ten," she answers. Some of my concern must show in the way I tilt my head because she barks out a brief laugh before responding. "I can replace organs in minutes and create counter-plagues with a touch, but everything else? The doctors here get by just fine without me." She nods towards a group of medical staff sitting at another table, still in uniform. "I supplement, not replace them. I can get some sleep during the off-peak hours and in return they get to work fewer 24-hour shifts."

I nod and push away the rest of the burger half-finished. "I'll take my leave then," I say, standing and cracking my neck. A neat trick, and one that helps relieve muscle pain. Not sure how, but it's nice.

"Want a ride home?" Amy asks. I turn to look at the superhero without a mask, who's parent lost a teammate because of their decision to play fast and loose with her identity. Amy reads the thought in my silence and shakes her head. "Not home. But the general direction. Vicky's pretty fast, if you don't mind heights."

I do some mental math while looking at the clock. Dad usually gets home around nine-ish, so if I sprint I might be able to make it before his truck pulls in.

Or I could try flying.

"When can she get here?" I ask.

Edit: Fixed issues with New Wave's family tree.

Last edited: Jan 6, 2018

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Jan 13, 2018

#753

One week before I head back to school. I've almost got enough of a backlog so that I won't have to write any chapters until Spring Break, but ideally I want to extend that to ~two or three chapters shy of the academic year. I might be able to do that, which means I'll be able to spend only time I want to on writing this.

Oh, also new chapter.

Burial 3.2

I've changed my mind. The main drawback to my power isn't the pain. It's the lack of flying.

I have to shrink down a little so that Justitia doesn't have problems holding me in a Nelson, and it's awkward as hell asking if I can use bone to bind my legs to hers so I don't have to suffer a princess carry or try an awkward piggyback at several hundred feet in the air.

Worth it ten times over.

The air is cold and clean, the potential discomfort pushed away by the warm-as-blood bones hugging my skin. The sky is nearly starless this close to the city but a glance downward shows a sea of glowing color. From this high up the graffiti, trash, drug dealers, pimps, and gangbangers are inconsequential, meaninglessly small specks.

Instead there's just a city of light.

"Pretty, isn't it?" Justitia says, a note of awe in her tone. "I mean, I forget about it since I'm usually only a few feet above the rooftops, but it's nice to get up here every once in a while and just..." she trails off.

"Observe?" I offer back quietly, barely paying attention.

"Yeah," she says. We stay up there for a few minutes, drifting with the breeze. It's a combination of quiet and peaceful I haven't felt since I came back from summer camp two years ago.

And just like that the moment is lost.

I tap Justitia's wrist. She arrests our movement in the sky and clears her throat.

"So..." she begins, and I fell a note of fear shoot through me, one that doesn't make any sense. I snap a toe bone and remind myself about her aura. It must be a pain always wondering whether people like you for you or if they like you because it's a side effect of your powers. "Where should I drop you off?" she asks, slowly descending. "Like, any neighborhood or cross street?"

I give her an address about a ten minutes away from my house, which means less than five by bone-sprint. She drops down, there's an awkward minute of me trying to untangle my growths without breaking them, and then we're just a pair of capes in the middle of a lower-middle class neighborhood.

There's a brief silence as we size one another up. On one side, a green-robed cheerleader with a classic powerset. On the other, a figure straight out of Don Quixote's nightmares with an ability that can be most kindly described as unusual.

"Well, good night," she eventually says, drifting back into the air. I nod before turning towards home. I wonder if she'll be waiting at the hospital to take Amy back home after work? Then I start moving again, focusing on my power.

The trip home is uneventful. There's a close call with a cat but the bombing seems to have scared most people into seclusion. The back door groans a little as I ease it open, and I hold my breath in anticipation. After a few moments of silence, I let it out and walk in. The armor pulls back under my skin and I quickly shrug my clothes back on. The signed papers are still in the bag and I take a moment to mentally relax at that. My signature is on enough of these that anybody else picking up one probably kills my secret identity.

Right. The bag. Or is it a box now? Either way, suddenly getting a knapsack made of bone isn't exactly something that can be hand waved away if Dad spots it. A little time spent focusing on the shell and it separates from the backpack, waiting for disposal. I place it beneath a workbench in the basement and leave it to go unnoticed. Hopefully. The papers go into a manilla envelope, and I resolve to get a biologist's signature tomorrow. After that I head to bed and realize just how long the day has been when sleep takes me seconds after I've pulled myself beneath the sheets.

When I wake up, it's to the sounds of frying bacon and my alarm. I slap the snooze button and try to retreat back under the covers but Morpheus's veil has been well and truly pierced. After luxuriating in the warm blankets for a few more minutes I drag myself out of bed and shut off the alarm properly. I guess yesterday must have taken more out of me than I thought.

Yesterday.

I go through my morning routine, trying to figure out where to go from here. Opening a shop when the city is exploding is probably not a good plan. I can't even get the rest of the paperwork done because the college will be closed due to the bombing.

As I finish brushing my teeth I create a list of things that are possible for me to do. Have to stay positive. I can try selling my flowers on the boardwalk for cash. It's technically allowed but there's a cap at fifty bucks, which might make people mad if I up the price once I have a brick and mortar store. Still, money is money. Alternatively, I can go to the hospital and help out Isidis. Volunteer work isn't the worst use of a week off. If all else fails I can just spend the day catching up on my reading list at the library.

Content with my options, I pull on some workout clothes and go downstairs to begin my run. At which point I remember the smell of bacon. Which implies a cook.

Dad turns away from the pan in the kitchen and smiles at me. It's one filled with some happiness but also a little tiredness. That, and worry.

"Hey Taylor. Do you have a minute before you go out running?" he asks. I consider saying no and explaining that I need to set good habits for myself, that taking even a day off could ruin my routine.

"Sure," I respond instead, leaning against the wall. Dad nods and turns back to the pan, poking at the bacon. There's a silence, short and heavy, before he releases a breath.

"You say you're sick, but then you muster up the energy to go on runs and into town," he says, and I feel my gut clench. "I'm not going to make a big deal out of it," he adds, still not looking at me. The clenched feeling doesn't go away. "I do need you to stay at home though."

"What?" It leaks out, pure surprise. Stay at home?

"Taylor, there's a cape running around blowing up city blocks." The last bit comes out hard and angry as he spins around to look at me. There's passion in his eyes, the kind that comes out once in a blue moon when he has to defend jobs and worker benefits from being cut by large corporations. "Two of the guys were working on an apartment complex next to a building that got hit. Do you know what they saw?" he asks, the anger fading. Now all that's left is grief.

I shake my head, memories of a onesie springing unbidden into my mind. I feel myself go pale.

"A black hole, Taylor," he says quietly. "I don't want my only daughter walking around the city when a cape who can create black holes at will is on the loose. Please," he says, and the pain in his face cuts me. "Please be safe."

I reach forward and give him an awkward hug. We're both too gangly, all elbows and limbs, but we try.

"I won't do anything stupid," I promise. It's a factual statement. No amount of regular gangbangers can hurt me and I can always run away from cape fights.

"Are you going out today, Taylor?" he asks, looking me in the eye.

I grind my ribs together. "No," I lie. Isidis could use the help at the hospital, and I still need to fill out the rest of the forms and contact my lawyer to see how the bombings change things.

Dad would do the same in my shoes.

"Thank you Taylor," he says, smiling with relief, and we sit down for breakfast.

There's a bad feeling in my gut, and I can't finish much. Dad blames it on my "sickness" and I agree with him.

I go for my morning run. The knot doesn't go away.

That's the routine for the next few days. Wake up, tell creative truths to Dad about my plans for the day, go to the hospital to volunteer. This time though, I'm being paid fifty dollars an hour. Turns out there's a clause for paying Rogue capes to work for you during hazard situations. It's a little more than your average ER nurse but this is only until the bombings die down. Then I'm back to volunteering.

I'm too shocked at suddenly making five hundred dollars a day to complain much. I get that this is unusual and a more long-term thing would be arranged under different pricing plans but it's nice to suddenly have money.

I even managed to get the rest of the paperwork done. I asked Isidis if she could sign it. Instead, she passed the request on to Crystal, who took a sample of my bone and the appropriate paperwork to one of her professors at his home. He signed off with the caveat that I provide a bouquet for his wedding. I sent him back a dozen roses and the deal was done.

Why do people complain about paperwork all the time?

During a calm hour I log into my email and check my inbox. John Doe has sent a reply declaring that he would be available for a meeting in Brockton Bay next week on Thursday afternoon between four and eight. When I send back an email informing him that Brockton Bay is currently in the process of being destroyed by a self-replicating suicide bomber, he sends back a two-page reply that can be summed up as 'literally not even the fifth most dangerous place I have worked on a deal.' We make plans for an early dinner at a hotel downtown but move them back a week to the twenty eighth in the interest of potentially averting disaster.

I memorize the date and address before being dragged into a room with a trio of vehicular assault victims and getting to work.

I knew that cape fights were bad, but it takes seeing a man turned half to glass to understand exactly what that means.

"Pull out the pool!" Isidis yells, her voice hard and commanding. I follow behind her as Triumph is wheeled in on a stretcher. Everything below about mid stomach is glass, transparent and fragile. His costume is long gone, only a domino mask preserving anything close to modesty.

"The pool?" I ask, breaking a toe bone with every step. In. Out. Focus.

We enter an operating theatre and the smell of copper fills the air.

"Oh." I say.

A pool, maybe six feet wide in every direction, is in the middle of the room. Inside of it is a soup of dark red flesh and blood.

"Normally, I have time to slowly apply the flesh and rebuild people from the inside out," Isidis says, kneeling by the edge of the tub. A pair of nurses pull out a too-clean surgical saw and press it to the boundary of glass and flesh. "Normally, I'm not doing full body reconstruction," she continues. "Cover your ears."

I break my eardrums, but I still catch the starting squelch of flesh tearing open. Then the torso (Triumph, I remind myself. He's not dead yet) gets lowered into the pool and Isidis plunges her arms in after it, elbow deep. Her mouth starts moving and I quickly fix my eardrums.

"--keep putting bone meal into the pool, okay? This is going to take a lot of focus, so I'm not going to talk anymore," she finishes. I belatedly lift my arm and start doing my best wood chipper impression. And then I nearly black out from doing so.

It's a different kind of agony, the constant rippling and shattering, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from hissing in pain. It took a lot of fucking work to get used to breaking my bones (ablative armor isn't a lot of use if breaking it leaves you breathless) but this...

I keep forgetting how much my power hurts.

About halfway through reconstructing Triumph's thighs Isidis looks up at me. "You doing alright there?"

I nod back, not trusting my voice to remain stoic.

