Wordsworth – Chapter 7 – Colors 3

"So… How was school today?" Mom asks and smiles at me.

It doesn't take a Thinker power to realize how utterly fake and frail the smile is.

"Fine. Nothing worth talking about," I answer, as politely as I can, and spoon another serving of mashed potatoes.

She sighs, once more resigned to my silence, and Dad pretends he's too focused on whatever thing from the office he's reading on his phone to notice.

Anne, though…

Anne glares at me.

It could be for a lot of things. For derailing her life with my sudden, overnight fame. For having her stay at home to support me after my supposed trigger event, even if I never asked for this and it was all Dad's idea, who still thinks psychology isn't a real degree. For making Mom feel bad.

It could be for a lot of things.

Knowing her? I don't have the slightest clue.

But she'll let me know.

o - O - o

Once more, Mom offers to do the dishes and let me rest after my supposedly strenuous day both going to an awful school barely worth the title and training with a group of junior heroes that include Sophia, and thus have too many similarities with the alleged school.

That… That may not be fair.

Vista is a good kid. She doesn't like me, after all.

So I go up to my room, open the door, and—

Anne's sitting on my bed.

And, again, she glares at me.

"I despise you, you know?" she says before I can even question why she's here.

It… It catches me by surprise, like a slap to the face that turns into a stab through the chest at the last moment.

And I can't even feel a hint of red at it.

Instead, there's blue. Both the deep, heavy one, and the lighter. The one that brings a peace and serenity that has nothing to do with indigo.

Cerulean. The blue I felt when I thought Sophia would murder me.

Sit beside her, on the bed. My bed.

I don't look at her.

"That's something we have in common," I mutter through an uncooperative throat.

Her arm snakes around my shoulders and she drags me to her body.

She's still taller than me. A thin woman who doesn't turn as many heads as she could if she cared to dress for it.

My older sister.

The one that…

The only sister I've got left.

"Why have you been attacking Taylor?"

My throat closes up and nothing comes out.

"It's her, isn't she? Those pictures… She looks more like auntie did, like—"

"Stop," I manage to rasp out.

"I have her name, Emma. Auntie's name. And you're hunting down her daughter. Your sister."

Cerulean flees and blue deepens as my bed creaks beneath me, and flecks of red spark around me.

I get up, away from Anne's touch before I hurt her.

I don't need more reasons to hate myself.

She looks at me and her breathing deepens. Audibly.

In and out, in slow, controlled bursts.

She looks at me as she does, her eyes never leaving mine, never flickering to the sparks and embers of emotion, of distress.

I finally take the hint and follow her in her slow rhythm until all my colors settle. Not fleeing, not abandoning me, just turning to a pastel shade, to something… Manageable.

It works. It works far too well, even if temporarily and with great effort, and I have to wonder why the PRT isn't teaching me this rather than just saddling Dean with managing me.

Well, no. I don't really have to wonder, I just have to suppress the memory of a woman that makes me shake in fear with a change in intonation, with barely seen gestures, with, I suspect, just the will to have me on the verge of terror.

A woman who can claim a favor at any moment, and that has bound Dean to me with another.

A woman that, I suspect, can claim favors from the most powerful heroes and villains on this world.

And having her sabotage the PRT so that parahumans don't learn how to best control their powers without relying on the organization… It fits. It fits far too well.

But now's not the time to panic at yet another hint at the mess I've willingly jumped into. Now's the time to pay attention to a sister who despises me.

She may be the sanest member of the family.

"Can you talk now?" she asks. And she's not unkind about it.

But I know Anne, I know how eager she's always been to care for others, to help them, to let them process things and never push when she's not wanted.

So the fact she asks is…

She really hates me, I think.

"Good. Now tell me how you actually triggered."

And suddenly, my hard-won calm shatters.

"I can't talk about it," I tell her, saying far more than I should.

"Why not? Mom and Dad sure ate it up when you told them. About how heroic you were, finally confronting those ABB thugs who were going to do to another girl what they almost did to you. Dad was oh so proud of his little princess finding the strength to overcome her trauma."

And now I no longer have blue or red fighting over me. Now I'm solid green, viridian darkening to malachite on thick, slowly pulsing veins.

So I take a step back, because I don't know how to control the green, and I fear it may hurt Anne far worse than red eve would.

"You know that's not true," I tell her, pleading, begging with everything but words.

"I do. That's why I'm asking you what the actual truth is. And why Taylor triggered at the same time as you. And why her father is never home, and the place looks like a Merchant's gathering."

Danny has…? Of course. Of course he has. He lost his daughter and he hadn't even recovered from losing his wife. Of course he—

Oh God, he may have even actually triggered.

I need to find him.

I need him to know—no.

No. I can't.

"Anne… Please. I want to tell you. You don't know how much. But I can't."

She stands up.

And takes a step toward me.

My sight blurs with panic and I find myself huddled against the corner, with no way out, no escape—

"Emma. Look at me," she says, her voice that calm, steady thing that—

She's right in front of me. Kneeling over me.

The green pulses and I feel like throwing up.

And Anne grabs my face between her hands.

She grimaces as she pales, as she—

"Let go of me!" I shriek, loud enough maybe Dad or Mom will hear and—

"No. You are my little sister, and I'm not letting go." Her words are heavy, pronounced with deliberate clarity.

She's sagging, barely able to remain kneeling.

"Anne! Anne, please, I'm hurting you! I don't want to—"

"Then don't! Get a grip, Emma! Do something and stop letting your power speak for you!"

Something tight snaps inside my chest.