"He's out of the danger zone, so if you want to take a break, now's a good time." I promptly stop spitting bone meal into the soup and disguise my sag from exhaustion as a roll of the shoulders. "Speaking of time," she takes a glance at the clock, "Now's a pretty good hour for lunch. You have any preferences?" she asks, looking intently at me.

"How about Luciano's?" I answer without a tremble in my breath. Her stare turns to confusion. "The place we met for the first time," I explain. Now that I have a little cash I can probably get something nicer than spicy noodles.

"The first place we met was on the third floor at about three in the morning," Isidis comments drily, and I try to push down the rush of embarrassment. "Sounds good anyway," she says. "Mind if Vicky joins us?"

I shrug. I'm still not sure how much I like the emotion-manipulating Alexandria-lite but she's yet to do anything wrong. Maybe now's a good time to fix that bridge.

Once Triumph's got his legs back and we've both cleaned up it's off to lunch. The line is nonexistent (probably because of the the bombings) and we get the same seats as last time. Victoria drops out of the sky in casual wear, her smile going from pleasant to nervous as her gaze tracks from Amy to me. Still skittish then, but I'm not getting any sudden spikes of fear so at least her aura is under control.

"So, how were things today?" she asks, looking over the menu. I glance at Amy, mentally asking about how much to share. She picks up on it and motions subtly towards herself. Looks like she's taking the questions. Fine with me. I turn to the menu. Hmm, a Florentine steak? Yes please.

Amy gives Victoria a safe-for-work summary of the day while I flag down a waiter. Victoria decides on a Margarita pizza to split with her sister, and we all decide on water for drinks.

"How's the shop coming along?" Vicky asks out of the blue. I blink, stunned. Where did she hear about that? I look at Amy, who is pointedly staring into the street, away from the conversation.

Clever girl...

"It's coming along," I say. "Right now I need to talk to some city officials with a lawyer in order to confirm that I won't inadvertently destroy the local economy."

Vicky nods. "Seems reasonable. Have you thought up a name for your shop?" she continues.

"That has been... more difficult," I answer.

As the conversations goes on, I feel myself relaxing, sinking into an easy back and forth, with Amy interjecting with the occasional dry joke. I'm not sure how much of it is Vicky's social skills and how much is the fact that this is the first real social connection outside of a work setting I've had since...

Wow. I haven't had a friend for two years.

Seriously, fuck you Emma.

A little unnatural admiration flows through me, prompting a look up. "Hey, you okay?" Vicky asks, pure concern on her face. I snap a toe bone.

"Aura," I respond and she tamps it down, looking a little guilty, but the concern is still there. A more natural feeling of sadness springs up. "I'm fine," I clarify. "Just remembered something unpleasant."

Vicky looks like she wants to press it but the waiter arrives with three plates on his arm. "Your food," he says, placing the meals in front of us. A blessing upon your house Mr Watkins. I look up to thank him and notice the fear in his eyes. It's not directed at us. Over my shoulder. I turn.

A goblin crouches on the railing next to us. Black bodysuit, criss-crossed with black belts bearing blades, bombs and guns. The lone spot of color is a green mask with two red stripes standing out like bloodstains on a white sheet. A new-looking harness is hooked up over the gear, wires connecting blocks of what looks like C4 but is almost certainly something far more dangerous.

Oni Lee. Lung's lieutenant. Ex-lieutenant.

One of his hands reaches out and drops three things into my glass.

Grenade pins.

Last edited: Jan 19, 2018

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Jan 13, 2018

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T0PH4T

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Jan 20, 2018

#834

Welp, school's starting back up. I've got a large enough of a back log that it shouldn't affect release schedules, but figured y'all should know.

Burial 3.3

One pillar of bone to push away the suicide bomber. Hard and fast as I can, with spikes to keep him on it. One pillar to push away the waiter, flat and firm, not as fast. Don't want to hurt him. One to push away Amy. I vaguely notice Victoria moving to get between her and Oni Lee. Good, she can take a hit.

Also, as much armor as I can create, as thick as I can make it.

Boom. The world goes white and I feel my ear drums shatter. Fuck. A thing to remember next time. If there is a next time.

Also, pain. Not as bad as when Lung burned me raw but still bad enough that I almost want to snap a toe bone to put it in perspective before I remember what's going on.

Move. Have to move. I push my body away from the ledge, not even halfway motivated by my muscles. Too slow. Power needs to take over. I fall towards the street and push out long, thin branches of bone. They flex, snap, and grow, repeated fast enough that I'm only aware of it as a rapid pop-pop-pop of pain and negative acceleration.

Ground floor. Good time to-

Boom. This time behind me. I feel steel make its way through a bone plate and scrape my flesh.

Pain.

I push off and start moving. Maybe not a great idea. Lee's probably got a higher Mover rating and trying to race a teleporter is a bad joke. I duck into an alleyway. Break line of sight. That'll work. Send a spike of bone behind me then branch from it, fill the entrance with sharp, spiny death. That'll delay him for-

Boom. Pain in front of me. A reflex I didn't know I had saves one of my eyes from shrapnel. The other goes dark. Agony, pure and simple. Worse than Lung's fire. Alleyway means fewer escape options, a more focused explosion.

Up then.

I move from the alleyway out into the city streets then pillar my way towards the rooftops. Halfway up something heavy attaches itself to my back and there's a loud scraping sound. I project out spikes. The heavy thing disappears with a whoosh and I taste ash on my tongue. I'm on the first rooftop. Where to go?

Boom. I'm falling from the roof but this time my plates held. Can't think, don't have the time. Twist in mid air, bones shatter to keep me from pancaking, back to running. Longer legs, more speed, have to get away-

Boom. This one too soon after the last for me to react. Another unfamiliar spike of fire in my stomach. I stop trying to escape and push out.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Too many to keep track of so I don't.

When the last echo finally fades away, I'm barely there. I have a hazy feeling of pain on one side and push more bone out. There's more pain, more shattering, but it gets more and more distant. Then there's a weird feeling, like my leg falling asleep, but I keep pushing out and it too goes away.

My lungs are aching. Air. I need air. Too much to retract. Tunnel. I pull myself forward, shaping and reshaping and forcing the less-bone part of my body out of the massive construct. Keep. Moving. My vision is narrowing but my eyes are wide open.

No.

Sunlight. Air. In. Out. Mask on but open, teeth ready to rend and tear and turn the meat of my enemies into hash.

"You want a fight?" I scream, blood pounding through my ears and I'm more bone than flesh and it all feels right. Like this is how things are supposed to be. "Then come on out and try again!"

No one.

Silence.

I spit, bone moving seamlessly in an imitation of lips. "Coward," I utter. Then the wounds catch up to me. Abdomen wounds. Those can go bad really easily. And I still can't see out of my left eye. Isidis could fix-

Amy.

By the time I get back to the restaurant the PRT is on the scene setting up a cordon. She's not there. Hospital then. As I'm stretching my limbs and working up speed someone calls after me. Probably something to the effect of 'stay here and answer our questions.'

They can wait.

Each step on my stilts jolts my abdomen. Can't have that. I grow bone in the wounds. Probably not a long-term solution but it will hold for a bit. When I nearly step on a car for the fifth time I move to the rooftops and try to avoid doing things that require depth perception. Can't show the missing eye. They'll want to put me under surveillance until Isidis can grow me a new one. I grow a rose over the center of the pain. There. Fixed.

I make an unsteady landing outside the main entrance of the ER and take a moment to center myself. In. Out. Mask on. I push through the doors. I need to find a receptionist.

I haven't taken three steps before a nurse is beside me, pulling me towards the trauma ward. "We heard you were fighting with Oni Lee," she begins. "Staff with pre-signed NDAs are waiting in room--"

I shake her off. "I am currently fine," I explain. "Where's Isidis?" It comes out more angry and pained than I want it to but the nurse doesn't seem to care.

"She's fixing herself up in a Lazarus Pit," she says patiently. "Now can you please listen to the trained medical professional and let us take care of you?" The last part is tense, and I have to break a toe bone to keep myself from snapping back. She's probably overworked, I remind myself. In. Out. Pull back the thorns.

I let myself be led to a nearby room where a woman in surgical scrubs is waiting by a bed. There are three laminated pieces of paper on a table next to her. She spends a minute explaining exactly what the laminated sheets mean, asks for and receives my verbal consent, and convinces me to pull my armor back in.

It's... strange, being in the mask and not the armor. The surgeon is quick, examining and bandaging the puncture wounds on my abdomen with a detached professionalism. No organs were hit. Goody. The area where my eye used to be is a bigger problem, and she stuffs it with cotton. Before she can wrap it properly I grow a bone shell around the padding, which is apparently good enough. She sticks an otoscope in my right ear, confirms that the eardrum is shot, and asks how I was able to walk normally. I shrug. She jots down a note in spidery handwriting and tells me I can armor up again. I nod in acknowledgement, already pushing out more bone, and she moves off to the next little disaster.

Now that I'm alone, the rush is well and truly gone. My insides ache, and the lack of an eye is slowly sinking in. I lean back onto the bed and close my remaining orb.

Just a bit of rest.

"Rise and shine," a familiar voice says with an accompanying series of claps. I push aside my gossamer-light dreams and look towards the noise. Amy, Isidis now that she's in costume, is standing at my bedside looking none the worse for wear.

I slowly move up to sitting on the side of the bed before turning to look at her.

"Didn't you get hit by a grenade?" I ask.

She laughs, beckoning me out the door. I follow.

"I can animate and graft dead flesh at will. That includes onto myself," Isidis clarifies, heading towards the now-familiar operating room. "Throw me into a large enough pit of dead bodies and I'll pull back from just about anything. Makes staying in shape pretty easy too," she adds, lifting her arm and flexing as she pushes open the door and motions for me to go in. I mentally raise an eyebrow at the size of her bicep as I pass. Maybe a tad excessive. Then again, she does have to wrestle people down so she can work her magic...

I wonder if she does tune-ups for all of New Wave? Or would that be a gross misuse of resources?

"Are you okay?" I ask, sitting down on the edge of the operating table and trying to pitch the question so the implications are clear. Isidis rolls her eyes.

"This is not the first time I've been hurt, Rose," she states, pulling a trio of small containers out labeled 'eyes,' 'superficial damage,' and 'inner ear.' "It sucks, and when I get home I'm probably going to collapse into a tub of cookie dough ice cream," she continues, popping off the lid of the eye bucket and turning to face me. "But that's Future Amy's problem. Now strip so I can rub dead people on you."

A laugh escapes me. A small one. I pull back the shell on my eye, let Isidis pull out the cotton and have the unique experience of feeling my eye grow back. It's an odd sort of pain, like burning in reverse. Once that's done she dabs away the excess jelly with a damp cloth before pushing me back down.

"I need to see your stomach," she says, sealing the eye bucket and grabbing the 'superficial damage' one. I duly reshape the bone plating to reveal my abdomen. The bandages come off, the meat goes in, and the pain comes back. A few moments later and the pain stops. "Sit up so I can get your ears."

I level myself up and marvel at my vision. Crap.

"I have a prescription," I say. Isidis nods while pushing some meat paste into my ear. It feels like something alive is squirming it's way into my ear and I'm glad that my shell stifles all but the most major shivers because ugh.

"We've got some fake lenses," she says. "Ask a receptionist for some oculataxcin."

"What's that?" Doesn't sound like anything you can get at the drugstore.

"Nothing," she answers. "The person manning the desk will give you a pack of common prescription glasses with easy-replace lenses. They don't know what's in it," she adds, "Just that whenever a cape asks for something, give them the corresponding box."

"Clever." Or competent, at least. It's good to see people are taking cape identities seriously. I'm not sure how much use it would be against a powerful Thinker but there probably aren't that many of those outside of the Protectorate. I can only imagine how many headaches a day trader with the right powerset could cause.

"I mean, I could tear out your eye and balance things out," she says jokingly, "But most people don't go for that."

I don't dismiss the idea so quickly. I mean, I'll have to switch to contacts if I ever want to hero seriously simply because glasses are such a hazard in a fight. On the other hand, contacts are just covering up the symptom of a larger problem and are a pain in the ass to hang onto.

"Oh my god you're actually considering it," Isidis says. "No, I am not going to tear your eye out! Jesus!" The look on her face is exasperation personified, and she waves an aggressively dismissive hand at me. "Shoo, I have other patients that need something more important than LASIK eye surgery!"

I leave the room a little miffed. She bathes in dead people to heal her wounds but replacing malfunctioning organs is going too far? She has some odd hang ups.

A pair of semi-familiar faces await me at the entrance to the ER, one in red and one in silver and blue. Assault and Battery. They look... less than pleased.

"So then, how's my favorite osteokinetic doing?" Assault asks, a smile that looks maybe half genuine on his face. "Certainly not being blown up multiple times in public by a crazy suicide bomber?"

"He instigated it." I haven't done anything besides protect myself. They know this. Why are they actually here?

"We wanted to discuss the specifics of what happened," Battery interrupts, stepping forward. It would probably be more intimidating if I didn't tower over her. "Location, how the fight proceeded, who's responsible for the massive dome of bone in the middle of 85th street..."

Oh.

Last edited: Jan 21, 2018

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Jan 20, 2018

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T0PH4T

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Jan 27, 2018

#892

First week of class is over and I can confirm that college is a lot of fun and doesn't leave a lot of spare time for writing. Good news: the math tells me I have enough backlog to make it to spring break without missing an update!

Also, what did the skeleton say to the gangbanger holding it a gun point?

"You won't pull the trigger. You don't have the guts for it!"

Burial 3.4

I shatter a few toes and collect my thoughts. Of course the Protectorate are interested in cape fights. They're responsible for cleaning up the messes left behind. This makes total sense, I just never thought that I would be someone responsible for creating such a mess. Or that the Protectorate would personally come by to talk to me.

I really need to get a phone.

"We would like to debrief you," Battery says, interrupting my train of thought. "And if you could help clean things up that would also be much appreciated." Battery's demeanor doesn't change any but I get the sense that she's irritated. This feeling promptly intensifies when Assault starts laughing.

"Don't worry too much. The Protectorate is used to dealing with parahumans who don't immediately have a handle on every aspect of their power," he says, winking. "Trust me, this isn't the worst thing we've seen this month. Or the strangest."

They give me a lift in a PRT van which is simultaneously roomier and more intimidating than I expect it to be. I shrink my lifts and heels down a little to fit into the seats more easily, and if either of the heroes notice they don't comment. I have to wonder if that's out of respect, a simple jaded nature towards the wackiness of parahuman powers, or part of an act to get me into the Wards.

Sadly, I think this is still an improvement on my average social interaction.

About forty-five seconds into the ride there's a sound like a gunshot and I jump in my seat, turning towards the noise. Assault has his hands together and is grinning like a loon.

"Just trying to see if you're completely unflappable," he says unapologetically, still smiling. Battery slaps the back of his head and I'm suddenly disoriented, like I've been looking at one of those pictures with two different images in it and only now see the young woman and the slightly older man. These are supposed to be the defenders of Brockton Bay?

"What my partner was trying to do was begin interrogating you about the fight so we can focus on battlefield cleanup when we get to the site," she says in an even tone, eyes on mine. I haven't replaced the lens in my mask yet, have I? I quickly grow a rose over the gap, obscuring part of my vision. It's uncomfortable, but I don't think this conversation is going to turn into a fight.

I nod. "Isidis, Justitia and I were going out to lunch. Oni Lee showed up and attempted to kill me." Boom. The waiter. I don't know if he's alright. "When that failed, I tried to run away." Boom. "When I could not run away, I encased myself in a shell of bone until I stopped feeling anything. Once I had collected myself, I left the dome to engage Oni Lee. By that time he had fled so I decided to try and find Isidis to see if she was alright." The facts. Plain and simple.

Assault nods. "Fits with his SOP. Go in, do some damage, run away when he doesn't think he can win." He leans back against the steel wall. "Honestly, I'm a little surprised this is the first time he's gone after you. Maybe he was waiting on Bakuda to cook up something good."

"That could kill me," I state quietly. Bombs and duplication? Yeah, that'd be enough.

A suit of armor full of salt, tipping over and spilling the white grains everywhere, Dad waiting at home for days on end, wondering when I'll get back-

I snap a rib. In. Out.

Mask on.

"But why?" I ask, trying to banish the image from my head. "If I killed Lung, wouldn't that mean he'd be the boss of the ABB?" In a twisted sort of way, she should be thanking me. I just gave him a promotion.

"You killed Lung," Battery says, shrugging. "Lee takes loyalty very seriously, and apparently Bakuda does too. That, and the ABB has a reputation to maintain. If the other gangs smell blood in the water, they'll attack. If the ABB kill you, they reaffirm their status as not to be fucked with. If they don't..." she shrugs. "It's a heavy blow to their reputation."

I stay silent for a moment, considering.

"What are the ways gangs can improve their reputation?" I ask. Something cold and slimy is in my stomach, and start rhythmically breaking and mending my pinky toe. I have an idea, but I could be wrong. I'd like to be wrong.

"Pull off big heists, break people out of prison, kill or beat down high-profile capes," Assault starts, listing off each item with a new finger. "Showing up to Endbringer fights is a big one, and so is staying neutral or in one place for a long time." Like the Empire, he doesn't say. He shrugs with the raised hand. "It really depends though. Different acts can give different amounts and types of rep. It's not exactly a formal system."

I wait for the silence to settle. Then I ask the question.

"What about committing an atrocity and not getting caught?"

Assault and Battery exchange a look. Battery decides to answer.

"It would... depend," she says, folding her legs. "Some things you can't frame well-"

"What about mass killings?" I ask, seeing the digression for what it was. Fuck that, give it to me straight. "What about going around and spreading as much chaos as possible without being caught?"

Battery lets out a breath. "That would probably be considered a positive gain in rep, yes," she says slowly and carefully, the visible parts of her face blank.

I keep the toe bone fractured. I'm feeling this. I deserve it. "And if your reputation was tarnished by, say, having your leader killed by a new cape, you could regain that rep through one of the previous means?"

The silence is answer enough.

Breaking apart the dome is conceptually easy. The thing that makes it difficult is the sheer mass. Would make it difficult, if it wasn't for the pair of heroes beside me. Assault is able to slap things around like they're pillows, and Battery is a steady blur, moving long bars of bone to the hazard workers with a minimum of fuss. I can only imagine how much they could make in the private sector as construction workers. Then I remember NEPEA-5. Fucking anti-competitive bullshit.

Most of the bone goes into garbage trucks, destined for the landfill. I also give permission for the Protectorate to use a little bit of it for general research purposes. Apparently there's a law that lets them simply claim it as a spoil of war but they prefer to ask when the parahuman who made the material isn't antagonistic. Makes things less legally murky that way.

About halfway through, a truck with plastic covering every interior surface comes by. Apparently someone at the hospital got wind of the supply of perfectly good dead biomass and thought of recycling. Good thinking, that. The process slows down more as I break each piece into the uniform size that Isidis finds optimal.

I don't mind. It gives me time to think.

The first thing is the raw fucking rage. Why the fuck didn't I see it earlier? Of course Oni Lee wasn't going to lie there and take it. Of course he'd want vengeance. Of course he'd need to protect his reputation.

I feel my bones flexing every time a new wave of guilt runs through me. I stop them before they can so much as crack. No, I do not get to run away from this.

That's the next feeling. Guilt. If I had run earlier, then Lung would be alive and the ABB wouldn't be waging war. Or if I had been less lethal, maybe he wouldn't have been as ramped up and the Protectorate would've been able to drive him off.

If if if. So many different ways I could've handled things. And I chose the wrong one.

I stay silent during the clean up, answering questions simply and tersely. By the time the dome is gone it's nearly seven and I need to get home. Dad finding out about my powers on top of everything else that's happened today would be the icing on the fucking cake.

I walk back home, playing with my bones and trying to figure out a way to deal with all this. Two blocks away I duck behind a garage and change into my civies. I shiver as the bones pull back into my skin. It's always surprising how effectively they retain heat. Underwear, tank top, sweats, then jog home and hope Dad's not back.

He isn't. Another message on the machine. He'll be back later, and he wants to make plans for the weekend. Maybe I can use the bombing to get that pushed back until we forget about it. It feels bad avoiding him like this but we were never the most social people even before Mom died. She was the glue that held us introverts together.

I make myself some pasta and reheat some cheap store-bought sauce. Really not feeling the effort tonight. I take my meal to my room and boot up my computer so I can address something that I do know how to deal with. I go through an onion browser, create a throwaway account on PHO, and head to the thread on Lung's capture to find CharlotteHolmes.

Subject: re:Employment

Lisa, I want help hunting the ABB. You seem like you know some villains. Tell them to meet me in Longshire Park at 2 AM. The confirmation code is the second letter in the first noun I use.

I'm not joining a villain team. I'm probably not joining a hero team either. I don't know why you want to talk to me, but let it be enough that I'm doing something now.

If I find a bunch of groupies, I'm ghosting. If I find a bunch of E88r's trying to recruit me, I'm crippling them and turning you all into the police. If this is anything like a trap, I'm call the Protectorate.

Goodbye

White Rose

I check the message over a few times. Aggressive? Maybe. But I'm feeling aggressive. The whole 'meeting at two in the morning' thing is going to be a pain in the ass but the weekend's coming up so I can afford to do it. That, and I have the beginnings of an idea about how to fix this problem. Something that I'll need some time to try out.