Green remains, but is pushed aside by red, and blue, and yellow, and—

I am a mess. A wreck. I don't what to feel, or how to feel it, or why to feel it, and I can only think of a dark alley, and a girl calling me a survivor, but I'm not, I never was, and I know, know—

I am crying.

And Anne is hugging me.

"I'm sorry," I say between sobs.

"I don't forgive you," she answers, her vomit reeking between the two of us, almost solid dribbles stuck to the corners of her mouth.

I close my eyes, just feeling her warmth and softness against me, and the disgusting wetness of her sickness. Sticking to our clothes.

"Thank you," I finally mutter.

o - O - o

"I can't tell you, Anne. I really can't."

"At least tell me why you can't," she insists, once more shifting on the bed.

She's wearing one of my shirts, a white one that's tight on her frame, and I, at her insistence, have also changed out of my dirty clothes.

Which is ridiculous. I just need to get angry enough and any kind of dirt will turn to white ashes and then to nothing.

I don't know why it doesn't burn my clothes, though. Power weirdness, Vista would say.

"If… If I told you why I can't tell you, I would be telling you what I can't tell you," I finally settle on.

And turn my head to meet her eyes.

She's worried. Anxious.

I hate it.

"It's my fault," I add, hoping to regain a bit of that spark of hatred, of spite, of disgust.

I don't, she just looks more worried.

"Emma…"

"No! No, it really is! I—Anne, there are things, things about powers that—"

My phone dings, and my aura turns to white and black as my heart clenches.

Already? Just because of this?

Am I about to lose another sister?

With a hand that shakes far too much for someone who calls herself a heroine, I reach the phone and—

It's Sophia.

My lungs stop burning as I finally release the air, and I feel cold wash down from my head as the awful moment of horror fades away.

Anne looks at me in alarm, and I can only offer her a shaky smile as I open—

It's a picture.

Kid Win is aiming at Taylor with his guns.

Red blooms, and my sheets scorch.

Then another message. A location.

And then a last one. Sophia.

'I'd hurry if I were you.'

Briefly thankful for the flame retardant paint, I unlatch my window and, with all the strength wrath grants me, jump.

I can hear Anne yelling at me from behind, but the rushing wind in my ears takes the words with it.

o - O - o

My strength allows me to leap, but that isn't fast enough.

No, I need something better, something more suited.

I need the amber.

I need exultation and excitement, I need the vibrance of something thrilling through my veins, I need—

I don't need to calm down, I need to… focus.

Th first time Carlos threw a punch at me and I managed to slip to the side, feeling the displaced air brush against my cheek. Bouncing from cover to cover as Chris kept shooting at me, shards of concrete pelting me when I was a split second too late in changing directions. Making my first arrest, feeling like I at least managed to do some good—

A vein of amber pulses along the inside of my forearm, and the world sharpens.

I can squeeze a bit more speed. My movements are more precise, more fluid, and I can keep the crimson strength better leashed. My leaps are still explosive, still eating distance from rooftop to rooftop as I leave behind a trail of light, but I can feel the combined emotions being so much better, so much more effective at bringing me close to my target, and—

I feel an iota of triumph, and the red fades.

So I drop to the streets and just run.

Buildings, cars and passersby blur at my passing, and I take to the middle of the road rather than risk running someone over on the sidewalk. My lungs burn, because I'm fast, but that doesn't mean I don't tire, and I—

I'm almost there.

Just a bit closer.

Just a bit more, and I can—

What can I do?

I almost stumble, almost trip and eat the pavement before getting smashed by the angrily honking car behind me, but I catch my balance and keep running, keep focusing on not letting the amber fade. I can figure it out when I get there, when I see the situation, when I…

When I see Taylor sitting on the ledge of a building, Chris at her side, both of them laughing with Trainwreck's shackled form on the street beneath them.

My colors fade, and I feel empty.

There's no rage, no sadness, no frustration, sickness, lust, excitement or any of a hundred hues of emotion I've been training to recognize since I swallowed the vial that twisted my world, that allowed me a privileged insight into how utterly messed up I actually am.

No. There aren't any colors.

I'm just… Emma.

And Emma Barnes watches Taylor Hebert joke around with a veteran cape that looks at her with perhaps a bit too much warmth. Watches as they exchange words and friendly gestures, and Chris gives her a card before she jumps down to the street below.

Watches as Taylor finally announces to the world what Emma had always known, even if she had tried to forget it.

That Taylor Hebert is a hero. Had always been, even before she got powers of her own.

That she will do great things.

That she's only just started.

Watches as she turns around and walks away, black and white fading out of view in the shadowed streets.

And then Emma Barnes turns around and walks back to a home where two people don't know her and a single person despises her.

Her phone dings.

It's a message. From Sophia.

'Looks like you were too late.'

Emma doesn't know what she means. But she still agrees.

o - o - O - o - o

This work is a repost of one of my first commissions, and one that I'm both grateful for and proud of. It can be found on QQ, SV, and AO3, and, of course, on my Patr eon (patre on dot com (slash) Agrippa), where the latest chapter will show up a week before it comes out for everyone else. It is currently 33 chapters and 94k words long and approaching its final arc at a good pace, so I hope you'll look forward to learning about Wordsworth's ending.

As always, I'd like to thank my credited supporters on Patr eon (patre on dot com (slash) Agrippa): aj0413, LearningDiscord, Niklarus, Tinkerware, Varosch, and Xalgeon.If you feel like maybe giving them a hand with keeping me in the writing business (and getting an early peek at my chapters before they go public, among other perks), consider joining them or buying one of my books on amazon dot com (slash) stores/Terry-Lavere/author/B0BL7LSX2S?. Thank you for reading!