With that settled I hit send, log out, close down the onion browser, and power down the computer. Pretty mild as cybersecurity goes but I don't have a ton of options. I finish off the last of the pasta and set my clock to wake me at twelve. It would take maybe fifteen minutes to sprint to the park but it always pays to arrive early.

I strip down into sleep wear and settle in for a nap. Before I know it I'm out.

The alarm shocks me more than it has any right to. The sheer viciousness of my instinctive blow to shut it off though...

Good thing I don't need that alarm clock. I'm not sure even Dad could put it back together again.

I get up, take off my sleep wear, and armor up. I go for subtle this time, with none of the usual flares or decorations. Just smooth bone. I step out the back and hop fences, detouring around any house with the light still on. Once I'm a good seven blocks away I get into the streets and run.

The park is a little farther away than I thought it was, and I have to backtrack a few times when I start getting into unfamiliar territory. I'll have to get a better sense of direction at some point. Not today, but soon.

The view of the ocean is different at night. It becomes a void, darker even than some parts of the sky. This close to the city there aren't any stars, and while the horizon has the cityscape to illuminate it the water doesn't. It's just a cold, inky blackness. Urban sounds, car horns, and the rush of air drift through the thicket of trees as I stand at the summit of the hill before letting my power run free.

Assault and Battery made it clear that the Protectorate doesn't mind random debris so long as it's for a good reason and I keep it semi-manageable. The information also came with a Wards offer where I could learn how to better control my power. I thanked them politely for the heads up and ignored the pitch but it did get me thinking about what sort of effect I could have on my environment.

Here would be the test run. A toe in the water, as it were.

Setting the scene takes less time than I anticipate, and after finishing up my work on the ground around the hill I climb to the top and settle down to wait.

At two o'clock on the dot, an inky substance that doesn't look like smoke so much as it looks like the very manifestation of empty space rolls out from the treeline. I stand by impassively, though I'm quietly impressed. Not sure how useful it'd be in a fight but it certainly looks pretty.

Eventually the cloud dissipates, revealing a scene from some twisted artist's nightmare. Three massive lizard-things with a canine bent that makes me think of what wolves might have looked like before the ice age, all heavy muscle and bone spikes, stand at the edge of the ring of trees. On top of them are four figures: One in a black motorcycle getup, one in a lavender and black catsuit with a domino mask, one in a white renaissance faire throwback with something that wouldn't look out of place in a stage play on his face, and one in street clothes with a cheap plastic rottweiler mask barely concealing her identity.

They would be terrifying to most people. Four capes, one who can blind you and one who can control dogs the size of cars? That's not including the two that are complete unknowns. I can imagine the Merchants running from these four, or even New Wave if there weren't any civilians present.

I still think I did them one better.

Trees of bone, no less than waist width at their thinnest, fanning out into broad canopies and forming an artificial forest on the hill. There are pathways leading to quiet groves with benches and chairs for the weary. One even has a ladder and slide for children..

Roses hang from the branches, out of reach for all but the tallest and thorned generously.

An archway of entwined branches leads up to the top of the hill which I've left free of excess decorations. Don't want to ruin anyone's wedding shoots.

I've also grown a throne, modest and comfortable, still connected to my armor. More rose blooms adorn it, and I recline lazily, forcing the group come to me. Maybe I'm playing up the royalty thing a bit much but creating the forest felt good. That and it's an excellent home field advantage.

The four capes approach, and the thing that strikes me the most is how young they look. The three who have parts of their face visible don't look much older than I do, and the dime-store nature of the tall one's costume makes me think that he doesn't have a proper job yet either.

They stop at the top of the hill, waiting. I slowly sit up, cracking my spine all the way. The one in the catsuit looks a little grossed out. Good. I form a mouth on my mask, all jagged teeth and unsettling smiles.

"It's a nice night," I say conversationally.

"Eye," the man in leathers says, his voice reverberating oddly. I push my concerns a little farther away. They're the real McCoy. "We're the Undersiders," he continues. "I'm Grue, the one in white is Regent, purple is Tattletale, and the last is Bitch."

I nod.

"Let's talk."

Last edited: Aug 25, 2018

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Feb 3, 2018

#930

shameless plug for my one shot, RWBY fic, and gorefest fic on QQ*

On with the chapter!

Burial 3.5

"What would you like to know?" Tattletale asks coyly, a wide smile on her face. A smile that reminds me of Emma, both before and after.

I snap a rib. Focus. In. Out.

"The locations of as many ABB storehouses as possible. The addresses of ABB businesses. Any and all information you have on ABB members. Names, homes, everything," I state, staring at the man in leathers.

"That's a lot," he says slowly, like each word costs him something. I shrug.

"If you can't supply it, then we have no business here. If so, good day and goodbye. I'll let you leave," I finish. It sucks that my first lead is a dead end but there's always the back up plan of violence towards random Asians in red and green until something slips out.

"Woah woah woah," the blonde says, stepping in between Grue and I. "Just because we don't know anything now doesn't mean we won't later," she says, still smiling, "It'll cost you though."

I sigh and wave my hand at her. "How much do you want?" I ask. I don't have a ton of money right now but probably enough for the location of a few warehouses. If I loot them, I can probably chain the takes together until-

"We don't want cash," she says, interrupting my chain of thought. "We want you on the team."

I laugh. At first it's surprised laughter as the sheer audacity of the statement stops me from thinking too much about it. Then it turns into angry laughter.

"I believe in my message I explicitly stated that I was not planning on working with you," I say quietly. The blonde's smile shakes a little. "Try a different price," I offer.

"The problem is that we don't want money," Grue states, putting a hand on Tattletale's shoulder and pulling her back. "If what we wanted was money, we'd hit the places ourselves and make off with the cash," he says. "What we need is more heavy hitting capes on our roster." The silence as he stares at me from behind the wisps of smoke informs me that I fit the bill.

"You guys are criminals," I state plainly. Tattletale shifts awkwardly and I detect a note of tension in Grue. "You rob, you steal, and you likely maim." No one denies it. I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. "Why would I do that?"

"You would do it if you had no choice," Grue says. The reverberation hides any tone in his voice.

"I have one," I state.

We stare for a bit, sizing up one another. I realize that I'd be shorter than him, even fully suited up. That, and he must have a hell of a build. I try to imagine what he might look like behind the mask.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. What he thinks is behind the bone.

"So, did I get suited up for nothing?" a lazy voice drawls. My eyes snap to the source. Regent.

"Shut up Regent," Grue says, barely shifting his gaze. "And maybe."

"Just so we haven't completely wasted your time, here," Tattletale says, tossing a phone at me. I catch it with one hand. "It's got my number in it if--" I crush it, collapsing bone around the fragile plastic, grinding down the larger pieces, and slowly opening my hand to let the debris fall out, savoring her slightly shocked expression. After a moment she recovers.

"Or you can destroy it. That's also good," she says, ignoring the laughter from her white-clothed comrade and turning to Grue. "Can we go now?"

Grue nods, and as they mount up I consider trying to take them in. I can feel the bone on Bitch's dogs singing to me, ready to warp. A twist here and there and they're stumbling. One or two steps and a few pikes of bone later and I could kill them. Then I just need to fight Grue and the other two. Tattletale seemed pretty freaked out, and if Regent was a major player I probably would've heard of him.

I could bring in four capes right now. Four villainous capes.

I think back to Grue's answer. About choices.

The dogs gallop off through the archway, into the woods and out of my sight. I stand, pull my throne back into my armor, and head towards a hidden path through the trees.

All in all, an unproductive night.

I knew it was going to be exhausting trying to be a cape as well as a vigilante. I just didn't appreciate how tiring it really is until I pulled myself out of bed to go for my run and ended up wheezing barely halfway through it. I'll have to rethink my sleep schedule if I want to actually get anything done. That, and find some ABB hangout spots. At any rate, I'll be busy these next few weekends.

When I get back, Dad's eating cold cereal at the table while reading the paper, milk and cereal box still out in front of him. When I step into to the kitchen he folds up the news and looks at me.

"Taylor," he says, "Can we talk?" It's a tone I haven't heard from him in a while. Determination. The question isn't a question. His expression is different too. Harder, but not like he's angry. More like he's doing a hard job, one that he likes but has been at for far too long.

"Yeah," I answer, grabbing an apple, a bowl, and a spoon. "We can talk." I sit down on his right and pour myself some cereal. Focus on the task. Cornflakes, milk. Insert spoon, lift, bite. Repeat until full.

"You went out late last night," he says, and my heart stops. Fortunately, some part of me is basically functional and keeps with the task. Insert. Lift. Bite. His expression hasn't changed.

I don't answer the unspoken question. The noise of crunching cereal fills the room.

Dad sighs. "Could you tell me where you were?" This is a question. I can tell because the expression on his face has softened a fraction. Enough that it breaks my heart.

He really won't press me on this.

I shake my head slowly. "It's... not the right time." I don't know what to say. I fill my mouth with more cereal. How do I explain to him that I have powers? That I've been skipping school so I can meet people and find better ways to use my powers? That I nearly died twice?

I can't. It's that simple. It'd break us both.

Dad nods. "I'll take that for now. You promised me you'd be safe." His face goes back to hard. "I'm holding you to that."

I look back at him. I flex every rib I have to make it happen. Can't risk a break here, it'd be too loud. "I'll do my best," I answer. It's honest. Oni Lee is my only real hard-counter in the city right now besides Purity, and I'm not going to be directly engaging him. Just some guerrilla warfare, bleeding the ABB out one building at a time until Bakuda can't afford to make bombs. Then I'll attack them.

Safe as I can get while still trying to deal with the fallout of killing Lung.

He nods and I feel my heart rate go back to something stable. Not a relaxed pace, though. The expression is still on. "School," he says simply.

This time I don't freak out. "It's going fine," I answer, the old standby. We've danced to this tune a lot, and it's almost reflexive at this point.

"You're not," he says, and his expression becomes hurt as well as hard. "You haven't gone to school for a week. You haven't enjoyed it for years." The two statements are like hammer blows to my lungs. I can't breath. "Taylor," he says, green eyes locking with mine, "I love you. Please. Tell me what's going on." I want to escape. To run. To stilt my way out of the room, armor up, hide from his pleading, worried eyes.

Powers. School. One has to give. One has to go. I can't think.

So I don't.

"Emma," I whisper. "Emma went mad."

"Oh Taylor," he says and we're hugging and I don't know how to feel and we're both crying and I don't know how long we stay like that but he's going to be late for work and I'm definitely missing my shift at the hospital and other people could end up hurt for longer because I'm gone and he's missing work and the cereal is going to be soggy and fuck the cereal!

I eventually compose myself, and after we both take a moment to blow our noses on cheap paper napkins we move to the couch.

"The school," Dad says. "They should've put a stop to this."

"They didn't," I say. "Emma's dad wouldn't let them hurt his little girl, Sophia's a track star, and Madison is too connected to the two of them to punish. That and they have the numbers advantage. Anything I say will be denied a dozen times over, with alibis provided." I feel light, telling Dad all this. Odd and light. "They can't and won't do anything."

"The media," he tries.

"Tell them what?" I whisper. "I'm not important enough to cover."

He leans over to hug me. He doesn't deny it.

"What do you want?" he asks. I don't think.

"To leave," I say, and I feel as surprised as he looks. It slipped out, a dream released into daylight.

He nods. "We can do that," he says.

"Mom," I say. She'd be having kittens about twelve minutes ago, but she was a college professor. Me dropping out would-

"She'd want you happy," Dad says, and it makes sense. Mom was Mom before she was a professor. I search for another flaw.

"They'll win," I try and partially get some fire back. Some rebellion. But it's not enough, and I still feel cold and empty, exhausted from finally confessing.

"They win if you suffer," he says.

"Legality," I add.

"Homeschool," he responds.

"You're not qualified," I reply. He shrugs.

"Online courses."

"The school won't like it."

"They won't like the media shit storm of keeping a student who doesn't want to be there more," he responds.

I'm out of excuses. Dad hugs me again. "We'll figure out the details later." Just like that, I'm not going to school.

It's not the end. I'll have to fill out paperwork, talk to different people and wait. Half a dozen new and painful headaches to look forward to.

But it's a start. And I've been getting used to new and painful.

We throw out the cereal and get new bowls. There's no more chatter. Just eating. Dad's out the door as soon as he's done, leaving the dishes for me. I put them in the sink, strip, armor up, and go out the back as fast as I can.

Running feels different this time. Like I'm running to somewhere rather than away from something. I decide to add the third dimension, leaping over alleyways and intersections, testing to see how much elastic force I can pack into my bones. The uneven rooftops are never more than a well-placed pole apart. I think people are recording my run.

I don't care. I can't stop smiling.

Isidis tells me that the remains of my dome should give her enough biomass for at least a few weeks, and the few broken bones waiting for me are fixed in less than half an hour. I make some flowers for the patients in the ICU and end up idling around the reception area for a while before one of the nurses politely informs me that they're not paying me for off-peak hours. I get the message and head out, walking aimlessly along the street

What to do?

I could get started on the work to get out of school. I dismiss the thought. Too soon to ruin a holiday like this. I could go somewhere to eat. I check the time. Too early for lunch, too late for breakfast. That and I don't know any good restaurants that aren't craters.

My mood takes a dip. I wonder if Luciano's can afford to fix the damage? Insurance rates are always insane in cities with a high cape population and I know that there are shops that just don't pay them.

At any rate, food isn't something to do for an entire afternoon. I need an activity.

I wonder how the residents feel about my additions to Longshire Park?

Settled, I get to moving. Again, it feels better than it did before, like every step is twice as long, every jump at risk of sending me flying.

I wonder...

Before I know it I'm at the park. Well, on a rooftop on a street next to the park. The park itself is packed with people marveling at the bone trees. Several are missing (likely the work of an entrepreneur catering to cape geeks) but the rest have lines of yellow tape surrounding them, with PRT agents watching closely.

I try to mentally calculate the number of people there are in the streets. I eventually give up. North of several hundred. I wonder if I can host events where people get to watch me create stuff? I know there are sites online for gambling on Parahuman fights, but what about something less violent? Tinker or Mover races, Blaster firework displays, a Shaker visual art piece, something.

While I'm ruminating, a few people point towards me. Then a few more. Then half the crowd is looking in my direction. Their attention is a physical presence, pressing against me, heavy and intense.

I force myself to keep calm. I snap my bones, take my breaths, and look back impassively at the crowd below. The mass, large and not hostile. I keep reminding myself of the last part. These people are curious, awed, and maybe a bit starstruck, just like the college students at the University.

The crowd of undergrads was a lot smaller though.

What do I do?

Last edited: Aug 25, 2018

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Feb 10, 2018

#989

I just dug myself out of my grave and boy are my teeth tired!

Burial 3.6

"Waving helps."

I jump a little as a lilting laugh follows the voice. I turn to see Laserdream drifting next to me in a red blouse and casual jeans, an entirely too satisfied grin on her face. She waves at the crowd and they roar in approval.

"See?" she says, smile barely moving.

Yes, a wave would be one option. On the other hand, then it looks like I'm just copying Laserdream. Then the narrative becomes 'White Rose is a socially awkward cape who needs help interacting with the public.'

I would prefer to fight my own battles.

I think, staring out over the crowd. What is one thing I can do that no one else can?

My gaze falls on one of my trees. Maybe something on a smaller scale?

I lift my hand and fill it with the head of a rose, sized closer to a cabbage than a flower. I focus and divide the petals as thin as I can until they're paper-light with rounded corners. Then I sever the connections between the petals until only surface tension holds them together.

A hush falls over the crowd.

I hope this works.

I toss the flower forward. It fragments into hundreds, thousands, more pieces than anyone could count. A breeze comes by and spreads them further. Sunlight filters through the petals, turning them almost peach.

I just covered the crowd in flower petals made of bone. The screams of joy seem to indicate that was a good move.

"Is it always this easy?" I ask quietly, almost to myself. Surely maintaining a good reputation has to require more effort?

"You've killed a known gang leader who basically everybody hated and lived to tell the tale," Laserdream says, still smiling as I deal with the sudden mental whiplash. What? "You have a power that can be used for healing and you haven't been in the cape scene long enough to scare people. You're playing on easy mode right now."

I deflate a little at her systematic and frank analysis of my success. Should've known. Then I jump as I feel a brief pressure on my ass. I turn towards Laserdream, who is still fucking smiling at the crowd. Did she just...

"Easiest part of you to reach, don't read anything into it. That, and chill out, you're still doing good. Part of the public relations game is momentum, and you've built up a lot of it for yourself. Now we should probably head off, unless you want to actually go down there," she says, tilting her chin towards the crowd. I shake my head almost imperceptibly, a knot of apprehension forming at the thought of walking among them, hearing their questions and concerns, being expected to answer them.

No, I think a degree of separation is required.

Laserdream flies off, slow enough at first for me to keep pace. Once I begin to catch up to her, she speeds up. So do I. The meaningless race escalates until we're deep into downtown and I have to descend to street level due to the lack of safe rooftops. Laserdream, Crystal now, joins me, hovering off the ground to help decrease the height difference between her and I. My mask hides my grin, but when a few people on the street freeze in place at the sight I nearly burst out laughing.

After a few blocks of quiet walking to catch our breath (well, I walk and breathe deeply as she floats patiently next to me), she decides to break the silence.

"You okay? Like, from the bombing," she clarifies, her voice as casual as if she were discussing the weather. Given that her family fights crime for a living, talking about violence might actually be that mundane for her.

I hope they know a good therapist.

"Isidis healed me," I answer. "There wasn't anything particularly life threatening. I think that she received more severe injuries anyway." I pause. "Does she have an armored costume?" I ask. I think she's the only one from New Wave who doesn't have a Brute rating or force fields besides Flashbang, and I can't imagine Amy hasn't had to play battlefield medic.

"Yeah, but she usually doesn't wear it to lunch," Crystal says, shrugging. "Also, she's healed a lot of local villains during Endbringer attacks. Attacking her is a bit of a no-no." Her voice goes hard. "Especially outside of a fight."

It's ironic that the team of public superheroes are the ones most concerned with the unwritten rules. But irony is usually funny, and the end of the New Wave project was only funny if you forget the human cost that was paid.

"Anyway, we've got plans for a little payback. Nothing huge," she says dismissively. "More like some rescheduling to increase the frequency of patrols in ABB territory. What's left of it, anyway."

"If you'll have me, I'd like to join you," I say, cautiously optimistic. This sounds personal enough that the patrols might be a 'family only' venture and I don't want to intrude on that. On the other hand, it seems like we definitely have a common enemy here.

"I don't make our schedules, but I'll let them know you're open to cooperation," Crystal says. I take this as code for 'we're still not over the whole debut-with-a-murder thing' and accept the decision. "Have any plans for the rest of the day?" she asks, changing the subject.

I shake my head. "Hospital is doing fine and I have a lawyer coming by this Thursday to knock out the last of the legal barriers to setting up my shop." That conversation cannot come soon enough. I'm itching to get a proper source of income. Not because I need the money, but because it will be another thing I have control over again. That, and the front step still needs fixing.

"If it's not too personal, how's school treating you?" Crystal asks.

"It's not," I respond flatly. Fortunately she gets the message and stops talking.

I hear some cameras go off and look up. We're nearing the Boardwalk. That's a lot of ground we covered in the race, but then I remember that we're both Movers. How long it will take before I'm no longer surprised by the mundane utility of powers?

"What about you?" I ask, trying to reopen the dialogue. "Classes going well?"

Apparently that was the right question to ask because Crystal starts breathlessly chatting about parahuman psychology and biology. I should've known, honestly. I mean, what other courses would you take if you were a cape?

Most of what she says goes over my head. Like, I understand the individual words in the phrase "independent thematic correlations in trigger events" but the meaning behind them escapes me, as does the significance of some powers fixing minor physical defects upon triggering. Then she starts talking about the mindsets of the various different types of capes and I snap back to attention.

"Could you go over that again?" I ask. When Crystal shoots me a quizzical glance I clarify. "The mindsets of the various different categories of cape." That seems like fairly critical knowledge for anyone who has to deal with capes.

"Well, in broad strokes, people in different categories want different things that tend to correlate with the category their power falls under," Crystal says, steering us towards some food trucks. "For example, Strangers can get away with a lot of stuff, so they often act without a care in the world. They tends towards bold moves and egocentrism. Again, this is in broad strokes," she adds, flipping a hand over dismissively. "Like, there are plenty of Protectorate Strangers that have a cool head and are plenty cautious. It's just that when you give the Ring of Gyges to people they-"

"-will go off to kill the king and fuck his wife," I interrupt quietly. Mom didn't spend a lot of time on the Republic but it briefly came back into vogue when people tried applying its theories on the ideal state to managing a society of capes. Some Thinkers, some Masters, and other capes with organizational powers at the top in the gold group, most other capes as auxiliaries in silver, and everyone else in the working class. It held up until Vikare died, the stock market plunged because Flipcoin decided to mess around with a few numbers, and the scarier capes started showing up and wiping small towns off the map in fits of pique.

Crystal blinks once before breaking into a smile. "So you were listening," she teases before tapping a free table with three chairs. "Mind saving the table while I order some food? I'm starving." I look to a nearby clock on a taco truck. Guess the race must have taken up more time than I thought. I nod and sit down, folding one leg over the other. Crystal drops to the ground and walks over to a truck with faded pictures of Greek food on the side. I stare off into the distance, processing.

It's ironic, isn't it? That the powers people get don't usually match the goals they have. I think about Lung. What could've happened to make him like he was? What drove him? He came out of nowhere, a non-entity until he picked a fight with the entire Brockton Bay Protectorate, won, and 'unified' all the Asian gangs in the area, but why? If he'd wanted money, there must have been half a hundred ways for him to get it without painting such a large target on his back. If he'd wanted power, why stay a small-time crook in a relatively tiny New England town? Why not go to New York and gain rep picking fights with Legend and surviving? Why not travel to Africa and carve out some territory for himself?

I think about Crystal's Stranger example. People who can disappear from sight, one way or another, and they want to be the center of attention. What would a person who could escalate endlessly want? To stand out? No, if he wanted to stand out he'd go to Endbringer fights and be the cornerstone of the defense against them. I can only imagine how much he could scale up to then. Or he could go to LA and fight Alexandria, or Chicago or Houston or Philly or any city bigger than Brockton Bay where the Protectorate capes are less capes and more forces of nature. Like, Armsmaster is the seventh strongest hero in the Protectorate, but Chevalier? Myrddin? There are bigger fish, sharks even, that he could cut his teeth on. So why settle down by the one man who won't give you a fair fight? Why challenge a Tinker, the second worst matchup you could have besides a hard-core Master?

Why would a dragon who could fight off entire teams of heroes slumber in Brockton Bay? After a moment of wool gathering I shake my head. I don't know enough about Lung to ask what he would do. I change the question.

What would I do with that level of power? The answer comes to me in an instant.

Peace.

The answer shocks me. It's so natural and it fits. Why did Lung avoid fights? Because he didn't want them. What he'd do with all the free time peace would grant him is anyone's guess. Maybe he was a massive anime fan and just wanted to finally sit down and catch up on all the shows archived in the wake of the sinking of Kyushu. Maybe he's a thinker, lower-case "T," and wanted time to put together a plan that would gain him enough power to etch his name into the history books. Maybe his power gave him immortality and he just wanted to wait his enemies out. What did anyone actually know about Lung?

I start laughing, hard enough that my abdomen starts aching. I can't help it. I'm not sure what instinct cracks open my mask and forms teeth, but I'm thankful for it. Otherwise I'm not sure I'd be able to breathe.

Crystal walks back with a wrap in each hand, an eyebrow raised. "Is something funny?"

I shake my head one last time, slowly and carefully. "I just realized how reasonable some people are." Figures. If I hadn't started anything with Lung he probably would've let me do whatever I wanted so long as I stayed out of his way. Bad timing. Really bad timing. If I had left earlier, or later, or taken a different route...

"Well, I got you a gyro," she says, rolling one of the wraps across the table. "On me." I take it and nod in thanks. Good thing too. I didn't think to grab any money for lunch. I remember about the bag of cash lying in the basement. Last time I checked there was a few thousand dollars in it. Not the most secure place in the world but I don't have a bank account yet. That, and there's something about seeing stacks of cash that's viscerally pleasing to me.

"Hey, can I join you two?" a voice asks. Familiar, but not overly so. I turn. A girl in a yellow blouse and a pencil skirt with a backpack hanging off one shoulder. Lisa.

"Hello again," she says. She has a smile on her face, but it's a restrained one. Like she's happy to be here but not over the moon about it.

"Do you know this girl?" Crystal asks after a short silence, eying her up and down. Not in a sexual way. More like scanning for threats.

"Yes," I say before things can get out of hand. "Lisa. She's the one who introduced me to Luciano's. Please, sit down." I motion towards the empty chair.

She does so, dropping her bag by her chair then sliding gracefully into the seat with a smile. "It's good to see you again White Rose." Her posture shifts a little as she leans forward and rests her head on her hands and puts her elbows on the table. "So, what's new with you?"

I shrug. "Still waiting for things to come together. Yourself?"

She sighs dramatically. "Well, first, there was the bombing. Thanks to that, my work schedule is completely fucked. All. Available. Holes," she says, looking me dead in the eye before shifting her gaze to Crystal. "Then I get called up out of the blue by some person I barely know and when I try to meet with them they're completely uncompromising."

"Were you okay?" Crystal asks idly. Her tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of genuine concern in it. It's interesting how just a moment ago she was worried about me. I wonder if empathy for others is a general trait of heroes?

Lisa waves a hand at her. "I had some coworkers with me, they would've stepped in if things had gotten bad. Anyway," she says, changing subjects, "I was actually looking for you in particular, Rosie."

"Rose," I state, mentally bristling. I didn't like it from Hookwolf and I still don't like it from her.

"Rose then," she says, recovering quickly. "Anyway, I found out about a new team in town. I know you said you weren't interested," she says, holding up a hand in my direction, "But bear with me."

"Five minutes," I say, glancing at the clock and counting off the seconds. I make a mental note to maintain a greater distance from the general population in the future. No more going to lunch with random civilians, even if they offer to pay. It's a short and slippery slope to getting an unwanted cape-life counselor.

"So, the Traveler's just came into town. They've been villains for a while," I begin to get up, as does Crystal. Lisa throws up her hands in exasperation, unbridled annoyance flowing off her in waves. "They've also said they're turning over a new leaf, they haven't committed any seriously over the line offenses in their entire career, and they fought Alabaster and Victor at an Empire safe house two days ago!" she finishes. "Jeez, it's like being labeled a villain automatically makes you a bad person."

Crystal and I exchange glances but sit back down. "A new leaf, you say?" Crystal asks.

Lisa nods. "Yup. They put a post up on PHO. Their mission statement, explanations for past activities, plans for reparations to the people they've injured, everything." She grabs her bag and pulls out a manilla envelope. "Made a dossier for each member, wrote up a summary of their history, and printed off all of their promotional material." She puts on a smug grin. "Saves us all some time."

I pass the promotional information to Crystal and skim the dossiers, focusing on the powers. A strange but versatile form of teleportation (seems handy), a nearly-unlimited shape changer (well there's the heavy-hitter), instantaneous acceleration of inorganic matter? Creating a SUN? Jesus. How do they not have half a hundred fatalities to their names? They've moved around a lot, sure, but Lisa's right. Nothing worse than a few cripplings and some property damage despite the insane lethality of their power sets. Like, how do you even turn super-sonic munitions into something that doesn't just murder anyone whose not a Brute?

"Their manifesto is well done," Crystal says. I look up to see a contemplative expression gracing her features. "The language is well thought out, slanted in a way that indicates an interest in atoning for past wrongs while also pointing out what good they can do in the future. They've also apparently got new costumes already, and that certainly helps sell the fresh-start idea." I take a look at the group's outfits. Red on white, big, bright and inspiring, with masks that show at least parts of their faces. Except for the shapeshifter, of course. Genesis, apparently.

"So, watcha think?" Lisa says, smile wide. "Maybe talk to them?"

"Maybe," I answer, gathering up the materials and shuffling them together. "Thank you for your help."

Things wrap up soon after that. Crystal flies off, Lisa texts someone before heading towards the docks, and I sprint back home with Lisa's materials clutched in my hands. I still probably won't join them but maybe we can work out a joint patrol schedule or something.

Once I'm back home I spill the papers out onto the desk in the basement, right next to the sack of money. Time for some closer reading. As I flick on the cheap desk lamp by the old silver-bound mirror, I notice something flicker on the folder. I hold it up to the light.

Parts of the folder are translucent. It looks like gibberish, but I flip it over and the squiggles transform into letters and numbers. Dates, times and addresses. In the corner there's a note with another address just below it.

I know you want to play the lone wolf, but a common enemy is still a common enemy. The Travelers will be hitting these locations at these times. They'll meet at this place every time before a raid. Feel free to join them!

-Tt

I copy down the information in code into a composition book, then burn the folder in the furnace, thinking about Lisa, Tattletale and what link she could have to the Travelers.

Last edited: Jun 18, 2018

638

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Feb 10, 2018

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Threadmarks Burial 3.7

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T0PH4T

T0PH4T

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Feb 17, 2018

#1,043

Eyy, midnight drunk update!

What a skeleton's favorite drink?

A shin and tonic!

Burial 3.7

After fuming for a solid hour, I decide to join the Travelers on a raid once. Just once. If everything goes well, I'll figure out what to do from there. I'm not sure what Tattletale is planning, how long she's been planning it, or what her endgame is, but honestly?

I don't care.

It's probably a bad idea to let a Thinker play mind games. On the other hand, it's probably a worse idea to try to out-think them. There are a lot of stories about how a person had a Thinker on the ropes, went in for the kill (sometimes not metaphorically) and ended up playing themselves. So I'll be Tattletale's little pawn and see how things play out. If worst comes to worst I can always just eviscerate her.

Huh. Inner murder voice and I are in sync. Pretty sure that's not a good thing.

I pick a date and address about a day before I'm scheduled to meet with John Doe. That should leave enough time for me to get some sleep and ensure I'm presentable. In the meantime I wander around town, fill out the paperwork needed to complete my withdrawal from school (Dad was right, at the mention of Channel 6 they practically broke their pens in their eagerness to sign), and kill time at the hospital fixing broken bones, occasionally visiting the ICU to make flowers for the patients Isidis can't use corpses to cure. The gang war isn't even close to over but at this point the first wave of foot soldiers are all shot up and out of ammo so both sides are waiting to recover and resupply.

Still. Eleven days. These are supposed to peter out quickly.

The raid was scheduled for late afternoon, right when the sun is setting. I arrive at the rally point maybe thirty minutes early in full regalia. I've only got one chance to make a first impression after all, and I'd like to make it a good one.

The Travelers are planning to rendezvous in a rundown building with broken windows and graffiti from half a dozen gangs caked onto the walls. The door opens easily enough, and I am immediately thankful for my bone boots when I get a look at the floor. Used needles, shards of glass, and garbage everywhere. Lovely.

I make my way to the roof, filling the locks in with bone and twisting them into impromptu keys where the doors aren't simply left open. Once I get to the top I make a park bench of bone and sit down to wait. I really need to start bringing a book to these things. That, or get a phone and put some music on it.

"Hey."

I snap out of my doze and leap to my feet, drawing the bench back into my armor and prepping half a dozen needles. A man in a red suit and top hat with a white shirt and a Melpomene and Thalia half-mask raises his hands defensively.

"Woah woah woah, no need for that," he says, the slight rasp in his voice emphasized by his sudden caution. "Just wanted to wake you up."

I take in my surroundings. Another man in a white half-visor and thick red armor over a white bodysuit with plenty of pockets is holding a few ball bearings, aiming them in my direction. Meanwhile, a woman in white armor with red suns crawling up one side has her hands together, her nervousness betrayed by her stance and the crease in the brow of her cowl. A shadow falls over me and I twist my head up to see the source. An eight-foot scaley gorilla, extra eyes on its shoulders and forehead, glowing a soft and oddly relaxing orange.

Needle to the brain of the gorilla, a blade across the throat of the man in front of me, hope I can take whatever the ball bearing thing is, close the distance and-

I snap a toe bone. Play nice. We're all on the same side here.

"Sorry," I manage, drawing the needles back in. "Just a little on edge." Damn it, of all the time for the murder to slip out...

"No problem," the man in the red suit says, his tone stating that it clearly is but he's not going to press it. The gorilla steps back, the ball bearings go back into a pocket, and the woman drops her hands to her sides. "Anyway, I'm Trickster, the leader of our merry group." He points to ball-bearing man and I realize how large he is relative to his leader. "That's Ballistic." He moves his hand to point to the woman. "This is Sundancer."

She offers a small wave. "Hello," she says quietly. I return the wave.

"And last but not least we have Genesis." I turn to the gorilla and nod politely before taking a step to the side so I can face them all.

"A pleasure to meet you all." Ballistic, Trickster and Genesis nod back, and Sundancer's exposed lips twist into what I think is a smile. There's a moment of silence before Trickster rolls his shoulders.

"Anyway, now that the formalities are out of the way, want to go beat up some gangsters?" His voice brightens to something almost happy and the tensions drops to a more bearable level.

I nod.

We walk to the ABB storehouse, and along the way I ask about their transportation. I mean, the shapeshifter could acquire a Mover rating pretty easily but I'm not sure how the rest of them keep up. Trickster tells me about the van their 'mysterious sponsor' hooked them up with.

"Free vehicles and costumes," he says, tugging at the lapels of his suit. "One of the many benefits of being on this team." I listen to the recruitment pitch with as much enthusiasm as I did the rest of them. Admittedly, the Travelers offer a lot more freedom than the Wards (I can choose not to engage in anything) but something seems... off. Ballistic hasn't said more than three sentences since we've met, and while Sundancer seems nice she also doesn't seem happy. She acts casual but there's a tension in her joints that make my own ache in sympathy. I don't get much off Genesis but her (apparently?) chatter sounds forced. I can't quite get a bead on Trickster either. I don't get the feeling that he's hiding anything in particular, and his jokes feel natural, but it's almost like he subconsciously doesn't believe most what he's saying.

Once the formalities are out of the way we decide to split up into two teams. Trickster and I will move into the building itself while Sundancer, Genesis and Ballistic take out the people who get past us and try to flee.

"Why don't Genesis and I go in?" I ask. Why leave a perfectly good Brute outside where she won't able to interact with the enemy?

"Ballistic needs someone who can tank damage, and switching a massive gorilla around is going to be slow and unwieldy compared to swapping you from place to place. Trust me," he says, casting his gaze sideways to make eye contact with me, "This isn't our first rodeo."

"We're here." Sentence number four from Ballistic. I look down the street at our target. It's two blocks away, with a nondescript concrete facade, boarded-up windows, and a pair of guards armed with stubby little guns hanging across their chests. They look up, presumably spot the five flamboyantly dressed capes, and begin to bring up their weapons when there are a pair of cracks and they both spin around, slam into the building, and fall over. I turn to the side to see Ballistic roll his wrists and then reach into a plastic tube, pulling out a pair of small projectiles I vaguely recall from gym class. Then it clicks.

"Shuttlecocks?" I ask incredulously. Cape tools can be strange at times, but Badminton equipment?

"Literally the least lethal thing I've found," he states, a note of something sad entering his voice. "Now go on in before their buddies call on the radio and don't get an answer."

I nod and start walking down the street. One of the fallen ABB turns into Trickster, and as he rolls to his feet I mentally reassess him. That's some smooth teleportation. He points to the man next to him, then to me and tilts his head. I shake mine and walk the rest of the way.

Trickster puts a hand on the door and looks at me. "Can I switch you around with random gangsters in there?"

"You may," I say, bending my knees slightly and preparing to dash through the door.

"If I do, it's because there's someone with a big gun by you that needs a clubbing, alright?" he clarifies, all business. "Okay. On my mark." I nod, heart racing. This is actually happening.

"Three." I'm about to engage other people. People with guns. Of my own free will.

"Two." I'm starting something here. By hitting back I'll be validating what Oni Lee and Bakuda did. I'll be making myself a target.

"One." I ripple my ribs, a click-click-click-click of pain and focus. Fuck them. They chose to target random people. They chose to pursue me after I killed Lung. If they didn't want their people cut to pieces, they shouldn't have tried to pluck the rose!

"Mark!" Trickster yells, throwing open the door. I move through it like a calcium Amazon.

It's a tall room, with a staircase in the back that leads up to a closed door. Cheap folding tables run parallel, one end to the other, covered with loose white powder and plastic bags. Too-thin women in only underwear and dust masks surround them, their dull eyes focused on hands moving to and fro, separating drugs into neat little piles, packaging the product, or placing it into cardboard boxes. I can see track marks on some of their arms as well as poorly-healed horizontal scars.

The nervousness is gone. Hot, sharp rage remains.

The woman nearest to my left is replaced with a confused-looking gangster in red and green scrambling for the pistol down the front of his sweatpants. I step up to him, towering, and slam a punch endowed with all the speed my shell can give it into the side of his face. I feel something crack and he goes sprawling into a table. Said table flips, spilling powder, bags, and boxes everywhere. The too-thin women step back, their eyes finally shifting away from their hands to me.

I don't have time to try and figure out what they think of me though, as another gangster pops into place, this time close and to the right. I twist and stretch, bringing a freshly-grown baton down just to the left of his head with a crack. Howl. Crack again when I step close and slam a hand against his temple.

This. This is why capes decide how things are run. Power. And shit like this still happens.

A gunshot rings out and I whip my head towards the source. A scared teenager, eyes wide, not two paces away from me. Another gift, courtesy of Trickster. I'm loving his support. Step, fist straight to the nose, listen for the crunch, then a sphere of bone around his hands. He can be awake to see his friends brought to ruin.

A boom sounds out and my back flares in pain. I spin to catch sight of an old man across the room by the exit, furiously trying to work the slide on a shotgun. Then it gets replaced with a broom. Then he gets replaced with a woman and he's within striking distance. I see something cold and cruel shatter in his eyes as he realizes that he's not in a position of power anymore. Then I feel a small bone shatter in his hand as I stab a needle into it, then his shoulder blade breaks as I push it deeper. I let the needle snap off as he falls back with his arm pinned across his body and scan the room for more gangsters.

Nothing.

Trickster stands over another four, a stun gun held idly in his hand, looking at me with an inscrutable gaze. Damn. I mentally adjust his threat rating up again. He turns his gaze to the side and I follow it.

Maybe three dozen women stare at the two of us. I look down at myself and see blood on the surface of my hands. I look back up and there's more than a little fear in their eyes.

I look to Trickster, who's hitting buttons on a sleek black phone. "You can help them?"

"Calling the police right now," he says, holding the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he walks over to one of the unconscious thugs at my feet and pulls out some zip ties.

I nod. "I'm going up to the second floor, okay?"

He nods, twisting the first guy's arms behind his back and working them through the loops. I walk towards the staircase. The women remain still, following me with their eyes. I snap a toe bone with every step. Calm. Stay calm.

The corrugated metal steps clang oddly under my feet, the sound too high and sharp for their thickness. The climb is over in an instant, and when I go to unlock the door I'm not sure what to expect. More packaged product, maybe. Stacks of cash, lying in neat blocks or scattered haphazardly.

What I get is a rather well-organized office with a small, bespectacled man sitting next to a smashed computer and a pile of smoldering papers. He spins around in the desk chair and looks me in the eye.

"I surrender myself to the due process of law," he says, calmly and evenly. Like he has no connections to the atrocity down there. Like he expects to get off scot free because he was just a bystander. I reach out towards him, ready to take a pound of flesh and teach him the consequences of simply standing by when evil is done, and see how much he likes it as he writhes on the ground while people laugh and laugh and laugh and-

I snap a few ribs and wrap his hands in bone, forming makeshift cuffs. No. He surrendered. The law will take care of things. I lead him down the stairs and the women shy away from him as he walks through the room. Trickster has already finished securing the last of the gangsters and is waiting next to the door for me.

"Who's this?" he asks, jerking his chin towards my prisoner.

"No idea," I answer, motioning to the floor next to the unconscious muscle. "But he was in the office, wrecking their stuff." The man sits down cross legged, his expression still blank.

Trickster shrugs. "Not our job." Ballistic and Genesis come in behind him, the shapechanger carrying another four red and green clad 'bangers, evenly split between men and women. Trickster goes to tie them, and when one of them tries to ignore him Genesis gently taps his arms. He offers his hands up quickly after that.

Once the muscle is secured we stand there in silence, listening to the sirens get closer.

The debrief from the PRT is surprisingly painless. The one from the police is less so.

Once the PRT thinks that all parahuman violence was non-crippling they depart, leaving me with brochures about the dangers of bladed, blunt and piercing weapons respectively, as well as a subtle warning about being too violent. I take the chastisement with a nod, resisting the urge to ask about how many drug houses they've shut down.

The police, meanwhile, have us hang around until every wound, every drop of blood, every shell casing, and every fragment of shuttlecock is accounted for. It takes almost an hour for them to decide that we were justified in our entry and that we didn't break any laws too egregiously.

"You're free to go," the lead detective says, shaking hands with Trickster and walking back towards a waiting cruiser.

"What about the women?" I ask. The detective stops, drops his shoulders, and turns around. His eyes seem to have sunken deeper than they were before, and the flecks of grey in his hair seem more pronounced.

"Chances are they'll be charged with aiding and abetting." Before I can respond he holds up a hand. "Extenuating circumstances will lead to a reduced sentence and therapy. They won't be going to a real prison," he says, eyes gaining a little light. "We'll get them help." The women have been wrapped in blankets and are reciting quiet, dull responses to some EMT's, who send them to either an ambulance or a cruiser once they've finished their interviews.

I try to feel good about this. I really do. But when I get back home and lay down to rest, I can't stop thinking about how the detective didn't say anything about the chances of their recovery.

Last edited: Jun 9, 2018

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Feb 17, 2018

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Threadmarks Burial 3.8

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T0PH4T

T0PH4T

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Feb 24, 2018

#1,095

Why couldn't the Frenchmen's skeleton stand up?

Becuase he didn't have a spine!

Burial 3.8

"What was the one thing I said would help you remain neutral? The one thing?"

John Doe ("Mr. Doe until we open the shop, only serious business partners get to use my first name.") has close-cut brown hair shot through with threads of silver and the build of an athlete. Not like a runner or a swimmer. More like a linebacker shrunk down to two hundred pounds instead of three.

I sigh, slowly sawing through the steak Mr. Doe ordered for me ahead of time. "Don't go on patrol." I manage not to break a toe bone in irritation. Barely. It would be a tad ungrateful.

When Mr. Doe said he would buy me lunch, I didn't appreciate what that meant until I showed up at a place with a name I couldn't pronounce where no one was allowed through the entrance in anything less than a suit. The menu at the door didn't have prices on it, and every name was infuriatingly French. My nervousness only increased when a waitress escorted me to a private room where Mr. Doe sat waiting.

I don't want to think about how much it all costs, so I swallow my pride and keep eating.

He sighs, having another bite of his rack of lamb before continuing. "It's not impossible to get investors as an independent hero, but it's harder. People don't like worrying about their venture capital being blown up." I wince at the rather current context of his statement. I think he picks up on it because he puts down his fork and looks across the table at me. "I get that you have powers. I get that you want to make the world a better place by going out and bringing in criminals. But the Protectorate is literally paid to do that. They get years of training and the best technical support in the world. And they're the ones who do it because it's a dangerous job that can and does get you killed."

I think back to my encounter with Lung and bite into my meat a little more aggressively than is probably necessary.

We eat in silence for a bit.

"Do you have the signatures?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Right here," I answer, pulling out the folder with the forms in it. He scans the papers before nodding and placing the folder down beside his chair.

"Now we just need that meeting with the Mayor's office and the PRT. What days are good for you?" he asks, taking a sip of his seltzer water. I shrug.

"Basically any day, any time. I don't have a lot of things clogging up my schedule," I say, contemplating the upcoming weeks and marveling at how much free time I'll have. Mr. Doe dabs at the corners of his mouth with a napkin.

"You don't have school?"

I look at him across the table, thorns growing out of my armor. If he actually knows who I am, he can't be allowed to get to a computer or a phone before I kill him. But he'd probably have a few dead drops so I'll need to find those first. Does he have family? Someone I can use to make sure he doesn't set them off early? Can I get to his family? If not, what's another source of leverage? Is he a good enough samaritan that he would put his life on the line for a random gangbanger? A random person the street? I'll have to follow him out of the restaurant, find a quiet space, whack him across the back of his head. Fast, because some of the dead drops will be time based. But what if he's seen this coming and-

"Relax." His voice cuts through the murder haze and I notice his face again. It's remarkably calm. He points to my hands. "You're breaking the silverware."

I look down. The fork and knife I'm holding are bent nearly double and there are gouges in the table where the hastily-grown thorns have torn through the soft wood. I wince behind my mask. That's going to be expensive.

Also, fuck. I just almost killed my lawyer. Guilt spikes through me and I pull the thorns back in, sagging from a sudden wave of exhaustion. How badly did I just screw myself over?

"I asked about school because you didn't bring any forms that needed a statement from a banker," he continues, dropping his eyes and going back to his meal. "Now, that could be for a variety of reasons. You could be an ex-con and the bank could be refusing you service. Probably not though," he adds, waving a hand dismissively. "Criminals who develop powers don't tend to start legitimate businesses. You could be an illegal immigrant but given that you don't have an unusual accent or difficulties speaking English that seems unlikely. So, out of the legal limitations that could stop you from opening up a bank account, age seemed the most likely, and also implied that your guardians don't know about your power." He grabs a roll, tears it in half, and starts mopping up the remains of his meal with it. "So before we go too much farther, I want to clarify a few things." He looks back at me with an almost primal fury on his face.

"I'm not interested in helping a kid go out and play hero. I'm not interested in funding your death. If you want to find someone who will do that, join the Wards. I want to help another adult make it in the world. If you're doing this because you want to cut class and be a superhero," he practically spits the word out, "Then you can find yourself different legal representation."

Something fragile and pleasant shatters inside me. Rage roars through the breach.

"Do not presume to know about why I have chosen this path," I whisper, meeting his gaze and actively pushing down the blades under my skin that want to reach across the table and fillet him. "If you want to leave this restaurant unharmed, choose your words more carefully, sir. This is not a small decision for me. I have not idly thrown away a normal life. It was torn from me," I growl, shattering ribs left and right loud enough that he should be able to hear them across the table, "And I am trying to spite my tormentors in a way that doesn't leave them corpses and me on the run."

We maintain the impromptu staring contest for too long. We both blink after a minute.

"I was out of line-"

"I'm sorry-"

We both pause, and Mr. Doe sighs.

"May I?" I nod. He nods back before taking a breath and letting it out.

"I have seen how some other members of my profession encourage their clients to go out and be heroes," he says, looking at nothing in particular. "Some of them represented small children." I note the past tense. I wonder if it means that they dropped the kids or if the kids are no longer around? "With all due respect," he begins again as his gaze lands back on me, "I find that most children with powers are either spoiled brats or simply incapable of functioning in everyday life due to some sort of mental trauma. Telling one of them to fight strikes me as a morally indefensible action. So, when I meet parahumans who have not met their majority, I check to see if they are sane before I take them on as clients." He looks pointedly at the gouges. I lay my hands flat on the table, deliberately avoiding the damaged areas.

"You say that, and your first course of action is to needle the very cape who has asked you for help." My mind is racing, trying to find ways to turn this around while also shoving away the spikey murder thoughts. "Isn't that a little hypocritical of you?" It's not a little hypocritical, but I'm trying to be the bigger person here. I keep telling myself that, even as I struggle to keep the jagged things inside of me. He shrugs.

"Yes. On the other hand, I need proof that I can interact with you as an adult." He finishes the last of his water and his face softens from focused to tired. "All I need to know is if I can trust you to take my advice and seriously consider it. I need to know if I should drop you as a client because I won't be able to hold you to your word."

I lean back, dropping my hands into my lap and thinking. Will I stop patrolling? Maybe when Oni Lee is dead or the ABB stop coming after me. Can I keep my word? As long as I'm careful with it. Can I take working with some slimy little lawyer shit who would only understand fucking misery if I bled him out from over the edge of a-

I snap a toe bone. Yes, I can.

"There is a personal reason I would prefer not to discuss for why I am targeting the ABB," I say, tone even. "Beyond that you can expect me not to instigate conflict with anyone else unless myself or my property comes under attack, and then I will retaliate proportionally to ensure that future attacks are discouraged." His face sours at that last bit but I still get a nod of understanding. "You can trust me to never lie to you and to keep my promises. Is that enough?" I finish, managing to keep any and all bitterness from my voice.

He mulls it over for some time, simply looking at me. It's an odd experience. Dr. Fedorov looked at me like I was a sample on a slide, and Crystal like I was too close to the edge of a rooftop. His analysis feels more like a spreadsheet, a careful and unbiased weighing of costs and benefits. I turn my gaze away from him, trying to find something, anything, to distract myself. I look down at my hands below the lip of the table and see talons. I pull them back, but keep the bone pliant.

I start growing an arrangement, channeling my barely-restrained indignation into the lukewarm bone. Roses appear, as do magnolias, fully grown, the kind of bloom that you see just before they die. I twine the stems, trying to weave them into a crown sized for a kid. No thorns. One smooth tendril grows into the next until a pattern impossible to make in reality is formed, intricate and infinite.

Once the little circlet is done I lift it up and place it gently on the table before disconnecting from it, the warmth slowly fading.

"May I?" I look up. Mr. Doe's gaze has shifted from me to my creation. I push it across to him wordlessly. He picks it up, surprise etching itself into his face.

"It's light," he comments. I shrug.

"Bone has one of the greatest strength-to-weight ratios in the world," I say, trying to get a read on him. I think I see something like wonder.

He turns it around, admiring the symmetry, and then his eyes get that faraway look Dad's sometimes do when we talk about Mom. I swallow down something hard. He eventually puts down the circlet and looks at me.

"I'll see you at the PRT building tomorrow at noon." He doesn't seem particularly excited about it, but he doesn't seem unhappy either. I nod and accept that getting him to trust me will take some time. He cracks a smile. "Dessert?" I almost laugh at the sudden release of tension, and a hysterical kind of happiness flows through me. I relax.

"Why not?"

Mr. Doe leaves me with a burner phone that has his number on it, bought from a cheap electronics store after we left the restaurant.

"I look forward to our appointment," he says, looking me in the eye more easily than some. Part of that is his exceptional height, part of that is a slight decrease in the lifts on my heels.

We had agreed to be equals, after all.

I head back home more slowly than I'm capable of but still faster than a normal human. I don't really know what my standing with Mr. Doe is right now but I want to call it tentatively professional. It could be worse, but if I hadn't mauled a table in front of him things definitely would have gone better.

Once I'm back in my room I check PHO. The raid on the drug house has its own thread with multiple professional-looking photos of it gracing the top of the page along with statements from the Protectorate, the police, and the Travelers themselves. Well, a statement from Trickster at least. I can't really see Ballistic using more than two adjectives in one paragraph.

There's some talk about me as well. Some of it's nice comments on how this is an unambiguous good, and I feel warmth rush through me as I read them. Some of it's not so great, pointing out my relative inaction before this. Those posters get shut down by a few others for being off topic, but they still bring up... complicated emotions.

Then there's the bad.

The guy I stabbed? He's still in the hospital. It turns out that the paramedics misdiagnosed his right arm and that they won't be able to fix his shoulder. The end result is a permanent range of motion limitation and chronic pain. Isidis could heal it but she made it clear a few months after her debut that gangbangers wouldn't get much more than life support from her. When she came under fire for that, she just shrugged and told the public to pick a safer profession.

The reactions to my mutilation of the gangbanger have been mixed. The barely-veiled E88r's are ecstatic, the ABBr's promise vengeance and cry for oversight, and the people with random in-jokes as their handles are split. On the one hand, slavers. On the other hand, permanent maiming. Most seem to fall under the "join the Wards and get some training" umbrella, with a few nutjobs hailing me as the second coming of Shadow Stalker or decrying me for daring to harm another human being when I had less dangerous options available.

I hug a pillow and look at the screen, memorizing the face of the now-crippled gangster, trying to figure out how I feel. One part of me doesn't care. At all. This guy was a thug who chose his own path. He could have dropped the gun. He could have decided to be a baker and not been there in the first place. He was a free, rational agent who had options that wouldn't have lead to me stabbing him.

The other part of me sees how this could affect what people do when they see me on the street. That part reminds me about how New Wave definitely won't be going out on patrol with me now, and how any business I try to start is going to be known as the place run by a cape who crippled a guy. I'm not sure how people will react to that.

When I go to sleep I'm met with troubled dreams and the feeling that I fucked up, but only in an airy, intellectual sense. There's a stronger feeling of satisfaction, and I try not to think too hard about where that's coming from.

Last edited: Jul 1, 2018

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T0PH4T

Feb 24, 2018

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